[Illustration: GEORGE DU MAURIER]

THE MARTIAN

A Novel

BYGEORGE DU MAURIER

AUTHOR OF "TRILBY" "PETER IBBETSON"

_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY THE AUTHOR_

 "_Après le plaisir vient la peine; Après la peine, la vertu_"--Anon

NEW YORKHARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS1897

By GEORGE DU MAURIER. 

TRILBY. Illustrated by the Author. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75; Three-quarter Calf, $3 50; Three-quarter Crushed Levant, $4 50. 

PETER IBBETSON. With an Introduction by his Cousin, Lady *****("Madge Plunket"). Edited and Illustrated by George du Maurier. Post8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50; Three-quarter Calf, $3 25;Three-quarter Levant, $4 25. 

ENGLISH SOCIETY. Sketched by George du Maurier. With an Introductionby William Dean Howells. Oblong 4to, Cloth, Ornamental, $2 50. 

Published BY HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. 

Copyright, 1896, 1897, by Harper & Brothers. 

_All rights reserved. _

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

 PORTRAIT OF GEORGE DU MAURIER _Frontispiece_ INSTITUTION F. BROSSARD 7 THE NEW BOY 11 A LITTLE PEACE-MAKER 17 LOUD RUNSWICK AND ANTOINETTE JOSSELIN 29 "'QUEL AMOUR D'ENFANT!'" 33 "AMIS, LA MATINÉE EST BELLE" 51 "TOO MUCH 'MONTE CRISTO, ' I'M AFRAID" 55 LE PÈRE POLYPHÈME 71 FANFARONNADE 79 MÉROVÉE RINGS THE BELL 85 "WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW" 107 A TERTRE-JOUAN TO THE RESCUE! 113 MADEMOISELLE MARCELINE 115 "'IF HE ONLY KNEW!'" 117 "'MAURICE AU PIQUET!'" 121 "QUAND ON PERD, PAR TRISTE OCCURRENCE, " ETC. 127 THREE LITTLE MAIDS FROM SCHOOL (1853) 139 SOLITUDE 149 "'PILE OU FACE--HEADS OR TAILS?'" 153 "A LITTLE WHITE POINT OF INTERROGATION" 159 "'BONJOUR, MONSIEUR BONZIG'" 171 "'DEMI-TASSE--VOILÀ, M'SIEUR'" 179 PETER THE HERMIT AU PIQUET 187 "THE CARNIVAL OF VENICE" 197 "'À VOUS, MONSIEUR DE LA GARDE!'" 207 "'I AM A VERY ALTERED PERSON!'" 213 "THE MOONLIGHT SONATA" 227 ENTER MR. SCATCHERD 237 BARTY GIVES HIMSELF AWAY 243 SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR 245 "'HÉLAS! MON JEUNE AMI . . . '" 251 "'YOU ASK ME WHY I LOOK SO PALE?'" 277 "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY YOU'RE GOING TO PAINT FOR HIRE!'" 281 "'HE MIGHT HAVE THROWN THE HANDKERCHIEF AS HE PLEASED'" 287 DR. HASENCLEVER AND MRS. BLETCHLEY 305 "'MARTIA, I HAVE DONE MY BEST'" 311 AM RHEIN 315 "'DOES SHE KNOW YOU'RE VERY FOND OF HER?'" 319 "LEAH WAS SUMMONED FROM BELOW" 333 "BETWEEN TWO WELL KNOWN EARLS" 341 "LE DERNIER DES ABENCERRAGES" 345 "SARDONYX" 355 "'RATAPLAN, RATAPLAN'" 359 "'HE PRESENTS ME FIRST TO MADAME JOSSELIN'" 387 "'I DON'T THINK I EVER HEARD HIM MENTION YOUR NAME'" 401 "'I'M A PHILISTINE, AND AM NOT ASHAMED'" 411 "'ZE BRINCESS VOULD BE SO JARMT'" 431 MARTY 453

THE MARTIAN

"BARTY JOSSELIN IS NO MORE. . . . "

When so great a man dies, it is generally found that a tangledgrowth of more or less contentious literature has already gatheredround his name during his lifetime. He has been so written about, sotalked about, so riddled with praise or blame, that, to those whohave never seen him in the flesh, he has become almost a tradition, a myth--and one runs the risk of losing all clew to his realpersonality. 

This is especially the case with the subject of this biography--oneis in danger of forgetting what manner of man he was who has sotaught and touched and charmed and amused us, and so happily changedfor us the current of our lives. 

He has been idealized as an angel, a saint, and a demigod; he hasbeen caricatured as a self-indulgent sensualist, a vulgar Lothario, a buffoon, a joker of practical jokes. 

He was in reality the simplest, the most affectionate, and mostgood-natured of men, the very soul of honor, the best of husbandsand fathers and friends, the most fascinating companion that everlived, and one who kept to the last the freshness and joyous spiritsof a school-boy and the heart of a child; one who never said or didan unkind thing; probably never even thought one. Generous andopen-handed to a fault, slow to condemn, quick to forgive, andgifted with a power of immediately inspiring affection and keepingit forever after, such as I have never known in any one else, hegrew to be (for all his quick-tempered impulsiveness) one of thegentlest and meekest and most humble-minded of men!

On me, a mere prosperous tradesman, and busy politician and man ofthe world, devolves the delicate and responsible task of being thefirst to write the life of the greatest literary genius this centuryhas produced, _and of revealing the strange secret of that genius_, which has lighted up the darkness of these latter times as with apillar of fire by night. 

This extraordinary secret has never been revealed before to anyliving soul but his wife and myself. And that is _one_ of myqualifications for this great labor of love. 

Another is that for fifty years I have known him as never a man canquite have known his fellow-man before--that for all that time hehas been more constantly and devotedly loved by me than any man canever quite have been loved by father, son, brother, or bosom friend. 

Good heavens! Barty, man and boy, Barty's wife, their children, their grandchildren, and all that ever concerned them or concernsthem still--all this has been the world to me, and ever will be. 

He wished me to tell the _absolute truth_ about him, just as I knowit; and I look upon the fulfilment of this wish of his as a sacredtrust, and would sooner die any shameful death or brave any otherdishonor than fail in fulfilling it to the letter. 

The responsibility before the world is appalling; and also thedifficulty, to a man of such training as mine. I feel alreadyconscious that I am trying to be literary myself, to seek for turnsof phrase that I should never have dared to use in talking to Barty, or even in writing to him; that I am not at my ease, in short--not_me_--but straining every nerve to be on my best behavior; andthat's about the worst behavior there is. 

Oh! may some kindly light, born of a life's devotion and the happymemories of half a century, lead me to mere naturalness and the useof simple homely words, even my own native telegraphese! that I mayhaply blunder at length into some fit form of expression which Bartyhimself might have approved. 

One would think that any sincere person who has learnt how to spellhis own language should at least be equal to such a modestachievement as this; and yet it is one of the most difficult thingsin the world!

My life is so full of Barty Josselin that I can hardly be said tohave ever had an existence apart from his; and I can think of noeasier or better way to tell Barty's history than just telling myown--from the days I first knew him--and in my own way; that is, inthe best telegraphese I can manage--picking each precious word withcare, just as though I were going to cable it, as soon as written, to Boston or New York, where the love of Barty Josselin shines witheven a brighter and warmer glow than here, or even in France; andwhere the hate of him, the hideous, odious odium theologicum--the_sæva indignatio_ of the Church--that once burned at so white aheat, has burnt itself out at last, and is now as though it hadnever been, and never could be again. 

P. S. --(an after-thought):

And here, in case misfortune should happen to me before this bookcomes out as a volume, I wish to record my thanks to my old friendMr. Du Maurier for the readiness with which he has promised toundertake, and the conscientiousness with which he will haveperformed, his share of the work as editor and illustrator. 

I also wish to state that it is to my beloved god-daughter, RobertaBeatrix Hay (née Josselin), that I dedicate this attempt at abiographical sketch of her illustrious father. 

 Robert Maurice. 

Part First

 "De Paris à Versailles, loo, là, De Paris à Versailles-- Il y a de belles allées, Vive le Roi de France! Il y a de belles allées, Vivent les écoliers!"

One sultry Saturday afternoon in the summer of 1847 I sat at my deskin the junior school-room, or _salle d'études des petits_, of theInstitution F. Brossard, Rond-point de l'Avenue de St. -Cloud; or, asit is called now, Avenue du Bois de Boulogne--or, as it was calledduring the Second Empire, Avenue du Prince Impérial, or else del'Impératrice; I'm not sure. 

There is not much stability in such French names, I fancy; but theirsound is charming, and always gives me the nostalgia of Paris--RoyalParis, Impérial Paris, Republican Paris!. . . Whatever they may callit ten or twelve years hence. Paris is always Paris, and always willbe, in spite of the immortal Haussmann, both for those who love itand for those who don't. 

All the four windows were open. Two of them, freely and frankly, onto the now deserted play-ground, admitting the fragrance of lime andsyringa and lilac, and other odors of a mixed quality. 

Two other windows, defended by an elaborate network of iron wire anda formidable array of spiked iron rails beyond, opened on to theRond-point, or meeting of the cross-roads--one of which lednortheast to Paris through the Arc de Triomphe; the other threethrough woods and fields and country lanes to such quarters of theglobe as still remain. The world is wide. 

In the middle of this open space a stone fountain sent up a jet ofwater three feet high, which fell back with a feeble splash into thebasin beneath. There was comfort in the sound on such a hot day, andone listened for it half unconsciously; and tried not to hear, instead, Weber's "Invitation à la Valse, " which came rippling inintermittent waves from the open window of the distant _parloir_, where Chardonnet was practising the piano. 

 "Tum-te-dum-tum-tum . . . Tum-te-dum-di, diddle-iddle um!"

_e da capo_, again and again. Chardonnet was no heaven-bornmusician. 

Monsieur Bonzig--or "le Grand Bonzig, " as he was called behind hisback--sat at his table on the estrade, correcting the exercises ofthe eighth class (huitième), which he coached in Latin and French. It was the lowest class in the school; yet one learnt much in itthat was of consequence; not, indeed, that Balbus built a wall--asI'm told we learn over here (a small matter to make such a fussabout, after so many years)--but that the Lord made heaven and earthin six days, and rested on the seventh. 

He (Monsieur Bonzig) seemed hot and weary, as well he might, andsighed, and looked up every now and then to mop his brow and think. And as he gazed into the green and azure depths beyond the northwindow, his dark brown eyes quivered and vibrated from side to sidethrough his spectacles with a queer quick tremolo, such as I havenever seen in any eyes but his. 

[Illustration: INSTITUTION F. BROSSARD]

About five-and-twenty boys sat at their desks; boys of all ages betweenseven and fourteen--many with closely cropped hair, "à la malcontent, "like nice little innocent convicts; and nearly all in blouses, mostlyblue; some with their garments loosely flowing; others confined at thewaist by a tricolored ceinture de gymnastique, so deep and stiff italmost amounted to stays. 

As for the boys themselves, some were energetic andindustrious--some listless and lazy and lolling, and quite languidwith the heat--some fidgety and restless, on the lookout forexcitement of any kind: a cab or carriage raising the dust on itsway to the Bois--a water-cart laying it (there were no hydrantsthen); a courier bearing royal despatches, or a mounted orderly; thePassy omnibus, to or fro every ten or twelve minutes; the marchandde coco with his bell; a regiment of the line with its band; achorus of peripatetic Orphéonistes--a swallow, a butterfly, ahumblebee; a far-off balloon, oh, joy!--any sight or sound torelieve the tedium of those two mortal school-hours that draggedtheir weary lengths from half past one till half past three--everyday but Sunday and Thursday. 

(Even now I find the early afternoon a little trying to wear throughwithout a nap, say from two to four. )

At 3. 30 there would come a half-hour's interval of play, and thenthe class of French literature from four till dinner-time at six--aclass that was more than endurable on account of the liveliness andcharm of Monsieur Durosier, who journeyed all the way from theCollége de France every Saturday afternoon in June and July to tellus boys of the quatrième all about Villon and Ronsard, and Marot andCharles d'Orléans (_exceptis excipiendis_, of course), and otherpleasant people who didn't deal in Greek or Latin or mathematics, and knew better than to trouble themselves overmuch about formalFrench grammar and niggling French prosody. 

Besides, everything was pleasant on a Saturday afternoon on accountof the nearness of the day of days--

 "And that's the day that comes between The Saturday and Monday". . . . 

in France. 

I had just finished translating my twenty lines of Virgil--

 "Infandum, regina, jubes renovare, " etc. 

Oh, crimini, but it _was_ hot! and how I disliked the pious Æneas! Icouldn't have hated him worse if I'd been poor Dido's favoriteyounger brother (not mentioned by Publius Vergilius Maro, if Iremember). 

Palaiseau, who sat next to me, had a cold in his head, and keptsniffing in a manner that got on my nerves. 

"Mouche-toi donc, animal!" I whispered; "tu me dégoûtes, à la fin!"

Palaiseau always sniffed, whether he had a cold or not. 

"Taisez-vous, Maurice--ou je vous donne cent vers à copier!" said M. Bonzig, and his eyes quiveringly glittered through his glasses as hefixed me. 

Palaiseau, in his brief triumph, sniffed louder. 

"Palaiseau, " said Monsieur Bonzig, "si vous vous serviez de votremouchoir--hein? Je crois que cela ne gênerait personne!" (If youwere to use your pocket-handkerchief--eh? I don't think it wouldinconvenience anybody!)

At this there was a general titter all round, which was immediatelysuppressed, as in a court of law; and Palaiseau reluctantly andnoisily did as he was told. 

In front of me that dishonest little sneak Rapaud, with a tallparapet of books before him to serve as a screen, one hand shadinghis eyes, and an inkless pen in the other, was scratching hiscopy-book with noisy earnestness, as if time were too short for allhe had to write about the pious Æneas's recitative, while hesurreptitiously read the _Comte de Monte Cristo_, which lay open inhis lap--just at the part where the body, sewn up in a sack, wasgoing to be hurled into the Mediterranean. I knew the page well. There was a splash of red ink on it. 

It made my blood boil with virtuous indignation to watch him, and Icoughed and hemmed again and again to attract his attention, for hisback was nearly towards me. He heard me perfectly, but took no noticewhatever, the deceitful little beast. He was to have given up _MonteCristo_ to me at half-past two, and here it was twenty minutes to three!Besides which, it was _my Monte Cristo_, bought with my own smallsavings, and smuggled into school by me at great risk to myself. 

"Maurice!" said M. Bonzig. 

"Oui, m'sieur!" said I. I will translate:

"You shall conjugate and copy out for me forty times the compoundverb, 'I cough without necessity to distract the attention of mycomrade Rapaud from his Latin exercise!'"

"Moi, m'sieur?" I ask, innocently. 

"Oui, vous!"

"Bien, m'sieur!"

Just then there was a clatter by the fountain, and the shrill smallpipe of D'Aurigny, the youngest boy in the school, exclaimed:

"Hé! Hé! Oh là là! Le Roi qui passe!"

[Illustration: THE NEW BOY]

And we all jumped up, and stood on forms, and craned our necks to seeLouis Philippe I. And his Queen drive quickly by in their big bluecarriage and four, with their two blue-and-silver liveried outriderstrotting in front, on their way from St. -Cloud to the Tuileries. 

"Sponde! Sélancy! fermez les fenêtres, ou je vous mets tous au painsec pour un mois!" thundered M. Bonzig, who did not approve of kingsand queens--an appalling threat which appalled nobody, for when heforgot to forget he always relented; for instance, he quite forgotto insist on that formidable compound verb of mine. 

Suddenly the door of the school-room flew open, and the tall, portlyfigure of Monsieur Brossard appeared, leading by the wrist a veryfair-haired boy of thirteen or so, dressed in an Eton jacket andlight blue trousers, with a white chimney-pot silk hat, which hecarried in his hand--an English boy, evidently; but of an aspect sosingularly agreeable one didn't need to be English one's self towarm towards him at once. 

"Monsieur Bonzig, and gentlemen!" said the head master (in French, of course). "Here is the new boy; he calls himself BartholomiouJosselin. He is English, but he knows French as well as you. I hopeyou will find in him a good comrade, honorable and frank and brave, and that he will find the same in you. --Maurice!" (that was me). 

"Oui, m'sieur!"

"I specially recommend Josselin to you. "

"Moi, m'sieur?"

"Yes, _you_; he is of your age, and one of your compatriots. Don'tforget. "

"Bien, m'sieur. "

"And now, Josselin, take that vacant desk, which will be yourshenceforth. You will find the necessary books and copy-books inside;you will be in the fifth class, under Monsieur Dumollard. You willoccupy yourself with the study of Cornelius Nepos, the commentariesof Cæsar, and Xenophon's retreat of the ten thousand. Soyez diligentet attentif, mon ami; à plus tard!"

He gave the boy a friendly pat on the cheek and left the room. 

Josselin walked to his desk and sat down, between d'Adhémar andLaferté, both of whom were _en cinquième_. He pulled a Cæsar out ofhis desk and tried to read it. He became an object of passionateinterest to the whole school-room, till M. Bonzig said:

"The first who lifts his eyes from his desk to stare at '_lenouveau_' shall be _au piquet_ for half an hour!" (To be _au piquet_is to stand with your back to a tree for part of the followingplay-time; and the play-time which was to follow would last justthirty minutes. )

Presently I looked up, in spite of piquet, and caught the new boy'seye, which was large and blue and soft, and very sad andsentimental, and looked as if he were thinking of his mammy, as Idid constantly of mine during my first week at Brossard's, threeyears before. 

Soon, however, that sad eye slowly winked at me, with an expressionso droll that I all but laughed aloud. 

Then its owner felt in the inner breast pocket of his Eton jacketwith great care, and delicately drew forth by the tail a very fatwhite mouse, that seemed quite tame, and ran up his arm to his wideshirt collar, and tried to burrow there; and the boys began tointerest themselves breathlessly in this engaging little quadruped. 

M. Bonzig looked up again, furious; but his spectacles had grownmisty from the heat and he couldn't see, and he wiped them; andmeanwhile the mouse was quickly smuggled back to its former nest. 

Josselin drew a large clean pocket-handkerchief from his trousersand buried his head in his desk, and there was silence. 

"La!--ré, fa!--la!--ré"--

So strummed, over and over again, poor Chardonnet in his remoteparlor--he was getting tired. 

I have heard "L'Invitation à la Valse" many hundreds of times sincethen, and in many countries, but never that bar without thinking ofJosselin and his little white mouse. 

"Fermez votre pupitre, Josselin, " said M. Bonzig, after a fewminutes. 

Josselin shut his desk and beamed genially at the usher. 

"What book have you got there, Josselin--Cæsar or Cornelius Nepos?"

Josselin held the book with its title-page open for M. Bonzig toread. 

"Are you dumb, Josselin? Can't you speak?"

Josselin tried to speak, but uttered no sound. 

"Josselin, come here--opposite me. "

Josselin came and stood opposite M. Bonzig and made a nice littlebow. 

"What have you got in your mouth, Josselin--chocolate?--barley-sugar?--caoutchouc?--or an India-rubberball?"

Josselin shrugged his shoulders and looked pensive, but spoke nevera word. 

"Open quick the mouth, Josselin!"

And Monsieur Bonzig, leaning over the table, deftly put his thumband forefinger between the boy's lips, and drew forth slowly a largewhite pocket-handkerchief, which seemed never to end, and threw iton the floor with solemn dignity. 

The whole school-room was convulsed with laughter. 

"Josselin--leave the room--you will be severely punished, as youdeserve--you are a vulgar buffoon--a jo-crisse--a paltoquet, amountebank! Go, petit polisson--go!"

The polisson picked up his pocket-handkerchief and went--quitequietly, with simple manly grace; and that's the first I ever saw ofBarty Josselin--and it was some fifty years ago. 

 * * * * *

At 3. 30 the bell sounded for the half-hour's recreation, and theboys came out to play. 

Josselin was sitting alone on a bench, thoughtful, with his hand inthe inner breast pocket of his Eton jacket. 

M. Bonzig went straight to him, buttoned up and severe--his eyesdancing, and glancing from right to left through his spectacles; andJosselin stood up very politely. 

"Sit down!" said M. Bonzig; and sat beside him, and talked to himwith grim austerity for ten minutes or more, and the boy seemed verypenitent and sorry. 

Presently he drew forth from his pocket his white mouse, and showedit to the long usher, who looked at it with great seeming interestfor a long time, and finally took it into the palm of his ownhand--where it stood on its hind legs--and stroked it with hislittle finger. 

Soon Josselin produced a small box of chocolate drops, which heopened and offered to M. Bonzig, who took one and put it in hismouth, and seemed to like it. Then they got up and walked to and frotogether, and the usher put his arm round the boy's shoulder, andthere was peace and good-will between them; and before they partedJosselin had intrusted his white mouse to "le grand Bonzig"--whointrusted it to Mlle. Marceline, the head lingère, a very kind andhandsome person, who found for it a comfortable home in an oldbonbon-box lined with blue satin, where it had a large family andfed on the best, and lived happily ever after. 

But things did not go smoothly for Josselin all that Saturdayafternoon. When Bonzig left, the boys gathered round "le nouveau, "large and small, and asked questions. And just before the bellsounded for French literature, I saw him defending himself with histwo British fists against Dugit, a big boy with whiskers, who hadhim by the collar and was kicking him to rights. It seems that Dugithad called him, in would-be English, "Pretty voman, " and this had sooffended him that he had hit the whiskered one straight in the eye. 

Then French literature for the _quatrième_ till six; then dinner forall--soup, boiled beef (not salt), lentils; and Gruyère cheese, quite two ounces each; then French rounders till half past seven;then lesson preparation (with _Monte Cristos_ in one's lap, or_Mysteries of Paris_, or _Wandering Jews_) till nine. 

Then, ding-dang-dong, and, at the sleepy usher's nod, a sleepy boywould rise and recite the perfunctory evening prayer in a dullsingsong voice--beginning, "Notre Père, qui êtes aux cieux, vousdont le regard scrutateur pénêtre jusque dans les replis les plusprofonds de nos coeurs, " etc. , etc. , and ending, "au nom du Père, du Fils, et du St. Esprit, ainsi soit-il!"

And then, bed--Josselin in my dormitory, but a long way off, betweend'Adhémar and Laferté; while Palaiseau snorted and sniffed himselfto sleep in the bed next mine, and Rapaud still tried to read theimmortal works of the elder Dumas by the light of a little oil-lampsix yards off, suspended from a nail in the blank wall over thechimney-piece. 

 * * * * *

[Illustration: A LITTLE PEACE-MAKER]

The Institution F. Brossard was a very expensive private school, just twice as expensive as the most expensive of the Parisian publicschools--Ste. -Barbe, François Premier, Louis-le-Grand, etc. 

These great colleges, which were good enough for the sons of LouisPhilippe, were not thought good enough for me by my dear mother, whowas Irish, and whose only brother had been at Eton, and was nowcaptain in an English cavalry regiment--so she had aristocraticnotions. It used to be rather an Irish failing in those days. 

My father, James Maurice, also English (and a little Scotch), and byno means an aristocrat, was junior partner in the great firm ofVougeot-Conti et Cie. , wine merchants, Dijon. And at Dijon I hadspent much of my childhood, and been to a day school there, and leda very happy life indeed. 

Then I was sent to Brossard's school, in the Avenue de St. -Cloud, Paris, where I was again very happy, and fond of (nearly) everybody, from the splendid head master and his handsome son, MonsieurMérovée, down to Antoine and Francisque, the men-servants, and PèreJaurion, the concierge, and his wife, who sold croquets and painsd'épices and "blom-boudingues, " and sucre-d'orge and nougat and pâtede guimauve; also pralines, dragées, and gray sandy cakes ofchocolate a penny apiece; and gave one unlimited credit; and neverdunned one, unless bribed to do so by parents, so as to impress onus small boys a proper horror of debt. 

Whatever principles I have held through life on this importantsubject I set down to a private interview my mother had with le pèreet la mère Jaurion, to whom I had run in debt five francs during thehorrible winter of '47-8. They made my life a hideous burden to mefor a whole summer term, and I have never owed any one a pennysince. 

The Institution consisted of four separate buildings, or "corps delogis. "

In the middle, dominating the situation, was a Greco-Roman pavilion, with a handsome Doric portico elevated ten or twelve feet above theground, on a large, handsome terrace paved with asphalt and shadedby horse-chestnut trees. Under this noble esplanade, and ventilatingthemselves into it, were the kitchen and offices and pantry, andalso the refectory--a long room, furnished with two parallel tables, covered at the top by a greenish oil-cloth spotted all over withsmall black disks; and alongside of these tables were wooden formsfor the boys to sit together at meat--"la table des grands, " "latable des petits, " each big enough for thirty boys and three or fourmasters. M. Brossard and his family breakfasted and dined apart, intheir own private dining-room, close by. 

In this big refectory, three times daily, at 7. 30 in the morning, atnoon, and at 6 P. M. , boys and masters took their quotidiansustenance quite informally, without any laying of cloths or sayingof grace either before or after; one ate there to live--one did notlive merely to eat, at the Pension Brossard. 

Breakfast consisted of a thick soup, rich in dark-hued gardenproduce, and a large hunk of bread--except on Thursdays, when a patof butter was served out to each boy instead of that Spartanbroth--that "brouet noir des Lacédémoniens, " as we called it. 

Everybody who has lived in France knows how good French butter canoften be--and French bread. We triturated each our pat withrock-salt and made a round ball of it, and dug a hole in our hunk toput it in, and ate it in the play-ground with clasp-knives, makingit last as long as we could. 

This, and the half-holiday in the afternoon, made Thursday a day tobe marked with a white stone. When you are up at five in summer, athalf past five in the winter, and have had an hour and a half or twohours' preparation before your first meal at 7. 30, Frenchbread-and-butter is not a bad thing to break your fast with. 

Then, from eight till twelve, class--Latin, Greek, French, English, German--and mathematics and geometry--history, geography, chemistry, Physics--everything that you must get to know before you can hope toobtain your degree of Bachelor of Letters or Sciences, or beadmitted to the Polytechnic School, or the Normal, or the Central, or that of Mines, or that of Roads and Bridges, or the MilitarySchool of St. Cyr, or the Naval School of the Borda. All this wasfifty years ago; of course names of schools may have changed, andeven the sciences themselves. 

Then, at twelve, the second breakfast, meat (or salt fish onFridays), a dish of vegetables, lentils, red or white beans, salad, potatoes, etc. ; a dessert, which consisted of fruit or cheese, or aFrench pudding. This banquet over, a master would stand up in hisplace and call for silence, and read out loud the list of boys whowere to be kept in during the play-hour that followed:

"_À la retenue_, Messieurs Maurice, Rapaud, de Villars, Jolivet, Sponde, " etc. Then play till 1. 30; and very good play, too;rounders, which are better and far more complicated in France thanin England; "barres"; "barres traversières, " as rough a game asfootball; fly the garter, or "la raie, " etc. , etc. , according to theseason. And then afternoon study, at the summons of that dreadfulbell whose music was so sweet when it rang the hour for meals orrecreation or sleep--so hideously discordant at 5. 30 on a foggyDecember Monday morning. 

Altogether eleven hours work daily and four hours play, and sleepfrom nine till five or half past; I find this leaves half an hourunaccounted for, so I must have made a mistake somewhere. But it allhappened fifty years ago, so it's not of much consequence now. 

Probably they have changed all that in France by this time, and madeschool life a little easier there, especially for nice littleEnglish boys--and nice little French boys too. I hope so, very much;for French boys can be as nice as any, especially at suchinstitutions as F. Brossard's, if there are any left. 

Most of my comrades, aged from seven to nineteen or twenty, were thesons of well-to-do fathers--soldiers, sailors, rentiers, owners ofland, public officials, in professions or business or trade. A dozenor so were of aristocratic descent--three or four very great swellsindeed; for instance, two marquises (one of whom spoke English, having an English mother); a count bearing a string of beautifulnames a thousand years old, and even more--for they were constantlyturning up in the Classe d'Histoire de France au moyen âge; aBelgian viscount of immense wealth and immense good-nature; andseveral very rich Jews, who were neither very clever nor verystupid, but, as a rule, rather popular. 

Then we had a few of humble station--the son of the woman who washedfor us; Jules, the natural son of a brave old caporal in thetrente-septième légère (a countryman of M. Brossard's), who was notwell off--so I suspect his son was taught and fed for nothing--theBrossards were very liberal; Filosel, the only child of a smallretail hosier in the Rue St. -Denis (who thought no sacrifice toogreat to keep his son at such a first-rate private school), andothers. 

During the seven years I spent at Brossard's I never once heardpaternal wealth (or the want of it) or paternal rank or positionalluded to by master, pupil, or servant--especially never a word oran allusion that could have given a moment's umbrage to the mostsensitive little only son of a well-to-do West End cheese-mongerthat ever got smuggled into a private suburban boarding-school kept"for the sons of gentlemen only, " and was so chaffed and bulliedthere that his father had to take him away, and send him to Etoninstead, where the "sons of gentlemen" have better manners, itseems; or even to France, where "the sons of gentlemen" have thebest manners of all--or used to have before a certain 2d ofDecember--as distinctly I remember; nous avons changé tout cela!

The head master was a famous republican, and after February, '48, was elected a "représentant du peuple" for the Dauphiné, and sat inthe Chamber of Deputies--for a very short time, alas!

So I fancy that the titled and particled boys--"les nobles"--were offamilies that had drifted away from the lily and white flag of theirloyal ancestors--from Rome and the Pope and the past. 

Anyhow, none of our young nobles, when at home, seemed to live inthe noble Faubourg across the river, and there were no clericals orultramontanes among us, high or low--we were all red, white, andblue in equal and impartial combination. All this _par parenthèse_. 

On the asphalt terrace also, but separated from the head master'sclassic habitation by a small square space, was the _lingerie_, managed by Mlle. Marceline and her two subordinates, Constance andFélicité; and beneath this, le père et la mère Jaurion sold theircheap goodies, and jealously guarded the gates that secluded us fromthe wicked world outside--where women are, and merchants of tobacco, and cafés where you can sip the opalescent absinthe, and librarieswhere you can buy books more diverting than the _Adventures ofTelemachus_!

On the opposite, or western, side was the gymnastic ground, enclosedin a wire fence, but free of access at all times--a place ofparamount importance in all French schools, public and private. 

From the doors of the refectory the general playground sloped gentlydown northwards to the Rond-point, where it was bounded by double gatesof wood and iron that were always shut; and on each hither side of theserose an oblong dwelling of red brick, two stories high, and capable ofaccommodating thirty boys, sleeping or waking, at work or rest or play;for in bad weather we played indoors, or tried to, chess, draughts, backgammon, and the like--even blind-man's-buff (_Colin Maillard_)--evenpuss in the corner (_aux quatre coins!_). 

All the class-rooms and school-rooms were on the ground-floor;above, the dormitories and masters' rooms. 

These two buildings were symmetrical; one held the boys overfourteen, from the third class up to the first; the other (into the"salle d'études" of which the reader has already been admitted), theboys from the fourth down to the eighth, or lowest, form ofall--just the reverse of an English school. 

On either side of the play-ground were narrow strips of gardencultivated by boys whose tastes lay that way, and small arborsovergrown with convolvulus and other creepers--snug little verdantretreats, where one fed the mind on literature not sanctioned by theauthorities, and smoked cigarettes of caporal, and even coloredpipes, and was sick without fear of detection (_piquait son renardsans crainte d'être collé_). 

Finally, behind Père Brossard's Ciceronian Villa, on the south, wasa handsome garden (we called it Tusculum); a green flowerypleasaunce reserved for the head master's married daughter (MadameGermain) and her family--good people with whom we had nothing to do. 

Would I could subjoin a ground-plan of the Institution F. Brossard, where Barty Josselin spent four such happy years, and was souniversally and singularly popular!

Why should I take such pains about all this, and dwell solaboriously on all these minute details?

Firstly, because it all concerns Josselin and the story of hislife--and I am so proud and happy to be the biographer of such aman, at his own often expressed desire, that I hardly know where toleave off and what to leave out. Also, this is quite a new trade forme, who have only dealt hitherto in foreign wines, and British partypolitics, and bimetallism--and can only write in telegraphese!

Secondly, because I find it such a keen personal joy to evoke andfollow out, and realize to myself by means of pen and pencil, allthese personal reminiscences; and with such a capital excuse forprolixity!

At the top of every page I have to pull myself together to remindmyself that it is not of the Right Honorable Sir Robert Maurice, Bart. , M. P. , that I am telling the tale--any one can do that--but ofa certain Englishman who wrote _Sardonyx_, to the everlasting joyand pride of the land of his _fathers_--and of a certain Frenchmanwho wrote _Berthe aux grands pieds_, and moved his _mother_-countryto such delight of tears and tender laughter as it had never knownbefore. 

Dear me! the boys who lived and learnt at Brossard's school fiftyyears ago, and the masters who taught there (peace to their ashes!), are far more to my taste than the actual human beings among whom mydull existence of business and politics and society is mostly spentin these days. The school must have broken up somewhere about theearly fifties. The stuccoed Doric dwelling was long since replacedby an important stone mansion, in a very different style ofarchitecture--the abode of a wealthy banker--and this again, later, by a palace many stories high. The two school-houses in red brickare no more; the play-ground grew into a luxuriant garden, where adozen very tall trees overtopped the rest; from their evident ageand their position in regard to each other they must have been oldfriends of mine grown out of all knowledge. 

I saw them only twenty years ago, from the top of a Passy omnibus, and recognized every one of them. I went from the Arc de Triomphe toPassy and back quite a dozen times, on purpose--once for each tree!It touched me to think how often the author of _Sardonyx_ has stoodleaning his back against one of those giants--_au piquet_!

They are now no more; and Passy omnibuses no longer ply up and downthe Allée du Bois de Boulogne, which is now an avenue of palaces. 

An umbrageous lane that led from the Rond-point to Chaillot (thatvery forgettable, and by me quite forgotten, quarter) separated theInstitution F. Brossard from the Pensionnat Mélanie Jalabert--abeautiful pseudo-Gothic castle which was tenanted for a while byPrince de Carabas-Chenonceaux after Mlle. Jalabert had broken up herladies' school in 1849. 

My mother boarded and lodged there, with my little sister, in thesummer of 1847. There were one or two other English lady boarders, half-pupils--much younger than my mother--indeed, they may be alivenow. If they are, and this should happen to meet their eye, may Iask them to remember kindly the Irish wife of the Scotch merchant ofFrench wines who supplied them with the innocent vintage of Mâcon(ah! who knows that innocence better than I?), and his pretty littledaughter who played the piano so nicely; may I beg them also not tothink it necessary to communicate with me on the subject, or, ifthey do, not to expect an answer?

One night Mlle. Jalabert gave a small dance, and Mérovée Brossardwas invited, and also half a dozen of his favorite pupils, and afair-haired English boy of thirteen danced with the beautifulMiss ----. 

They came to grief and fell together in a heap on the slipperyfloor; but no bones were broken, and there was much good-naturedlaughter at their expense. If Miss ---- (that was) is still amongthe quick, and remembers, it may interest her to know that thatfair-haired English boy's name was no less than BartholomewJosselin; and that another English boy, somewhat thick-set andstumpy, and not much to look at, held her in deep love, admiration, and awe--and has not forgotten!

If I happen to mention this, it is not with a view of tempting herinto any correspondence about this little episode of bygone years, should this ever meet her eye. 

The Sunday morning that followed Barty's début at Brossard's theboys went to church in the Rue de l'Église, Passy--and he with them, for he had been brought up a Roman Catholic. And I went round toMlle. Jalabert's to see my mother and sister. 

I told them all about the new boy, and they were much interested. Suddenly my mother exclaimed:

"Bartholomew Josselin? why, dear me! that must be Lord Runswick'sson--Lord Runswick, who was the eldest son of the present Marquis ofWhitby. He was in the 17th lancers with your uncle Charles, who wasvery fond of him. He left the army twenty years ago, and marriedLady Selina Jobhouse--and his wife went mad. Then he fell in lovewith the famous Antoinette Josselin at the 'Bouffes, ' and wanted somuch to marry her that he tried to get a divorce; it was tried inthe House of Lords, I believe; but he didn't succeed--sothey--a--well--they contracted a--a _morganatic_ marriage, you know;and your friend was born. And poor Lord Runswick was killed in aduel about a dog, when his son was two years old; and his motherleft the stage, and--"

Just here the beautiful Miss ---- came in with her sister, and therewas no more of Josselin's family history; and I forgot all about itfor the day. For I passionately loved the beautiful Miss ----; I wasjust thirteen!

But next morning I said to him at breakfast, in English, "Wasn't your father killed in a duel?"

"Yes, " said Barty, looking grave. 

"Wasn't he called Lord Runswick?"

"Yes, " said Barty, looking graver still. 

"Then why are you called Josselin?"

"Ask no questions and you'll get no lies, " said Barty, looking verygrave indeed--and I dropped the subject. 

And here I may as well rapidly go through the well-known story ofhis birth and early childhood. 

His father, Lord Runswick, fell desperately in love with thebeautiful Antoinette Josselin after his own wife had gone hopelesslymad. He failed to obtain a divorce, naturally; Antoinette was asmuch in love with him, and they lived together as man and wife, andBarty was born. They were said to be the handsomest couple in Paris, and immensely popular among all who knew them, though of coursesociety did not open its doors to la belle Madame de Ronsvic, as shewas called. 

She was the daughter of poor fisher-folk in Le Pollet, Dieppe. I, with Barty for a guide, have seen the lowly dwelling where herinfancy and childhood were spent, and which Barty remembered well, and also such of her kin as was still alive in 1870, and felt it wasgood to come of such a race, humble as they were. They werephysically splendid people, almost as splendid as Barty himself;and, as I was told by many who knew them well, as good to know andlive with as they were good to look at--all that was easy tosee--and their manners were delightful. 

When Antoinette was twelve, she went to stay in Paris with her uncleand aunt, who were concierges to Prince Scorchakoff in the Rue duFaubourg St. -Honoré; next door, or next door but one, to the ÉlyséeBourbon, as it was called then. And there the Princess took a fancyto her, and had her carefully educated, especially in music; for thechild had a charming voice and a great musical talent, besides beingbeautiful to the eye--gifts which her son inherited. 

Then she became for three or four years a pupil at theConservatoire, and finally went on the stage, and was soon one ofthe most brilliant stars of the Parisian theatre at its mostbrilliant period. 

Then she met the handsome English lord, who was forty, and they fellin love with each other, and all happened as I have told. 

[Illustration: LORD RUNSWICK AND ANTOINETTE JOSSELIN]

In the spring of 1837 Lord Runswick was killed in a duel byLieutenant Rondelis, of the deuxième Spahis. Antoinette's dog hadjumped up to play with the lieutenant, who struck it with his cane(for he was "_en pékin_, " it appears--in mufti); and Lord Runswicklaid his own cane across the Frenchman's back; and next morning theyfought with swords, by the Mare aux Biches, in the Bois deBoulogne--a little secluded, sedgy pool, hardly more than six inchesdeep and six yards across. Barty and I have often skated there asboys. 

The Englishman was run through at the first lunge, and fell dead onthe spot. 

A few years ago Barty met the son of the man who killed LordRunswick--it was at the French Embassy in Albert Gate. They wereintroduced to each other, and M. Rondelis told Barty how his ownfather's life had been poisoned by sorrow and remorse at having had"la main si malheureuse" on that fatal morning by the Mare auxBiches. 

Poor Antoinette, mad with grief, left the stage, and went with herlittle boy to live in the Pollet, near her parents. Three yearslater she died there, of typhus, and Barty was left an orphan andpenniless; for Lord Runswick had been poor, and lived beyond hismeans, and died in debt. 

Lord Archibald Rohan, a favorite younger brother of Runswick's (notthe heir), came to Dieppe from Dover (where he was quartered withhis regiment, the 7th Royal Fusileers) to see the boy, and took afancy to him, and brought him back to Dover to show his wife, whowas also French--a daughter of the old Gascon family ofLonlay-Savignac, who had gone into trade (chocolate) and becomeimmensely rich. They (the Rohans) had been married eight years, andhad as yet no children of their own. Lady Archibald was delightedwith the child, who was quite beautiful. She fell in love with thelittle creature at the first sight of him--and fed him, on theevening of his arrival, with crumpets and buttered toast. And inreturn he danced "La Dieppoise" for her, and sang her a littleungrammatical ditty in praise of wine and women. It began:

 "Beuvons, beuvons, beuvons donc De ce vin le meilleur du monde . . . Beuvons, beuvons, beuvons donc De ce vin, car il est très-bon! Si je n'en beuvions pas, J'aurions la pépi-e! Ce qui me. . . . "

I have forgotten the rest--indeed, I am not quite sure that it isfit for the drawing-room!

"Ah, mon Dieu! quel amour d'enfant! Oh! gardons-le!" cried my lady, and they kept him. 

I can imagine the scene. Indeed, Lady Archibald has described it tome, and Barty remembered it well. It was his earliest Englishrecollection, and he has loved buttered toast and crumpets eversince--as well as women and wine. And thus he was adopted by theArchibald Rohans. They got him an English governess and a pony; andin two years he went to a day school in Dover, kept by a Miss Stone, who is actually alive at present and remembers him well; and so hebecame quite a little English boy, but kept up his French throughLady Archibald, who was passionately devoted to him, although bythis time she had a little daughter of her own, whom Barty alwayslooked upon as his sister, and who is now dead. (She became LordFrognal's wife--he died in 1870--and she afterwards married Mr. Justice Robertson. )

Barty's French grandfather and grandmother came over from Dieppeonce a year to see him, and were well pleased with the happycondition, of his new life; and the more Lord and Lady Archibald sawof these grandparents of his, the more pleased they were that he hadbecome the child of their adoption. For they were first-rate peopleto descend from, these simple toilers of the sea; better, perhaps, _cæteris paribus_, than even the Rohans themselves. 

All this early phase of little Josselin's life seems to have beensingularly happy. Every year at Christmas he went with the Rohans toCastle Rohan in Yorkshire, where his English grandfather lived, theMarquis of Whitby--and where he was petted and made much of by allthe members, young and old (especially female), of that very ancientfamily, which had originally come from Brittany in France, as thename shows; but were not millionaires, and never had been. 

Often, too, they went to Paris--and in 1847 Colonel Lord Archibaldsold out, and they elected to go and live there, in the Rue du Bac;and Barty was sent to the Institution F. Brossard, where he was soondestined to become the most popular boy, with boys and mastersalike, that had ever been in the school (in any school, I shouldthink), in spite of conduct that was too often the reverse ofexemplary. 

Indeed, even from his early boyhood he was the most extraordinarilygifted creature I have ever known, or even heard of; a kind ofspontaneous humorous Crichton, to whom all things came easily--andlife itself as an uncommonly good joke. During that summer term of1847 I did not see very much of him. He was in the class below mine, and took up with Laferté and little Bussy-Rabutin, who werefirst-rate boys, and laughed at everything he said, and worshippedhim. So did everybody else, sooner or later; indeed, it soon becameevident that he was a most exceptional little person. 

[Illustration: "'QUEL AMOUR D'ENFANT!'"]

In the first place, his beauty was absolutely angelic, as will bereadily believed by all who have known him since. The mere sight ofhim as a boy made people pity his father and mother for being dead!

Then he had a charming gift of singing little French and Englishditties, comic or touching, with his delightful fresh young pipe, and accompanying himself quite nicely on either piano or guitarwithout really knowing a note of music. Then he could drawcaricatures that we boys thought inimitable, much funnier thanCham's or Bertall's or Gavarni's, and collected and treasured up. Ihave dozens of them now--they make me laugh still, and bring backmemories of which the charm is indescribable; and their pathos, tome!

And then how funny he was himself, without effort, and with a funthat never failed! He was a born buffoon of the graceful kind--morewhelp or kitten than monkey--ever playing the fool, in and out ofseason, but somehow always _à propos_; and French boys love a boyfor that more than anything else; or did, in those days. 

Such very simple buffooneries as they were, too--that gave him (andus) such stupendous delight!

For instance--he is sitting at evening study between Bussy-Rabutinand Laferté; M. Bonzig is usher for the evening. 

At 8. 30 Bussy-Rabutin gives way; in a whisper he informs Barty thathe means to take a nap ("_piquer un chien_"), with his Gradus openedbefore him, and his hand supporting his weary brow as though in deepstudy. "But, " says he--

"If Bonzig finds me out (si Bonzig me colle), give me a gentlenudge!"

"All right!" says Barty--and off goes Bussy-Rabutin into his snooze. 

8. 45. --Poor fat little Laferté falls into a snooze too, after givingBarty just the same commission--to nudge him directly he's found outfrom the _chaire_. 

8. 55. --Intense silence; everybody hard at work. Even Bonzig issatisfied with the deep stillness and studious _recueillement_ thatbrood over the scene--steady pens going--quick turning over ofleaves of the Gradus ad Parnassum. Suddenly Barty sticks out hiselbows and nudges both his neighbors at once, and both jump up, exclaiming, in a loud voice:

"Non, m'sieur, je n'dors pas. J'travaille. "

Sensation. Even Bonzig laughs--and Barty is happy for a week. 

Or else, again--a new usher, Monsieur Goupillon (from Gascony) is onduty in the school-room during afternoon school. He has a peculiarway of saying "_oê, vô!_" instead of "_oui, vous!_" to any boy whosays "moi, m'sieur?" on being found fault with; and perceiving this, Barty manages to be found fault with every five minutes, and alwayssays "moi, m'sieur?" so as to elicit the "_oê, vô!_" that gives himsuch delight. 

At length M. Goupillon says, "Josselin, if you force me to say '_oê, vô!_' to you once more, youshall be _à la retenue_ for a week!"

"Moi, m'sieur?" says Josselin, quite innocently. 

"_Oê, vô!_" shouts M. Goupillon, glaring with all his might, butquite unconscious that Barty has earned the threatened punishment!And again Barty is happy for a week. And so are we. 

Such was Barty's humor, as a boy--mere drivel--but of such a kindthat even his butts were fond of him. He would make M. Bonzig laughin the middle of his severest penal sentences, and thus demoralizethe whole school-room and set a shocking example, and be ordered _àla porte_ of the salle d'études--an exile which was quite to histaste; for he would go straight off to the lingerie and entertainMlle. Marceline and Constance and Félicité (who all three adoredhim) with comic songs and break-downs of his own invention, andimitations of everybody in the school. He was a born histrion--akind of French Arthur Roberts--but very beautiful to the female eye, and also always dear to the female heart--a most delightful gift ofGod!

Then he was constantly being sent for when boys' friends and parentscame to see them, that he might sing and play the fool and show offhis tricks, and so forth. It was one of M. Mérovée's greatestdelights to put him through his paces. The message "on demandeMonsieur Josselin au parloir" would be brought down once or twice aweek, sometimes even in class or school room, and became quite aby-word in the school; and many of the masters thought it a mistakeand a pity. But Barty by no means disliked being made much of andshowing off in this genial manner. 

He could turn le père Brossard round his little finger, and Mérovéetoo. Whenever an extra holiday was to be begged for, or a favorobtained for any one, or the severity of a _pensum_ mitigated, Bartywas the messenger, and seldom failed. 

His constitution, inherited from a long line of frugal seafaringNorman ancestors (not to mention another long line of well-fed, well-bred Yorkshire Squires), was magnificent. His spirits neverfailed. He could see the satellites of Jupiter with the naked eye;this was often tested by M. Dumollard, maître de mathématiques (etde cosmographie), who had a telescope, which, with a littlegood-will on the gazer's part, made Jupiter look as big as the moon, and its moons like stars of the first magnitude. 

His sense of hearing was also exceptionally keen. He could hear awatch tick in the next room, and perceive very high sounds to whichordinary human ears are deaf (this was found out later); and when weplayed blind-man's-buff on a rainy day, he could, blindfolded, tellevery boy he caught hold of--not by feeling him all over like therest of us, but by the mere smell of his hair, or his hands, or hisblouse! No wonder he was so much more alive than the rest of us!According to the amiable, modest, polite, delicately humorous, andeven tolerant and considerate Professor Max Nordau, this perfectionof the olfactory sense proclaims poor Barty a degenerate! I onlywish there were a few more like him, and that I were a little morelike him myself!

By-the-way, how proud young Germany must feel of its enlightenedMax, and how fond of him, to be sure! Mes compliments!

But the most astounding thing of all (it seems incredible, but allthe world knows it by this time, and it will be accounted for lateron) is that at certain times and seasons Barty knew by an infallibleinstinct _where the north was_, to a point. Most of my readers willremember his extraordinary evidence as a witness in the "Rangoon"trial, and how this power was tested in open court, and howimportant were the issues involved, and how he refused to give anyexplanation of a gift so extraordinary. 

It was often tried at school by blindfolding him, and turning himround and round till he was giddy, and asking him to point out wherethe north pole was, or the north star, and seven or eight times outof ten the answer was unerringly right. When he failed, he knewbeforehand that for the time being he had lost the power, but couldnever say why. Little Doctor Larcher could never get over hissurprise at this strange phenomenon, nor explain it, and oftenbrought some scientific friend from Paris to test it, who wasequally nonplussed. 

When cross-examined, Barty would merely say:

"Quelquefois je sais--quelquefois je ne sais pas--mais quand jesais, je sais, et il n'y a pas à s'y tromper!"

Indeed, on one occasion that I remember well, a very strange thinghappened; he not only pointed out the north with absolute accuracy, as he stood carefully blindfolded in the gymnastic ground, afterhaving been turned and twisted again and again--but, stillblindfolded, he vaulted the wire fence and ran round to therefectory door which served as the home at rounders, all of usfollowing; and there he danced a surprising dance of his owninvention, that he called "La Paladine, " the most humorouslygraceful and grotesque exhibition I ever saw; and then, taking aball out of his pocket, he shouted: "À l'amandier!" and threw theball. Straight and swift it flew, and hit the almond-tree, which wasquite twenty yards off; and after this he ran round the yard frombase to base, as at "la balle au camp, " till he reached the campagain. 

"If ever he goes blind, " said the wondering M. Mérovée, "he'll neverneed a dog to lead him about. "

"He must have some special friend above!" said Madame Germain(Méroveé's sister, who was looking on). 

_Prophetic words!_ I have never forgotten them, nor the tear thatglistened in each of her kind eyes as she spoke. She was a deeplyreligious and very emotional person, and loved Barty almost as if hewere a child of her own. 

Such women have strange intuitions. 

Barty was often asked to repeat this astonishing performance beforesceptical people--parents of boys, visitors, etc. --who had been toldof it, and who believed he could not have been properly blindfolded;but he could never be induced to do so. 

There was no mistake about the blindfolding--I helped in it myself;and he afterwards told me the whole thing was "aussi simple quebonjour" if once he felt the north--for then, with his back to therefectory door, he knew exactly the position and distance of everytree from where he was. 

"It's all nonsense about my going blind and being able to do withouta dog"--he added; "I should be just as helpless as any other blindman, unless I was in a place I knew as well as my own pocket--likethis play-ground! Besides, _I_ sha'n't go blind; nothing will everhappen to _my_ eyes--they're the strongest and best in the wholeschool!"

He said this exultingly, dilating his nostrils and chest; and lookedproudly up and around, like Ajax defying the lightning. 

"But what _do_ you feel when you feel the north, Barty--a kind oftingling?" I asked. 

"Oh--I feel where it is--as if I'd got a mariner's compass tremblinginside my stomach--and as if I wasn't afraid of anybody or anythingin the world--as if I could go and have my head chopped off and notcare a fig. "

"Ah, well--I can't make it out--I give it up, " I exclaimed. 

"So do I, " exclaims Barty. 

"But tell me, Barty, " I whispered, "_have_ you--have you _really_got a--a--_special friend above?_"

"Ask no questions and you'll get no lies, " said Barty, and winked at me one eye after the other--and wentabout his business. And I about mine. 

Thus it is hardly to be wondered at that the spirit of thisextraordinary boy seemed to pervade the Pension F. Brossard, almostfrom the day he came to the day he left it--a slender stripling oversix feet high, beautiful as Apollo but, alas! without his degree, and not an incipient hair on his lip or chin!

Of course the boy had his faults. He had a tremendous appetite, andwas rather greedy--so was I, for that matter--and we were goodcustomers to la mère Jaurion; especially he, for he always had lotsof pocket-money, and was fond of standing treat all round. Yet, strange to say, he had such a loathing of meat that soon by specialfavoritism a separate dish of eggs and milk and succulent vegetableswas cooked expressly for him--a savory mess that made all our mouthswater merely to see and smell it, and filled us with envy, it was sogood. Aglaé the cook took care of that!

"C'était pour Monsieur Josselin!"

And of this he would eat as much as three ordinary boys could eat ofanything in the world. 

Then he was quick-tempered and impulsive, and in frequent fights--inwhich he generally came off second best; for he was fond of fightingwith bigger boys than himself. Victor or vanquished, he never boremalice--nor woke it in others, which is worse. But he would slap aface almost as soon as look at it, on rather slight provocation, I'mafraid--especially if it were an inch or two higher up than his own. And he was fond of showing off, and always wanted to throw fartherand jump higher and run faster than any one else. Not, indeed, thathe ever wished to _mentally_ excel, or particularly admired thosewho did!

Also, he was apt to judge folk too much by their mere outwardappearance and manner, and not very fond of dull, ugly, commonplacepeople--the very people, unfortunately, who were fondest of him; hereally detested them, almost as much as they detest each other, inspite of many sterling qualities of the heart and head theysometimes possess. And yet he was their victim through life--for hewas very soft, and never had the heart to snub the deadliest boreshe ever writhed under, even undeserving ones! Like ----, or ----, orthe Bishop of ----, or Lord Justice ----, or General ----, orAdmiral ----, or the Duke of ----, etc. , etc. 

And he very unjustly disliked people of the bourgeois type--therespectable middle class, _quorum pars magna fui_! Especially if wewere very well off and successful, and thought ourselves of someconsequence (as we now very often are, I beg to say), and showed it(as, I'm afraid, we sometimes do). He preferred the commonestartisan to M. Jourdain, the bourgeois gentilhomme, who was a verydecent fellow, after all, and at least clean in his habits, anddidn't use bad language or beat his wife!

Poor dear Barty! what would have become of all those pricelesscopyrights and royalties and what not if his old school-fellowhadn't been a man of business? And where would Barty himself havebeen without his wife, who came from that very class?

And his admiration for an extremely good-looking person, even of hisown sex, even a scavenger or a dustman, was almost snobbish. It waslike a well-bred, well-educated Englishman's frank fondness for anoble lord. 

And next to physical beauty he admired great physical strength; andI sometimes think that it is to my possession of this single gift Iowe some of the warm friendship I feel sure he always bore me; forthough he was a strong man, and topped me by an inch or two, I wasstronger still--as a cart-horse is stronger than a racer. 

For his own personal appearance, of which he always took thegreatest care, he had a naïve admiration that he did not disguise. His candor in this respect was comical; yet, strange to say, he wasreally without vanity. 

When he was in the Guards he would tell you quite frankly he was"the handsomest chap in all the Household Brigade, bar three"--justas he would tell you he was twenty last birthday. And the fun of itwas that the three exceptions he was good enough to make, splendidfellows as they were, seemed as satyrs to Hyperion when comparedwith Barty Josselin. One (F. Pepys) was three or four inches taller, it is true, being six foot seven or eight--a giant. The two othershad immense whiskers, which Barty openly envied, but could notemulate--and the mustache with which he would have been quitedecently endowed in time was not permitted in an infantry regiment. 

To return to the Pension Brossard, and Barty the school-boy:

He adored Monsieur Mérovée because he was big and strong andhandsome--not because he was one of the best fellows that everlived. He disliked Monsieur Durosier, whom we were all so fond of, because he had a slight squint and a receding chin. 

As for the Anglophobe, Monsieur Dumollard, who made no secret of hishatred and contempt for perfidious Albion. . . . 

"Dis donc, Josselin!" says Maurice, in English or French, as thecase might be, "why don't you like Monsieur Dumollard? Eh? He alwaysfavors you more than any other chap in the school. I suppose youdislike him because he hates the English so, and always runs themdown before you and me--and says they're all traitors and sneaks andhypocrites and bullies and cowards and liars and snobs; and we can'tanswer him, because he's the mathematical master!"

"Ma foi, non!" says Josselin--"c'est pas pour ça!"

"Pourquoi, alors?" says Maurice (that's me). 

"C'est parce qu'il a le pied bourgeois et la jambe canaille!" saysBarty. (It's because he's got common legs and vulgar feet. )

And that's about the lowest and meanest thing I ever heard him sayin his life. 

Also, he was not always very sympathetic, as a boy, when one wassick or sorry or out of sorts, for he had never been ill in hislife, never known an ache or a pain--except once the mumps, which heseemed to thoroughly enjoy--and couldn't realize suffering of anykind, except such suffering as most school-boys all over the worldare often fond of inflicting on dumb animals: this drove himfrantic, and led to many a licking by bigger boys. I rememberseveral such scenes--one especially. 

One frosty morning in January, '48, just after breakfast, Jolivettrois (tertius) put a sparrow into his squirrel's cage, and thesquirrel caught it in its claws, and cracked its skull like a nutand sucked its brain, while the poor bird still made a desperatestruggle for life, and there was much laughter. 

There was also, in consequence, a quick fight between Jolivet andJosselin; in which Barty got the worst, as usual--his foe was twoyears older, and quite an inch taller. 

Afterwards, as the licked one sat on the edge of a small stone tankfull of water and dabbed his swollen eye with a wet pocket-handkerchief, M. Dumollard, the mathematical master, made cheap fun of Britannicsentimentality about animals, and told us how the English noblesse wereprivileged to beat their wives with sticks no thicker than their ankles, and sell them "_au rabais_" in the horse-market of Smissfeld; and thatthey paid men to box each other to death on the stage of Drury Lane, andall that--deplorable things that we all know and are sorry for andashamed, but cannot put a stop to. 

The boys laughed, of course; they always did when Dumollard tried tobe funny, "and many a joke had he, " although his wit neverdegenerated into mere humor. 

But they were so fond of Barty that they forgave him his insularaffectation; some even helped him to dab his sore eye; among themJolivet trois himself, who was a very good-natured chap, and verygood-looking into the bargain; and he had received from Barty a soreeye too--_gallicè_, "un pochon"--_scholasticè_, "un oeil au beurrenoir!"

By-the-way, _I_ fought with Jolivet once--about Æsop's fables! Hesaid that Æsop was a lame poet of Lacedæmon--I, that Æsop was alittle hunchback Armenian Jew; and I stuck to it. It was a Sundayafternoon, on the terrace by the lingerie. 

He kicked as hard as he could, so I had to kick too. Mlle. Marcelineran out with Constance and Félicité and tried to separate us, andgot kicked by both (unintentionally, of course). Then up came PèreJaurion and kicked _me_! And they all took Jolivet's part, and saidI was in the wrong, because I was English! What did _they_ knowabout Æsop! So we made it up, and went in Jaurion's loge and stoodeach other a blomboudingue on tick--and called Jaurion bad names. 

"Comme c'est bête, de s'battre, hein?" said Jolivet, and I agreedwith him. I don't know which of us really got the worst of it, forwe hadn't disfigured each other in the least--and that's the best ofkicking. Anyhow he was two years older than I, and three or fourinches taller; so I'm glad, on the whole, that that small battle wasinterrupted. 

It is really not for brag that I have lugged in this story--atleast, I hope not. One never quite knows. 

To go back to Barty: he was the most generous boy in the school. IfI may paraphrase an old saying, he really didn't seem to know thedifference betwixt tuum et meum. Everything he had, books, clothes, pocket-money--even agate marbles, those priceless possessions to aFrench school-boy--seemed to be also everybody else's who chose. Icame across a very characteristic letter of his the other day, written from the Pension Brossard to his favorite aunt, LadyCaroline Grey (one of the Rohans), who adored him. It begins:

 "My Dear Aunt Caroline, --Thank you so much for the magnifying-glass, which is not only magnifying, but magnifique. Don't trouble to send any more gingerbread-nuts, as the boys are getting rather tired of them, especially Laferté and Bussy-Rabutin. I think we should all like some Scotch marmalade, " etc. , etc. 

And though fond of romancing a little now and then, and embellishinga good story, he was absolutely truthful in important matters, andto be relied upon implicitly. 

He seemed also to be quite without the sense of physical fear--akind of callousness. 

Such, roughly, was the boy who lived to write the _Motes in aMoonbeam_ and _La quatrième Dimension_ before he was thirty; andsuch, roughly, he remained through life, except for one thing: hegrew to be the very soul of passionate and compassionate sympathy, as who doesn't feel who has ever read a page of his work, or evenhad speech with him for half an hour?

Whatever weaknesses he yielded to when he grew to man's estate aresuch as the world only too readily condones in many a famous manless tempted than Josselin was inevitably bound to be through life. Men of the Josselin type (there are not many--he stands pretty muchalone) can scarcely be expected to journey from adolescence tomiddle age with that impeccable decorum which I--and no doubt manyof my masculine readers--have found it so easy to achieve, and findit now so pleasant to remember and get credit for. Let us think of_The Footprints of Aurora_, or _Étoiles mortes_, or _Déjanire etDalila_, or even _Les Trépassées de François Villon!_

Then let us look at Rajon's etching of Watts's portrait of him (theoriginal is my own to look at whenever I like, and that is prettyoften). And then let us not throw too many big stones, or too hard, at Barty Josselin. 

Well, the summer term of 1847 wore smoothly to its close--a happy"trimestre" during which the Institution F. Brossard reached thehigh-water mark of its prosperity. 

There were sixty boys to be taught, and six house-masters to teachthem, besides a few highly paid outsiders for special classes--suchas the lively M. Durosier for French literature, and M. LeProfesseur Martineau for the higher mathematics, and so forth; andcrammers and coachers for St. -Cyr, the Polytechnic School, the Écoledes Ponts et Chaussées. 

Also fencing-masters, gymnastic masters, a Dutch master who taughtus German and Italian--an Irish master with a lovely brogue whotaught us English. Shall I ever forget the blessed day when ten ortwelve of us were presented with an _Ivanhoe_ apiece as aclass-book, or how Barty and I and Bonneville (who knew English)devoured the immortal story in less than a week--to the disgust ofRapaud, who refused to believe that we could possibly know such abeastly tongue as English well enough to read an English book formere pleasure--on our desks in play-time, or on our laps in school, _en cachette_! "Quelle sacrée pose!"

He soon mislaid his own copy, did Rapaud; just as he mislaid my_Monte Cristo_ and Jolivet's illustrated _Wandering Jew_--and it wasalways:

"Dis donc, Maurice!--prête-moi ton _Ivanhoé_!" (with an accent onthe e), whenever he had to construe his twenty lines of ValtèreScott--and what a hash he made of them!

Sometimes M. Brossard himself would come, smoking his bigmeerschaum, and help the English class during preparation, and putus up to a thing or two worth knowing. 

"Rapaud, comment dit-on '_pouvoir_' en anglais?"

"Sais pas, m'sieur!"

"Comment, petit crétin, tu ne sais pas!"

And Rapaud would receive a _pincée tordue_--a "twisted pinch"--onthe back of his arm to quicken his memory. 

"Oh, là, là!" he would howl--"je n' sais pas!"

"Et toi, Maurice?"

"Ça se dit '_to be able_, ' m'sieur!" I would say. 

"Mais non, mon ami--tu oublies ta langue natale--ça se dit, '_tocan_'! Maintenant, comment dirais-tu en anglais, '_je voudraispouvoir_'?"

"Je dirais, '_I would like to be able. _'"

"Comment, encore! petit cancre! allons--tu es Anglais--tu sais bienque tu dirais, '_I vould vill to can_'!"

Then M. Brossard turns to Barty: "A ton tour, Josselin!"

"Moi, m'sieur?" says Barty. 

"Oui, toi!--comment dirais-tu, '_je pourrais vouloir_'?"

"Je dirais '_I vould can to vill_, '" says Barty, quite unabashed. 

"À la bonne heure! au moins tu sais ta langue, toi!" says PèreBrossard, and pats him on the cheek; while Barty winks at me, thewink of successful time-serving hypocrisy, and Bonneville writheswith suppressed delight. 

What lives most in my remembrance of that summer is the lovelyweather we had, and the joy of the Passy swimming-bath everyThursday and Sunday from two till five or six; it comes back to meeven now in heavenly dreams by night. I swim with giant side-strokesall round the Île des Cygnes between Passy and Grenelle, where theÉcole de Natation was moored for the summer months. 

Round and round the isle I go, up stream and down, and dive andfloat and wallow with bliss there is no telling--till the waters alldry up and disappear, and I am left wading in weeds and mud anddrift and drought and desolation, and wake up shivering--and such islife. 

As for Barty, he was all but amphibious, and reminded me of the sealat the Jardin des Plantes. He really seemed to spend most of theafternoon under water, coming up to breathe now and then atunexpected moments, with a stone in his mouth that he had picked upfrom the slimy bottom ten or twelve feet below--or a weed--or adead mussel. 

Part Second

 "Laissons les regrets et les pleurs À la vieillesse; Jeunes, il faut cueillir les fleurs De la jeunesse!"--Baïf. 

Sometimes we spent the Sunday morning in Paris, Barty and I--inpicture-galleries and museums and wax-figure shows, churches andcemeteries, and the Hôtel Cluny and the Baths of Julian theApostate--or the Jardin des Plantes, or the Morgue, or the knackers'yards at Montfaucon--or lovely slums. Then a swim at the BainsDeligny. Then lunch at some restaurant on the Quai Voltaire, or inthe Quartier Latin. Then to some café on the Boulevards, drinkingour demi-tasse and our chasse-café, and smoking our cigarettes likemen, and picking our teeth like gentlemen of France. 

Once after lunch at Vachette's with Berquin (who was seventeen) andBonneville (the marquis who had got an English mother), we weresitting outside the Café des Variétés, in the midst of a crowd ofconsommateurs, and tasting to the full the joy of being alive, whena poor woman came up with a guitar, and tried to sing "Le petitmousse noir, " a song Barty knew quite well--but she couldn't sing abit, and nobody listened. 

"Allons, Josselin, chante-nous ça!" said Berquin. 

And Bonneville jumped up, and took the woman's guitar from her, andforced it into Josselin's hands, while the crowd became muchinterested and began to applaud. 

Thus encouraged, Barty, who never in all his life knew what it is tobe shy, stood up and piped away like a bird; and when he hadfinished the story of the little black cabin-boy who sings in themaintop halliards, the applause was so tremendous that he had tostand up on a chair and sing another, and yet another. 

"Écoute-moi bien, ma Fleurette!" and "Amis, la matinée est belle!"(from _La Muette de Portici_), while the pavement outside theVariétés was rendered quite impassable by the crowd that hadgathered round to look and listen--and who all joined in the chorus:

 "Conduis ta barque avec prudence, Pêcheur! parle bas! Jette tes filets en silence Pêcheur! parle bas! Et le roi des mers ne nous échappera pas!" (_bis_). 

and the applause was deafening. 

Meanwhile Bonneville and Berquin went round with the hat andgathered quite a considerable sum, in which there seemed to bealmost as much silver as copper--and actually _two five-franc piecesand an English half-sovereign_! The poor woman wept with gratitudeat coming into such a fortune, and insisted on kissing Barty's hand. Indeed it was a quite wonderful ovation, considering howunmistakably British was Barty's appearance, and how unpopular wewere in France just then!

[Illustration: "AMIS, LA MATINÉE EST BELLE"]

He had his new shiny black silk chimney-pot hat on, and his Etonjacket, with the wide shirt collar. Berquin, in a tightly fittingdouble-breasted brown cloth swallow-tailed coat with brass buttons, yellow nankin bell-mouthed trousers strapped over varnished boots, butter-colored gloves, a blue satin stock, and a very tall hairy hatwith a wide curly brim, looked such an out-and-out young gentleman ofFrance that we were all proud of being seen in his company--especiallyyoung de Bonneville, who was still in mourning for his father and wore acrape band round his arm, and a common cloth cap with a leather peak, and thick blucher boots; though he was quite sixteen, and already had alittle black mustache like an eyebrow, and inhaled the smoke of hiscigarette without coughing and quite naturally, and ordered the waitersabout just as if he already wore the uniform of the École St. -Cyr, forwhich he destined himself (and was not disappointed. He should be amarshal of France by now--perhaps he is). 

Then we went to the Café Mulhouse on the Boulevard des Italiens (onthe "_Boul. Des It. _, " as we called it, to be in the fashion)--thatwe might gaze at Señor Joaquin Eliezegui, the Spanish giant, who waseight feet high and a trifle over (or under--I forget which): hetold us himself. Barty had a passion for gazing at very tall men;like Frederic the Great (or was it his Majesty's royal father?). 

Then we went to the Boulevard Bonne-Nouvelle, where, in a painted woodenshed, a most beautiful Circassian slave, miraculously rescued from someabominable seraglio in Constantinople, sold pen'orths of "galette dugymnase. " On her raven hair she wore a silk turban all over sequins, silver and gold, with a yashmak that fell down behind, leaving heradorable face exposed: she had an amber vest of silk, embroidered withpearls as big as walnuts, and Turkish pantalettes--what her slipperswere we couldn't see, but they must have been lovely, like all the restof her. Barty had a passion for gazing at very beautiful femalefaces--like his father before him. 

There was a regular queue of postulants to see this heavenly Easternhouri and buy her confection, which is very like Scotch butter-cake, but not so digestible; and even more filling at the price. And threeof us sat on a bench, while three times running Barty took his placein that procession--soldiers, sailors, workmen, chiffonniers, peopleof all sorts, women as many as men--all of them hungry for galette, but hungrier still for a good humanizing stare at a beautiful femaleface; and he made the slow and toilsome journey to the little woodenbooth three times--and brought us each a pen'orth on each returnjourney; and the third time, Katidjah (such was her sweet Orientalname) leaned forward over her counter and kissed him on both cheeks, and whispered in his ear (in English--and with the accent ofStratford-atte-Bowe):

"You little _duck_! _your_ name is _Brown_, _I_ know!"

And he came away, his face pale with conflicting emotions, and toldus!

How excited we were! Bonneville (who spoke English quite well) wentfor a pen'orth on his own account, and said: "My name's Brown too, Miss Katidjah!" But he didn't get a kiss. 

(She soon after married a Mr. ----, of ----, the well-known ----Of ----shire, in ----land. She may be alive now. )

Then to the Palais Royal, to dine at the "Dîner Européen" with M. Berquin père, a famous engineer; and finally to stalls at the"Français" to see the two first acts of _Le Cid_; and this wasrather an anticlimax--for we had too much "Cid" at the InstitutionF. Brossard already!

And then, at last, to the omnibus station in the Rue de Rivoli, whence the "Accélérées" (en correspondence avec les Constantines)started for Passy every ten minutes; and thus, up the gas-lightedChamps-Élysées, and by the Arc de Triomphe, to the Rond-point del'Avenue de St. -Cloud; tired out, but happy--happy--happy _comme onne l'est plus_!

Before the school broke up for the holidays there were very severeexaminations--but no "distribution de prix"; we were above that kindof thing at Brossard's, just as we were above wearing a uniform ortaking in day boarders. 

Barty didn't come off very well in this competition; but he came offanyhow much better than I, who had failed to be "diligent andattentive"--too much _Monte Cristo_, I'm afraid. 

At all events Barty got five marks for English History, because heremembered a good deal about Richard Coeur de Lion, and John, andFriar Tuck, and Robin Hood, and especially one Cedric the Saxon, ahistorical personage of whom the examiner (a decorated gentlemanfrom the Collège de France) had never even heard!

 * * * * *

And then (to the tune of "Au clair de la lune"):

 "Vivent les vacances-- _Denique tandèm_; Et les pénitences-- _Habebunt finèm_! Les pions intraitables, _Vultu Barbarò_, S'en iront aux diables, _Gaudio nostrò_. "

N. B. --The accent is always on the last syllable in French Latin--and_pion_ means an usher. 

[Illustration: "TOO MUCH 'MONTE CRISTO, ' I'M AFRAID"]

Barty went to Yorkshire with the Rohans, and I spent most of my holidayswith my mother and sister (and the beautiful Miss ----) at MademoiselleJalabert's, next door--coming back to school for most of my meals, andat night to sleep, with a whole dormitory to myself, and no dreadfulbell at five in the morning; and so much time to spare that I neverfound any leisure for my holiday task, that skeleton at the feast; nomore did Jules, the sergeant's son; no more did Caillard, who spent hisvacation at Brossard's because his parents lived in Russia, and his"correspondant" in Paris was ill. 

The only master who remained behind was Bonzig, who passed his timepainting ships and sailors, in oil-colors; it was a passion withhim: corvettes, brigantines, British whalers, fishing-smacks, revenue-cutters, feluccas, caïques, even Chinese junks--all was fishthat came to his net. He got them all from _La France Maritime_, anillustrated periodical much in vogue at Brossard's; and also hisstorms and his calms, his rocks and piers and light-houses--for hehad never seen the sea he was so fond of. He took us every morningto the Passy swimming-baths, and in the afternoon for long walks inParis, and all about and around, and especially to the Musée deMarine at the Louvre, that we might gaze with him at the beautifulmodels of three-deckers. 

He evidently pitied our forlorn condition, and told us delightfulstories about seafaring life, like Mr. Clark Russell's; and how he, some day, hoped to see the ocean for himself before he died--andwith his own eyes. 

I really don't know how Jules and Caillard would have got throughthe hideous _ennui_ of that idle September without him. Even I, withmy mother and sister and the beautiful Miss ---- within such easyreach, found time hang heavily at times. One can't be alwaysreading, even Alexandre Dumas; nor always loafing about, even inParis, by one's self (Jules and Caillard were not allowed outsidethe gates without Bonzig); and beautiful English girls of eighteen, like Miss ----s, don't always want a small boy dangling after them, and show it sometimes; which I thought very hard. 

It was almost a relief when school began again in October, and theboys came back with their wonderful stories of the good time theyhad all had (especially some of the big boys, who were "enrhétorique et en philosophie")--and all the game that had fallen totheir guns--wild-boars, roebucks, cerfs-dix-cors, and what not; ofperilous swims in stormy seas--tremendous adventures infishing-smacks on moonlight nights (it seemed that the moon had beenat the full all through those wonderful six weeks); rides _ventre àterre_ on mettlesome Arab steeds through gloomy wolf-haunted forestswith charming female cousins; flirtations and "good fortunes" withbeautiful but not happily married women in old mediæval castlekeeps. Toujours au clair de la lune! They didn't believe each otherin the least, these gay young romancers--nor expect to be believedthemselves; but it was very exciting all the same; and theylistened, and were listened to in turn, without a gesture ofincredulity--nor even a smile! And we small boys held our tongues inreverence and awe. 

When Josselin came back he had wondrous things to tell too--but sopreposterous that they disbelieved him quite openly, and told himso. How in London he had seen a poor woman so tipsy in the streetthat she had to be carried away by two policemen on a stretcher. Howhe had seen brewers' dray-horses nearly six feet high at theshoulder--and one or two of them with a heavy cavalry mustachedrooping from its upper lip. 

How he had been presented to the Lord Mayor of London, and evenshaken hands with him, in Leadenhall Market, and that his Lordshipwas quite plainly dressed; and how English Lord Mayors were notnecessarily "hommes du monde, " nor always hand in glove with QueenVictoria!

Splendide mendax!

But they forgave him all his mendacity for the sake of a newaccomplishment he had brought back with him, and which beat all hisothers. He could actually turn a somersault backwards with all theease and finish of a professional acrobat. How he got to do this Idon't know. It must have been natural to him and he never found itout before; he was always good at gymnastics--and all things thatrequired grace and agility more than absolute strength. 

Also he brought back with him (from Leadenhall Market, no doubt) agigantic horned owl, fairly tame--and with eyes that reminded us ofle grand Bonzig's. 

School began, and with it the long evenings with an hour's play bylamp-light in the warm salle d'études; and the cold lamp-lit ninetyminutes' preparation on an empty stomach, after the shortperfunctory morning prayer--which didn't differ much from theevening one. 

Barty was still _en cinquième_, at the top! and I at the tail of theclass immediately above--so near and yet so far! so I did not havemany chances of improving my acquaintance with him that term; for hestill stuck to Laferté and Bussy-Rabutin--they were inseparable, those three. 

At mid-day play-time the weather was too cold for anything butgames, which were endless in their variety and excitement; it wouldtake a chapter to describe them. 

It is a mistake to think that French school-boys are (or were) worseoff than ours in this. I will not say that any one French game isquite so good as cricket or football for a permanency. But Iremember a great many that are very nearly so. 

Indeed, French rounders (la balle au camp) seems to me the best gamethat ever was--on account of the quick rush and struggle of thefielders to get home when an inside boy is hit between the bases, lest he should pick the ball up in time to hit one of them with itbefore the camp is reached; in which case there is a most excitingscrimmage for the ball, etc. , etc. 

Barty was good at all games, especially la balle au camp. I used toenvy the graceful, easy way he threw the ball--so quick and straightit seemed to have no curve at all in its trajectory: and how itbounded off the boy it nearly always hit between the shoulders!

At evening, play in the school-room, besides draughts and chess andbackgammon; M. Bonzig, when _de service_, would tell us thrillingstories, with "la suite au prochain numéro" when the bell rang at 7. 30;a long series that lasted through the winter of '47-'48. _Le Tueur deDaims_, _Le Lac Ontario_, _Le Dernier des Mohicans_, _Les Pionniers_, _La Prairie_--by one Fénimore Coupère; all of which he had read in M. Defauconpret's admirable translations. I have read some of them in theirnative American since then, myself. I loved them always--but they seemedto lack some of the terror, the freshness, and the charm his fluentutterance and solemn nasal voice put into them as he sat and smoked hisendless cigarettes with his back against the big stone stove, and hiseyes dancing sideways through his glasses. Never did that"ding-dang-dong" sound more hateful than when le grand Bonzig wastelling the tale of Bas-de-cuir's doings, from his innocent youth to hisnoble and Pathetic death by sunset, with his ever-faithful andstill-serviceable but no longer deadly rifle (the friend of sixty years)lying across his knees. I quote from memory; what a gun that was!

Then on Thursdays, long walks, two by two, in Paris, with Bonzig orDumollard; or else in the Bois to play rounders or prisoners' basein a clearing, or skate on the Mare aux Biches, which was always sohard to find in the dense thicket . . . Poor Lord Runswick! _He_ foundit once too often!

La Mare d'Auteuil was too deep, and too popular with "la flotte dePassy, " as we called the Passy voyous, big and small, who came therein their hundreds--to slide and pick up quarrels with well-dressedand respectable school-boys. Liberté--égalité--fraternité! ou lamort! Vive la république! (This, by-the-way, applies to the winterthat came _next_. )

So time wore on with us gently; through the short vacation atNew-year's day till the 23d or 24th of February, when the Revolutionbroke out, and Louis Philippe premier had to fly for his life. Itwas a very troublous time, and the school for a whole week was in astate of quite heavenly demoralization! Ten times a day, or in thedead of night, the drum would beat _le rappel_ or _la générale_. Awarm wet wind was blowing--the most violent wind I can remember thatwas not an absolute gale. It didn't rain, but the clouds hurriedacross the sky all day long, and the tops of the trees tried to bendthemselves in two; and their leafless boughs and black broken twigslittered the deserted playground--for we all sat on the parapet ofthe terrace by the lingerie; boys and servants, le père et la mereJaurion, Mlle. Marceline and the rest, looking towards Paris--allfeeling bound to each other by a common danger, like wild beasts ina flood. Dear me! I'm out of breath from sheer pleasure in theremembrance. 

One night we had to sleep on the floor for fear of stray bullets;and that was a fearful joy never to be forgotten--it almost kept usawake! Peering out of the school-room windows at dusk, we saw greatfires, three or four at a time. Suburban retreats of theover-wealthy, in full conflagration; and all day the rattle ofdistant musketry and the boom of cannon a long way off, nearMontmartre and Montfaucon, kept us alive. 

Most of the boys went home, and some of them never came back--andfrom that day the school began to slowly decline. Père Brossard--anancient "Brigand de la Loire, " as the republicans of his youth werecalled--was elected a representative of his native town at theChamber of Deputies; and possibly that did the school more harm thangood--ne sutor ultra crepidam! as he was so fond of impressing on_us_!

However, we went on pretty much as usual through spring andsummer--with occasional alarms (which we loved), and beatings of _lerappel_--till the July insurrection broke out. 

My mother and sister had left Mlle. Jalabert's, and now lived withmy father near the Boulevard Montmartre. And when the fighting wasat its height they came to fetch me home, and invited Barty, for theRohans were away from Paris. So home we walked, quite leisurely, ona lovely peaceful summer evening, while the muskets rattled and thecannons roared round us, but at a proper distance; women pickinglinen for lint and chatting genially the while at shop doors andporter's lodge-gates; and a piquet of soldiers at the corner ofevery street, who felt us all over for hidden cartridges before theylet us through; it was all entrancing! The subtle scent of gunpowderwas in the air--the most suggestive smell there can be. Even now, here in England, the night of the fifth of November never comesround but I am pleasantly reminded of the days when I was "en pleinerévolution" in the streets of Paris with my father and mother, andBarty and my little sister--and genial _piou-pious_ made such aConscientious examination of our garments. Nothing brings back thepast like a sound or a smell--even those of a penny squib!

Every now and then a litter borne by soldiers came by, on which laya dead or wounded officer. And then one's laugh died suddenly out, and one felt one's self face to face with the horrors that weregoing on. 

Barty shared my bed, and we lay awake talking half the night;dreadful as it all was, one couldn't help being jolly! Every tenminutes the sentinel on duty in the court-yard below wouldsententiously intone:

"Sentinelles, prenez-garde à vous!" And other sentinels would repeatthe cry till it died away in the distance, like an echo. 

And all next day, or the day after--or else the day after that, whenthe long rattle of the musketry had left off--we heard at intervalsthe "feu de peloton" in a field behind the church of St. -Vincent dePaul, and knew that at every discharge a dozen poor devils ofinsurgents, caught red-handed, fell dead in a pool of blood!

I need hardly say that before three days were over the irrepressibleBarty had made a complete conquest of my small family. My sister (Ihasten to say this) has loved him as a brother ever since; and aslong as my parents lived, and wherever they made their home, thathome has ever been his--and he has been their son--almost theireldest born, though he was younger than I by seven months. 

Things have been reversed, however, for now thirty years and more;and his has ever been the home for me, and his people have been mypeople, and ever will be--and the God of his worship mine!

What children and grandchildren of my own could ever be to me asthese of Barty Josselin's?

"Ce sacré Josselin--il avait tous les talents!"

And the happiest of these gifts, and not the least important, wasthe gift he had of imparting to his offspring all that was mostbrilliant and amiable and attractive in himself, and leaving in themunimpaired all that was strongest and best in the woman I loved aswell as he did, and have loved as long--and have grown to look uponas belonging to the highest female type that can be; for doubtlessthe Creator, in His infinite wisdom, might have created a better anda nicer woman than Mrs. Barty Josselin that was to be, had Hethought fit to do so; but doubtless also He never did. 

Alas! the worst of us is that the best of us are those that want thelongest knowing to find it out. 

My kind-hearted but cold-mannered and undemonstrative Scotch father, evangelical, a total abstainer, with a horror of tobacco--surely theausterest dealer in French wines that ever was--a puritanical haterof bar sinisters, and profligacy, and Rome, and rank, and the army, and especially the stage--he always lumped them together more orless--a despiser of all things French, except their wines, which henever drank himself--remained devoted to Barty till the day of hisdeath; and so with my dear genial mother, whose heart yet alwaysyearned towards serious boys who worked hard at school and college, and passed brilliant examinations, and got scholarships andfellowships in England, and state sinecures in France, and marriedearly, and let their mothers choose their wives for them, and trainup their children in the way they should go. She had lived so longin France that she was Frencher than the French themselves. 

And they both loved good music--Mozart, Bach, Beethoven--and werealmost priggish in their contempt for anything of a lighter kind;especially with a lightness English or French! It was only themusical lightness of Germany they could endure at all! But whetherin Paris or London, enter Barty Josselin, idle school-boy, or dandydissipated guardsman, and fashionable man about town, or bohemianart student; and Bach, lebewohl! good-bye, Beethoven! bonsoir le bonMozart! all was changed: and welcome, instead, the last comic songfrom the Château des Fleurs, or Evans's in Covent Garden; the latestpatriotic or sentimental ditty by Loïsa Puget, or Frédéric Bérat, orEliza Cook, or Mr. Henry Russell. 

And then, what would Barty like for breakfast, dinner, supper afterthe play, and which of all those burgundies would do Barty goodwithout giving him a headache next morning? and where was Barty tohave his smoke?--in the library, of course. "Light the fire in thelibrary, Mary; and Mr. Bob [that was me] can smoke there, too, instead of going outside, " etc. , etc. , etc. It is small wonder thathe grew a bit selfish at times. 

Though I was a little joyous now and then, it is quite without ashadow of bitterness or envy that I write all this. I have lived forfifty years under the charm of that genial, unconscious, irresistible tyranny; and, unlike my dear parents, I have lived toread and know Barty Josselin, nor merely to see and hear and lovehim for himself alone. 

Indeed, it was quite impossible to know Barty at all intimately andnot do whatever he wanted you to do. Whatever he wanted, he wantedso intensely, and at once; and he had such a droll and engaging wayof expressing that hurry and intensity, and especially of expressinghis gratitude and delight when what he wanted was what he got--thatyou could not for the life of you hold your own! Tout vient à qui nesait pas attendre!

Besides which, every now and then, if things didn't go quite as hewished, he would fly into comic rages, and become quite violent andintractable for at least five minutes, and for quite five minutesmore he would silently sulk. And then, just as suddenly, he wouldforget all about it, and become once more the genial, affectionate, and caressing creature he always was. 

But this is going ahead too fast! revenons. At the examinations thisyear Barty was almost brilliant, and I was hopeless as usual; myonly consolation being that after the holidays we should at last bein the same class together, _en quatrième_, and all through thishopelessness of mine!

Laferté was told by his father that he might invite two of hisschool-fellows to their country-house for the vacation, so he askedJosselin and Bussy-Rabutin. But Bussy couldn't go--and, to mydelight, I went instead. 

That ride all through the sweet August night, the three of us on theimpériale of the five-horsed diligence, just behind the conductorand the driver--and freedom, and a full moon, or nearly so--and atremendous saucisson de Lyon (à l'ail, bound in silver paper)--andpetits pains--and six bottles of bière de Mars--and cigarettes adlibitum, which of course we made ourselves!

The Lafertés lived in the Department of La Sarthe, in a delightfulcountry-house, with a large garden sloping down to a transparentstream, which had willows and alders and poplars all along its bothbanks, and a beautiful country beyond. 

Outside the grounds (where there were the old brick walls, allovergrown with peaches and pears and apricots, of some forgottenmediæval convent) was a large farm; and close by, a water-mill thatnever stopped. 

A road, with thick hedge-rows on either side, led to a small andvery pretty town called La Tremblaye, three miles off. And hard bythe garden gates began the big forest of that name: one heard thestags calling, and the owls hooting, and the fox giving tongue as ithunted the hares at night. There might have been wolves andwild-boars. I like to think so very much. 

M. Laferté was a man of about fifty--entre les deux âges; a retiredmaître de forges, or iron-master, or else the son of one: I forgetwhich. He had a charming wife and two pretty little daughters, Jeanne et Marie, aged fourteen and twelve. 

He seldom moved from his country home, which was called "Le Gué desAulnes, " except to go shooting in the forest; for he was a greatsportsman and cared for little else. He was of gigantic stature--sixfoot six or seven, and looked taller still, as he had a very smallhead and high shoulders. He was not an Adonis, and could only seeout of one eye--the other (the left one, fortunately) was fixed asif it were made of glass--perhaps it was--and this gave him a sternand rather forbidding expression of face. 

He had just been elected Mayor of La Tremblaye, beating the Comte dela Tremblaye by many votes. The Comte was a royalist and notpopular. The republican M. Laferté (who was immensely charitable andvery just) was very popular indeed, in spite of a morose and gloomymanner. He could even be violent at times, and then he was terribleto see and hear. Of course his wife and daughters were gentlenessitself, and so was his son, and everybody who came into contact withhim. _Si vis pacem, para bellum_, as Père Brossard used to impressupon us. 

It was the strangest country household I have ever seen, in Franceor anywhere else. They were evidently very well off, yet theypreferred to eat their mid-day meal in the kitchen, which wasimmense; and so was the mid-day meal--and of a succulency!. . . 

An old wolf-hound always lay by the huge log fire; often with two orthree fidgety cats fighting for the soft places on him and makinghim growl; five or six other dogs, non-sporting, were always aboutat meal-time. 

The servants--three or four peasant women who waited on us--talkedall the time; and were _tutoyées_ by the family. Farm-laborers camein and discussed agricultural matters, manures, etc. , quiteinformally, squeezing their bonnets de coton in their hands. Thepostman sat by the fire and drank a glass of cider and smoked hispipe up the chimney while the letters were read--most of them outloud--and were commented upon by everybody in the most friendlyspirit. All this made the meal last a long time. 

M. Laferté always wore his blouse--except in the evening, and thenhe wore a brown woollen vareuse, or jersey; unless there wereguests, when he wore his Sunday morning best. He nearly always spokelike a peasant, although he was really a decently educated man--orshould have been. 

His old mother, who was of good family and eighty years of agelived in a quite humble cottage in a small street in La Tremblaye, with two little peasant girls to wait on her; and the La Tremblayes, with whom M. Laferté was not on speaking terms, were always cominginto the village to see her and bring her fruit and flowers andgame. She was a most accomplished old lady, and an excellentmusician, and had known Monsieur de Lafayette. 

We breakfasted with her when we alighted from the diligence at sixin the morning; and she took such a fancy to Barty that her owngrandson was almost forgotten. He sang to her, and she sang to him, and showed him autograph letters of Lafayette, and a lock of herhair when she was seventeen, and old-fashioned miniatures of herfather and mother, Monsieur and Madame de something I've quiteforgotten. 

M. Laferté kept a pack of bassets (a kind of bow-legged beagle), andwent shooting with them every day in the forest, wet or dry;sometimes we three boys with him. He lent us guns--an oldsingle-barrelled flint-lock cavalry musket or carbine fell to myshare; and I knew happiness such as I had never known yet. 

Barty was evidently not meant for a sportsman. On a very warm Augustmorning, as he and I squatted "à l'affût" at the end of a longstraight ditch outside a thicket which the bassets were hunting, wesaw a hare running full tilt at us along the ditch, and we bothfired together. The hare shrieked, and turned a big somersault andfell on its back and kicked convulsively--its legs stillgalloping--and its face and neck were covered with blood; and, to myastonishment, Barty became quite hysterical with grief at what wehad done. It's the only time I ever saw him cry. 

"_Caïn! Caïn! qu'as-tu fait de ton frère?_" he shrieked again andagain, in a high voice, like a small child's--like the hare's. 

I calmed him down and promised I wouldn't tell, and he recoveredhimself and bagged the game--but he never came out shooting with usagain! So I inherited his gun, which was double-barrelled. 

Barty's accomplishments soon became the principal recreation of theLaferté ladies; and even M. Laferté himself would start for theforest an hour or two later or come back an hour sooner to makeBarty go through his bag of tricks. He would have an arm-chairbrought out on the lawn after breakfast and light his short blackpipe and settle the programme himself. 

First, "_le saut périlleux_"--the somersault backwards--over andover again, at intervals of two or three minutes, so as to givehimself time for thought and chuckles, while he smoked his pipe insilent stodgy jubilation. 

Then, two or three songs--they would be stopped, if M. Lafertédidn't like them, after the first verse, and another one startedinstead; and if it pleased him, it was encored two or three times. 

Then, pen and ink and paper were brought, and a small table and akitchen chair, and Barty had to draw caricatures, of which M. Laferté chose the subject. 

"Maintenant, fais-moi le profil de mon vieil ami M. Bonzig, que j'n' connais pas, que j' n'ai jamais vu, mais q' j'aime beaucoup. "(Now do me the side face of my old friend M. Bonzig, whom I don'tknow, but am very fond of. )

And so on for twenty minutes. 

Then Barty had to be blindfolded and twisted round and round, andpoint out the north--when he felt up to it. 

Then a pause for reflection. 

Then: "Dis-moi qué'q' chose en anglais. "

"How do you do very well hey diddle-diddle Chichester church inChichester church-yard!" says Barty. 

"Qué'q' çà veut dire?"

"Il s'agit d'une église et d'un cimetière!" says Barty--rathersadly, with a wink at me. 

"C'est pas gai! Qué vilaine langue, hein? J' suis joliment contentque j' sais pas I'anglais, moi!" (It's not lively! What a beastlylanguage, eh? I'm precious glad _I_ don't know English. )

Then: "Démontre-moi un problème de géométrie. "

Barty would then do a simple problem out of Legendre (the FrenchEuclid), and M. Laferté would look on with deep interest andadmiration, but evidently no comprehension whatever. Then he wouldtake the pen himself, and draw a shapeless figure, with A's and B'sand C's and D's stuck all over it in impossible places, and quite athazard, and say:

"Démontre-moi que A + B est plus grand que C + D. " It was mereidiotic nonsense, and he didn't know better!

But Barty would manage to demonstrate it all the same, and M. Laferté would sigh deeply, and exclaim, "C'est joliment beau, lagéométrie!"

Then: "Danse!"

And Barty danced "la Paladine, " and did Scotch reels and Irish jigsand break-downs of his own invention, amidst roars of laughter fromall the family. 

Finally the gentlemen of the party went down to the river for aswim--and old Laferté would sit on the bank and smoke hisbrûle-gueule, and throw carefully selected stones for Barty to diveafter--and feel he'd scored off Barty when the proper stone wasn'tfound, and roar in his triumph. After which he would go and pick thefinest peach he could find, and peel it with his pocket-knife veryneatly, and when Barty was dressed, present it to him with a kindlylook in both eyes at once. 

"Mange-moi ça--ça t' fera du bien!"

Then, suddenly: "Pourquoi q' tu n'aimes pas la chasse? t'as paspeur, j'espère!" (Why don't you like shooting? you're not afraid, Ihope!)

[Illustration: LE PÈRE POLYPHÈME]

"'Sais pas, '" said Josselin; "don't like killing things, Isuppose. '"

So Barty became quite indispensable to the happiness and comfort ofPère Polyphème, as he called him, as well as of his amiable family. 

On the 1st of September there was a grand breakfast in honor of thepartridges (not in the kitchen this time), and many guests wereinvited; and Barty had to sing and talk and play the fool allthrough breakfast; and got very tipsy, and had to be put to bed forthe rest of the day. It was no fault of his, and Madame Lafertódeclared that "ces messieurs" ought to be ashamed of themselves, andwatched over Barty like a mother. He has often declared he was neverquite the same after that debauch--and couldn't feel the north for amonth. 

The house was soon full of guests, and Barty and I slept in M. Laferté's bedroom--his wife in a room adjoining. 

Every morning old Polyphemus would wake us up by roaring out:

"Hé! ma femme!"

"Voilà, voilà, mon ami!" from the next room. 

"Viens vite panser mon cautère!"

And in came Madame L. In her dressing-gown, and dressed a blister hewore on his big arm. 

Then: "Café!"

And coffee came, and he drank it in bed. 

Then: "Pipe!"

And his pipe was brought and filled, and he lit it. 

Then: "Josselin!"

"Oui, M'sieur Laferté. "

"Tire moi une gamme. "

"Dorémifasollasido--Dosilasolfamirédo!" sang Josselin, up and down, in beautiful tune, with his fresh bird-like soprano. 

"Ah! q' ça fait du bien!" says M. L. ; then a pause, and puffs ofsmoke and grunts and sighs of satisfaction. 

"Josselin?"

"Oui, M'sieur Laferté!"

"'La brune Thérèse!'"

And Josselin would sing about the dark-haired Thérèsa--three verses. 

"Tu as changé la fin du second couplet--tu as dit '_des comtesses_' aulieu de dire '_des duchesses_'--recommence!" (You changed the end of thesecond verse--you said "countesses" instead of "duchesses"--beginagain. )

And Barty would re-sing it, as desired, and bring in the duchesses. 

"Maintenant, 'Colin, disait Lisette!'"

And Barty would sing that charming little song, most charmingly:

 "'Colin, ' disait Lisette, 'Je voudrais passer l'eau! Mais je suis trop pauvrette Pour payer le bateau!' 'Entrez, entrez, ma belle! Entrez, entrez toujours! Et vogue la nacelle Qui porte mes amours!"

And old L. Would smoke and listen with an air of heavenly beatitudealmost pathetic. 

"Elle était bien gentille, Lisette--n'est-ce pas, petiot?--recommence!" (She was very nice, Lisette; wasn't she, sonny?--being again!)

"Now both get up and wash and go to breakfast. Come here, Josselin--you see this little silver dagger" (producing it fromunder his pillow). "It's rather pointy, but not at all dangerous. My mother gave it me when I was just your age--to cut books with;it's for you. Allons, file! [cut along] no thanks!--but lookhere--are you coming with us à la chasse to-day?"

"Non, M. Laferté!"

"Pourquoi?--t'as pas peur, j'espère!"

"Sais pas. J' n'aime pas les choses mortes--ça saigne--et ça n' sentpas bon--ça m'fait mal au coeur. " (Don't know. I'm not fond of deadthings. They bleed--and they don't smell nice--it makes me sick. )

And two or three times a day would Barty receive some costly tokenof this queer old giant's affection, till he got quite unhappy aboutit. He feared he was despoiling the House of Laferté of all itstreasures in silver and gold; but he soothed his troubled consciencelater on by giving them all away to favorite boys and masters atBrossard's--especially M. Bonzig, who had taken charge of his whitemouse (and her family, now quite grown up--children andgrandchildren and all) when Mlle. Marceline went for her fortnight'sholiday. Indeed, he had made a beautiful cage for them out of woodand wire, with little pasteboard mangers (which they nibbled away). 

Well, the men of the party and young Laferté and I would go off with thedogs and keepers into the forest--and Barty would pick filberts andfruit with Jeanne and Marie, and eat them with bread-and-butter and jamand _cernaux_ (unripe walnuts mixed with salt and water andverjuice--quite the nicest thing in the world). Then he would find hisway into the heart of the forest, which he loved--and where he hadscraped up a warm friendship with some charcoal-burners, whose huts werenear an old yellow-watered pond, very brackish and stagnant and deep, and full of leeches and water-spiders. It was in the densest part of theforest, where the trees were so tall and leafy that the sun never fellon it, even at noon. The charcoal-burners told him that in '93 a youngde la Tremblaye was taken there at sunset to be hanged on a giantoak-tree--but he talked so agreeably and was so pleasant all round thatthey relented, and sent for bread and wine and cider and made a night ofit, and didn't hang him till dawn next day; after which they tied astone to his ankles and dropped him into the pond, which was called "thepond of the respite" ever since; and his young wife, Claire Élisabeth, drowned herself there the week after, and their bones lie at the bottomto this very day. 

And, ghastly to relate, the ringleader in this horrible tragedy wasa beautiful young woman, a daughter of the people, it seems--oneSéraphine Doucet, whom the young viscount had betrayed beforemarriage--le droit du seigneur!--and but for whom he would have beenlet off after that festive night. Ten or fifteen years later, smitten with incurable remorse, she hanged herself on the verybranch of the very tree where they had strung up her noble lover;and still walks round the pond at night, wringing her hands andwailing. It's a sad story--let us hope it isn't true. 

Barty Josselin evidently had this pond in his mind when he wrote in"Âmes en peine":

 Sous la berge hantée L'eau morne croupit-- Sous la sombre futaie Le renard glapit, Et le cerf-dix-cors brame, et les daims viennent boire à l'Étang du Répit. "Lâchez-moi, Loupgaroux!" Que sinistre est la mare Quand tombe la nuit; La chouette s'effare-- Le blaireau s'enfuit! L'on y sent que les morts se réveillent--qu'une ombre sans nom vous poursuit. "Lâchez-moi, Loup-garoux!"

Forêt! forêt! what a magic there is in that little Frenchdissyllable! Morne forêt! Is it the lost "s, " and the heavy "^" thatmakes up for it, which lend such a mysterious and gloomyfascination?

Forest! that sounds rather tame--almost cheerful! If _we_ want aforest dream we have to go so far back for it, and dream of RobinHood and his merrie men! And even then Epping forces itself into ourdream--and even Chingford, where there was never a were-wolf withinthe memory of man. Give us at least the _virgin_ forest, in some farGuyana or Brazil--or even the forest primeval--

 ". . . Where the murmuring pines and the hemlocks, Bearded with moss and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight, Stand like druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic, Stand like harpers hoar"--

that we may dream of scalp-hunting Mingoes, and grizzly-bears, andmoose, and buffalo, and the beloved Bas-de-cuir with that magicrifle of his, that so seldom missed its mark and never got out ofrepair. 

 "Prom'nons nous dans les bois Pendant que le loup n'y est pas. . . . "

That's the first song I ever heard. Céline used to sing it, mynurse--who was very lovely, though she had a cast in her eye andwore a black cap, and cotton in her ears, and was pitted with thesmallpox. It was in Burgundy, which was rich in forests, with plentyof wolves in them, and wild-boars too--and that was only a hundredyears ago, when that I was a little tiny boy. It's just an oldnursery rhyme to lull children to sleep with, or set themdancing--pas aut' chose--but there's a deal of Old France in it!

There I go again--digressing as usual and quoting poetry and tryingto be literary and all that! C'est plus fort que moi. . . . 

One beautiful evening after dinner we went, the whole lot of us, fishing for crayfish in the meadows beyond the home farm. 

As we set about waiting for the crayfish to assemble round the bitsof dead frog that served for bait and were tied to the wire scales(which were left in the water), a procession of cows came past usfrom the farm. One of them had a wound in her flank--a large tumor. 

"It's the bull who did that, " said Marie. "Il est très méchant!"

Presently the bull appeared, following the herd in sulky dignity. Weall got up and crossed the stream on a narrow plank--all butJosselin, who remained sitting on a camp-stool. 

"Josselin! Josselin! venez donc! il est très mauvais, le taureau!"

Barty didn't move. 

The bull came by; and suddenly, seeing him, walked straight towithin a yard of him--and stared at him for five minutes at least, lashing its tail. Barty didn't stir. Our hearts were in our mouths!

Then the big brindled brute turned quietly round with a friendlysnort and went after the cows--and Barty got up and made it acourtly farewell salute, saying, "Bon voyage--au plaisir!"

After which he joined the rest of us across the stream, and came infor a good scolding and much passionate admiration from the ladies, and huggings and tears of relief from Madame Laferté. 

"I knew well he wouldn't be afraid!" said M. Laferté; "they are alllike that, those English--le sang-froid du diable! nom d'unVellington! It is we who were afraid--we are not so brave as thelittle Josselin! Plucky little Josselin! But why did you not comewith us? Temerity is not valor, Josselin!"

"Because I wanted to show off [_faire le fanfaron_]!" said Barty, with extreme simplicity. 

"Ah, diable! Anyhow, it was brave of you to sit still when he cameand looked at you in the white of the eyes! it was just the rightthing to do; ces Anglais! je n'en reviens pas! à quatorze ans! hein, ma femme?"

"Pardi!" said Barty, "I was in such a blue funk [j'avais une venettesi bleue] that I couldn't have moved a finger to save my life!"

At this, old Polyphemus went into a Homeric peal of laughter. 

"Ces Anglais! what originals--they tell you the real truth at anycost [ils vous disent la vraie vérité, coûte que coûte]!" and hisaffection for Barty seemed to increase, if possible, from thatevening. 

[Illustration: FANFARONNADE]

Now this was Barty all over--all through life. He always gavehimself away with a liberality quite uncalled for--so he ought tohave some allowances made for that reckless and impulsiveindiscretion which caused him to be so popular in general society, but got him into so many awkward scrapes in after-life, and made himsuch mean enemies, and gave his friends so much anxiety and distress. 

(And here I think it right to apologize for so much translating ofsuch a well-known language as French; I feel quite like anotherOllendorf--who must have been a German, by-the-way--but M. Laferté'sgrammar and accent would sometimes have puzzled Ollendorf himself!)

 * * * * *

Towards the close of September, M. Laferté took it into his head tomake a tour of provincial visits _en famille_. He had never donesuch a thing before, and I really believe it was all to show offBarty to his friends and relations. 

It was the happiest time I ever had, and shines out by itself inthat already so unforgettably delightful vacation. 

We went in a large charabancs drawn by two stout horses, starting atsix in the morning, and driving right through the Forest of laTremblaye; and just ahead of us, to show us the way, M. Lafertédriving himself in an old cabriolet, with Josselin (from whom herefused to be parted) by his side, singing or talking, according toorder, or cracking jokes; we could hear the big laugh of Polyphemus!

We travelled very leisurely; I forget whether we ever changed horsesor not--but we got over a good deal of ground. We put up at thecountry houses of friends and relations of the Lafertés; and visitedold historical castles and mediæval ruins--Châteaudun andothers--and fished in beautiful pellucid tributaries of theLoire--shot over "des chiens anglais"--danced half the night withcharming people--wandered in lovely parks and woods, and beautifulold formal gardens with fishponds, terraces, statues, marblefountains; charmilles, pelouses, quinconces; and all the flowers andall the fruits of France! And the sun shone every day and all daylong--and in one's dreams all night. 

And the peasants in that happy country of the Loire spoke the mostbeautiful French, and had the most beautiful manners in the world. They're famous for it. 

It all seems like a fairy tale. 

If being made much of, and petted and patted and admired andwondered at, make up the sum of human bliss, Barty came in for asfull a share of felicity during that festive week as should last anordinary mortal for a twelvemonth. _Figaro quà, Figaro là_, frommorning till night in three departments of France!

But he didn't seem to care very much about it all; he would havebeen far happier singing and tumbling and romancing away to hischarbonniers by the pond in the Forest of la Tremblaye. He declaredhe was never quite himself unless he could feel the north for atleast an hour or two every day, and all night long in his sleep--andthat he should never feel the north again--that it was gone forever;that he had drunk it all away at that fatal breakfast--and it madehim lonely to wake up in the middle of the night and not know whichway he lay! "dépaysé, " as he called it--"désorienté--perdu!"

And laughing, he would add, "Ayez pitié d'un pauvre orphelin!"

 * * * * *

Then back to Le Gué des Aulnes. And one evening, after a good supperat Grandmaman Laferté's, the diligence de Paris came jingling andrumbling through the main street of La Tremblaye, flashing right andleft its two big lamps, red and blue. And we three boys, after themost grateful and affectionate farewells, packed ourselves into thecoupé, which had been retained for us, and rumbled back to Paristhrough the night. 

There was quite a crowd to see us off. Not only Lafertés, butothers--all sorts and conditions of men, women, and children--andamong them three or four of Barty's charcoal-burning friends; one ofwhom, an old man with magnificent black eyes and an immense beard, that would have been white if he hadn't been a charcoal-burner, kissed Barty on both cheeks, and gave him a huge bag full of somekind of forest berry that is good to eat; also a young cuckoo (whichBarty restored to liberty an hour later); also a dormouse and alarge green lizard; also, in a little pasteboard box, a giganticpale green caterpillar four inches long and thicker than your thumb, with a row of shiny blue stars in relief all along each side of itsback--the most beautiful thing of the kind you ever saw. 

"Pioche bien ta géométrie, mon bon petit Josselin! c'est la plusbelle science au monde, crois-moi!" said M. Laferté to Barty, andgave him the hug of a grizzly-bear; and to me he gave a terrifichand-squeeze, and a beautiful double-barrelled gun by Lefaucheux, for which I felt too supremely grateful to find suitable thanks. Ihave it now, but I have long given up killing things with it. 

I had grown immensely fond of this colossal old "bourrubienfaisant, " as he was called in La Tremblaye, and believe that allhis moroseness and brutality were put on, to hide one of thewarmest, simplest, and tenderest hearts in the world. 

Before dawn Barty woke up with such a start that he woke me:

"Enfin! ça y est! quelle chance!" he exclaimed. 

"Quoi, quoi, quoi?" said I, quacking like a duck. 

"Le nord--c'est revenu--it's just ahead of us--a little to theleft!"

We were nearing Paris. 

And thus ended the proudest and happiest time I ever had in my life. Indeed I almost had an adventure on my own account--_une bonnefortune_, as it was called at Brossard's by boys hardly older thanmyself. I did not brag of it, however, when I got back to school. 

It was at "Les Laiteries, " or "Les Poteries, " or "Les Crucheries, "or some such place, the charming abode of Monsieur et MadamePélisson--only their name wasn't Pélisson, or anything like it. Atdinner I sat next to a Miss ----, who was very tall and wore blondside ringlets. I think she must have been the English governess. 

We talked very much together, in English; and after dinner we walkedin the garden together by starlight arm in arm, and she was so kindand genial to me in English that I felt quite chivalrous andromantic, and ready to do doughty deeds for her sake. 

Then, at M. Pélisson's request, all the company assembled in a groupfor evening prayer, under a spreading chestnut-tree on the lawn: theprayer sounded very much like the morning or evening prayer atBrossard's, except that the Almighty was addressed as "toi" insteadof "vous"; it began:

"Notre Père qui es aux cieux--toi dont le regard scrutateur pénètrejusque dans les replis les plus profonds de nos coeurs"--and ended, "Ainsi soit-il!"

The night was very dark, and I stood close to Miss ----, who stoodas it seemed with her hands somewhere behind her back. I was sograteful to her for having talked to me so nicely, and so fond ofher for being English, that the impulse seized me to steal my handinto hers--and her hand met mine with a gentle squeeze which Ireturned; but soon the pressure of her hand increased, and by thetime M. Le Curé had got to "au nom du Père" the pressure of her handhad become an agony--a thing to make one shriek!

"Ainsi soit-il!" said M. Le Curé, and the little group broke up, andMiss ---- walked quietly indoors with her arm around MadamePélisson's waist, and without even wishing me good-night--and myhand was being squeezed worse than ever. 

"Ah ha! Lequel de nous deux est volé, petit coquin?" hissed an angrymale voice in my ear--(which of us two is sold, you little rascal?). 

And I found my hand in that of Monsieur Pélisson, whose name wassomething else--and I couldn't make it out, nor why he was so angry. It has dawned upon me since that each of us took the other's hand byMistake for that of the English governess!

All this is beastly and cynical and French, and I apologize forit--but it's true. 

 * * * * *

October!

It was a black Monday for me when school began again after thatideal vacation. The skies they were ashen and sober, and the leavesthey were crisped and sere. But anyhow I was still _en quatrième_, and Barty was in it too--and we sat next to each other in "L'étudedes grands. "

There was only one étude now; only half the boys came back, and thepavillon des petits was shut up, study, class-rooms, dormitories, and all--except that two masters slept there still. 

[Illustration: MÉROVÉE RINGS THE BELL]

Eight or ten small boys were put in a small school-room in the samehouse as ours, and had a small dormitory to themselves, with M. Bonzig to superintend them. 

I made up my mind that I would no longer be a _cancre_ and a_crétin_, but work hard and do my little best, so that I might keepup with Barty and pass into the _troisième_ with him, and then into_Rhétorique_ (seconde), and then into _Philosophie_ (première)--thatwe might do our humanities and take our degree together--our"_Bachot_, " which is short for _Baccalauréat-ès-lettres_. MostEspecially did I love Monsieur Durosier's class of FrenchLiterature--for which Mérovée always rang the bell himself. 

My mother and sister were still at Ste. -Adresse, Hâvre, with myfather; so I spent my first Sunday that term at the ArchibaldRohans', in the Rue du Bac. 

I had often seen them at Brossard's, when they came to see Barty, but had never been at their house before. 

They were very charming people. 

Lord Archibald was dressing when we got there that Sunday morning, and we sat with him while he shaved--in an immense dressing-roomwhere there were half a dozen towel-horses with about thirty pairsof newly ironed trousers on them instead of towels, and quite thirtypairs of shiny boots on trees were ranged along the wall. James, animpeccable English valet, waited on "his lordship, " and never spokeunless spoken to. 

"Hullo, Barty! Who's your friend?"

"Bob Maurice, Uncle Archie. "

And Uncle Archie shook hands with me most cordially. 

"And how's the north pole this morning?"

"Nicely, thanks, Uncle Archie. "

Lord Archibald was a very tall and handsome man, about fifty--verydroll and full of anecdote; he had stories to tell about everythingin the room. 

For instance, how Major Welsh of the 10th Hussars had given him thatpair of Wellingtons, which fitted him better than any boots Hobyever made him to measure; they were too tight for poor Welsh, whowas a head shorter than himself. 

How Kerlewis made him that frock-coat fifteen years ago, and itwasn't threadbare yet, and fitted him as well as ever--for he hadn'tchanged his weight for thirty years, etc. 

How that pair of braces had been made by "my lady" out of a pair ofgarters she wore on the day they were married. 

And then he told us how to keep trousers from bagging at the knees, and how cloth coats should be ironed, and how often--and how to foldan umbrella. 

It suddenly occurs to me that perhaps these little anecdotes may notbe so amusing to the general reader as they were to me when he toldthem, so I won't tell any more. Indeed, I have often noticed thatthings look sometimes rather dull in print that were so surprisinglywitty when said in spontaneous talk a great many years ago!

Then we went to breakfast with my lady and Daphne, their charminglittle daughter--Barty's sister, as he called her--"m'amour"--andwho spoke both French and English equally well. 

But we didn't breakfast at once, ravenous as we boys were, for LadyArchibald took a sudden dislike to Lord A. 's cravat, which, itseems, he had never worn before. It was in brown satin, and Lady A. Declared that Loulou (so she called him) never looked "_en beauté_"with a brown cravat; and there was quite a little quarrel betweenhusband and wife on the subject--so that he had to go back to hisdressing-room and put on a blue one. 

At breakfast he talked about French soldiers of the line, and theirmarching kit (as it would be called now), quite earnestly, and, asit seemed to me, very sensibly--though he went through littlemimicries that made his wife scream with laughter, and me too; andin the middle of breakfast Barty sang "Le Chant du Départ" as wellas he could for laughing:

 "La victoire en chantant nous ouvre la carrière! La liberté-é gui-i-de nos pas" . . . 

while Lord A. Went through an expressive pantomime of an overladenfoot-soldier up and down the room, in time to the music. The onlyperson who didn't laugh was James--which I thought ungenial. 

Then Lady A. Had _her_ innings, and sang "Rule Britannia, Britanniarule de vaves"--and declared it was far more ridiculous really thanthe "Chant du Départ, " and she made it seem so, for she went througha pantomime too. She was a most delightful person, and spoke Englishquite well when she chose; and seemed as fond of Barty as if he wereher own and only son--and so did Lord Archibald. She would say:

"Quel dommage qu'on ne peut pas avoir des crompettes [crumpets]!Barty les aime tant! n'est-ce pas, mon chou, tu aimes bien lescrompettes? voici venir du buttered toast--c'est toujours ça!"

And, "Mon Dieu, comme il a bonne mine, ce cher Barty--n'est-ce pas, mon amour, que tu as bonne mine? regarde-toi dans la glace. "

And, "Si nous allions à l'Hippodrôme cette après-midi voir la belleécuyère Madame Richard? Barty adore les jolies femmes, comme sononcle! n'est-ce pas, méchant petit Barty, que tu adores les joliesfemmes? et tu n'as jamais vu Madame Richard? Tu m'en diras desnouvelles! et vous, mon ami [this to me], est-ce que vous adorezaussi les jolies femmes?"

"Ô oui, " says Daphne, "allons voir M'ame Richard; it'll be _such_fun! oh, bully!"

So after breakfast we went for a walk, and to a café on the Quaid'Orsay, and then to the Hippodrôme, and saw the beautiful écuyèrein graceful feats of la haute école, and lost our hearts--especiallyLord Archibald, though him she knew; for she kissed her hand to him, and he his to her. 

Then we dined at the Palais Royal, and afterwards went to the Cafédes Aveugles, an underground coffee-house near the Café de laRotonde, and where blind men made instrumental music; and we had acapital evening. 

I have met in my time more intellectual people, perhaps, than theArchibald Rohans--but never people more amiable, or with kinder, simpler manners, or who made one feel more quickly and thoroughly athome--and the more I got to know them, the more I grew to like them;and their fondness for each other and Daphne, and for Barty too, wasquite touching; as was his for them. So the winter sped happily tillFebruary, when a sad thing happened. 

I had spent Sunday with my mother and sister, who now lived on theground-floor of 108 Champs Élysées. 

I slept there that Sunday night, and walked back to school nextmorning. To my surprise, as I got to a large field through which adiagonal footpath led to Père Jaurion's loge, I saw five or six boyssitting on the terrace parapet with their legs dangling outside. They should have been in class, by rights. They watched me cross thefield, but made no sign. 

"What on earth _can_ be the matter?" thought I. 

The cordon was pulled, and I came on a group of boys all stiff andsilent. 

"Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous?" I asked. 

"Le Père Brossard est mort!" said De Villars. 

Poor M. Brossard had died of apoplexy on the previous afternoon. Hehad run to catch the Passy omnibus directly after lunch, and hadfallen down in a fit and died immediately. 

"Il est tombé du haut mal"--as they expressed it. 

His son Mérovée and his daughter Madame Germain were distracted. Thewhole of that day was spent by the boys in a strange, unnaturalstate of _désoeuvrement_ and suppressed excitement for which nooutlet was possible. The meals, especially, were all but unbearable. One was ashamed of having an appetite, and yet one had--almostkeener than usual, if I may judge by myself--and for someundiscovered reason the food was better than on other Mondays!

Next morning we all went up in sorrowful procession to kiss our poordear head-master's cold forehead as he lay dead in his bed, withsprigs of boxwood on his pillow, and above his head a jar of holywater with which we sprinkled him. He looked very serene andmajestic, but it was a harrowing ceremony. Mérovée stood by withswollen eyes and deathly pale--incarnate grief. 

On Wednesday afternoon M. Brossard was buried in the Cimetière dePassy, a tremendous crowd following the hearse; the boys and mastersjust behind Mérovée and M. Germain, the chief male mourners. Thewomen walked in another separate procession behind. 

Béranger and Alphonse Karr were present among the notabilities, andspeeches were made over his open grave, for he was a verydistinguished man. 

And, tragical to relate, that evening in the study Barty and I fellout, and it led to a stand-up fight next day. 

There was no preparation that evening; he and I sat side by sidereading out of a book by Châteaubriand--either _Atala_, or _René_ or_Les Natchez_, I forget which. I have never seen either since. 

The study was hushed; M. Dumollard was _de service_ as _maîtred'études_, although there was no attempt to do anything but sadlyread improving books. 

If I remember aright, René, a very sentimental young Frenchman, whohad loved the wrong person not wisely, but too well (a very wrongperson indeed, in his case), emigrated to North America, and therehe met a beautiful Indian maiden, one Atala, of the Natchez tribe, who had rosy heels and was charming, and whose entire skin wasprobably a warm dark red, although this is not insisted upon. Shealso had a brother, whose name was Outogamiz. 

Well, René loved Atala, Atala loved René, and they were married; andOutogamiz went through some ceremony besides, which made him bloodbrother and bosom friend to René--a bond which involved certainobligatory rites and duties and self-sacrifices. 

Atala died and was buried. René died and was buried also; and everyday, as in duty bound, poor Outogamiz went and pricked a vein andbled over Rene's tomb, till he died himself of exhaustion before hewas many weeks older. I quote entirely from memory. 

This simple story was told in very touching and beautiful language, by no means telegraphese, and Barty and I were deeply affected byit. 

"I say, Bob!" Barty whispered to me, with a break in his voice, "some day I'll marry your sister, and we'll all go off to Americatogether, and she'll die, and _I_'ll die, and you shall bleedyourself to death on my tomb!"

"No, " said I, after a moment's thought. "No--look here! _I_'ll marry_your_ sister, and _I_'ll die, and _you_ shall bleed over _my_tomb!"

Then, after a pause:

"I haven't got a sister, as you know quite well--and if I had shewouldn't be for _you_!" says Barty. 

"Why not?"

"Because you're not good-looking enough!" says Barty. 

At this, just for fun, I gave him a nudge in the wind with myelbow--and he gave me a "twisted pinch" on the arm--and I kicked himon the ankle, but so much harder than I intended that it hurt him, and he gave me a tremendous box on the ear, and we set to fightinglike a couple of wild-cats, without even getting up, to the scandalof the whole study and the indignant disgust of M. Dumollard, whoseparated us, and read us a pretty lecture:

"Voilà bien les Anglais!--rien n'est sacré pour eux, pas même lamort! rien que les chiens et les chevaux. " (Nothing, not even death, is sacred to Englishmen--nothing but dogs and horses. )

When we went up to bed the head-boy of the school--a first-rate boycalled d'Orthez, and Berquin (another first-rate boy), who had eacha bedroom to himself, came into the dormitory and took up thequarrel, and discussed what should be done. Both of us wereEnglish--ergo, both of us ought to box away the insult with ourfists; so "they set a combat us between, to fecht it in thedawing"--that is, just after breakfast, in the school-room. 

I went to bed very unhappy, and so, I think, did Barty. 

Next morning at six, just after the morning prayer, M. Mérovée cameinto the school-room and made us a most straightforward, manly, andaffecting speech; in which he told us he meant to keep on theschool, and thanked us, boys and masters, for our sympathy. 

We were all moved to our very depths--and sat at our work solemn andsorrowful all through that lamp-lit hour and a half; we hardly daredto cough, and never looked up from our desks. 

Then 7. 30--ding-dang-dong and breakfast. Thursday--bread-and-buttermorning!

I felt hungry and greedy and very sad, and disinclined to fight. Barty and I had sat turned away from each other, and made no attemptat reconciliation. 

We all went to the réfectoire: it was raining fast. I made my ballof salt and butter, and put it in a hole in my hunk of bread, andran back to the study, where I locked these treasures in my desk. 

The study soon filled with boys: no masters ever came there duringthat half-hour; they generally smoked and read their newspapers inthe gymnastic ground, or else in their own rooms when it was wetoutside. 

D'Orthez and Berquin moved one or two desks and forms out of the wayso as make a ring--l'arène, as they called it--with comfortableseats all round. Small boys stood on forms and window-sills eatingtheir bread-and-butter with a tremendous relish. 

"Dites donc, vous autres, " says Bonneville, the wit of the school, who was in very high spirits; "it's like the Roman Empire during thedecadence--'_panem et circenses_!'"

"What's that, _circenses_? what does it mean?" says Rapaud, with hismouth full. 

"Why, _butter_, you idiot! Didn't you know _that_?" says Bonneville. 

Barty and I stood opposite each other; at his sides as seconds wered'Orthez and Berquin; at mine, Jolivet trois (the only Jolivet nowleft in the school) and big du Tertre-Jouan (the young marquis whowasn't Bonneville). 

We began to spar at each other in as knowing and English a way as weknew how--keeping a very respectful distance indeed, and trying tobear ourselves as scientifically as we could, with a keen expressionof the eye. 

When I looked into Barty's face I felt that nothing on earth wouldever make me hit such a face as that--whatever he might do to mine. My blood wasn't up; besides, I was a coarse-grained, thick-set, bullet-headed little chap with no nerves to speak of, and didn't mindpunishment the least bit. No more did Barty, for that matter, thoughhe was the most highly wrought creature that ever lived. 

At length they all got impatient, and d'Orthez said:

"Allez donc, godems--ce n'est pas un quadrille! Nous n'sommes pas àLa Salle Valentino!"

And Barty was pushed from behind so roughly that he came at me, allhis science to the winds and slogging like a French boy; and I, quite without meaning to, in the hurry, hit out just as he fell overme, and we both rolled together over Jolivet's foot--Barty on top(he was taller, though not heavier, than I); and I saw the bloodflow from his nose down his lip and chin, and some of it fell on myblouse. 

Says Barty to me, in English, as we lay struggling on the dustyfloor:

"Look here, it's no good. I _can't_ fight to-day; poor Mérovée, youknow. Let's make it up!"

"All right!" says I. So up we got and shook hands, Barty saying, with mock dignity:

"Messieurs, le sang a coulé; l'honneur britannique est sauf;" andthe combat was over. 

"Cristi! J'ai joliment faim!" says Barty, mopping his nose with hishandkerchief. "I left my crust on the bench outside the réfectoire. I wish one of you fellows would get it for me. "

"Rapaud finished your crust [ta miche] while you were fighting, "says Jolivet. "I saw him. "

Says Rapaud: "Ah, Dame, it was getting prettily wet, your crust, andI was prettily hungry too; and I thought you didn't want it, naturally. "

I then produced _my_ crust and cut it in two, butter and all, andgave Barty half, and we sat very happily side by side, andbreakfasted together in peace and amity. I never felt happier orhungrier. 

"Cristi, comme ils se sont bien battus, " says little Vaissière tolittle Cormenu. "As-tu vu? Josselin a saigné tout plein sur lablouse à Maurice. " (How well they fought! Josselin bled all overMaurice's blouse!)

Then says Josselin, in French, turning to me with that delightfuljolly smile that always reminded one of the sun breaking through amist:

"I would sooner bleed on your blouse than on your tomb. " (J'aimemieux saigner sur ta blouse que sur ta tombe. )

So ended the only quarrel we ever had. 

Part Third

 "Que ne puis-je aller où s'en vont les roses, Et n'attendre pas Ces regrets navrants que la fin des choses Nous garde ici-bas!"--Anon. 

Barty worked very hard, and so did I--for _me_!Horace--Homer--Æschylus--Plato--etc. , etc. , etc. , etc. , etc. , andall there was to learn in that French school-boy's encyclopædia--"LeManuel du Baccalauréat"; a very thick book in very small print. AndI came to the conclusion that it is good to work hard: it makes oneenjoy food and play and sleep so keenly--and Thursday afternoons. 

The school was all the pleasanter for having fewer boys; we got moreintimate with each other, and with the masters too. During thewinter M. Bonzig told us capital stories--_Modeste Mignon_, byBalzac--_Le Chevalier de Maison-rouge_, by A. Dumas père--etc. , etc. 

In the summer the Passy swimming-bath was more delightful than ever. Both winter and summer we passionately fenced with a pupil (unprévôt) of the famous M. Bonnet, and did gymnastics with M. Louis, the gymnastic master of the Collège Charlemagne--the finest man Iever saw--a gigantic dwarf six feet high, all made up of lumps ofsinew and muscles, like. . . . 

Also, we were taught equitation at the riding-school in the RueDuphot. 

On Saturday nights Barty would draw a lovely female profile, with abeautiful big black eye, in pen and ink, and carefully shade it;especially the hair, which was always as the raven's wing! And onSunday morning he and I used to walk together to 108 Champs Élyséesand enter the rez-de-chaussée (where my mother and sister lived) bythe window, before my mother was up. Then Barty took out his lovelyfemale pen-and-ink profile to gaze at, and rolled himself acigarette and lit it, and lay back on the sofa, and made my sisterplay her lightest music--"La pluie de Perles, " by Osborne--and"Indiana, " a beautiful valse by Marcailhou--and thus combine threeor four perfect blisses in one happy quart d'heure. 

Then my mother would appear, and we would have breakfast--afterwhich Barty and I would depart by the window as we had come, and goand do our bit of Boulevard and Palais Royal. Then to the Rue du Bacfor another breakfast with the Rohans; and then, "_au petitbonheur_"; that is, trusting to Providence for whatever turned up. The programme didn't vary very much: either I dined with him at theRohans', or he with me at 108. Then, back to Brossard's atten--tired and happy. 

One Sunday I remember well we stayed in school, for old Josselin thefisherman came to see us there--Barty's grandfather, now a widower;and M. Mérovée asked him to lunch with us, and go to the baths inthe afternoon. 

Imagine old Bonzig's delight in this "_vieux loup de mer_, " as hecalled him! That was a happy day for the old fisherman also; I shallnever forget his surprise at M. Dumollard's telescope--and howclever he was on the subject. 

He came to the baths, and admired and criticised the good swimmingof the boys--especially Barty's, which was really remarkable. Idon't believe he could swim a stroke himself. 

Then we went and dined together at Lord Archibald's, in the Rue duBac--"Mon Colonel, " as the old fisherman always called him. He was avery humorous and intelligent person, this fisher, though nearereighty than seventy; very big, and of a singularly picturesqueappearance--for he had not _endimanché_ himself in the least; andvery clean. A splendid old man; oddly enough, somewhat Semitic ofaspect--as though he had just come from a miraculous draught offishes in the Sea of Galilee, out of a cartoon by Raphael!

I recollect admiring how easily and pleasantly everything wentduring dinner, and all through the perfection of this ancientsea-toiler's breeding in all essentials. 

Of course the poor all over the world are less nice in their habitsthan the rich, and less correct in their grammar and accent, andnarrower in their views of life; but in every other respect thereseemed little to choose between Josselins and Rohans andLonlay-Savignacs; and indeed, according to Lord Archibald, the bestmanners were to be found at these two opposite poles--or even widerstill. He would have it that Royalty and chimney-sweeps were thebest-bred people all over the world--because there was no possiblemistake about their social status. 

I felt a little indignant--after all, Lady Archibald was built outof chocolate, for all her Lonlay and her Savignac! just as I wasbuilt out of Beaune and Chambertin. 

I'm afraid I shall be looked upon as a snob and a traitor to myclass if I say that I have at last come to be of the same opinionmyself. That is, if absolute simplicity, and the absence of allpossible temptation to try and seem an inch higher up than we reallyare--But there! this is a very delicate question, about which Idon't care a straw; and there are such exceptions, and so many, toconfirm any such rule!

Anyhow, I saw how Barty _couldn't help_ having the manners we all soloved him for. After dinner Lady Archibald showed old Josselin someof Barty's lovely female profiles--a sight that affected himstrangely. He would have it that they were all exact portraits ofhis beloved Antoinette, Barty's mother. 

They were certainly singularly like each other, these littlechefs-d'oeuvre of Barty's, and singularly handsome--an ideal type ofhis own; and the old grandfather was allowed his choice, andtouchingly grateful at being presented with such treasures. 

The scene made a great impression on me. 

 * * * * *

So spent itself that year--a happy year that had no history--exceptfor one little incident that I will tell because it concerns Barty, and illustrates him. 

One beautiful Sunday morning the yellow omnibus was waiting for someof us as we dawdled about in the school-room, titivating; themasters nowhere, as usual on a Sunday morning; and some of the boysbegan to sing in chorus a not very edifying _chanson_, which theydid not "Bowdlerize, " about a holy Capuchin friar; it began (if Iremember rightly):

 "C'était un Capucin, oui bien, un père Capucin, Qui confessait trois filles-- Itou, itou, itou, là là là! Qui confessait trois filles Au fond de son jardin-- Oui bien-- Au fond de son jardin! Il dit à la plus jeune-- Itou, itou, itou, là là là! Il dit à la plus jeune . . . 'Vous reviendrez demain!'" Etc, etc. , etc. 

I have quite forgotten the rest. 

Now this little song, which begins so innocently, like a sweet oldidyl of mediæval France--"_un écho du temps passé_"--seems to havebeen a somewhat Rabelaisian ditty; by no means proper singing for aSunday morning in a boys' school. But boys will be boys, even inFrance; and the famous "esprit Gaulois" was somewhat precocious inthe forties, I suppose. Perhaps it is now, if it still exists (whichI doubt--the dirt remains, but all the fun seems to haveevaporated). 

Suddenly M. Dumollard bursts into the room in his violent sneakyway, pale with rage, and says:

"Je vais gifler tous ceux qui ont chanté" (I'll box the ears ofevery boy who sang). 

So he puts all in a row and begins:

"Rubinel, sur votre parole d'honneur, avez-vous chanté?"

"Non, m'sieur!"

"Caillard, avez-vous chanté?"

"Non, m'sieur!"

"Lipmann, avez-vous chanté?"

"Non, m'sieur!"

"Maurice, avez-vous chanté?"

"Non, m'sieur" (which, for a wonder, was true, for I happened not toknow either the words or the tune). 

"Josselin, avez-vous chanté?"

"_Oui, m'sieur!_"

And down went Barty his full length on the floor, from a tremendousopen-handed box on the ear. Dumollard was a very Herculeanperson--though by no means gigantic. 

Barty got up and made Dumollard a polite little bow, and walked outof the room. 

"Vous êtes tous consignés!" says M. Dumollard--and the omnibus wentaway empty, and we spent all that Sunday morning as best we might. 

In the afternoon we went out walking in the Bois. Dumollard hadrecovered his serenity and came with us; for he was _de service_that day. 

Says Lipmann to him:

"Josselin drapes himself in his English dignity--he sulks likeAchilles and walks by himself. "

"Josselin is at least a _man_, " says Dumollard. "He tells the truth, and doesn't know fear--and I'm sorry he's English!"

And later, at the Mare d'Auteuil, he put out his hand to Barty andsaid:

"Let's make it up, Josselin--au moins vous avez du coeur, vous. Promettez-moi que vous ne chanterez plus cette sale histoire deCapucin!"

Josselin took the usher's hand, and smiled his open, toothy smile, and said:

"Pas le dimanche matin toujours--quand c'est vous qui serez deservice, M. Dumollard!" (Anyhow not Sunday morning when _you_'re onduty, Mr. D. )

And Mr. D. Left off running down the English in public afterthat--except to say that they _couldn't_ be simple and natural ifthey tried; and that they affected a ridiculous accent when theyspoke French--not Josselin and Maurice, but all the others he hadever met. As if plain French, which had been good enough for Williamthe Conqueror, wasn't good enough for the subjects of her BritannicMajesty to-day!

The only event of any importance in Barty's life that year was hisfirst communion, which he took with several others of about his ownage. An event that did not seem to make much impression onhim--nothing seemed to make much impression on Barty Josselin whenhe was very young. He was just a lively, irresponsible, irrepressible human animal--always in perfect health and exuberantspirits, with an immense appetite for food and fun and frolic; likea squirrel, a collie pup, or a kitten. 

Père Bonamy, the priest who confirmed him, was fonder of the boythan of any one, boy or girl, that he had ever prepared forcommunion, and could hardly speak of him with decent gravity, onaccount of his extraordinary confessions--all of which wereconcocted in the depths of Barty's imagination for the sole purposeof making the kind old curé laugh; and the kind old curé was just asfond of laughing as was Barty of playing the fool, in and out ofseason. I wonder if he always thought himself bound to respect thesecrets of the confessional in Barty's case!

And Barty would sing to him--even in the confessional:

 "Stabat mater dolorosa Juxta crucem lachrymosa Dum pendebat fllius" . . . 

in a voice so sweet and innocent and pathetic that it would almostbring the tears to the good old curé's eyelash. 

"Ah! ma chère Mamzelle Marceline!" he would say--"au moins s'ilsétaient tous comme ce petit Josselin! çà irait comme sur desroulettes! Il est innocent comme un jeune veau, ce mioche anglais!Il a le bon Dieu dans le coeur!"

"Et une boussole dans l'estomac!" said Mlle. Marceline. 

I don't think he was quite so _innocent_ as all that, perhaps--butno young beast of the field was ever more _harmless_. 

That year the examinations were good all round; even _I_ did notdisgrace myself, and Barty was brilliant. But there were nodelightful holidays for me to record. Barty went to Yorkshire, and Iremained in Paris with my mother. 

There is only one thing more worth mentioning that year. 

My father had inherited from _his_ father a system of shorthand, which he called _Blaze_--I don't know why! _His_ father had learntit of a Dutch Jew. 

It is, I think, the best kind of cipher ever invented (I have takeninterest in these things and studied them). It is very difficult tolearn, but I learnt it as a child--and it was of immense use to meat lectures we used to attend at the Sorbonne and Collège de France. 

Barty was very anxious to know it, and after some trouble I obtainedmy father's permission to impart this calligraphic crypt to Barty, on condition he should swear on his honor never to reveal it: andthis he did. 

With his extraordinary quickness and the perseverance he always hadwhen he wished a thing very much, he made himself a complete masterof this occult science before he left school, two or three yearslater: it took _me_ seven years--beginning when I was four! It doesequally well for French or English, and it played an important partin Barty's career. My sister knew it, but imperfectly; my mother notat all--for all she tried so hard and was so persevering; it must belearnt young. As far as I am aware, no one else knows it in Englandor France--or even the world--although it is such a usefulinvention; quite a marvel of simple ingenuity when one has masteredthe symbols, which certainly take a long time and a deal of hardwork. 

Barty and I got to talk it on our fingers as rapidly as ordinaryspeech and with the slightest possible gestures: this was _his_improvement. 

 * * * * *

Barty came back from his holidays full of Whitby, and its sailorsand whalers, and fishermen and cobles and cliffs--all of which hadevidently had an immense attraction for him. He was always fond ofthat class; possibly also some vague atavistic sympathy for thetoilers of the sea lay dormant in his blood like an inheritedmemory. 

And he brought back many tokens of these good people's regard--twoformidable clasp-knives (for each of which he had to pay the giverone farthing in current coin of the realm); spirit-flasks, leatherbottles, jet ornaments; woollen jerseys and comforters knitted forhim by their wives and daughters; fossil ammonites and coprolites; acouple of young sea-gulls to add to his menagerie; and many oldEnglish marine ditties, which he had to sing to M. Bonzig with hisnow cracked voice, and then translate into French. Indeed, Bonzigand Barty became inseparable companions during the Thursdaypromenade, on the strength of their common interest in ships and thesea; and Barty never wearied of describing the place he loved, norBonzig of listening and commenting. 

"Ah! mon cher! ce que je donnerais, moi, pour voir le retour d'unbaleinier à Ouittebé! Quelle 'marine' ça ferait! hein? avec lagrande falaise, et la bonne petite église en haut, près de laVieille Abbaye--et les toits rouges qui fument, et les trois jetéesen pierre, et le vieux pont-levis--et toute cette grouille demariniers avec leurs femmes et leurs enfants--et ces braves fillesqui attendent le retour du bien-aimé! nom d'un nom! dire que vousavez vu tout ça, vous--qui n'avez pas encore seize ans . . . Quellechance!. . . Dites--qu'est-ce que ça veut bien dire, ce

 'Ouïle mé sekile rô!'

Chantez-moi ça encore une fois!"

And Barty, whose voice was breaking, would raucously sing him thegood old ditty for the sixth time:

 "Weel may the keel row, the keel row, the keel row, Weel may the keel row That brings my laddie home!"

which he would find rather difficult to render literally intocolloquial seafaring French!

He translated it thus:

 "Vogue la carène, Vogue la carène Qui me ramène Mon bien aimé!"

"Ah! vous verrez, " says Bonzig--"vous verrez, aux prochainesvacances de Pâques--je ferai un si joli tableau de tout ça! avec labrume du soir qui tombe, vous savez--et le soleil qui disparait--etla marée qui monte et la lune qui se lève à l'horizon! et lesmouettes et les goëlands--et les bruyères lointaines--et le vieuxmanoir seigneurial de votre grand-père . . . C'est bien ça, n'est-cepas?"

"Oui, oui, M'sieur Bonzig--vous y êtes, en plein!"

And the good usher in his excitement would light himself a cigaretteof caporal, and inhale the smoke as if it were a sea-breeze, andexhale it like a regular sou'-wester! and sing:

 "Ouïle--mé--sekile rô, Tat brinn my laddé ôme!"

Barty also brought back with him the complete poetical works ofByron and Thomas Moore, the gift of his noble grandfather, whoadored these two bards to the exclusion of all other bards that everwrote in English. And during that year we both got to know them, possibly as well as Lord Whitby himself. Especially "Don Juan, " inwhich we grew to be as word-perfect as in _Polyeucte_, _LeMisanthrope_, _Athalie_, _Philoctète_, _Le Lutrin_, the first sixbooks of the Æneid and the Iliad, the _Ars Poetica_, and the _ArtPoétique_ (Boileau). 

Every line of these has gone out of my head--long ago, alas! But Icould still stand a pretty severe examination in the nowall-but-forgotten English epic--from Dan to Beersheba--I mean from"I want a hero" to "The phantom of her frolic grace, Fitz-Fulke!"

Barty, however, remembered everything--what he ought to, and what heought not! He had the most astounding memory: wax to receive andmarble to retain; also a wonderful facility for writing verse, mostly comic, both in English and French. Greek and Latin verse werenot taught us at Brossard's, for good French reasons, into which Iwill not enter now. 

We also grew very fond of Lamartine and Victor Hugo, quiteopenly--and of De Musset under the rose. 

 "C'était dans la nuit brune Sur le clocher jauni, La lune, Comme un point sur son i!"

(not for the young person). 

[Illustration: "WEEL MAY THE KEEL ROW"]

I have a vague but pleasant impression of that year. Its weathers, its changing seasons, its severe frosts, with Sunday skatings on thedangerous canals, St. -Ouen and De l'Ourcq; its genial spring, allconvolvulus and gobéas, and early almond blossom and laterhorse-chestnut spikes, and more lime and syringa than ever; its warmsoft summer and the ever-delightful school of notation by the Isleof Swans. 

This particular temptation led us into trouble. We would rise beforedawn, Barty and Jolivet and I, and let ourselves over the wall andrun the two miles, and get a heavenly swim and a promise of silencefor a franc apiece; and run back again and jump into bed a fewminutes before the five-o'clock bell rang the réveillé. 

But we did this once too often--for M. Dumollard had been looking atVenus with his telescope (I _think_ it was Venus) one morning beforesunrise, and spied us out _en flagrant délit_; perhaps with thatvery telescope. Anyhow, he pounced on us when we came back. And ourpunishment would have been extremely harsh but for Barty, who turnedit all into a joke. 

After breakfast M. Mérovée pronounced a very severe sentence on usunder the acacia. I forget what it was--but his manner was veryshort and dignified, and he walked away very stiffly towards thedoor of the étude. Barty ran after him without noise, and justtouching his shoulders with the tips of his fingers, cleared him ata bound from behind, as one clears a post. 

M. Mérovée, in a _real_ rage this time, forgot his dignity, andpursued him all over the school--through open windows and backagain--into his own garden (Tusculum)--over trellis railings--allalong the top of a wall--and finally, quite blown out, sat down onthe edge of the tank: the whole school was in fits by this time, even M. Dumollard--and at last Mérovée began to laugh too. So thething had to be forgiven--but only that once!

Once also, that year, but in the winter, a great compliment was paidto la perfide Albion in the persons of MM. Josselin et Maurice, which I cannot help recording with a little complacency. 

On a Thursday walk in the Bois de Boulogne a boy called out "À basDumollard!" in a falsetto squeak. Dumollard, who was on duty thatwalk, was furious, of course--but he couldn't identify the boy bythe sound of his voice. He made his complaint to M. Mérovée--andnext morning, after prayers, Mérovée came into the school-room, andtold us he should go the round of the boys there and then, and askeach boy separately to own up if it were he who had uttered theseditious cry. 

"And mind you!" he said--"you are all and each of you on your 'wordof honor'--_l'étude entière_!"

So round he went, from boy to boy, deliberately fixing each boy withhis eye, and severely asking--"Est-ce _toi_?" "Est-ce _toi_?""Est-ce _toi_?" etc. , and waiting very deliberately indeed for theanswer, and even asking for it again if it were not given in a firmand audible voice. And the answer was always, "Non, m'sieur, cen'est pas moi!"

But when he came to each of _us_ (Josselin and me) he just mumbledhis "Est-ce toi?" in a quite perfunctory voice, and didn't even waitfor the answer!

When he got to the last boy of all, who said "Non, m'sieur, " likeall the rest, he left the room, saying, tragically (and, as Ithought, rather theatrically for _him_):

"Je m'en vais le coeur navré--il y a un lâche parmi vous!" (My heartis harrowed--there's a coward among you. )

There was an awkward silence for a few moments. 

Presently Rapaud got up and went out. We all knew that Rapaud wasthe delinquent--he had bragged about it so--overnight in thedormitory. He went straight to M. Mérovée and confessed, statingthat he did not like to be put on his word of honor before the wholeschool. I forget whether he was punished or not, or how. He had tomake his apologies to M. Dumollard, of course. 

To put the whole school on its word of honor was thought a verysevere measure, coming as it did from the head master in person. "Laparole d'honneur" was held to be very sacred between boy and boy, and even between boy and head master. The boy who broke it wasalways "mis à la quarantaine" (sent to Coventry) by the rest of theschool. 

"I wonder why he let off Josselin and Maurice so easily?" saidJolivet, at breakfast. 

"Parce qu'il aime les Anglais, ma foi!" said M. Dumollard--"affairede goût!"

"Ma foi, il n'a pas tort!" said M. Bonzig. 

Dumollard looked askance at Bonzig (between whom and himself notmuch love was lost) and walked off, jauntily twirling his mustache, and whistling a few bars of a very ungainly melody, to which thewords ran:

 "Non! jamais en France, Jamais Anglais ne règnera!"

As if we wanted to, good heavens!

(By-the-way, I suddenly remember that both Berquin and d'Orthez werelet off as easily as Josselin and I. But they were eighteen ornineteen, and "en Philosophie, " the highest class in the school--andvery first-rate boys indeed. It's only fair that I should add this. )

By-the-way, also, M. Dumollard took it into his head to persecute mebecause once I refused to fetch and carry for him and be his"moricaud, " or black slave (as du Tertre-Jouan called it): a meanand petty persecution which lasted two years, and somewhat embittersmy memory of those happy days. It was always "Maurice au piquet pourune heure!". . . "Maurice à la retenue!". . . "Maurice privé de bain!". . . "Maurice consigné dimanche prochain!" . . . For the slightestpossible offence. But I forgive him freely. 

First, because he is probably dead, and "de mortibus nildesperandum!" as Rapaud once said--and for saying which he receiveda "twisted pinch" from Mérovée Brossard himself. 

Secondly, because he made chemistry, cosmography, and physics sopleasant--and even reconciled me at last to the differential andintegral calculus (but never Barty!). 

He could be rather snobbish at times, which was not a common Frenchfault in the forties--we didn't even know what to call it. 

For instance, he was fond of bragging to us boys about the goldensplendors of his Sunday dissipation, and his grand acquaintances, even in class. He would even interrupt himself in the middle of anequation at the blackboard to do so. 

"You mustn't imagine to yourselves, messieurs, that because I teachyou boys science at the Pension Brossard, and take you out walkingon Thursday afternoons, and all that, that I do not associate _avecdes gens du monde_! Last night, for example, I was dining at theCafé de Paris with a very intimate friend of mine--he's amarquis--and when the bill was brought, what do you think it cameto? you give it up?" (vous donnez votre langue aux chats?). "Well, it came to fifty-seven francs, fifty centimes! We tossed up whoshould pay--et, ma foi, le sort a favorisé M. Le Marquis!"

To this there was nothing to say; so none of us said anything, except du Tertre-Jouan, _our_ marquis (No. 2), who said, in hissulky, insolent, peasantlike manner:

"Et comment q'ça s'appelle, vot' marquis?" (What does it callitself, your marquis?)

Upon which M. Dumollard turns very red ("pique un soleil"), andsays:

"Monsieur le Marquis Paul--François--Victor du Tertre-Jouan deHaultcastel de St. -Paterne, vous êtes un paltoquet et un rustre!. . . "

And goes back to his equations. 

Du Tertre-Jouan was nearly six feet high, and afraid of nobody--akind of clodhopping young rustic Hercules, and had proved his mettlequite recently--when a brutal usher, whom I will call MonsieurBoulot (though his real name was Patachou), a Méridional with aHorrible divergent squint, made poor Rapaud go down on his knees inthe classe de géographie ancienne, and slapped him violently on theface twice running--a way he had with Rapaud. 

It happened like this. It was a kind of penitential class for duncesduring play-time. M. Boulot drew in chalk an outline of ancientGreece on the blackboard, and under it he wrote--

 "Timeo Danaos, et dona ferentes!"

"Rapaud, translate me that line of Virgil!" says Boulot. 

"J'estime les Danois et leurs dents de fer!" says poor Rapaud (Iesteem the Danish and their iron teeth). And we all laughed. Forwhich he underwent the brutal slapping. 

[Illustration: A TERTRE-JOUAN TO THE RESCUE!]

The window was ajar, and outside I saw du Tertre-Jouan, Jolivet, andBerquin, listening and peeping through. Suddenly the window bursts wideopen, and du Tertre-Jouan vaults the sill, gets between Boulot and hisvictim, and says:

"Le troisième coup fait feu, vous savez! touchez-y encore, à cemoutard, et j'vous assomme sur place!" (Touch him again, that kid, and I'll break your head where you stand!). 

There was an awful row, of course--and du Tertre-Jouan had to make apublic apology to M. Boulot, who disappeared from the school thevery same day; and Tertre-Jouan would have been canonized by us all, but that he was so deplorably dull and narrow-minded, and suspectedof being a royalist in disguise. He was an orphan and very rich, anddidn't fash himself about examinations. He left school that yearwithout taking any degree--and I don't know what became of him. 

This year also Barty conceived a tender passion for Mlle. Marceline. 

It was after the mumps, which we both had together in adouble-bedded infirmerie next to the lingerie--a place where it wasa pleasure to be ill; for she was in and out all day, and told usall that was going on, and gave us nice drinks and tisanes of herown making--and laughed at all Barty's jokes, and some of mine! Andwore the most coquettish caps ever seen. 

Besides, she was an uncommonly good-looking woman--a tall blondewith beautiful teeth, and wonderfully genial, good-humored, andlively--an ideal nurse, but a terrible postponer of cures! LordArchibald quite fell in love with her. 

"C'est moi qui voudrais bien avoir les oreillons ici!" he said toher. "Je retarderais ma convalescence autant que possible!"

[Illustration: MADEMOISELLE MARCELINE]

"Comme il sait bien le français, votre oncle--et comme il estpoli!" said Marceline to the convalescent Barty, who was in nohurry to get well either!

When we did get well again, Barty would spend much of his play-timefetching and carrying for Mlle. Marceline--even getting Dumollard'ssocks for her to darn--and talking to her by the hour as he sat byher pleasant window, out of which one could see the Arch of Triumph, which so triumphantly dominated Paris and its suburbs, and does sostill--no Eiffel Tower can kill that arch!

I, being less precocious, did not begin my passion for Mlle. Marceline till next year, just as Bonneville and Jolivet trois weregetting over theirs. Nous avons tous passé par là!

What a fresh and kind and jolly woman she was, to be sure! I wondernone of the masters married her. Perhaps they did! Let us hope itwasn't M. Dumollard!

It is such a pleasure to recall every incident of this epoch of mylife and Barty's that I should like to go through our joint livesday by day, hour by hour, microscopically--to describe every book weread, every game we played, every _pensum_ (_i. E. _, imposition) weperformed; every lark we were punished for--every meal we ate. Butspace forbids this self-indulgence, and other considerations make itunadvisable--so I will resist the temptation. 

La pension Brossard! How often have we both talked of it, Barty andI, as middle-aged men; in the billiard-room of the Marathoneum, letus say, sitting together on a comfortable couch, with tea andcigarettes--and always in French whispers! we could only talk ofBrossard's in French. 

"Te rappelles-tu l'habit neuf de Berquin, et son chapeauhaute-forme?"

[Illustration: "'IF HE ONLY KNEW!'"]

"Te souviens-tu de la vieille chatte angora du père Jaurion?" etc. , etc. , etc. 

Idiotic reminiscences! as charming to revive as any old song withwords of little meaning that meant so much when one wasfour--five--six years old! Before one knew even how to spell them!

 "Paille à Dine--paille à Chine-- Paille à Suzette et Martine-- Bon lit à la Dumaine!"

Céline, my nurse, used to sing this--and I never knew what it meant;nor do I now! But it was charming indeed. 

Even now I dream that I go back to school, to get coached byDumollard in a little more algebra. I wander about the playground;but all the boys are new, and don't even know my name; and silent, sad, and ugly, every one! Again Dumollard persecutes me. And in themiddle of it I reflect that, after all, he is a person of noimportance whatever, and that I am a member of the BritishParliament--a baronet--a millionaire--and one of her Majesty's PrivyCouncillors! and that M. Dumollard must be singularly "out of it, "even for a Frenchman, not to be aware of this. 

"If he only knew!" says I to myself, says I--in my dream. 

Besides, can't the man see with his own eyes that I'm grown up, andbig enough to tuck him under my left arm, and spank him just as ifhe were a little naughty boy--confound the brute!

Then, suddenly:

"Maurice, au piquet pour une heure!"

"Moi, m'sieur?"

"Oui, vous!"

"Pourquoi, m'sieur!"

"Parce que ça me plaît!"

And I wake--and could almost weep to find how old I am!

And Barty Josselin is no more--oh! my God! . . . And his dear wifesurvived him just twenty-four hours!

 * * * * *

Behold us both "en Philosophie!"

And Barty the head boy of the school, though not the oldest--and thebrilliant show-boy of the class. 

Just before Easter (1851) he and I and Rapaud and Laferté andJolivet trois (who was nineteen) and Palaiseau and Bussy-Rabutinwent up for our "bachot" at the Sorbonne. 

We sat in a kind of big musty school-room with about thirty otherboys from other schools and colleges. There we sat side by side fromten till twelve at long desks, and had a long piece of Latindictated to us, with the punctuation in French: "un point--point etvirgule--deux points--point d'exclamation--guillemets--ouvrez laparenthèse, " etc. , etc. --monotonous details that enervate one atsuch a moment!

Then we set to work with our dictionaries and wrote out atranslation according to our lights--a _pion_ walking about andwatching us narrowly for cribs, in case we should happen to have onefor this particular extract, which was most unlikely. 

Barty's nose bled, I remember--and this made him nervous. 

Then we went and lunched at the Café de l'Odéon, on the best omeletwe had ever tasted. 

"Te rappelles-tu cette omelette?" said poor Barty to me only lastChristmas as ever was!

Then we went back with our hearts in our mouths to find if we hadqualified ourselves by our "version écrite" for the oral examinationthat comes after, and which is so easy to pass--the examiners havinglunched themselves into good-nature. 

There we stood panting, some fifty boys and masters, in a small, whitewashed room like a prison. An official comes in and puts thelist of candidates in a frame on the wall, and we crane our necksover each other's shoulders. 

And, lo! Barty is plucked--_collé_! and I have passed, and actuallyRapaud--and no one else from Brossard's!

An old man--a parent or grandparent probably of some unsuccessfulcandidate--bursts into tears and exclaims, "Oh! qué malheur--qué malheur!"

A shabby, tall, pallid youth, in the uniform of the CollègeSte. -Barbe, rushes down the stone stair's shrieking, "Ça pue l'injustice, ici!"

One hears him all over the place: terrible heartburns and tragicdisappointments in the beginning of life resulted from failure inthis first step--a failure which disqualified one for all the littlegovernment appointments so dear to the heart of the frugal Frenchparent. "Mille francs par an! c'est le Pactole!"

 * * * * *

Barty took his defeat pretty easily--he put it all down to his nosebleeding--and seemed so pleased at my success, and my dear mother'sdelight in it, that he was soon quite consoled; he was always likethat. 

To M. Mérovée, Barty's failure was as great a disappointment as itwas a painful surprise. 

[Illustration: "'MAURICE AU PIQUET!'"]

"Try again Josselin! Don't leave here till you have passed. If you arecontent to fail in this, at the very outset of your career, you willnever succeed in anything through life! Stay with us as my guest tillyou can go up again, and again if necessary. _Do_, my dear child--itwill make me so happy! I shall feel it as a proof that you reciprocatein some degree the warm friendship I have always borne you--in commonwith everybody in the school! Je t'en prie, mon garçon!"

Then he went to the Rohans and tried to persuade them. But LordArchibald didn't care much about Bachots, nor his wife either. Theywere going back to live in England, besides; and Barty was goinginto the Guards. 

I left school also--with a mixture of hope and elation, and yet themost poignant regret. 

I can hardly find words to express the gratitude and affection Ifelt for Mérovée Brossard when I bade him farewell. 

Except his father before him, he was the best and finest Frenchman Iever knew. There is nothing invidious in my saying this, and in thisway. I merely speak of the Brossards, father and son, as Frenchmenin this connection, because their admirable qualities of heart andmind were so essentially French; they would have done equal honor toany country in the world. 

I corresponded with him regularly for a few years, and so did Barty;and then our letters grew fewer and farther between, and finallyleft off altogether--as nearly always happens in such cases, Ithink. And I never saw him again; for when he broke up the school hewent to his own province in the southeast, and lived there tilltwenty years ago, when he died--unmarried, I believe. 

Then there was Monsieur Bonzig, and Mlle. Marceline, and others--andthree or four boys with whom both Barty and I were on terms of warmand intimate friendship. None of these boys that I know of haverisen to any world-wide fame; and, oddly enough, none of them haveever given sign of life to Barty Josselin, who is just as famous inFrance for his French literary work as on this side of the Channelfor all he has done in English. He towers just as much there ashere; and this double eminence now dominates the entire globe, andwe are beginning at last to realize everywhere that this brightluminary in our firmament is no planet, like Mars or Jupiter, but, like Sirius, a sun. 

Yet never a line from an old comrade in that school where he livedfor four years and was so strangely popular--and which he so filledwith his extraordinary personality!

 * * * * *

So much for Barty Josselin's school life and mine. I fear I may havedwelt on them at too great a length. No period of time has ever beenfor me so bright and happy as those seven years I spent at theInstitution F. Brossard--especially the four years I spent therewith Barty Josselin. The older I get, the more I love to recall thetrivial little incidents that made for us both the sum of existencein those happy days. 

La chasse aux souvenirs d'enfance! what better sport can there be, or more bloodless, at my time of life?

And all the lonely pathetic pains and pleasures of it, now that _he_is gone!

The winter twilight has just set in--"betwixt dog and wolf. " Iwander alone (but for Barty's old mastiff, who follows mewilly-nilly) in the woods and lanes that surround Marsfield on theThames, the picturesque abode of the Josselins. 

Darker and darker it grows. I no longer make out the familiar treesand hedges, and forget how cold it is and how dreary. 

 "Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées, Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit-- Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées: Triste--et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit. "

(This is Victor Hugo, not Barty Josselin. )

It's really far away I am--across the sea; across the years, OPosthumus! in a sunny play-ground that has been built over long ago, or overgrown with lawns and flower-beds and costly shrubs. 

Up rises some vague little rudiment of a hint of a ghost of a sunny, funny old French remembrance long forgotten--a brand-new oldremembrance--a kind of will-o'-the-wisp. Chut! my soul stalks it ontiptoe, while these earthly legs bear this poor old body of clay, bymere reflex action, straight home to the beautiful Elisabethan houseon the hill; through the great warm hall, up the broad oak stairs, into the big cheerful music-room like a studio--ruddy and brightwith the huge log-fire opposite the large window. All is on an amplescale at Marsfield, people and things! and I! sixteen stone, goodLord!

How often that window has been my beacon on dark nights! I used towatch for it from the train--a landmark in a land of milk andhoney--the kindliest light that ever led me yet on earth. 

I sit me down in my own particular chimney-corner, in my owncane-bottomed chair by the fender, and stare at the blaze with my friendthe mastiff. An old war-battered tomcat Barty was fond of jumps up andmakes friends too. There goes my funny little French remembrance, tryingto fly up the chimney like a burnt love-letter. . . . 

Barty's eldest daughter (Roberta), a stately, tall Hebe in black, brings me a very sizable cup of tea, just as I like it. A well-grownlittle son of hers, a very Ganymede, beau comme le jour, brings me acigarette, and insists on lighting it for me himself. I like thattoo. 

Another daughter of Barty's, "la rossignolle, " as we callher--though there is no such word that I know of--goes to the pianoand sings little French songs of forty, fifty years ago--songs thatshe has learnt from her dear papa. 

Heavens! what a voice! and how like his, but for the difference ofsex and her long and careful training (which he never had); and theaccent, how perfect!

Then suddenly:

 "À Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca . . . Vous étiez, vous étiez bien aise! À Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca . . . Nous étions, nous étions bien là! Mais de vous en souvenir Prendrez-vous la peine? Mais de vous en souvenir, Et d'y revenir? À Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca . . . Vivre et mourir là!"

So sings Mrs. Trevor (Mary Josselin that was) in the richest, sweetest voice I know. And behold! at last I have caught my littleFrench remembrance, just as the lamps are being lit--and I transfixit with my pen and write it down. . . . 

And then with a sigh I scratch it all out again, sunny and funny asit is. For it's all about a comical adventure I had with Palaiseau, the sniffer at the fête de St. -Cloud--all about a tame magpie, agendarme, a blanchisseuse, and a volume of de Musset's poems, anddoesn't concern Barty in the least; for it so happened that Bartywasn't there!

 * * * * *

Thus, in the summer of 1851, Barty Josselin and I bade adieu foreverto our happy school life--and for a few years to our belovedParis--and for many years to our close intimacy of every hour in theday. 

I remember spending two or three afternoons with him at the greatexhibition in Hyde Park just before he went on a visit to hisgrandfather, Lord Whitby, in Yorkshire--and happy afternoons theywere! and we made the most of them. We saw all there was to be seenthere, I think; and found ourselves always drifting back to the"Amazon" and the "Greek Slave, " for both of which Barty's admirationwas boundless. 

And so was mine. They made the female fashions for 1851 quitedeplorable by contrast--especially the shoes, and the way ofdressing the hair; we almost came to the conclusion that femalebeauty when unadorned is adorned the most. It awes and chastens oneso! and wakes up the knight-errant inside! even the smartest Frenchboots can't do this! not the pinkest silken hose in all Paris! Notall the frills and underfrills and wonderfrills that M. Paul Bourgetcan so eloquently describe!

My father had taken a house for us in Brunswick Square, next to theFoundling Hospital. He was about to start an English branch of theVougeot-Conti firm in the City. I will not trouble the reader withany details about this enterprise, which presented many difficultiesat first, and indeed rather crippled our means. 

[Illustration:

 "'QUAND ON PERD, PAR TRISTE OCCURRENCE, SON ESPÉRANCE, ET SA GAÎTÉ, LE REMÈDE AU MÉLANCOLIQUE C'EST LA MUSIQUE ET LA BEAUTÉ'"]

My mother was anxious that I should go to one of the universities, Oxford or Cambridge; but this my father could not afford. She had agreat dislike to business--and so had I; from different motives, Ifancy. I had the wish to become a man of science--a passion that hadbeen fired by M. Dumollard, whose special chemistry class at the PensionBrossard, with its attractive experiments, had been of the deepestinterest to me. I have not described it because Barty did not come in. 

Fortunately for my desire, my good father had great sympathy with mein this; so I was entered as a student at the Laboratory ofChemistry at University College, close by--in October, 1851--andstudied there for two years, instead of going at once into myfather's business in Barge Yard, Bucklersbury, which would havepleased him even more. 

At about the same time Barty was presented with a commission in theSecond Battalion of the Grenadier Guards, and joined immediately. 

Nothing could have been more widely apart than the lives we led, orthe society we severally frequented. 

I lived at home with my people; he in rooms on a second floor in St. James's Street; he had a semi-grand piano, and luxurious furniture, and bookcases already well filled, and nicely colored lithographengravings on the walls--beautiful female faces--the gift of LadyArchibald, who had superintended Barty's installation with kindlymaternal interest, but little appreciation of high art. There werealso foils, boxing-gloves, dumbbells, and Indian clubs; and manyweapons, ancient and modern, belonging more especially to his ownmartial profession. They were most enviable quarters. But he oftencame to see us in Brunswick Square, and dined with us once or twicea week, and was made much of--even by my father, who thoroughlydisapproved of everything about him except his own genial andagreeable self, which hadn't altered in the least. 

My father was much away--in Paris and Dijon--and Barty made rain andfine weather in our dull abode, to use a French expression--_il yfaisait la pluie et le beau temps_. That is, it rained there when hewas away, and he brought the fine weather with him; and we spokeFrench all round. 

The greatest pleasure I could have was to breakfast with Barty inSt. James's Street on Sunday mornings, when he was not serving hisQueen and country--either alone with him or with two or three of hisfriends--mostly young carpet warriors like himself; and verycharming young fellows they were. I have always been fond ofwarriors, young or old, and of whatever rank, and wish to goodness Ihad been a warrior myself. I feel sure I should have made a fairlygood one!

Then we would spend an hour or two in athletic exercises and smokemany pipes. And after this, in the summer, we would walk inKensington Gardens and see the Rank and Fashion. In those days theRank and Fashion were not above showing themselves in the KensingtonGardens of a Sunday afternoon, crossing the Serpentine Bridge againand again between Prince's Gate and Bayswater. 

Then for dinner we went to some pleasant foreign pot-house in ornear Leicester Square, where they spoke French--and ate and drankit!--and then back again to his rooms. Sometimes we would be alone, which I liked best: we would read and smoke and be happy; or hewould sketch, or pick out accompaniments on his guitar; often notexchanging a word, but with a delightful sense of closecompanionship which silence almost intensified. 

Sometimes we were in very jolly company: more warriors; youngRobson, the actor who became so famous; a big negro pugilist, calledSnowdrop; two medical students from St. George's Hospital, who boxedwell and were capital fellows; and an academy art student, who dieda Royal Academician, and who did not approve of Barty's muraldecorations and laughed at the colored lithographs; and many othersof all sorts. There used to be much turf talk, and sometimes alittle card-playing and mild gambling--but Barty's tastes did notlie that way. 

His idea of a pleasant evening was putting on the gloves withSnowdrop, or any one else who chose--or fencing--or else makingmusic; or being funny in any way one could; and for this he hadquite a special gift: he had sudden droll inspirations that made oneabsolutely hysterical--mere things of suggestive look or sound orgesture, reminding one of Robson himself, but quite original;absolute senseless rot and drivel, but still it made one laugh tillone's sides ached. And he never failed of success in achieving this. 

Among the dullest and gravest of us, and even some of the mosthigh-minded, there is often a latent longing for this kind of happyidiotic fooling, and a grateful fondness for those who can supply itwithout effort and who delight in doing so. Barty was the precursorof the Arthur Robertses and Fred Leslies and Dan Lenos of our day, although he developed in quite another direction!

Then of a sudden he would sing some little twopenny love-ballad orsentimental nigger melody so touchingly that one had the lump in thethroat; poor Snowdrop would weep by spoonfuls!

By-the-way, it suddenly occurs to me that I'm mixing thingsup--confusing Sundays and week-days; of course our Sunday eveningswere quiet and respectable, and I much preferred them when he and Iwere alone; he was then another person altogether--a thoughtful andintelligent young Frenchman, who loved reading poetry aloud or beingread to; especially English poetry--Byron! He was faithful to his"Don Juan, " his Hebrew melodies--his "O'er the glad waters of thedeep blue sea. " We knew them all by heart, or nearly so, and yet weread them still; and Victor Hugo and Lamartine, and dear Alfred deMusset. . . . 

And one day I discovered another Alfred who wrote verses--Alfred theGreat, as we called him--one Alfred Tennyson, who had written acertain poem, among others, called "In Memoriam"--which I carriedoff to Barty's and read out aloud one wet Sunday evening, and theSunday evening after, and other Sunday evenings; and other poems bythe same hand: "Locksley Hall, " "Ulysses, " "The Lotos-Eaters, " "TheLady of Shalott"--and the chord of Byron passed in music out ofsight. 

Then Shelley dawned upon us, and John Keats, and Wordsworth--and ourSunday evenings were of a happiness to be remembered forever; atleast they were so to me!

If Barty Josselin were on duty on the Sabbath, it was a blank dayfor Robert Maurice. For it was not very lively at home--especiallywhen my father was there. He was the best and kindest man that everlived, but his businesslike seriousness about this world, and hisanxiety about the next, and his Scotch Sabbatarianism, were deadlydepressing; combined with the aspect of London on the Lord'sday--London east of Russell Square! Oh, Paris . . . Paris . . . And theyellow omnibus that took us both there together, Barty and me, ateight on a Sunday morning in May or June, and didn't bring us backto school till fourteen hours later!

I shall never forget one gloomy wintry Sunday--somewhere in 1854 or5, if I'm not mistaken, towards the end of Barty's career as aGuardsman. 

Twice after lunch I had called at Barty's, who was to have been onduty in barracks or at the Tower that morning; he had not come back;I called for him at his club, but he hadn't been there either--and Iturned my face eastward and homeward with a sickening sense ofdesolate ennui and deep disgust of London for which I could find noterms that are fit for publication!

And this was not lessened by the bitter reproaches I made myself forbeing such a selfish and unworthy son and brother. It was preciousdull at home for my mother and sister--and my place was _there_. 

They were just lighting the lamps as I got to the arcade in theQuadrant--and there I ran against the cheerful Barty. Joy! what achange in the aspect of everything! It rained light! He pulled a newbook out of his pocket, which he had just borrowed from some fairlady--and showed it to me. It was called _Maud_. 

We dined at Pergolese's, in Rupert Street--and went back toBarty's--and read the lovely poem out loud, taking it by turns; andthat is the most delightful recollection I have since I left theInstitution F. Brossard!

Occasionally I dined with him "on guard" at St. James's Palace--andwell I could understand all the attractions of his life, sodifferent from mine, and see what a good fellow he was to come sooften to Brunswick Square, and seem so happy with us. 

The reader will conclude that I was a kind of over-affectionatepestering dull dog, who made this brilliant youth's life a burden tohim. It was really not so; we had very many tastes in common; andwith all his various temptations, he had a singularly constant andaffectionate nature--and was of a Frenchness that made Frenchthought and talk and commune almost a daily necessity. We nearlyalways spoke French when together alone, or with my mother andsister. It would have seemed almost unnatural not to have done so. 

I always feel a special tenderness towards young people whose liveshave been such that those two languages are exactly the same tothem. It means so many things to me. It doubles them in myestimation, and I seem to understand them through and through. 

Nor did he seem to care much for the smart society of which he sawso much; perhaps the bar sinister may have made him feel less at hisease in general society than among his intimates and old friends. Ifeel sure he took this to heart more than any one would have thoughtpossible from his careless manner. 

He only once alluded directly to this when we were together. I wasspeaking to him of the enviable brilliancy of his lot. He looked atme pensively for a minute or two, and said, in English:

"You've got a kink in your nose, Bob--if it weren't for that you'dbe a deuced good-looking fellow--like me; but you ain't. "

"Thanks--anything else?" said I. 

"Well, I've got a kink in my birth, you see--and that's as big akill-joy as I know. I hate it!"

It _was_ hard luck. He would have made such a splendid Marquis ofWhitby! and done such honor to the proud old family motto:

"Roy ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis!"

Instead of which he got himself a signet-ring, and on it he causedto be engraved a zero within a naught, and round them:

"Rohan ne puis, roi ne daigne. Rien ne suis!"

Soon it became pretty evident that a subtle change was being wroughtin him. 

He had quite lost his power of feeling the north, and missed itdreadfully; he could no longer turn his back-somersault with easeand safety; he had overcome his loathing for meat, and also hisdislike for sport--he had, indeed, become a very good shot. 

But he could still hear and see and smell with all the keenness of ayoung animal or a savage. And that must have made his sense of beingalive very much more vivid than is the case with other mortals. 

He had also corrected his quick impulsive tendency to slap facesthat were an inch or two higher up than his own. He didn't oftencome across one, for one thing--then it would not have beenconsidered "good form" in her Majesty's Household Brigade. 

When he was a boy, as the reader may recollect, he was fond ofdrawing lovely female profiles with black hair and an immense blackeye, and gazing at them as he smoked a cigarette and listened topretty, light music. He developed a most ardent admiration forfemale beauty, and mixed more and more in worldly and fashionablecircles (of which I saw nothing whatever); circles where theheavenly gift of beauty is made more of, perhaps, than is quite goodfor its possessors, whether female or male. 

He was himself of a personal beauty so exceptional that incredibletemptations came his way. Aristocratic people all over the worldmake great allowance for beauty-born frailties that would spell ruinand everlasting disgrace for women of the class to which it is myprivilege to belong. 

Barty, of course, did not confide his love-adventures to me; in thishe was no Frenchman. But I saw quite enough to know he was morepursued than pursuing; and what a pursuer, to a man built like that!no innocent, impulsive young girl, no simple maiden in herflower--no Elaine. 

But a magnificent full-blown peeress, who knew her own mind and hadnothing to fear, for her husband was no better than herself. But forthat, a Guinevere and Vivien rolled into one, _plus_ Messalina!

Nor was she the only light o' love; there are many naughty "grandesdames de par le monde" whose easy virtue fits them like a silkstocking, and who live and love pretty much as they please withoutloss of caste, so long as they keep clear of any open scandal. It isone of the privileges of high rank. 

Then there were the ladies gay, frankly of the half-world, these--laughter-loving hetæræ, with perilously soft hearts for suchas Barty Josselin! There was even poor, listless, lazy, languidJenny, "Fond of a kiss and fond of a guinea!"

His heart was never touched--of that I feel sure; and he was not vain ofthese triumphs; but he was a very reckless youth, a kind of young JohnChurchill before Sarah Jennings took him in hand--absolutely non-moralabout such things, rather than immoral. 

He grew to be a quite notorious young man about town; and, mostunfortunately for him, Lord (and even Lady) Archibald Rohan were sofond of him, and so proud, and so amiably non-moral themselves, thathe was left to go as he might. 

He also developed some very rowdy tastes indeed--and so did I!

It was the fashion for our golden youth in the fifties to do so. Every night in the Haymarket there was a kind of noisy saturnalia, in which golden youths joined hands with youths who were by no meansgolden, to give much trouble to the police, and fill the pockets ofthe keepers of night-houses--"Bob Croft's, " "Kate Hamilton's, " "thePiccadilly Saloon, " and other haunts equally well pulled down andforgotten. It was good, in these regions, to be young and big andstrong like Barty and me, and well versed in the "handling of one'sdaddles. " I suppose London was the only great city in the worldwhere such things could be. I am afraid that many strange people ofboth sexes called us Bob and Barty; people the mere sight or hearingof whom would have given my poor dear father fits!

Then there was a little public-house in St. Martin's Lane, kept bybig Ben the prize-fighter. In a room at the top of the house thereused to be much sparring. We both of us took a high degree in thenoble art--especially I, if it be not bragging to say so; mostly onaccount of my weight, which was considerable for my age. It was infencing that he beat me hollow: he was quite the best fencer I evermet; the lessons at school of Bonnet's prévôt had borne good fruitin his case. 

Then there were squalid dens frequented by touts and betting-men andmedical students, where people sang and fought and laid the odds andgot very drunk--and where Barty's performances as a vocalist, comicand sentimental (especially the latter), raised enthusiasm thatseems almost incredible among such a brutalized and hardened crew. 

One night he and I and a medical student called Ticklets, who had afine bass voice, disguised ourselves as paupers, and went singingfor money about Camden Town and Mornington Crescent and Regent'sPark. It took us about an hour to make eighteen pence. Barty playedthe guitar, Ticklets the tambourine, and I the bones. Then we wentto the Haymarket, and Barty made five pounds in no time; most of itin silver donations from unfortunate women--English, of course--whoare among the softest-hearted and most generous creatures in theworld. 

 "O lachrymarum fons!"

I forget what use we made of the money--a good one, I feel sure. 

I am sorry to reveal all this, but Barty wished it. Forty years agosuch things did not seem so horrible as they would now, and the word"bounder" had not been invented. 

 * * * * *

My sister Ida, when about fourteen (1853), became a pupil at thejunior school in the Ladies' College, 48 Bedford Square. She soonmade friends--nice young girls, who came to our house, and it wasmuch the livelier. I used to hear much of them, and knew them wellbefore I ever saw them--especially Leah Gibson, who lived inTavistock Square, and was Ida's special friend; at last I was quiteanxious to see this paragon. 

One morning, as I carried Ida's books on her way to school, shepointed out to me three girls of her own age, or less, who stoodtalking together at the gates of the Foundling Hospital. They wereall three very pretty children--quite singularly so--and becamegreat beauties; one golden-haired, one chestnut-brown, oneblue-black. The black-haired one was the youngest and the tallest--afine, straight, bony child of twelve, with a flat back and squareshoulders; she was very well dressed, and had nice brown boots withbrown elastic sides on arched and straight-heeled slender feet, andwhite stockings on her long legs--a fashion in hose that has longgone out. She also wore a thick plait of black hair all down herback--another departed mode, and one not to be regretted, I think;and she swung her books round her as she talked, with easymovements, like a strong boy. 

"That's Leah Gibson, " says my sister; "the tall one, with the longblack plait. "

Leah Gibson turned round and nodded to my sister and smiled--showinga delicate narrow face, a clear pale complexion, very beautifulwhite pearly teeth between very red lips, and an extraordinary pairof large black eyes--rather close together--the blackest I ever saw, but with an expression so quick and penetrating and keen, and yet sogood and frank and friendly, that they positively sent a little warmthrill through me--though she was only twelve years old, and not abit older than her age, and I a fast youth nearly twenty!

And finding her very much to my taste, I said to my sister, just forfun, "Oh--_that's_ Leah Gibson, is it? then some day Leah Gibsonshall be Mrs. Robert Maurice!"

From which it may be inferred that I looked on Leah Gibson, at thefirst sight of her, as likely to become some day an extremelydesirable person. 

She did. 

The Gibsons lived in a very good house in Tavistock Square. Theyseemed very well off. Mrs. Gibson had a nice carriage, which shekept entirely with her own money. Her father, who was dead, had beena wealthy solicitor. He had left a large family, and to each of themproperty worth £300 a year, and a very liberal allowance of goodlooks. 

Mr. Gibson was in business in the City. 

[Illustration: THREE LITTLE MAIDS FROM SCHOOL (1853)]

Leah, their only child, was the darling of their hearts and the apple oftheir eyes. To dress her beautifully, to give her all the best mastersmoney could procure, and treat her to every amusement inLondon--theatres, the opera, all the concerts and shows there were, andgive endless young parties for her pleasure--all this seemed theprincipal interest of their lives. 

Soon after my first introduction to Leah, Ida and I received aninvitation to a kind of juvenile festivity at the Gibsons', andwent, and spent a delightful evening. We were received by Mrs. Gibson most cordially. She was such an extremely pretty person, andso charmingly dressed, and had such winning, natural, genialmanners, that I fell in love with her at first sight; she was alsovery playful and fond of romping; for she was young still, havingmarried at seventeen. 

Her mother, Mrs. Bletchley (who was present), was a SpanishJewess--a most magnificent and beautiful old person in splendidattire, tall and straight, with white hair and thick black eyebrows, and large eyes as black as night. 

In Leah the high Sephardic Jewish type was more marked than in Mrs. Gibson (who was not Jewish at all in aspect, and took after herfather, the late Mr. Bletchley). 

It is a type that sometimes, just now and again, can be sopathetically noble and beautiful in a woman, so suggestive ofchastity and the most passionate love combined--love conjugal andfilial and maternal--love that implies all the big practicalobligations and responsibilities of human life, that the mere term"Jewess" (and especially its French equivalent) brings to my mindsome vague, mysterious, exotically poetic image of all I love bestin woman. I find myself dreaming of Rebecca of York, as I used todream of her in the English class at Brossard's, where I so pitiedpoor Ivanhoe for his misplaced constancy. 

If Rebecca at fifty-five, was at all like Mrs. Bletchley, poor oldSir Wilfred's regrets must have been all that Thackeray made themout to be in his immortal story of _Rebecca and Rowena_. 

Mr. Gibson was a good-looking man, some twelve or fifteen yearsolder than his wife; his real vocation was to be a low comedian;this showed itself on my first introduction to him. He informallywinked at me and said:

"Esker voo ker jer dwaw lah vee? Ah! kel Bonnure!"

This idiotic speech (all the French he knew) was delivered in sodroll and natural a manner that I took to him at once. Barty himselfcouldn't have been funnier!

Well, we had games of forfeits and danced, and Ida played charmingthings by Mendelssohn on the piano, and Leah sang very nicely in afine, bold, frank, deep voice, like a choir-boy's, and Mrs. Gibsondanced a Spanish fandango, and displayed feet and ankles of whichshe was very proud, and had every right to be; and then Mr. Gibsonplayed a solo on the flute, and sang "My Pretty Jane"--both badlyenough to be very funny without any conscious effort or straining onhis part. Then we supped, and the food was good, and we were allvery jolly indeed; and after supper Mr. Gibson said to me:

"Now, Mister Parleyvoo--can't _you_ do something to amuse thecompany? You're _big_ enough!"

I professed my willingness to do _anything_--and wished I was asBarty more than ever!

"Well, then, " says he--"kneel to the wittiest, bow to theprettiest--and kiss the one you love best. "

This was rather a large order--but I did as well as I could. I wentdown on my knees to Mr. Gibson and craved his paternal blessing; andmade my best French bow with my heels together to old Mrs. Bletchley; and kissed my sister, warmly thanking her in public forhaving introduced me to Mrs. Gibson: and as far as mere socialsuccess is worth anything, I was the Barty of that party!

Anyhow, Mr. Gibson conceived for me an admiration he never failed toexpress when we met afterwards, and though this was fun, of course, I had really won his heart. 

It is but a humble sort of triumph to crow over--and where doesBarty Josselin come in?

Pazienza!

"Well--what do you think of Leah Gibson?" said my sister, as wewalked home together through Torrington Square. 

"I think she's a regular stunner, " said I--"like her mother and hergrandmother before her, and probably her _great_-grandmother too. "

And being a poetical youth, and well up in my Byron, I declaimed:

 "She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes. ". . . 

Old fogy as I am, and still given to poetical quotations, I nevermade a more felicitous quotation than that. I little guessed then towhat splendor that bony black-eyed damsel would reach in time. 

 * * * * *

All through this period of high life and low dissipation Barty kepthis unalterable good-humor and high spirits--and especially thekindly grace of manner and tact and good-breeding that kept him fromever offending the most fastidious, in spite of his high spirits, and made him many a poor grateful outcast's friend and darling. 

I remember once dining with him at Greenwich in very distinguishedcompany; I don't remember how I came to be invited--through Barty, no doubt. He got me many invitations that I often thought it betternot to accept. "Ne sutor ultra crepidam!"

It was a fish dinner, and Barty ate and drank a surprisingamount--and so did I, and liked it very much. 

We were all late and hurried for the last train, some twenty ofus--and Barty, Lord Archibald, and I, and a Colonel Walker Lindsay, who has since become a peer and a Field-Marshal (and is now dead), were all pushed together into a carriage, already occupied by adistinguished clergyman and a charming young lady--probably hisdaughter; from his dress, he was either a dean or a bishop, and Isat opposite to him--in the corner. 

Barty was very noisy and excited as the train moved off; he was rathertipsy, in fact--and I was alarmed, on account of the clerical gentlemanand his female companion. As we journeyed on, Barty began to romp andplay the fool and perform fantastic tricks--to the immense delight ofthe future Field-Marshal. He twisted two pocket-handkerchiefs into humanfigures, one on each hand, and made them sing to each other--like Grisiand Mario in the _Huguenots_--and clever drivel of that kind. LordArchibald and Colonel Lindsay were beside themselves with glee at allthis; they also had dined well. 

Then he imitated a poor man fishing in St. James's Park and notcatching any fish. And this really was uncommonly good and true tolife--with wonderful artistic details, that showed keen observation. 

I saw that the bishop and his daughter (if such they were) grewdeeply interested, and laughed and chuckled discreetly; the younglady had a charming expression on her face as she watched theidiotic Barty, who got more idiotic with every mile--and this was tobe the man who wrote _Sardonyx_!

As the train slowed into the London station, the bishop leantforward towards me and inquired, in a whisper, "May I ask the name of your singularly delightful young friend?"

"His name is Barty Josselin, " I answered. 

"Not of the Grenadier Guards?"

"Yes. "

"Oh, indeed! a--yes--I've heard of him--"

And his lordship's face became hard and stern--and soon we all gotout. 

Part Fourth

 "La cigale ayant chanté Tout l'été, Se trouva fort dépourvue Quand la bise fut venue. ". . . 

 --Lafontaine. 

Sometimes I went to see Lord and Lady Archibald, who lived inClarges Street; and Lady Archibald was kind enough to call on mymother, who was charmed with her, and returned her call in due time. 

Also, at about this period (1853) my uncle Charles (Captain Blake, late 17th Lancers), who had been Lord Runswick's crony twenty yearsbefore, patched up some feud he had with my father, and came to seeus in Brunswick Square. 

He had just married a charming girl, young enough to be hisdaughter. 

I took him to see Barty, and they became fast friends. My uncleCharles was a very accomplished man, and spoke French as well as anyof us; and Barty liked him, and it ended, oddly enough, in UncleCharles becoming Lord Whitby's land-agent and living in St. Hilda'sTerrace, Whitby. 

He was a very good fellow and a thorough man of the world, and wasof great service to Barty in many ways. But, alas and alas! he wasnot able to prevent or make up the disastrous quarrel that happenedbetween Barty and Lord Archibald, with such terrible results to myfriend--to both. 

It is all difficult even to hint at--but some of it must be morethan hinted at. 

Lord Archibald, like his nephew, was a very passionate admirer oflovely woman. He had been for many years a faithful and devotedhusband to the excellent Frenchwoman who brought him wealth--andsuch affection! Then a terrible temptation came in his way. He fellin love with a very beautiful and fascinating lady, whose birth andprinciples and antecedents were alike very unfortunate, and Bartywas mixed up in all this: it's the saddest thing I ever heard. 

The beautiful lady conceived for Barty one of those frantic passionsthat must lead to somebody's ruin; it led to his; but he was neverto blame, except for the careless indiscretion which allowed of hisbeing concerned in the miserable business at all, and to thisfrantic passion he did not respond. 

"_Spretæ injuria formæ. _"

So at least _she_ fancied; it was not so. Barty was no laggard inlove; but he dearly loved his uncle Archie, and was loyal to him allthrough. 

 "His honor rooted in dishonor stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true. "

Where he was unfaithful was to his beloved and adoring LadyArchibald--his second mother--at miserable cost of undying remorseto himself for ever having sunk to become Lord Archibald's confidantand love-messenger, and bearer of nosegays and _billets doux_, andsinger of little French songs. He was only twenty, and thought ofsuch things as jokes; he had lived among some of the pleasantest, best-bred, and most corrupt people in London. 

The beautiful frail lady told the most infamous lies, and stuck tothem through thick and thin. The story is not new; it's as old asthe Pharaohs. And Barty and his uncle quarrelled beyond recall. Theboy was too proud even to defend himself, beyond one simple denial. 

Then another thing happened. Lady Archibald died, quite suddenly, ofperitonitis--fortunately in ignorance of what was happening, andwith her husband and daughter and Barty round her bedside at theend. She died deceived and happy. 

Lord Archibald was beside himself with grief; but in six months hemarried the beautiful lady, and went to the bad altogether--wentunder, in fact; and Daphne, his daughter of fourteen or fifteen, wastaken by the Whitbys. 

So now Barty, thoroughly sick of smart society, found himself in anunexpected position--without an allowance, in a crack regiment, andnever a penny to look forward to!

For old Lord Whitby, who loved him, was a poor man with a largefamily; and every penny of Lady Archibald's fortune that didn't goto her husband and daughter went back to her own family ofLonlay-Savignac. She had made no will--no provision for her beloved, her adopted son!

So Barty never went to the Crimea, after all, but sold out, andfound himself the possessor of seven or eight hundred pounds--mostof which he owed--and with the world before him; but I am going toofast. 

 * * * * *

In the winter of 1853, just before Christmas, my father fitted up for mea chemical laboratory at the top of the fine old house in Barge Yard, Bucklersbury, where his wine business was carried on, a splendidmansion, with panelled rooms and a carved-oak staircase--once the abodeof some Dick Whittington, no doubt a Lord Mayor of London; and I beganmy professional career, which consisted in analyzing anything I couldget to analyze for hire, from a sample of gold or copper ore to apoisoned stomach. 

Lord Whitby very kindly sent me different samples of soil fromdifferent fields on his estate, and I analyzed them carefully andfound them singularly like each other. I don't think the estatebenefited much by my scientific investigation. It was my first job, and brought me twenty pounds (out of which I bought two beautifulfans--one for my sister, the other for Leah Gibson--and got a newevening suit for myself at Barty's tailor's). 

When this job of mine was finished I had a good deal of time on myhands, and read many novels and smoked many pipes, as I sat by mychemical stove and distilled water, and dried chlorate of potash tokeep the damp out of my scales, and toasted cheese, and friedsausages, and mulled Burgundy, and brewed nice drinks, hot orcold--a specialty of mine. 

I also made my laboratory a very pleasant place. My father wouldn'tpermit a piano, nor could I afford one; but I smuggled in a guitar(for Barty), and also a concertina, which I could play a littlemyself. Barty often came with friends of his, of whom my father didnot approve--mostly Guardsmen; also friends of my own--medicalstudents, and one or two fellow-chemists, who were serious, andpleased my father. We often had a capital time: chemical experimentsand explosions, and fearful stinks, and poisoned waters ofenchanting hue; also oysters, lobsters, dressed crab for lunch--andmy Burgundy was good, I promise you, whether white or red!

[Illustration: SOLITUDE]

We also had songs and music of every description. Barty's taste hadimproved. He could sing Beethoven's "Adelaida" in English, German, and Italian, and Schubert's "Serenade" in French--quite charmingly, to his own ingenious accompaniment on the guitar. 

We had another vocalist, a little Hebrew art-student, with aheavenly tenor (I've forgotten his name); and Ticklets, the bass;and a Guardsman who could yodel and imitate a woman's voice--onePepys, whom Barty loved because he was a giant, and, according toBarty, "the handsomest chap in London. "

These debauches generally happened when my father wasabroad--always, in fact. I'm greatly ashamed of it all now; eventhen my heart smote me heavily at times when I thought of the prideand pleasure he took in all my scientific appliances, and the moneythey cost him--twenty guineas for a pair of scales! Poor dear oldman! he loved to weigh things in them--a feather, a minute crumb ofcork, an infinitesimal wisp of cotton wool!. . . 

However, I've made it all up to him since in many ways; and he hastold me that I have been a good son, after all! And that is good tothink of now that I am older than he was when he died!

 * * * * *

One fine morning, before going to business, I escorted my sister toBedford Square, calling for Leah Gibson on the way; as we walked upGreat Russell Street (that being the longest way round I could thinkof), we met Barty, looking as fresh as a school-boy, and resplendentas usual. I remember he had on a long blue frock-coat, checktrousers, an elaborate waistcoat and scarf, and white hat--as wasthe fashion--and that he looked singularly out of place (anduncommonly agreeable to the eye) in such an austere and learnedneighborhood. 

He was coming to call for me in Brunswick Square. 

My sister introduced him to her friend, and he looked down at Leahwith a surprised glance of delicate fatherly admiration--he mighthave been fifty. 

Then we left the young ladies and went off together citywards; myfather was abroad. 

"By Jove, what a stunner that girl is! I'm blest if I don't marryher some day--you see if I don't!"

"That's just what _I_ mean to do, " said I. And we had a good laughat the idea of two such desperadoes, as we thought ourselves, talking like this about a little school-girl. 

"We'll toss up, " says Barty; and we did, and he won. 

This, I remember, was before his quarrel with Lord Archibald. Shewas then about fourteen, and her subtle and singular beauty was justbeginning to make itself felt. 

I never knew till long after how deep had been the impressionproduced by this glimpse of a mere child on a fast young man abouttown--or I should not have been amused. For there were times when Imyself thought quite seriously of Leah Gibson, and what she might bein the long future! She looked a year or two older than she reallywas, being very tall and extremely sedate. 

Also, both my father and mother had conceived such a liking for herthat they constantly talked of the possibility of our falling inlove with each other some day. Castles in Spain!

As for me, my admiration for the child was immense, and my respectfor her character unbounded; and I felt myself such a base unworthybrute that I couldn't bear to think of myself in such aconnection--until I had cleansed myself heart and soul (which wouldtake time)! And as for showing by my manner to her that such an ideahad ever crossed my mind, the thought never entered my head. 

She was just my dear sister's devoted friend; her petticoat hem wasstill some inches from the ground, and her hair in a plait all downher back. . . . 

Girlish innocence and purity incarnate--that is what she seemed; andwhat she was. "La plus forte des forces est un coeur innocent, " saidVictor Hugo--and if you translate this literally into English, itcomes to exactly the same, both in rhythm and sense. 

 * * * * *

When Barty sold out, he first thought he would like to go on thestage, but it turned out that he was too tall to play anything butserious footmen. 

Then he thought he would be a singer. We used to go to the opera atDrury Lane, where they gave in English a different Italian operaevery night;--and this was always followed by _Acis and Galatea_. 

We got our seats in the stalls every evening for a couple of weeks, through the kindness of Mr. Hamilton Braham, whom Barty knew, andwho played Polyphemus in Handel's famous serenata. 

I remember our first night; they gave _Masaniello_, which I hadnever seen; and when the tenor sang, "Behold how brightly breaks themorning, " it came on us both as a delicious surprise--it was such afavorite song at Brossard's--"_amis! la matinée est belle_. . . . "Indeed, it was one of the songs Barty sang on the boulevard for thepoor woman, six or seven years back. 

The tenor, Mr. Elliot Galer, had a lovely voice; and that was amoment never to be forgotten. 

Then came _Acis and Galatea_, which was so odd and old-fashioned wecould scarcely sit it out. 

[Illustration: "'PILE OU FACE--HEADS OR TAILS?'"]

Next night, _Lucia_--charming; then again _Acis and Galatea_, because we had nowhere else to go. 

"Tiens, tiens!" says Barty, as the lovers sang "the flocks shallleave the mountains"; "c'est diantrement joli, ça!--écoute!"

Next night, _La Sonnambula_--then again _Acis and Galatea_. 

"Mais, nom d'une pipe--elle est _divine_, cette musique-là!" saysBarty. 

And the nights after we could scarcely sit out the Italian operathat preceded what we have looked upon ever since as among thedivinest music in the world. 

So one must not judge music at a first hearing; nor poetry; norpictures at first sight; unless one be poet or painter or musicianone's self--not even then! I may live to love thee yet, oh_Tannhäuser_!

Lucy Escott, Fanny Huddart, Elliot Galer, and Hamilton Braham--thatwas the cast; I hear their voices now. . . . 

One morning Hamilton Braham tried Barty's voice on the empty stageat St. James's Theatre--made him sing "When other lips. "

"Sing _out_, man--sing _out_!" said the big bass. And Barty shoutedhis loudest--a method which did not suit him. I sat in the pit, withhalf a dozen Guardsmen, who were deeply interested in Barty'soperatic aspirations. 

It turned out that Barty was neither tenor nor barytone; and thathis light voice, so charming in a room, would never do for theoperatic stage; although his figure, in spite of his great height, would have suited heroic parts so admirably. 

Besides, three or four years' training in Italy were needed--adifferent production altogether. 

So Barty gave up this idea and made up his mind to be an artist. Hegot permission to work in the British Museum, and drew the"Discobolus, " and sent his drawing to the Royal Academy, in the hopeof being admitted there as a student. He was not. 

Then an immense overwhelming homesickness for Paris came over him, and he felt he must go and study art there, and succeed or perish. 

My father talked to him like a father, my mother like a mother; weall hung about him and entreated. He was as obdurate as Tennyson'ssailor-boy whom the mermaiden forewarned so fiercely!

He was even offered a handsome appointment in the London house ofVougeot-Conti & Co. 

But his mind was made up, and to my sorrow, and the sorrow of allwho knew him, he fixed the date of his departure for the 2d of May(1856), --this being the day after a party at the Gibsons'--a youngdance in honor of Leah's fifteenth birthday, on the 1st--and towhich my sister had procured him an invitation. 

He had never been to the Gibsons' before. They belonged to a worldso different to anything he had been accustomed to--indeed, to aclass that he then so much disliked and despised (both asex-Guardsman and as the descendant of French toilers of the sea, whohate and scorn the bourgeois)--that I was curious to see how hewould bear himself there; and rather nervous, for it would havegrieved me that he should look down on people of whom I was gettingvery fond. It was his theory that all successful business peoplewere pompous and purse-proud and vulgar. 

I admit that in the fifties we very often were. 

There may perhaps be a few survivals of that period: _old_ nouveauxriches, who are still modestly jocose on the subject of each other'smillions when they meet, and indulge in pompous little pleasantriesabout their pet economics, and drop a pompous little _h_ now andthen, and pretend they only did it for fun. But, dear me, there areother things to be vulgar about in this world besides money anduncertain aspirates. 

If to be pompous and pretentious and insincere is to be vulgar, I reallythink the vulgar of our time are not these old plutocrats--not eventheir grandsons, who hunt and shoot and yacht and swagger with thebest--but those solemn little prigs who have done well at school orcollege, and become radicals and agnostics before they've even had timeto find out what men and women are made of, or what sex they belong tothemselves (if any), and loathe all fun and sport and athletics, andrave about pictures and books and music they don't understand, and wouldpretend to despise if they did--things that were not even _meant_ to beunderstood. It doesn't take three generations to make a prig--worseluck!

At the Gibsons' there was neither pompousness nor insincerity norpretension of any kind, and therefore no real vulgarity. It is truethey were a little bit noisy there sometimes, but only in fun. 

When we arrived at that most hospitable house the two prettydrawing-rooms were already crammed with young people, and thedancing was in full swing. 

I presented Barty to Mrs. Gibson, who received him with her usualeasy cordiality, just as she would have received one of herhusband's clerks, or the Prime Minister; or the Prince Consorthimself, for that matter. But she looked up into his face with suchfrank unabashed admiration that I couldn't help laughing--nor couldhe!

She presented him to Mr. Gibson, who drew himself back and foldedhis arms and frowned; then suddenly, striking a beautiful stageattitude of surprised emotion, with his hand on his heart, heexclaimed:

"Oh! Monsewer! Esker-voo ker jer dwaw lah vee?--ah! kel bonnure!"

And this so tickled Barty that he forgot his manners and went intopeals of laughter. And from that moment I ceased to exist as thebright particular star in Mr. Gibson's firmament of eligible youngmen: for in spite of the kink in my nose, and my stolid gravity, which was really and merely the result of my shyness, he had alwayslooked upon me as an exceptionally presentable, proper, and goodlyyouth, and a most exemplary--that is, if my sister was to be trustedin the matter; for she was my informant. 

I'm afraid Barty was not so immediately popular with the youngcavaliers of the party--but all came right in due time. For aftersupper, which was early, Barty played the fool with Mr. Gibson, andtaught him how to do a mechanical wax figure, of which he himselfwas the showman; and the laughter, both baritone and soprano, mighthave been heard in Russell Square. Then they sang an extemporeItalian duet together which was screamingly droll--and so forth. 

Leah distinguished herself as usual by being attentive to thematerial wants of the company: comfortable seats, ices, syrups, footstools for mammas, and wraps; safety from thorough draughts forgrandpapas--the inherited hospitality of the clan of Gibson tookthis form with the sole daughter of their house and home; she had no"parlor tricks. "

We remained the latest. It was a full moon, or nearly so--as usualon a balcony; for I remember standing on the balcony with Leah. 

A belated Italian organ-grinder stopped beneath us and played a tunefrom _I Lombardi_, called "La mia letizia. " Leah's hair was done upfor the first time--in two heavy black bands that hid her littleears and framed her narrow chinny face--with a yellow bow plasteredon behind. Such was the fashion then, a hideous fashion enough--butwe knew no better. To me she looked so lovely in her long whitefrock--long for the first time--that Tavistock Square became a broadVenetian moonlit lagoon, and the dome of University College an oldItalian church, and "La mia letizia" the song of Adria's gondolier. 

I asked her what she thought of Barty. 

"I really don't know, " she said. "He's not a bit romantic, _is_ he?"

"No; but he's very handsome. Don't you think so?"

"Oh yes, indeed--much too handsome for a man. It seems such waste. Why, I now remember seeing him when I was quite a little girl, threeor four years ago, at the Duke of Wellington's funeral. He had hisbearskin on. Papa pointed him out to us, and said he looked likesuch a pretty girl! And we all wondered who he could be! And so sadhe looked! I suppose it was for the Duke. 

"I couldn't think where I'd seen him before, and now I remember--andthere's a photograph of him in a stall at the Crystal Palace. Haveyou seen it? Not that he looks like a girl now! Not a bit! I supposeyou're very fond of him? Ida is! She talks as much about Mr. Josselin as she does about you! _Barty_, she calls him. "

"Yes, indeed; he's like our brother. We were boys at school togetherin France. My sister calls him _thee_ and _thou_; in French, youknow. "

[Illustration: "A LITTLE WHITE POINT OF INTERROGATION"]

"And was he always like that--funny and jolly and good-natured?"

"Always; he hasn't changed a bit. "

"And is he very sincere?"

Just then Barty came on to the balcony: it was time to go. My sisterhad been fetched away already (in her gondola). 

So Barty made his farewells, and bent his gallant, irresistible lookof mirthful chivalry and delicate middle-aged admiration on Leah'supturned face, and her eyes looked up more piercing and blacker thanever; and in each of them a little high light shone like a point ofinterrogation--the reflection of some white window-curtain, Isuppose; and I felt cold all down my back. 

(Barty's daughter, Mary Trevor, often sings a little song of DeMusset's. It is quite lovely, and begins:

 "Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre, Qu'allez-vous faire Si loin d'ici? Voyez-vous pas que la nuit est profonde, Et que le monde N'est que souci?"

It is called "La Chanson de Barberine, " and I never hear it but Ithink of that sweet little white virginal _point d'interrogation_, and Barty going away to France. )

Then he thanked Mrs. Gibson and said pretty things, and finally calledMr. Gibson dreadful French fancy-names: "Cascamèche--moutardier du pape, tromblon-bolivard, vieux coquelicot"; to each of which the delighted Mr. G. Answered:

"Voos ayt oon ôter--voos ayt oon ôter!"

And then Barty whisked himself away in a silver cloud of glory. Agood exit!

Outside was a hansom waiting, with a carpet-bag on the top, and wegot into it and drove up to Hampstead Heath, to some little inncalled the Bull and Bush, near North-end. 

Barty lit his pipe, and said:

"What capital people! Hanged if they're not the nicest people I evermet!"

"Yes, " said I. 

And that's all that was said during that long drive. 

At North-end we found two or three other hansoms, and Pepys andTicklets and the little Hebrew tenor art student whose name I'veforgotten, and several others. 

We had another supper, and made a night of it. There was a piano ina small room opening on to a kind of little terrace, with geraniums, over a bow-window. We had music and singing of all sorts. Even _I_sang--"The Standard-bearer"--and rather well. My sister had coachedme; but I did not obtain an encore. 

The next day dawned, and Barty had a wash and changed his clothes, and we walked all over Hampstead Heath, and saw London lying in adun mist, with the dome and gilded cross of St. Paul's rising intothe pale blue dawn; and I thought what a beastly place London wouldbe without Barty--but that Leah was there still, safe and soundasleep in Tavistock Square!

Then back to the inn for breakfast. Barty, as usual, fresh as paint. Happy Barty, off to Paris!

And then we all drove down to London Bridge to see him safe into theBoulogne steamer. All his luggage was on board. His latesoldier-servant was there--a splendid fellow, chosen for his lengthand breadth as well as his fidelity; also the Snowdrop, who waslachrymose and in great grief. It was a most affectionate farewellall round. 

"Good-bye, Bob. _I_ won that toss--_didn't_ I?"

Oddly enough, _I_ was thinking of that, and didn't like it. 

"What rot! it's only a joke, old fellow!" said Barty. 

All this about an innocent little girl just fifteen, the daughter ofa low-comedy John Gilpin: a still somewhat gaunt little girl, whosebudding charms of color, shape, and surface were already such thatit didn't matter whether she were good or bad, gentle or simple, rich or poor, sensible or an utter fool. 

C'est toujours comme ça!

We watched the steamer pick its sunny way down the Thames, withBarty waving his hat by the man at the wheel; and I walked westwardwith the little Hebrew artist, who was so affected at parting withhis hero that he had tears in his lovely voice. It was not till Ihad complimented him on his wonderful B-flat that he got consoled;and he talked about himself, and his B-flat, and his middle G, andhis physical strength, and his eye for color, all the way from theMansion House to the Foundling Hospital; when we parted, and he wentstraight to his drawing-board at the British Museum--an anticlimax!

I found my mother and sister at their late breakfast, and wasscolded; and I told them Barty had got off, and wouldn't come backfor long--it might not be for years!

"Thank Heaven!" said my dear mother, and I was not pleased. 

Says my sister:

"Do you know, he's actually stolen Leah's photograph, that she gaveme for my birthday. He asked me for it and I wouldn't give ithim--and it's gone!"

Then I washed and put on my work-a-day clothes, and went straight toBarge Yard, Bucklersbury, and made myself a bed on the floor with mygreat-coat, and slept all day. 

 * * * * *

Oh heavens! what a dull book this would be, and how dismally itwould drag its weary length along, if it weren't all about theauthor of _Sardonyx_!

But is there a lost corner anywhere in this planet where English isspoken (or French) in which _The Martian_ won't be bought andtreasured and spelt over and over again like a novel by Dickens orScott (or Dumas)--for Josselin's dear sake! What a fortune mypublishers would make if I were not a man of business and they werenot the best and most generous publishers in the world! And allJosselin's publishers--French, English, German, and what not--downto modern Sanscrit! What millionaires--if it hadn't been for thislittle busy bee of a Bob Maurice!

Poor Barty! I am here! à bon chat, bon rat!

And what on earth do _I_ want a fortune for? Barty's dead, and I'vegot so much more than I need, who am of a frugal mind--and what I'vegot is all going to little Josselins, who have already got so muchmore than _they_ need, what with their late father and me; and mysister, who is a widow and childless, and "riche à millions" too!and cares for nobody in all this wide world but little Josselins, who don't care for money in the least, and would sooner work fortheir living--even break stones on the road--anything sooner thanloaf and laze and loll through life. We all have to give most of itaway--not that I need proclaim it from the house-tops! It is but adull and futile hobby, giving away to those who deserve; they soonleave off deserving. 

How fortunate that so much money is really wanted by people whodon't deserve it any more than I do; and who, besides, are so weakand stupid and lazy and honest--or so incurably dishonest--that theycan't make it for themselves! I have to look after a good many ofthese people. Barty was fond of them, honest or not. They are soincurably prolific; and so was he, poor dear boy! but, oh, thedifference! Grapes don't grow on thorns, nor figs on thistles!

I'm a thorn, alas! in my own side, more often than not--and athistle in the sides of a good many donkeys, whom I feed becausethey're too stupid or too lazy to feed themselves! But at least Iknow my place, and the knowledge is more bother to me than all mymoney, and the race of Maurice will soon be extinct. 

 * * * * *

When Barty went to foreign parts, on the 2d of May, 1856, I didn'ttrouble myself about such questions as these. 

Life was so horribly stale in London without Barty that I became aquite exemplary young man when I woke up from that long nap on thefloor of my laboratory in Barge Yard, Bucklersbury; a reformedcharacter: from sheer grief, I really believe!

I thought of many things--ugly things--very ugly things indeed--andmeant to have done with them. I thought of some very handsome thingstoo--a pair of beautiful crown-jewels, each rare as the blacktulip--and in each of them a bright little sign like this:?

I don't believe I ever gave my father another bad quarter of an hourfrom that moment. I even went to church on Sunday mornings quiteregularly; not his own somewhat severe place of worship, it is true!But the Foundling Hospital. There, in the gallery, would I sit withmy sister, and listen to Miss Dolby and Miss Louisa Pyne and Mr. Lawler the bass--and a tenor and alto whose names I cannot recall;and I thought they sang as they ought to have sung, and was deeplymoved and comforted--more than by any preachments in the world; andjust in the opposite gallery sat Leah with her mother; and I grewfond of nice clean little boys and girls who sing pretty hymns inunison; and afterwards I watched them eat their roast beef, smallmites of three and four or five, some of them, and thought howtouching it all was--I don't know why! Love or grief? or that touchof nature that makes the whole world kin at about 1 P. M. On Sunday?

One would think that Barty had exerted a bad influence on me, sincehe seems to have kept me out of all this that was so sweet and newand fresh and wholesome!

He would have been just as susceptible to such impressions as I;even more so, if the same chance had arisen for him--for he wassingularly fond of children, the smaller and the poorer the better, even gutter children! and their poor mothers loved him, he was sojolly and generous and kind. 

Sometimes I got a letter from him in Blaze, my father's shorthandcipher; it was always brief and bright and hopeful, and full ofjokes and funny sketches. And I answered him in Blaze that was longand probably dull. 

All that I will tell of him now is not taken from his Blaze letters, but from what he has told me later, by word of mouth--for he was asfond of talking of himself as I of listening--since he was droll andsincere and without guile or vanity; and would have been just assympathetic a listener as I, if I had cared to talk about Mr. RobertMaurice, of Barge Yard, Bucklersbury. Besides, I am good at hearingbetween the words and reading between the lines, and all that--andlove to exercise this faculty. 

 * * * * *

Well, he reached Paris in due time, and took a small bedroom on athird floor in the Rue du Faubourg Poissonnière--over a cheaphatter's--opposite the Conservatoire de Musique. 

On the first night he was awoke by a terrible invasion--suchmalodorous swarms of all sizes, from a tiny brown speck to afull-grown lentil, that they darkened his bed; and he slept on thetiled floor after making an island of himself by pouring cold waterall round him as a kind of moat; and so he slept for a week ofnights, until he had managed to poison off most of these invaderswith _poudre insecticide_ . . . "mort aux punaises!"

In the daytime he first of all went for a swim at the Passybaths--an immense joy, full of the ghosts of bygone times; then hewould spend the rest of his day revisiting old haunts--often sittingon the edge of the stone fountain in the rond-point of the Avenue duPrince Impérial, or de l'Impératrice, or whatever it was--to gazecomfortably at the outside of the old school, which was now apensionnat de demoiselles: soon to be pulled down and make room fora new house altogether. He did not attempt to invade these precinctsof maiden innocence; but gazed and gazed, and remembered andrealized and dreamt: it all gave him unspeakable excitement, and astrange tender wistful melancholy delight for which there is noname. Je connais ça! I also, ghostlike, have paced round the hauntsof my childhood. 

When the joy of this faded, as it always must when indulged in toofreely, he amused himself by sitting in his bedroom and paintingLeah's portrait, enlarged and in oils; partly from the very vividimage he had preserved of her in his mind, partly from the stolenphotograph. At first he got it very like; then he lost all thelikeness and could not recover it; and he worked and worked till hegot stupid over it, and his mental image faded quite away. 

But for a time this minute examination of the photograph (through apowerful lens he bought on purpose), and this delving search intohis own deep consciousness of her, into his keen remembrance ofevery detail of feature and color and shade of expression, made himrealize and idealize and foresee what the face might be someday--and what its owner might become. 

And a horror of his life in London came over him like a revelation--ablast--a horrible surprise! Mere sin is ugly when it's no more; and _so_beastly to remember, unless the sinner be thoroughly acclimatized; andBarty was only twenty-two, and hated deceit and cruelty in any form. Oh, poor, weak, frail fellow-sinner--whether Vivien or Guinevere! How sadlyunjust that loathing and satiety and harsh male contempt should killman's ruth and pity for thee, that wast so kind to man! What a hellishafter-math!

Poor Barty hadn't the ghost of a notion how to set to work aboutbecoming a painter, and didn't know a soul in Paris he cared to goand consult, although there were many people he might havediscovered whom he had known: old school-fellows, and friends of theArchibald Rohans--who would have been only too glad. 

So he took to wandering listlessly about, lunching and dining atcheap suburban restaurants, taking long walks, sitting on benches, leaning over parapets, and longing to tell people who he was, hisage, how little money he'd got, what lots of friends he had inEngland, what a nice little English girl he knew, whose portrait hedidn't know how to paint--any idiotic nonsense that came into hishead, so at least he might talk about something or somebody thatinterested him. 

There is no city like Paris, no crowd like a Parisian crowd, to makeyou feel your solitude if you are alone in its midst!

At night he read French novels in bed and drank eau sucrée andsmoked till he was sleepy; then he cunningly put out his light, andlit it again in a quarter of an hour or so, and exploded whatremained of the invading hordes as they came crawling down the wallfrom above. Their numbers were reduced at last; they weredisappearing. Then he put out his candle for good, and went to sleephappy--having at least scored for once in the twenty-four hours. Mort aux punaises!

Twice he went to the Opéra Comique, and saw _Richard Coeur de Lion_and _le Pré aux Clercs_ from the gallery, and was disappointed, andcouldn't understand why _he_ shouldn't sing as well as that--hethought he could sing much better, poor fellow! he had a delightfulvoice, and charm, and the sense of tune and rhythm, and could pleasequite wonderfully--but he had no technical knowledge whatever, andcouldn't be depended upon to sing a song twice the same! He trustedto the inspiration of the moment--like an amateur. 

Of course he had to be very economical, even about candle ends, andalmost liked such economy for a change; but he got sick of hisloneliness, beyond expression--he was a fish out of water. 

Then he took it into his head to go and copy a picture at theLouvre--an old master; in this he felt he could not go wrong. Heobtained the necessary permission, bought a canvas six feet high, and sat himself before a picture by Nicolas Poussin, I think: agroup of angelic women carrying another woman though the air up toheaven. 

They were not very much to his taste, but more so than any others. His chief notion about women in pictures was that they should bevery beautiful--since they cannot make themselves agreeable in anyother way; and they are not always so in the works of the greatmasters. At least, _he_ thought not. These are matters of taste, ofcourse. 

He had no notion of how to divide his canvas into squares--a deviceby which one makes it easier to get the copy into proper proportion, it seems. He began by sketching the head of the principal womanroughly in the middle of his canvas, and then he wanted to beginpainting it at once--he was so impatient. 

Students, female students especially, came and interested themselvesin his work, and some _rapins_ asked him questions, and tried tohelp him and give him tips. But the more they told him, the morehelpless and hopeless he grew. He soon felt conscious he wasbecoming quite a funny man again--a centre of interest--in a newline; but it gave him no pleasure whatever. 

After a week of this mistaken drudgery he sat despondent oneafternoon on a bench in the Champs Élysées and watched the gaypeople, and thought himself very down on his luck; he was tired andhot and miserable--it was the beginning of July. If he had knownhow, he would almost have shed tears. His loneliness was not to beborne, and his longing to feel once more the north had become achronic ache. 

A tall, thin, shabby man came and sat by his side, and made himselfa cigarette, and hummed a tune--a well-known quartier-latinsong--about "Mon Aldegonde, ma blonde, " and "Ma Rodogune, ma brune. "

Barty just glanced at this jovial person and found he didn't lookjovial at all, but rather sad and seedy and out at elbows--by nomeans of the kind that the fair Aldegonde or her dark sister wouldhave much to say to. 

Also that he wore very strong spectacles, and that his brown eyes, when turned Barty's way, vibrated with a quick, tremulous motion andsideways, as if they had the "gigs. "

Much moved and excited, Barty got up and put out his hand to thestranger, and said:

"Bonjour, Monsieur Bonzig! comment allez-vous?"

Bonzig opened his eyes at this well-dressed Briton (for Barty hadclothes to last him a French lifetime). 

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur--mais je n'ai pas l'honneur de vousremettre!"

"Je m'appelle Josselin--de chez Brossard!"

"Ah! Mon Dieu, mon cher, mon très-cher!" said Bonzig, and got up andseized Barty's both hands--and all but hugged him. 

"Mais quel bonheur de vous revoir! Je pense à vous si souvent, et àOuittebé! comme vous êtes changé--et quel beau garçon vous êtes! Quivous aurait reconnu! Dieu de Dieu--c'est un rêve! Je n'en revienspas!" etc. , etc. . . . 

And they walked off together, and told the other each an epitome ofhis history since they parted; and dined together cheaply, and spenta happy evening walking up and down the boulevards, and smoking manycigarettes--from the Madeleine to the Porte St. -Martin andback--again and again. 

[Illustration: "'BONJOUR, MONSIEUR BONZIG'"]

"Non, mon cher Josselin, " said Bonzig, in answer to a question ofBarty's--"non, I hare not yet seen the sea . . ; it will come in time. Butat least I am no longer a damned usher (un sacré pion d'études); I am anartist--un peintre de marines--at last! It is a happy existence. I fearmy talent is not very imposing, but my perseverance is exceptional, andI am only forty-five. Anyhow, I am able to support myself--not insplendor, certainly; but my wants are few and my health is perfect. Iwill put you up to many things, my dear boy. . . . We will storm thecitadel of fame together. . . . "

Bonzig had a garret somewhere, and painted in the studio of afriend, not far from Barty's lodging. This friend, one Lirieux, wasa very clever young man--a genius, according to Bonzig. He drewillustrations on wood with surprising quickness and facility andverve, and painted little oil-pictures of sporting life--a gardechampêtre in a wood with his dog, or with his dog on a dusty road, or crossing a stream, or getting over a stile, and so forth. The dogwas never left out; and these things he would sell for twenty, thirty, even fifty francs. He painted very quick and very well. Hewas also a capital good fellow, industrious and cultivated andrefined, and full of self-respect. 

Next to his studio he had a small bedroom which he shared with ayounger brother, who had just got a small government appointmentthat kept him at work all day, in some ministère. In this studioBonzig painted his marines--still helping himself from _La FranceMaritime_, as he used to do at Brossard's. 

He was good at masts and cordage against an evening sky--"l'heure oùle jaune de Naples rentre dans la nature, " as he called it. He wasalso excellent at foam, and far-off breakers, and sea-gulls, butvery bad at the human figure--sailors and fishermen and their wives. Sometimes Lirieux would put one in for him with a few dabs. 

As soon as Bonzig had finished a picture, which didn't take verylong, he carried it round, still wet, to the small dealers, bearingit very carefully aloft, so as not to smudge it. Sometimes (if therewere a sailor by Lirieux) he would get five or even ten francs forit; and then it was "Mon Aldegonde" with him all the rest of theday; for success always took the form, in his case, of nasallyhumming that amorous refrain. 

But it very often happened that he was dumb, poor fellow--no supper, no song!

Lirieux conceived such a liking for Barty that he insisted on takinghim into his studio as a pupil-assistant, and setting him to drawthings under his own eye; and Barty would fill Bonzig's French seapieces with Whitby fishermen, and Bonzig got to sing "Mon Aldegonde"much oftener than before. 

And chumming with these two delightful men, Barty grew to know aclean, quiet happiness which more than made up for lost pastsplendors and dissipations and gay dishonor. He wasn't even funny;they wouldn't have understood it. Well-bred Frenchmen don'tunderstand English fun--not even in the quartier latin, as a generalrule. Not that it's too subtle for them; _that's_ not why!

Thus pleasantly August wore itself away, Bonzig and Barty nearlyalways dining together for about a franc apiece, including thewaiter, and not badly. Bonzig knew all the cheap eating-houses inParis, and what each was specially renowned for--"bonne friture, ""fricassée de lapin, " "pommes sautées, " "soupe aux choux, " etc. , etc. 

Then, after dinner, a long walk and talk and cigarettes--or theywould look in at a café chantant, a bal de barrière, the gallery ofa cheap theatre--then a bock outside a café--et bonsoir lacompagnie!

On September the 1st, Lirieux and his brother went to see theirpeople in the south, leaving the studio to Bonzig and Barty, whomade the most of it, though greatly missing the genial youngpainter, both as a companion and a master and guide. 

One beautiful morning Bonzig called for Barty at his crémerie, andproposed they should go by train to some village near Paris andspend a happy day in the country, lunching on bread and wine andsugar at some little roadside inn. Bonzig made a great deal of thislunch. It had evidently preoccupied him. 

Barty was only too delighted. They went on the impériale of theVersailles train and got out at Ville d'Avray, and found the kind oflittle pothouse they wanted. And Barty had to admit that no betterlunch for the price could be than "small blue wine" sweetened withsugar, and a hunch of bread sopped in it. 

Then they had a long walk in pretty woods and meadows, sketching bythe way, chatting to laborers and soldiers and farm-people, smokingendless cigarettes of caporal; and finally they got back to Paristhe way they came--so hungry that Barty proposed they should treatthemselves for once to a "prix-fixe" dinner at Carmagnol's, in thePassage Choiseul, where they gave you hors-d'oeuvres, potage, threecourses and dessert and a bottle of wine, for two francs fifty--andeverything scrupulously clean. 

So to the Passage Choiseul they went; but just on the threshold ofthe famous restaurant (which filled the entire arcade with itsappetizing exhalations) Bonzig suddenly remembered, to his greatregret, that close by there lived a young married couple of the nameof Lousteau, who were great friends of his, and who expected him todine with them at least once a week. 

"I haven't been near them for a fortnight, mon cher, and it is justtheir dinner hour. I am afraid I must really just run in and eat an_aile de poulet_ and a _pêche au vin_ with them, and give them of mynews, or they will be mortally offended. I'll be back with you justwhen you are '_entre la poire et le fromage_'--so, sans adieu!" andhe bolted. 

Barty went in and selected his menu; and waiting for hishors-d'oeuvre, he just peeped out of the door and looked up anddown the arcade, which was always festive and lively at that hour. 

To his great surprise he saw Bonzig leisurely flâning about with hiscigarette in his mouth, his hands in his pockets, his longspectacled nose in the air--gazing at the shop windows. Suddenly thegood man dived into a baker's shop, and came out again in half aminute with a large brown roll, and began to munch it--still gazingat the shop windows, and apparently quite content. 

Barty rushed after and caught hold of him, and breathlessly heapedbitter reproaches on him for his base and unfriendly want ofconfidence--snatched his roll and threw it away, dragged him by mainforce into Carmagnol's, and made him order the dinner he preferredand sit opposite. 

"Ma foi, mon cher!" said Bonzig--"I own to you that I am almost atthe end of my resources for the moment--and also that the prospectof a good dinner in your amiable company is the reverse ofdisagreeable to me. I thank you in advance, with all my heart!"

"My dear M'sieur Bonzig, " says Barty, "you will wound me deeply ifyou don't look on me like a brother, as I do you; I can't tell youhow deeply you _have_ wounded me already! Give me your word of honorthat you will share ma mangeaille with me till I haven't a souleft!"

And so they made it up, and had a capital dinner and a capitalevening, and Barty insisted that in future they should always messtogether at his expense till better days--and they did. 

But Barty found that his own money was just giving out, and wrote tohis bankers in London for more. Somehow it didn't arrive for nearlya week; and they knew at last what it was to dine for five sous each(2-1/2_d. _)--with loss of appetite just before the meal instead ofafter. 

Of course Barty might very well have pawned his watch or hisscarf-pin; but whatever trinkets he possessed had been given him byhis beloved Lady Archibald--everything pawnable he had in the world, even his guitar! And he could not bear the idea of taking them tothe "Mont de Piété. "

So he was well pleased one Sunday morning when his remittancearrived, and he went in search of his friend, that they mightcompensate themselves for a week's abstinence by a famous déjeuner. But Bonzig was not to be found; and Barty spent that day alone, andGorged in solitude and guzzled in silence--moult tristement, àl'anglaise. 

He was aroused from his first sleep that night by the irruption ofBonzig in a tremendous state of excitement. It seems that a certainBaron (whose name I've forgotten), and whose little son the ex-usherhad once coached in early Latin and Greek, had written, begging himto call and see him at his château near Melun; that Bonzig hadwalked there that very day--thirty miles; and found the Baron wasleaving next morning for a villa he possessed near Étretat, andwished him to join him there the day after, and stay with him for acouple of months--to coach his son in more classics for a couple ofhours in the forenoon. 

Bonzig was to dispose of the rest of his time as he liked, exceptthat he was commissioned to paint six "marines" for the baronialdining-room; and the Baron had most considerately given him fourhundred francs in advance!

"So, then, to-morrow afternoon at six, my dear Josselin, you dinewith _me_, for once--not in the Passage Choiseul this time, good asit is there! But at Babet's, en plein Palais Royal! un jour deséparation, vous comprenez! the dinner will be good, I promise you:a calf's head à la vinaigrette--they are famous for that, atBabet's--and for their Pauillac and their St. -Estèphe; at least, I'mtold so! nous en ferons l'expérience. . . . And now I bid yougood-night, as I have to be up before the day--so many things to buyand settle and arrange--first of all to procure myself a 'maillot'and a 'peignoir, ' and shoes for the beach! I know where to get thesethings much cheaper than at the seaside. Oh! la mer, la mer! Enfinje vais piquer ma tête [take my header] là dedans--_et pas plus tardqu'après-demain soir_. . . . À demain, très-cher camarade--sixheures--chez Babet!"

And, delirious with joyful anticipations, the good Bonzig ranaway--all but "piquant sa tête" down the narrow staircase, andwhistling "Mon Aldegonde" at the very top of his whistle; and evenoutside he shouted:

 "Ouïle--mé--sekile rô, sekile rô, sekile rô . . . Ouïle--mé--sekile rô Tat brinn my laddé ôme!"

He had to be silenced by a sergent de ville. 

And next day they dined at Babet's, and Bonzig was so happy he hadto beg pardon for his want of feeling at seeming so exuberant "unjour de séparation! mais venez aussi, Josselin--nous piquerons nostêtes ensemble, et nagerons de conserve. . . . "

But Barty could not afford this little outing, and he was verysad--with a sadness that not all the Pauillac and St. -Estèphe in M. Babet's cellars could have dispelled. 

He made his friend a present of a beautiful pair of razors--Englishrazors, which he no longer needed, since he no longer meant toshave--"en signe de mon deuil!" as he said. They had been the giftof Lord Archibald in happier days. Alas! he had forgotten to givehis uncle Archie the traditional halfpenny, but he took good care toextract a sou from le Grand Bonzig!

So ended this little episode in Barty's life. He never saw Bonzigagain, nor heard from him, and _of_ him only once more. That sou waswasted. 

It was at Blankenberghe, on the coast of Belgium, that he at lasthad news of him--a year later--at the café on the plage, and in suchan odd and unexpected manner that I can't help telling how ithappened. 

One afternoon a corner of the big coffee-room was being arranged forprivate theatricals, in which Barty was to perform the part of awaiter. He had just borrowed the real waiter's jacket and apron, andwas dusting the little tables for the amusement of Mlle. Solange, thedame de comptoir, and of the waiter, Prosper, who had on Barty's ownshooting-jacket. 

Suddenly an old gentleman came in and beckoned to Barty and ordered ademi-tasse and petit-verre. There were no other customers at thathour. 

[Illustration: "'DEMI-TASSE--VOILÀ, M'SIEUR'"]

Mlle. Solange was horrified; but Barty insisted on waiting on theOld gentleman in person, and helped him to his coffee andpousse-café with all the humorous grace I can so well imagine, andhanded him the _Indépendance Belge_, and went back to superintendthe arrangements for the coming play. 

Presently the old gentleman looked up from his paper and becameinterested, and soon he grew uneasy, and finally he rose and went upto Barty and bowed, and said (in French, of course):

"Monsieur, I have made a very stupid mistake. I am near-sighted, andthat must be my apology. Besides, you have revenged yourself 'avectant d'esprit, ' that you will not bear me _rancune_! May I ask you toaccept my card, with my sincere excuses?. . . "

And lo! it was Bonzig's famous Baron! Barty immediately inquiredafter his lost friend. 

"Bonzig? Ah, monsieur--what a terrible tragedy! Poor Bonzig, theBest of men--he came to me at Étretat. I invited him there fromSheer friendship! He was drowned the very evening he arrived. 

"He went and bathed after sunset--on his own responsibility andwithout mentioning it to any one. How it happened I don'tknow--nobody knows. He was a good swimmer, I believe, but very blindwithout his glasses. He undressed behind a rock on the shore, whichis against the regulations. His body was not found till two daysafter, three leagues down the coast. 

"He had an aged mother, who came to Étretat. It was harrowing! Theywere people who had seen better days, " etc. , etc. , etc. 

And so no more of le Grand Bonzig. 

Nor did Barty ever again meet Lirieux, in whose existence a changehad also been wrought by fortune; but whether for good or evil Ican't say. He was taken to Italy and Greece by a wealthy relative. What happened to him there--whether he ever came back, or succeededor failed--Barty never heard! He dropped out of Barty's life ascompletely as if he had been drowned like his old friend. 

These episodes, like many others past and to come in this biography, had no particular influence on Barty Josselin's career, and noreference to them is to be found in anything he has ever written. Myonly reason for telling them is that I found them so interestingwhen he told _me_, and so characteristic of himself. He was "bonraconteur. " I'm afraid I'm not, and that I've lugged these goodpeople in by the hair of the head; but I'm doing my best. "La plusbelle fille au monde ne peut donner que ce qu'elle a!"

I look to my editor to edit me--and to my illustrator to pull methrough. 

 * * * * *

That autumn (1856) my father went to France for six weeks, onbusiness. My sister Ida went with the Gibsons to Ramsgate, and Iremained in London with my mother. I did my best to replace myfather in Barge Yard, and when he came back he was so pleased withme (and I think with himself also) that he gave me twenty pounds, and said, "Go to Paris for a week, Bob, and see Barty, and give himthis, with my love. "

And "this" was another twenty-pound note. He had never given me sucha sum in my life--not a quarter of it; and "this" was the first timehe had ever tipped Barty. 

Things were beginning at last to go well with him. He had arrangedto sell the vintages of Bordeaux and Champagne, as well as those ofBurgundy; and was dreaming of those of Germany and Portugal andSpain. Fortune was beginning to smile on Barge Yard, and ours was tobecome the largest wine business in the world--comme tout un chacunsait. 

I started for Paris that very night, and knocked at Barty's bedroomdoor by six next morning; it was hardly daylight--a morning to beremembered; and what a breakfasting at Babet's, after a rather coldswim in the Passy school of natation, and a walk all round theoutside of the school that was once ours!

Barty looked very well, but very thin, and his small sprouting beardand mustache had quite altered the character of his face. I shalldistress my lady readers if I tell them the alteration was not animprovement; so I won't. 

What a happy week that was to me I leave to the reader'simagination. We took a large double-bedded room at the Hôtel deLille et d'Albion in case we might want to smoke and talk all night;we did, I think, and had our coffee brought up to us in the morning. 

I will not attempt to describe the sensations of a young man goingback to his beloved Paris "after five years. " Tout ça, c'est del'histoire ancienne. And Barty and Paris together--that is not forsuch a pen as mine. 

I showed him a new photograph of Leah Gibson--a very large one andan excellent. He gazed at it a long time with his magnifying-glassand without, all his keen perceptions on the alert; and I watchedhis face narrowly. 

"My eyes! She _is_ a beautiful young woman, and no mistake!" hesaid, with a sigh. "You mustn't let her slip through your fingers, Bob!"

"How about that toss?" said I, and laughed. 

"Oh, I resign _my_ claim; she's not for the likes o' me. You'regoing to be a great capitalist--a citizen of credit and renown. I'mMr. Nobody, of nowhere. Go in and win, my boy; you have my bestwishes. If I can scrape together enough money to buy myself a whitewaistcoat and a decent coat, I'll be your best man; or some left-offthings of yours might do--we're about of a size, aren't we? You'vebecome très bel homme, Bob, plutôt bel homme que joli garçon, hein?That's what women are fond of; English women especially. I'm nowherenow, without my uniform and the rest. Is it still Skinner who buildsfor you? Good old Skinner! Mes compliments!"

This simple little speech took a hidden weight off my mind and leftme very happy. I confided frankly to the good Barty that no Sally inany alley had ever been more warmly adored by any industrious youngLondon apprentice than was Leah Gibson by me!

"Ça y est, alors! Je te félicite d'avance, et je garde mes larmespour quand tu seras parti. Allons dîner chez Babet: j'ai soif deboire à ton bonheur!"

Before I left we met an English artist he had known at the BritishMuseum--an excellent fellow, one Walters, who took him under hiswing, and was the means of his entering the atelier Troplong in theRue des Belges as an art student. And thus Barty began his artstudies in a proper and legitimate way. It was characteristic of himthat this should never have occurred to him before. 

So when I parted with the dear fellow things were looking a littlebrighter for him too. 

All through the winter he worked very hard--the first to come, thelast to go; and enjoyed his studio life thoroughly. 

Such readers as I am likely to have will not require to be told whatthe interior of a French atelier of the kind is like, nor itsdomestic economy; nor will I attempt to describe all the fun and thefrolic, although I heard it all from Barty in after-years, and verygood it was. I almost felt I'd studied there myself! He was a primefavorite--"le Beau Josselin, " as he was called. 

He made very rapid progress, and had already begun to work in colorsby the spring. He made many friends, but led a quiet, industriouslife, unrelieved (as far as I know) by any of those light episodesone associates with student life in Paris. His principal amusementsthrough the long winter evenings were the café and the brasserie, mild écarté, a game at billiards or dominoes, and long talks aboutart and literature with the usual unkempt young geniuses of theplace and time--French, English, American. 

Then he suddenly took it into his head to go to Antwerp; I don'tknow who influenced him in this direction, but I arranged to meethim there at the end of April--and we spent a delightful weektogether, staying at the "Grand Laboureur" in the Place de Meer. Thetown was still surrounded by the old walls and the moat, and of apicturesqueness that seemed as if it would never pall. 

Twice or three times that week British tourists and travelersLanded at the quai by the Place Verte from _The Baron Osy_--and thislanding was Barty's delight. 

The sight of fair, fresh English girls, with huge crinolines, andtheir hair done up in chenille nets, made him long for Englandagain, and the sound of their voices went nigh to weakening hisresolve. But he stood firm to the last, and saw me off by _TheBaron_. I felt a strange "serrement de coeur" as I left him standingthere, so firm, as if he had been put "au piquet" by M. Dumollard!and so thin and tall and slender--and his boyish face so grave. Goodheavens! How much alone he seemed, who was so little built to livealone!

It is really not too much to say that I would have given up to himeverything I possessed in the world--every blessed thing! ExceptLeah--and Leah was not mine to give!

Now and again Barty's face would take on a look so ineffably, pathetically, angelically simple and childlike that it moved one tothe very depths, and made one feel like father and mother to him inone! It was the true revelation of his innermost soul, which in manyways remained that of a child even in his middle age and till hedied. All his life he never quite put away childish things!

I really believe that in bygone ages he would have moved the worldwith that look, and been another Peter the Hermit!

He became a pupil at the academy under De Keyser and Van Lerius, andworked harder than ever. 

He took a room nearly all window on a second floor in the Marché auxoeufs, just under the shadow of the gigantic spire which rings afragment of melody every seven minutes and a half--and the wholetune at midnight, fortissimo. 

He laid in a stock of cigars at less than a centime apiece, anddried them in the sun; they left as he smoked them a firm white ashtwo inches long; and he grew so fond of them that he cared to smokenothing else. 

He rose before the dawn, and went for a swim more than a mileaway--got to the academy at six--worked till eight--breakfasted on alittle roll called a pistolet, and a cup of coffee; then the academyagain from nine till twelve--when dinner, the cheapest he had everknown, but not the worst. Then work again all the afternoon, copyingold masters at the Gallery. Then a cheap supper, a long walk alongthe quais or ramparts or outside--a game of dominoes, and a glass ortwo of "Malines" or "Louvain"--then bed, without invading hordes;the Flemish are as clean as the Dutch; and there he would soon smokeand read himself to sleep in spite of chimes--which lull you, whenonce you get "achimatized, " as he called it, meaning of course to befunny: a villainous kind of fun--caught, I fear, in Barge Yard, Bucklersbury. It used to rain puns in the City--especially in theStock Exchange, which is close to Barge Yard. 

It was a happy life, and he grew to like it better than any life hehad led yet; besides, he improved rapidly, as his facility wasgreat--for painting as for everything he tried his hand at. 

He also had a very agreeable social existence. 

One morning at the academy, two or three days after his arrival, hewas accosted by a fellow-student--one Tescheles--who introducedhimself as an old pupil of Troplong's in the Rue des Belges. Theyhad a long chat in French about the old Paris studio. Among otherthings, Tescheles asked if there were still any English there. 

"Oui"--says Barty--"un nommé Valtères". . . . 

Barty pronounced this name as if it were French; and noticed thatTescheles smiled, exclaiming:

"Parbleu, ce bon Valtères--je l'connais bien!"

Next day Tescheles came up to an English student called Fox andsaid:

"Well, old stick-in-the-mud, how are _you_ getting on?"

"Why, you don't mean to say _you're_ an Englishman?" says Barty toTescheles. 

[Illustration: PETER THE HERMIT AU PIQUET]

"Good heavens! you don't mean to say _you_ are! fancy your callingpoor old Walters _Vàltères_!"

And after that they became very intimate, and that was a good thingfor Barty. 

The polyglot Tescheles was of a famous musical family, of mixedGerman and Russian origin, naturalized in England and domiciled inFrance--a true cosmopolite and a wonderful linguist, besides beingalso a cultivated musician and excellent painter; and all themusicians, famous or otherwise, that passed through Antwerp made hisrooms a favorite resort and house of call. And Barty was introducedinto a world as delightful to him as it was new--and to music thatravished his soul with a novel enchantment: Chopin, Liszt, Wagner, Schumann--and he found that Schubert had written a few other songsbesides the famous "Serenade"!

One evening he was even asked if he could make music himself, andactually volunteered to sing--and sang that famous ballad of Balfe'swhich seems destined to become immortal in this country--"When otherlips" . . . _alias_, "Then you'll remember me!"

Strange to say, it was absolutely new to this high musical circle, but they went quite mad over it; and the beautiful melody gotnaturalized from that moment in Belgium and beyond, and Barty wasproclaimed the primo tenore of Antwerp--although he was only abarytone!

A fortnight after this Barty heard "When other lips" played by the"Guides" band in the park at Brussels. Its first appearance out ofEngland--and all through him. 

Then he belonged to the Antwerp "Cercle Artistique, " where he mademany friends and was very popular, as I can well imagine. 

Thus he was happier than he had ever been in his life; but for onething that plagued him now and again: his oft-recurring desire to beconscious once more of the north, which he had not felt for four orfive years. 

The want of this sensation at certain periods--especially atnight--would send a chill thrill of desolation through him like awave; a wild panic, a quick agony, as though the true meaning ofabsolute loneliness were suddenly realized by a lightning flash ofinsight, and it were to last for ever and ever. 

This would pass away in a second or two, but left a hauntingrecollection behind for many hours. And then all was again sunshine, and the world was made of many friends--and solitude was impossibleevermore. 

One memorable morning this happiness received a check and a greathorror befell him. It was towards the end of summer--just before thevacation. 

With a dozen others, he was painting the head of an old man from thelife, when he became quite suddenly conscious of something strangein his sight. First he shut his left eye and saw with his rightquite perfectly; then he shut the right, and lo! whatever he lookedat with the left dwindled to a vanishing point and became invisible. No rubbing or bathing of his eye would alter the terrible fact, andhe knew what great fear really means, for the first time. 

Much kind concern was expressed, and Van Lerius told him to go atonce to a Monsieur Noiret, a professor at the Catholic University ofLouvain, who had attended _him_ for the eyes, and had the reputationof being the first oculist in Belgium. 

Barty wrote immediately and an appointment was made, and in threedays he saw the great man, half professor, half priest, who took himinto a dark chamber lighted by a lamp, and dilated his pupil withatropine, and looked into his eye with the newly discovered"ophthalmoscope. "

Professor Noiret told him it was merely a congestion of theretina--for which no cause could be assigned; and that he would becured in less than a month. That he was to have a seton let into theback of his neck, dry-cup himself on the chest and thighs night andmorning, and take a preparation of mercury three times a day. Alsothat he must go to the seaside immediately--and he recommendedOstend. 

Barty told him that he was an impecunious art student, and thatOstend was a very expensive place. 

Noiret considerately recommended Blankenberghe, which was cheap;asked for and took his full fee, and said, with a courtly priestlybow:

"If you are not cured, come back in a month. _Au revoir!_"

So poor Barty had the seton put in by a kind of barber-surgeon, andwas told how to dress it night and morning; got his medicines andhis dry-cupping apparatus, and went off to Blankenberghe quitehopeful. 

And there things happened to him which I really think are worthtelling; in the first place, because, even if they did not concernBarty Josselin, they should be amusing for their own sake--that is, if I could only tell them as he told me afterwards; and I will do mybest!

And then he was nearing the end of the time when he was to remain asother mortals are. His new life was soon to open, the great changeto which we owe the Barty Josselin who had changed the world for_us_!

Besides, this is a biography--not a novel--not literature! So whatdoes it matter how it's written, so long as it's all true!

Part Fifth

 "Ô céleste haine, Comment t'assouvir? Ô souffrance humaine, Qui te peut guérir? Si lourde est ma peine J'en voudrais mourir-- Tel est mon désir!

 "Navré de comprendre, Las de compatir, Pour ne plus entendre, Ni voir, ni sentir, Je suis prêt à rendre Mon dernier soupir-- Et c'est mon désir!

 "Ne plus rien connaître, Ni me souvenir-- Ne jamais renaître, Ni me rendormir-- Ne plus jamais être, Mais en bien finir-- Voilà mon désir!"--Anon. 

Barty went third class to Bruges, and saw all over it, and slept atthe "Fleur de Blé, " and heard new chimes, and remembered hisLongfellow. 

Next morning, a very fine one, as he was hopefully smoking hiscentime cigar with immense relish near the little three-horsedwagonette that was to bear him to Blankenberghe, he saw that he wasto have three fellow-passengers, with a considerable amount of veryinteresting luggage, and rejoiced. 

First, a tall man about thirty, in a very smart white summer suit, surmounted by a jaunty little straw hat with a yellow ribbon. He wasstrikingly handsome, and wore immense black whiskers but nomustache, and had a most magnificent double row of white, pearlyteeth, which he showed very much when he smiled, and he smiled veryoften. He was evidently a personage of importance and very well off, for he gave himself great airs and ordered people about and chaffedthem, and it made them laugh instead of making them angry; and hewas obeyed with wonderful alacrity. He spoke French fluently, butwith a marked Italian accent. 

Next, a very blond lady of about the same age, not beautiful, butrather overdressed, and whose accent, when she spoke French, wasvery German, and who looked as if she might be easily moved towrath. Now and then she spoke to the gentleman in a very audibleItalian aside, and Barty was able to gather that her Italian wasabout as rudimentary as his own. 

Last and least, a pale, plain, pathetic little girl of six or eight, with a nose rather swollen, and a black plait down her back, andlarge black eyes, something like Leah Gibson's; and she never tookthese eyes off Barty's face. 

Their luggage consisted of two big trunks, a guitar and violin (intheir cases), and music-books bound together by a rope. 

"Vous allez à Blankenberghe, mossié?" said the Italian, with awinning smile. 

Barty answered in the affirmative, and the Italian smiled ecstaticdelight. 

"Jé souis bienn content--nous férons route ensiemblé. . . . " I willtranslate: "I call myself Carlo Veronese--first barytone of thetheatre of La Scala, Milan. The signora is my second wife; she isprima donna assoluta of the grand opera, Naples. The little ragazzais my daughter by my first wife. She is the greatest violinist of herage now living--un' prodige, mossié--un' fenomeno!"

Barty, charmed with his new acquaintance, gave the signore his card, and Carlo Veronese invited him graciously to take a seat in thewagonette, as if it were his own private carriage. Barty, who wasthe most easily impressed person that ever lived, accepted with asmuch sincere gratitude as if he hadn't already paid for his place, and they started on their sunny drive of eight miles along the dustystraight Belgian chaussée, bordered with poplars on either side, andpaved with flagstones all the way to Blankenberghe. 

Signor Veronese informed Barty that on their holiday travels theyalways managed to combine profit with pleasure, and that he proposedgiving a grand concert at the Café on the Plage, or the Kursaal, next day; that he was going to sing Figaro's great song in the_Barbiere_, and the signora would give "_Roberto, toua qué z'aime_"in French (or, rather, "_Ropert, doi que ch'aime_, " as _she_ calledit, correcting his accent), and the fenomeno, whose name wasMarianina, would play an arrangement of the "Carnival of Venice" byPaganini. 

"Ma vous aussi, vous êtes mousicien--jé vois ça par la votrefigoure!"

Barty modestly disclaimed all pretensions, and said he was only anart student--a painter. 

"All the arts are brothers, " said the signore, and the littlesignorina stole her hand into Barty's and left it there. 

"Listen, " said the signore; "why not arrange to live together, youand we? I hate throwing away money on mere pomposity and grandiosityand show. We always take a little furnished apartment, elle et moi. Then I go and buy provisions, bon marché--and she cooks them--and wehave our meals better than at the hotel and at half the price! Joinus, unless you like to throw your money by the window!"

The Signorina Marianina's little brown hand gave Barty's a littlewarm squeeze, and Barty was only too delighted to accept anarrangement that promised to be so agreeable and so practicallywise. 

They arrived at Blankenberghe, and, leaving their luggage at thewagonette station, went in search of lodgings. These were soon foundin a large attic at the top of a house, over a bakery. One littlemansarde, with a truckle-bed and wash-hand stand, did for the familyof Veronese; another, smaller still, for Barty. 

Other mansardes also opened on to the large attic, or grenier, wherethere were sacks of grain and of flour, and a sweet smell ofcleanliness. Barty wondered that such economical arrangements couldsuit his new friends, but was well pleased; a weight was taken offhis mind. He feared a style of living he could not have afforded toshare, and here were all difficulties smoothed away without anytrouble whatever. 

They got in their luggage, and Barty went with the signore in searchof bread and meat and wine and ground coffee. When they got back, alittle stove was ready lighted in the Veronese garret; they cookedthe food in a frying-pan, opening the window wide and closing thedoor, as the signore thought it useless to inform the world by thesense of smell that they did their cooking _en famille_; and Bartyenjoyed the meal immensely, and almost forgot his trouble, but forthe pain of his seton. 

After lunch the signore produced his placards, already printed byhand, and made some paste in an iron pot, and the signora madecoffee. And Veronese tuned his guitar and said:

"Jé vais vous canter couelquécose--una piccola cosa da niente!--vouscomprenez l'Italien?"

"Oh yes, " said Barty: he had picked up a deal of Italian and manypretty Italian canzonets from his friend old Pergolese, who kept theItalian eating-house in Rupert Street. "Sing me a stornella--je lesadore. "

And he set himself to listen, with his heart in his mouth from sheerpleasurable anticipation. 

The signore sang a pretty little song, by Gordigiani, called "Ilvero amore. " Barty knew it well. 

 "E lo mio amor è andato a soggiornare A Lucca bella--e diventar signore. . . . "

Alas for lost illusions! The signore's voice was a coarse, unsympathetic, strident buffo bass, not always quite in the middleof the note; nor, in spite of his native liveliness of accent andexpression, did he make the song interesting or pretty in the least. 

Poor Barty had fallen from the skies; but he did his best not toshow his disenchantment, and this, from a kind and amiable way healways had and a constant wish to please, was not difficult. 

Then the signora sang "Ô mon Fernand!" from the _Favorita_, inFrench, but with a hideous German accent and a screech as of someTeutonic peacock, and without a single sympathetic note; thoughotherwise well in tune, and with a certain professional knowledge ofwhat she was about. 

And then poor Marianina was made to stand up on six music-books, opposite a small music-easel, and play her "Carnival of Venice" onthe violin. Every time she made a false note in the difficultvariations, her father, with his long, thick, hairy middle finger, gave her a fierce fillip on the nose, and she had to swallow hertears and play on. Barty was almost wild with angry pity, butdissembled, for fear of making her worse enemies in her father andstepmother. 

Not that the poor little thing played badly; indeed, she playedsurprisingly well for her age, and Barty was sincere in his warmcommendation of her talent. 

"Et vous ne cantez pas du tout--du tout?" said Veronese. 

"Oh, si, quelquefois!"

"Cantez couelquécoze--zé vous accompagnerai sous la guitare!--n'ayezpas paoure--nous sommes indoulgents, elle et moi--"

"Oh--je m'accompagnerai bien moi-même comme je pourrai--" saidBarty, and took the guitar, and sang a little French Tyroliennecalled "Fleur des Alpes, " which he could always sing quitebeautifully; and the effect was droll indeed. 

Marianina wept; the signore went down on his knees in a theatricalmanner to him, and called him "maestro" and other big Italian names;the Frau signora, with tears in her eyes, asked permission to kisshis hand, which his modesty refused--he kissed hers instead. 

"He was a great genius, a bird of God, who had amused himself bymaking fools of poor, innocent, humble, wandering minstrels. Oh, would he not be generous as he was great and be one of them for afew days, and take half the profits--more--whatever he liked?" etc. 

[Illustration: "THE CARNIVAL OF VENICE"]

And indeed they immediately saw the business side of the question, andwere, to do them justice, immensely liberal in their conditions ofpartnership--and also most distressingly persistent, with adulationsthat got more and more fulsome the more he held back. 

There was a long discussion. Barty had to be quite brutal at theend--told them he was not a musician, but a painter, and thatnothing on earth should induce him to join them in their concert. 

And finally, much crestfallen and somewhat huffed, the pair went outto post their placards all over the town, and Barty went for a bathand a long walk--suddenly feeling sad again and horribly one-eyedand maimed, and more wofully northless and homeless and friendlessthan ever. 

Blankenberghe was already very full, and when he got back he saw thefamous placards everywhere. And found his friends cooking theirdinner, and was pressed to join them; and did so--producing amagnificent pasty and some hot-house grapes and two bottles of wineas a peace-offering--and was forgiven. 

And after dinner they all sat on grain-sacks together in the largegranary, and made music--with lady's-maids and valets and servantsof the house for a most genial and appreciative audience--and had avery pleasant evening; and Barty came to the conclusion that he hadmistaken his trade--that he sang devilish well, in fact; and so hedid. 

Whatever his technical shortcomings might be, he could make any tunesound pretty when he sang it. He had the native gift of ease, pathos, rhythm, humor, and charm--and a delightful sympathetic twangin his voice. His mother must have sung something like that; and allParis went mad about her. No technical teaching in the world canever match a genuine inheritance; and that's a fact. 

Next morning they all bathed together, and Barty unheroically andquite obscurely saved a life. 

The signore and his fat white signora went dancing out into theSunny waves and right away seawards. 

Then came Barty with an all-round shirt-collar round his neck and awhite tie on, to conceal his seton, and a pair of blue spectaclesfor the glare. And behind him Marianina, hopping on and following asbest she might. He turned round to encourage her, and she hadsuddenly disappeared; half uneasy, he went back a step or two, andsaw her little pale-brown face gasping just beneath the surface--shehad just got out of her depth. 

He snatched her out, and she clung to him like a small monkey andcried dreadfully, and was sick all over him and herself. He managedto get her back on shore and washed and dried and consoled herbefore her people came back--and had the tact not to mention thisadventure, guessing what fillips she would catch on her poor littlepink nose for her stupidity. She looked her gratitude for thisreticence of his in the most touching way, with her big blackeyes--and had a cunning smile of delight at their common tacitunderstanding. Her rescuer from a watery grave did not apply for the"médaille de sauvetage"!

Barty took an immense walk that day to avoid the common repast; hewas getting very tired of the two senior Veroneses. 

The concert in the evening was a tremendous success. The blatantsignore sang his Figaro song very well indeed--it suited him betterthan little feminine love-ditties. The signora was loud andpassionate and dramatic in "Roberto"; and Belgians make moreallowance for a German accent in French than Parisians; besides, itwas not _quite_ their own language that was being murdered before, them. It _may_ be, some day! I sincerely hope so. Je leur veux dubien. 

Poor little Marianina stood on her six music-books and played withimmense care and earnestness, just like a frightened butwell-trained poodle walking on its hind-legs--one eye on her musicand the tail of the other on her father, who accompanied her withhis guitar. She got an encore, to Barty's great relief; and to herstoo, no doubt--if she hadn't, fillips on the nose for supper thatnight! Then there were more solos and duets, with obbligatos for theviolin. 

Next day Veronese and his wife were in high feather at the Kursaal, where they had sung the night before. 

A very distinguished military foreigner, in attendance on someaugust personage from Spain or Portugal (and later from Ostend), warmly and publicly complimented the signore on "his admirablerendering of 'Largo al factotum'--which, as his dear old friendRossini had once told him (the General), he (Rossini) had alwaysmodestly looked upon as the one thing he had ever written with whichhe was _almost_ pleased!"

Marianina also received warm commendation from this agreeable oldsoldier, while quite a fashionable crowd was listening; and Veronesearranged for another concert that evening, and placarded the townaccordingly. 

Barty managed to escape any more meals in the Casa Veronese, buttook Marianina for one or two pleasant walks, and told her storiesand sang to her in the grenier, while she improvised for him cleverlittle obbligatos on her fiddle. 

He found a cheap eating-house and picked up a companion or two tochat with. He also killed time with his seton-dressing and selfdry-cupping--and hired French novels and read them as much as hedared with his remaining eye, about which he was morbidly nervous;he always fancied it would get its retina congested like the other, in which no improvement manifested itself whatever--and thisdepressed him very much. He was a most impatient patient. 

To return. The second concert was as conspicuous a failure as the firsthad been a success: the attendance was small and less distinguished, andthere was no enthusiasm. The Frau signora slipped a note and lost hertemper in the middle of "Roberto, " and sang out of tune and withcareless, open contempt of her audience, and this the audience seemed tounderstand and openly resent. Poor Marianina was frightened, and playedvery wrong notes under the furious gaze of her papa, and finally brokedown and cried, and there were some hisses for him, as well as kind andencouraging applause for the child. Then up jumps Barty and gets on theplatform and takes the signore's guitar and twangs it, and smiles allround benignly--immense applause!

Then he pats Marianina's thin pale cheek and wipes her eyes andgives her a kiss. Frantic applause! Then "Fleur des Alpes!"

Ovation! encore! bis! ter!

And for a third encore he sings a very pretty little Flemish balladabout the rose without a thorn--"Het Roosje uit de Dorne. " It is theonly Flemish song he knows, and I hope I have spelt it right! Andthe audience goes quite crazy with enthusiasm, and everybody goeshome happy, even the Veroneses--and Marianina does not get fillipedthat night. 

After this the Veroneses tried humbler spheres for the display oftheir talents, and in less than a week exhausted every pothouse andbeer-tavern and low drinking-shop in Blankenberghe! and at last theytook to performing for casual coppers in the open street, and wentvery rapidly down hill. The signore lost his jauntiness and grewsordid and soiled and shabby and humble; the signora looked like asulky, dirty, draggle-tailed fury, ready to break out into violenceon the slightest provocation; poor Marianina got paler and thinner, and Barty was very unhappy about her. The only things left rosyabout her were her bruised nose, and her fingers, that always seemedstiff with cold; indeed, they were blue rather than rosy--andanything but clean. 

One evening he bought her a little warm gray cloak that took hisfancy; when he went home after dinner to give it her he found thethree birds of song had taken flight--sans tambour ni trompette, andleaving no message for him. The baker-landlord had turned themadrift--sent them about their business, sacrificing some of his rentto get rid of them; not a heavy loss, I fancy. 

Barty went after them all over the little town, but did not findthem; he heard they were last seen marching off with guitar andfiddle in a southerly direction along the coast, and found thattheir luggage was to be sent to Ostend. 

He felt very sorry for Marianina and missed her--and gave the cloakto some poor child in the town, and was very lonely. 

One morning as he loafed about dejectedly with his hands in hispockets, he found his way to the little Hôtel de Ville, whenceissued sounds of music. He went in. It was like a kind ofreading-room and concert-room combined; there was a piano there, anda young lady practising, with her mother knitting by her side; andtwo or three other people, friends of theirs, lounging about andlooking at the papers. 

The mamma was a very handsome person of aristocratic appearance. Thepretty daughter was practicing the soprano part in a duet byCampana, which Barty knew well; it was "Una sera d' amore. " Thetenor had apparently not kept his appointment, and madame expressedsome irritation at this; first to a friend, in French, but with aslight English accent--then in English to her daughter; and Bartygrew interested. 

After a little while, catching the mamma's eye (which was notdifficult, as she very frankly and persistently gazed at him, andwith a singularly tender and wistful expression of face), he got upand asked in English if he could be of any use--seeing that he knewthe music well and had often sung it. The lady was delighted, andBarty and mademoiselle sang the duet in capital style to the mamma'saccompaniment: "guarda che Bianca luna, " etc. 

"What a lovely voice you've got! May I ask your name?" says themamma. 

"Josselin. "

"English, of course?"

"Upon my word I hardly know whether I'm English or French!" saidBarty, and he and the lady fell into conversation. 

It turned out that she was Irish, and married to a Belgian soldier, le Général Comte de Clèves (who was a tremendous swell, itseems--but just then in Brussels). 

Barty told Madame de Clèves the story of his eye--he was always verycommunicative about his eye; and she suddenly buried her face in herhands and wept; and mademoiselle told him in a whisper that hereldest brother had gone blind and died three or four years ago, andthat he was extraordinarily like Barty both in face and figure. 

Presently another son of Madame de Clèves came in--an officer ofdragoons in undress uniform, a splendid youth. He was the missingtenor, and made his excuses for being late, and sang very wellindeed. 

And Barty became the intimate friend of these good people, who madeBlankenberghe a different place to him--and conceived for him aviolent liking, and introduced him to all their smart Belgianfriends; they were quite a set--bathing together, making music anddancing, taking excursions, and so forth. And before a fortnight wasover Barty had become the most popular young man in the town, thegayest of the gay, the young guardsman once more, throwing dull careto the winds; and in spite of his impecuniosity (of which he made nosecret whatever) the _boute-en-train_ of the company. And this led tomany droll adventures--of which I will tell one as a sample. 

A certain Belgian viscount, who had a very pretty French wife, tooka dislike to Barty. He had the reputation of being a tremendousfire-eater. His wife, a light-hearted little flirt (but with notmuch harm in her), took a great fancy to him, on the contrary. 

One day she asked him for a wax impression of the seal-ring he woreon his finger, and the following morning he sealed an empty envelopeand stamped it with his ring, and handed it to her on the Plage. Shesnatched it with a quick gesture and slipped it into her pocket withquite a guilty little coquettish look of mutual understanding. 

Monsieur Jean (as the viscount was called) noticed this, and jostledrudely against Josselin, who jostled back again and laughed. 

Then the whole party walked off to the "tir, " or shooting-gallery onthe Plage; some wager was on, I believe, and when they got therethey all began to shoot--at different distances, ladies andgentlemen; all but Barty; it was a kind of handicap. 

Monsieur Jean, after a fierce and significant look at Barty, slowlyraised his pistol, took a deliberate aim at the small target, andfired--hitting it just half an inch over the bull's-eye; a capitalshot. Barty couldn't have done better himself. Then taking anotherloaded pistol, he presented it to my friend by the butt and said, with a solemn bow:

"À vous, monsieur de la garde. "

"Messieurs de la garde doivent toujours tirer les premiers!" saidBarty, laughing; and carelessly let off his pistol in the directionof the target without even taking aim. A little bell rang, and therewas a shout of applause; and Barty was conscious that by anextraordinary fluke he had hit the bull's-eye in the middle, and sawthe situation at once. 

Suddenly looking very grave and very sad, he threw the pistol away, and said:

"Je ne tire plus--j'ai trop peur d'avoir la main malheureuse unjour!" and smiled benignly at M. Jean. 

A moment's silence fell on the party and M. Jean turned very pale. 

Barty went up to Madame Jean:

"Will you forgive me for giving you with my seal an empty envelope?I couldn't think of anything pretty enough to write you--so I gaveit up. Tear it and forgive me. I'll do better next time!"

The lady blushed and pulled the letter out of her pocket and held itup to the light, and it was, as Barty said, merely an empty envelopeand a red seal. She then held it out to her husband and exclaimed:

"Le cachet de Monsieur Josselin, que je lui avais demandé. . . !"

So bloodshed was perhaps avoided, and Monsieur Jean took care not tojostle Josselin any more. Indeed, they became great friends. 

For next day Barty strolled into the Salle d'Armes, Rue desDunes--and there he found Monsieur Jean fencing with young deClèves, the dragoon. Both were good fencers, but Barty was thefinest fencer I ever met in my life, and always kept it up; andremembering his adventure of the previous day, it amused him toaffect a careless nonchalance about such trivial things--"desenfantillages!"

"_You_ take a turn with Jean, Josselin!" said the dragoon. 

"Oh! I'm out of practice--and I've only got one eye. . . . "

"Je vous en prie, monsieur de la garde!" said the viscount. 

"Cette fois, alors, nous allons tirer _ensemble_!" says Barty, andlanguidly dons the mask with an affected air, and makes a fuss aboutthe glove not suiting him; and then, in spite of his defectivesight, which seems to make no difference, he lightly and gracefullygives M. Jean such a dressing as that gentleman had never got in hislife--not even from his maître d'armes: and afterwards to young deClèves the same. Well I knew his way of doing this kind of thing!

So Barty and M. And Madame Jean became quite intimate--and with hisusual indiscretion Barty told them how he fluked that bull's-eye, and they were charmed!

"Vous êtes impayable, savez-vous, mon cher!" says M. Jean--"vousavez tous les talents, et un million dans le gosier par-dessus lemarché! Si jamais je puis vous être de service, savez-vous, comptezsur moi pour la vie . . . " said the impulsive viscount when they badeeach other good-bye at the end. 

[Illustration: "'À VOUS, MONSIEUR DE LA GARDE!'"]

"Et plus jamais d'enveloppes vides, quand vous m'écrirez!" saysmadame. 

 * * * * *

So frivolous time wore on, and Barty found it pleasant to frivol insuch pleasant company--very pleasant indeed! But when alone in hisgarret, with his seton-dressing and dry-cuppings, it was not so gay. He had to confess to himself that his eye was getting slowly worseinstead of better; darkening day by day; and a little more retinahad been taken in by the strange disease--"la peau de chagrin, " ashe nicknamed this wretched retina of his, after Balzac's famousstory. He could still see with the left of it and at the bottom, buta veil had come over the middle and all the rest; by daylight hecould see through this veil, but every object he saw was discoloredand distorted and deformed--it was worse than darkness itself; andthis was so distressing, and so interfered with the sight of theother eye, that when the sun went down, the total darkness in theruined portion of his left retina came as a positive relief. He tookall this very desperately to heart and had very terribleforebodings. For he had never known an ache or a pain, and hadinnocently gloried all his life in the singular perfection of hisfive wits. 

Then his money was coming to an end; he would soon have to sing inthe streets, like Veronese, with Lady Archibald's guitar. 

Dear Lady Archibald! When things went wrong with her she would alwayslaugh, and say:

"Les misères du jour font le bonheur du lendemain!"

This he would say or sing to himself over and over again, and go tobed at night quite hopeful and sanguine after a merry day spentamong his many friends; and soon sink into sleep, persuaded that histrouble was a bad dream which next morning would scatter and dispel. But when he woke, it was to find the grim reality sitting by hispillow, and he couldn't dry-cup it away. The very sunshine was anache as he went out and got his breakfast with his blue spectacleson; and black care would link its bony arm in his as he listlesslystrolled by the much-sounding sea--and cling to him close as he swamor dived; and he would wonder what he had ever done that so seriousand tragic a calamity should have befallen so light a person ashimself; who could only dance and sing and play the fool to makepeople laugh--Rigoletto--Triboulet--a mere grasshopper, no ant orbee or spider, not even a third-class beetle--surely this was notaccording to the eternal fitness of things!

And thus in the unutterable utterness of his dejection he would makehimself such evil cheer that he sickened with envy at the mere sightof any living thing that could see out of two eyes--a homelessirresponsible dog, a hunchback beggar, a crippled organ-grinder andhis monkey--till he met some acquaintance; even but a rollingfisherman with a brown face and honest blue eyes--a pair ofthem--and then he would forget his sorrow and his envy in chat andjokes and laughter with him over each a centime cigar; and was setup in good spirits for the day! Such was Barty Josselin, the mostready lover of his kind that ever existed, the slave of his lastimpression. 

And thus he lived under the shadow of the sword of Damocles for manymonths; on and off, for years--indeed, as long as he lived at all. It isgood discipline. It rids one of much superfluous self-complacency andputs a wholesome check on our keeping too good a conceit of ourselves;it prevents us from caring too meanly about mean things--too keenlyabout our own infinitesimal personalities; it makes us feel quicksympathy for those who live under a like condition: there are many suchweapons dangling over the heads of us poor mortals by just a hair--apanoply, an armory, a very arsenal! And we grow to learn in time thatwhen the hair gives way and the big thing falls, the blow is not half sobad as the fright had been, even if it kills us; and more often than notit is but the shadow of a sword, after all; a bogie that has kept us offmany an evil track--perhaps even a blessing in disguise! And in the end, down comes some other sword from somewhere else and cuts for us theGordian knot of our brief tangled existence, and solves the riddle andsets us free. 

This is a world of surprises, where little ever happens but theunforeseen, which is seldom worth meeting halfway! And these moralreflections of mine are quite unnecessary and somewhat obvious, butthey harm nobody, and are very soothing to make and utter at my timeof life. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man and forgive him hismaudlin garrulity. . . . 

 * * * * *

One afternoon, lolling in deep dejection on the top of a little sandyhillock, a "dune, " and plucking the long coarse grass, he saw a verytall elderly lady, accompanied by her maid, coming his way along theasphalt path that overlooked the sea--or rather, that prevented thesea from overlooking the land and overflowing it!

She was in deep black and wore a thick veil. 

With a little jump of surprise he recognized his aunt Caroline--LadyCaroline Grey--of all his aunts the aunt who had loved him the bestas a boy--whom he had loved the best. 

She was a Roman Catholic, and very devout indeed--a widow, andchildless now. And between her and Barty a coolness had fallenduring the last few years--a heavy raw thick mist of coldestrangement; and all on account of his London life and thenotoriety he had achieved there; things of which she disapprovedentirely, and thought "unworthy of a gentleman": and who can blameher for thinking so?

She had at first written to him long letters of remonstrance andgood advice; which he gave up answering, after a while. And whenthey met in society, her manner had grown chill and distant andsevere. 

He hadn't seen or heard of his aunt Caroline for three or fouryears; but at the sudden sight of her a wave of tender childishremembrance swept over him, and his heart beat quite warmly to her:affliction is a solvent of many things, and first-cousin toforgiveness. 

She passed without looking his way, and he jumped up and followedher, and said:

"Oh, Aunt Caroline! won't you even speak to me?"

She started violently, and turned round, and cried: "Oh, Barty, Barty, where have you been all these years?" and seized both hishands, and shook all over. 

"Oh, Barty--my beloved little Barty--take me somewhere where we cansit down and talk. I've been thinking of you very much, Barty--I'velost my poor son--he died last Christmas! I was afraid you hadforgotten my existence! I was thinking of you the very moment youspoke!"

The maid left them, and she took his arm and they found a seat. 

She put up her veil and looked at him: there was a great likenessbetween them in spite of the difference of age. She had been hisfather's favorite sister (some ten years younger than LordRunswick); and she was very handsome still, though about fifty-five. 

"Oh, Barty, my darling--how things have gone wrong between us! Is it_all_ my doing? Oh, I hope not!. . . " And she kissed him. 

"How like, how like! And you're getting a little black and bulgyunder the eyes--especially the left one--and so did _he_, at justabout your age! And how thin you are!"

"I don't think anything need ever go wrong between us again, AuntCaroline! I am a very altered person, and a very unlucky one!"

"Tell me, dear!"

And he told her all his story, from the fatal quarrel with herbrother Lord Archibald--and the true history of that quarrel; andall that had happened since: he had nothing to keep back. 

She frequently wept a little, for truth was in every tone of hisvoice; and when it came to the story of his lost eye, she wept verymuch indeed. And his need of affection, of female affectionespecially, and of kinship, was so immense that he clung to thismost kind and loving woman as if she'd been his mother come backfrom the grave, or his dear Lady Archibald. 

[Illustration: "'I AM A VERY ALTERED PERSON!'"]

This meeting made a great difference to Barty in many ways--made amends!Lady Caroline meant to pass the winter at Malines, of all places in theworld. The Archbishop was her friend, and she was friends also with oneor two priests at the seminary there. She was by no means rich, havingbut an annuity of not quite three hundred a year; and it soon became thedearest wish of her heart that Barty should live with her for a while, and be nursed by her if he wanted nursing; and she thought he did. Besides, it would be convenient on account of his doctor, M. Noiret, ofthe University of Louvain, which was near Malines--half an hour bytrain. 

And Barty was only too glad; this warm old love and devotion hadsuddenly dropped on to him by some happy enchantment out of theskies at a moment of sore need. And it was with a passion ofgratitude that he accepted his aunt's proposals. 

He well knew, also, how it was in him to brighten her lonely life, almost every hour of it--and promised himself that she should not bea loser by her kindness to Mr. Nobody of Nowhere. He remembered herlove of fun, and pretty poetry, and little French songs, and drollchat--and nice cheerful meals tête-à-tête--and he was good at allthese things. And how fond she was of reading out loud to him! Thetime might soon arrive when that would be a blessing indeed. 

Indeed, a new interest had come into his life--not altogether aselfish interest either--but one well worth living for, though itwas so unlike any interest that had ever filled his life before. Hehad been essentially a man's man hitherto, in spite of his gay lightlove for lovely woman; a good comrade par excellence, a frolicsomechum, a rollicking boon-companion, a jolly pal! He wanted quitedesperately to love something staid and feminine and gainly and wellbred, whatever its age! some kind soft warm thing in petticoats andthin shoes, with no hair on its face, and a voice that wasn't male!

Nor did her piety frighten him very much. He soon found that she wasno longer the over-zealous proselytizing busybody of the Cross--butimmensely a woman of the world, making immense allowances. All roadslead to Rome (dit-on!), except a few which converge in the oppositedirection; but even Roman roads lead to this wide tolerance in theend--for those of a rich warm nature who have been well battered bylife; and Lady Caroline had been very thoroughly battered indeed: abad husband--a bad son, her only child! both dead, but deeply lovedand lamented; and in her heart of hearts there lurked a sad suspicionthat her piety (so deep and earnest and sincere) had not betteredtheir badness--on the contrary, perhaps! and had driven her Bartyfrom her when he needed her most. 

Now that his need of her was so great, greater than it had ever beenbefore, she would take good care that no piety of hers should everdrive him away from her again; she felt almost penitent andapologetic for having done what she had known to be right--the womanin her had at last outgrown the nun. 

She almost began to doubt whether she had not been led to selfishlyoverrate the paramount importance of the exclusive salvation of herown particular soul!

And then his frank, fresh look and manner, and honest boyish voice, so unmistakably sincere, and that mild and magnificent eye, sobright and humorous still, "so like--so like!" which couldn't evensee her loving, anxious face. . . . Thank Heaven, there was still oneeye left that she could appeal to with both her own!

And what a child he had been, poor dear--the very pearl of the Rohans!What Rohan of them all was ever a patch on this poor bastard ofAntoinette Josselin's, either for beauty, pluck, or mother-wit--or evenfor honor, if it came to that? Why, a quixotic scruple of honor hadruined him, and she was Rohan enough to understand what the temptationhad been the other way: she had seen the beautiful bad lady!

And, pure as her own life had been, she was no puritan, but of achurch well versed in the deepest knowledge of our poor weak frailhumanity; she has told me all about it, and I listened between thewords. 

So during the remainder of her stay at Blankenberghe he was verymuch with Lady Caroline, and rediscovered what a pleasant and livelycompanion she could be--especially at meals (she was fond of goodfood of a plain and wholesome kind, and took good care to get it). 

She had her little narrownesses, to be sure, and was nothail-fellow-well-met with everybody, like him; and did not thinkvery much of giddy little viscountesses with straddling loud-voicedFlemish husbands, nor of familiar facetious commercial millionaires, of whom Barty numbered two or three among his adorers; nor even ofthe "highly born" Irish wives of Belgian generals and all that. Madame de Clèves was an O'Brien. 

These were old ingrained Rohan prejudices, and she was too oldherself to alter. 

But she loved the good fishermen whose picturesque boats made such acharming group on the sands at sunset, and also their wives andchildren; and here she and her nephew were "bien d'accord. "

I fear her ladyship would not have appreciated very keenly therising splendor of a certain not altogether unimportant modern housein Barge Yard, Bucklersbury--and here she would have been wrong. TheTime has come when we throw the handkerchief at female Rohans, weMaurices and our like. I have not done so myself, it is true; butnot from any rooted antipathy to any daughter of a hundredearls--nor yet from any particular diffidence on my own part. 

Anyhow, Lady Caroline loved to hear all Barty had to say of his gaylife among the beauty, rank, and fashion of Blankenberghe. She wasvery civil to the handsome Irish Madame de Clèves, _née_ O'Brien, and listened politely to the family history of the O'Briens and thatof the de Clèveses too: and learnt, without indecent surprise, orany emotion of any kind whatever, what she had never heardbefore--namely, that in the early part of the twelfth century aRohan de Whitby had married an O'Brien of Ballywrotte; and otherprehistoric facts of equal probability and importance. 

She didn't believe much in people's twelfth--century reminiscences;she didn't even believe in those of her own family, who didn'tbelieve in them either, or trouble about them in the least; and Idare say they were quite right. 

Anyhow, when people solemnly talked about such things it made herrather sorry. But she bore up for Barty's sake, and the resigned, half-humorous courtesy with which she assented to these fables wasreally more humiliating to a sensitive, haughty soul than any meresupercilious disdain; not that she ever wished to humiliate, but shewas easily bored, and thought that kind of conversation vulgar, futile, and rather grotesque. 

Indeed, she grew quite fond of Madame de Clèves and the splendidyoung dragoon, and the sweet little black-haired daughter withlovely blue eyes, who sang so charmingly. For they were singularlycharming people in every way, the de Clèveses; and that's a wayIrish people often have--as well as of being proud of their ancientblood. There is no more innocent weakness. I have it verystrongly--moi qui vous parle--on the maternal side. My mother was aBlake of Derrydown, a fact that nobody would have known unless shenow and then accidentally happened to mention it herself, or else myfather did. And so I take the opportunity of slipping it inhere--just out of filial piety!

So the late autumn of that year found Barty and his aunt at Malines, or Mechelen, as it calls itself in its native tongue. 

They had comfortable lodgings of extraordinary cheapness in one ofthe dullest streets of that most picturesque but dead-alive littletown, where the grass grew so thick between the paving-stones hereand there that the brewers' dray-horses might have browsed in the"Grand Brul"--a magnificent but generally deserted thoroughfareleading from the railway station to the Place d'Armes, where rosestill unfinished the colossal tower of one of the oldest and finestcathedrals in the world, whose chimes wafted themselves everyhalf-quarter of an hour across the dreamy flats for miles and miles, according to the wind, that one might realize how slow was theflight of time in that particular part of King Leopold's dominions. 

 "'And from a tall tower in the town Death looks gigantically down!'"

said Barty to his aunt--quoting (or misquoting) a bard they were veryfond of just then, as they slowly walked down the "Grand Brul" insolitude together, from the nineteenth century to the fourteenth inless than twenty minutes--or three chimes from St. Rombault, orfifty skrieks from the railway station. 

But for these a spirit of stillness and mediæval melancholy broodedover the quaint old city and great archiepiscopal see and mostimportant railway station in all Belgium. Magnificent old houses incarved stone with wrought-iron balconies were to be had for rentsthat were almost nominal. From the tall windows of some of these afrugal, sleepy, priest-ridden old nobility looked down on broad andsplendid streets hardly ever trodden by any feet but their own, orthose of some stealthy Jesuit priest, or Sister of Mercy. 

Only during the Kermesse, or at carnival-time, when noisy revelersof either sex and ungainly processions of tipsy masques and mummerswaked Mechelen out of its long sleep, and all the town seemed onevast estaminet, did one feel one's self to be alive. Even at night, and in the small hours, frisky masques and dominoes walked themoonlit streets, and made loud old Flemish mediæval love, à laTeniers. 

There was a beautiful botanical garden, through which a river flowedunder tall trees, and turned the wheels of the oldest flour-mills inFlanders. This was a favorite resort of Barty's, --and he had itpretty much to himself. 

And for Lady Caroline there were, besides St. Rombault, quitehalf-a-dozen churches almost as magnificent if not so big, and inthem as many as you could wish of old Flemish masters, beginningwith Peter Paul Rubens, who pervades the land of his birth very muchas Michael Angelo pervades Florence and Rome. 

And these dim places of Catholic worship were generously open toall, every day and all day long, and never empty of worshippers, high and low, prostrate in the dust, or kneeling with their armsextended and their heads in the air, their wide-open, immovable, unblinking eyes hypnotized into stone by the cross and the crown ofthorns. Mostly peasant women, these: with their black hoods fallingfrom their shoulders, and stiff little close white caps that hid thehair. 

Out of cool shadowy recesses of fretted stone and admirably carvedwood emanations seemed to rise as from the long-forgotten past--tonsof incense burnt hundreds of years ago, and millions of closelypacked supplicants, rich and poor, following each other in seculaseculorum! Lady Caroline spent many of her hours haunting thesecrypts--and praying there. 

At the back of their house in the Rue des Ursulines Blanches, Barty's bedroom window overlooked the playground of the convent "desSoeurs Rédemptoristines": all noble ladies, most beautifully dressedIn scarlet and ultramarine, with long snowy veils, and who wereWaited upon by non-noble sisters in garments of a like hue but lessexpensive texture. 

So at least said little Finche Torfs, the daughter of thehouse--little Frau, as Lady Caroline called her, and who seems tohave been one of the best creatures in the world; she became warmlyattached to both her lodgers, who reciprocated the feeling in full;it was her chief pleasure to wait on them and look after them at alltimes of the day, though Lady Caroline had already a devoted maid ofher own. 

Little Frau's father was a well-to-do burgher with a prosperousironmongery in the "Petit Brul. "

This was his private house, where he pursued his hobby, for he wasan amateur photographer, very fond of photographing his kind andsimple-minded old wife, who was always attired in rich Brusselssilks and Mechelen lace on purpose. She even cooked in them, thoughnot for her lodgers, whose mid-day and evening meals were sent from"La Cigogne, " close by, in four large round tins that fitted intoeach other, and were carried in a wicker-work cylindrical basket. And it was little Frau's delight to descant on the qualities of themenu as she dished and served it. I will not attempt to do so. 

But after little Frau had cleared it all away, Barty would descanton the qualities of certain English dishes he remembered, to theimmense amusement of Aunt Caroline, who was reasonably fond of whatis good to eat. 

He would paint in words (he was better in words than any othermedium--oil, water, or distemper) the boiled leg of mutton, notoverdone; the mashed turnips; the mealy potato; the caper-sauce. Hewould imitate the action of the carver and the sound of thecarving-knife making its first keen cut while the hot pink gravyruns down the sides. Then he would wordily paint a French roastchicken and its rich brown gravy and its water-cresses; the pommessautées; the crisp, curly salade aux fines herbes! And LadyCaroline, still hungry, would laugh till her eyes watered, as wellas her mouth. 

When it came to the sweets, the apple-puddings and gooseberry-piesand Devonshire cream and brown sugar, there was no more laughing, for then Barty's talent soared to real genius--and genius is aserious thing. And as to his celery and Stilton cheese--But there!it's lunch-time, and I'm beginning to feel a little puckishmyself. . . . 

Every morning when it was fine Barty and his aunt would take anairing round the town, which was enclosed by a ditch where there wasgood skating in the winter, on long skates that went very fast, butcouldn't cut figures, 8 or 3!

There were no fortifications or ramparts left. But a few of themagnificent old brick gateways still remained, admitting you to themost wonderful old streets with tall pointed houses--clean littleslums, where women sat on their door-steps making the most beautifullace in the world--odd nooks and corners and narrow ways where itwas easy to lose one's self, small as the town really was;innumerable little toy bridges over toy canals one could have leapedat a bound, overlooked by quaint, irregular little dwellings, ofcolors that had once been as those of the rainbow, but which timehad mellowed into divine harmonies, as it does all it touches--fromgrand old masters to oak palings round English parks; from Venice toMechelen and its lace; from a disappointed first love to a greatsorrow. 

Occasionally a certain distinguished old man of soldier-like aspectwould pass them on horseback, and gaze at their two tall Britishfigures with a look of curious and benign interest, as if hementally wished them well, and well away from this drear limbo ofpenitence and exile and expiation. 

They learnt that he was French, and a famous general, and that hisname was Changarnier; and they understood that public virtue has tobe atoned for. 

And he somehow got into the habit of bowing to them with a goodsmile, and they would smile and bow back again. Beyond this theynever exchanged a word, but this little outward show and ceremony ofkindly look and sympathetic gesture always gave them a pleasantmoment and helped to pass the morning. 

All the people they met were to Lady Caroline like people in adream: silent priests; velvet-footed nuns, who were much to hertaste; quiet peasant women, in black cloaks and hoods, drivingbullock-carts or carts drawn by dogs, six or eight of theseinextricably harnessed together and panting for dear life;blue-bloused men in French caps, but bigger and blonder thanFrenchmen, and less given to epigrammatic repartee, with mild, blue, beery eyes, _à fleur de tête_, and a look of health and stolidamiability; sturdy green-coated little soldiers with cock-featheredbrigand hats of shiny black, the brim turned up over the right eyeand ear that they might the more conveniently take a good aim at thefoe before he skedaddled at the mere sight of them; fat, comfortableburgesses and their wives, so like their ancestors who drink beerout of long glasses and smoke long clay pipes on the walls of theLouvre and the National Gallery that they seemed like old friends;and quaint old heavy children who didn't make much noise!

And whenever they spoke French to you, these good people, they said"savez-vous?" every other second; and whenever they spoke Flemish toeach other it sounded so much like your own tongue as it is spoken inthe north of England that you wondered why on earth you couldn'tunderstand a single word. 

Now and then, from under a hood, a handsome dark face with Spanisheyes would peer out--eloquent of the past history of the LowCountries, which Barty knew much better than I. But I believe therewas once a Spanish invasion or occupation of some kind, and I daresay the fair Belgians are none the worse for it to-day. (It mighteven have been good for some of us, perhaps, if that ill-starredArmada hadn't come so entirely to grief. I'm fond of big, tawny-black eyes. )

All this, so novel and so strange, was a perpetual feast for LadyCaroline. And they bought nice, cheap, savory things on the wayhome, to eke out the lunch from "la Cigogne. "

In the afternoon Barty would take a solitary walk in the opencountry, or along one of those endless straight _chaussées_, pavedin the middle, and bordered by equidistant poplars on either side, and leading from town to town, and the monotonous perspective ofwhich is so desolating to heart and eye; backwards or forwards, itis always the same, with a flat sameness of outlook to right andleft, and every 450 seconds the chime would boom and flounderheavily by, with a dozen sharp railway whistles after it, likeswordfish after a whale, piercing it through and through. 

Barty evidently had all this in his mind when he wrote the song ofthe seminarist in "Gleams, " beginning:

 "Twas April, and the sky was clear, An east wind blowing keenly; The sun gave out but little cheer, For all it shone serenely. The wayside poplars, all arow, For many a weary mile did throw Down on the dusty flags below Their shadows, picked out cleanly. " Etc. , etc. , etc. 

(Isn't it just like Barty to begin a lyric that will probably lastas long as the English language with an innocent jingle worthy of aschool-boy?)

After dinner, in the evening, it was Lady Caroline's delight to readaloud, while Barty smoked his cigarettes and inexpensive cigars--aconcession on her part to make him happy, and keep him as much withher as she could; and she grew even to like the smell so much thatonce or twice, when he went to Antwerp for a couple of days to staywith Tescheles, she actually had to burn some of his tobacco on ared-hot shovel, for the scent of it seemed to spell his name for herand make his absence less complete. 

Thus she read to him _Esmond_, _Hypatia_, _Never too Late to Mend_, _Les Maîtres Sonneurs_, _La Mare au Diable_, and other delightfulbooks, English and French, which were sent once a week from acirculating library in Brussels. How they blessed thy name, goodBaron Tauchnitz!

"Oh, Aunt Caroline, if I could _only_ illustrate books! If I couldonly illustrate _Esmond_ and draw a passable Beatrix coming down theold staircase at Castlewood with her candle!" said Barty, one night. 

That was not to be. Another was to illustrate _Esmond_, a poor devilwho, oddly enough, was then living in the next street and sufferingfrom a like disorder. [1]

[Footnote 1: ("Un malheureux, vêtu de noir, Qui me ressemblait comme un frère . . . "--Ed. )]

As a return, Barty would sing to her all he knew, in fivelanguages--three of which neither of them quite understood--accompanyinghimself on the piano or guitar. Sometimes she would play for himaccompaniments that were beyond his reach, for she was a decently taughtmusician who could read fairly well at sight; whereas Barty didn't knowa single note, and picked up everything by ear. She practised theseaccompaniments every afternoon, as assiduously as any school-girl. 

Then they would sit up very late, as they always had so much to talkabout--what had just been read or played or sung, and many otherthings: the present, the past, and the future. All their oldaffection for each other had come back, trebled and quadrupled bypity on one side, gratitude on the other--and a little remorse onboth. And there were long arrears to make up, and life was short anduncertain. 

Sometimes l'Abbé Lefebvre, one of the professors at the séminaireand an old friend of Lady Caroline's, would come to drink tea, andtalk politics, which ran high in Mechelen. He was a mostaccomplished and delightful Frenchman, who wrote poetry and adoredBalzac--and even owned to a fondness for good old Paul de Kock, ofwhom it is said that when the news of his death reached Pius theNinth, his Holiness dropped a tear and exclaimed:

"Mio caro Paolo di Kocco!"

Now and then the Abbé would bring with him a distinguished young priest, a Dominican--also a professor; Father Louis, of the princely house ofAremberg, who died a Cardinal three years ago. 

Father Louis had an admirable and highly cultivated musical gift, and played to them Beethoven and Mozart, Schubert, Chopin, andSchumann--and this music, as long as it lasted (and for some timeafter), was to Barty as great a source of consolation as ofunspeakable delight; and therefore to his aunt also. Though I'mafraid she preferred any little French song of Barty's to all theSchumanns in the world. 

First of all, the priest would play the "Moonlight Sonata, " let ussay; and Barty would lean back and listen with his eyes shut, andalmost believe that Beethoven was talking to him like a father, andpointing out to him how small was the difference, really, betweenthe greatest earthly joy and the greatest earthly sorrow: these werenot like black and white, but merely different shades of gray, as onmoonlit things a long way off! and Time, what a reconciler itwas--like distance! and Death, what a perfect resolution of allpossible discords, and how certain! and our own little life, howshort, and without importance! what matters whether it's to-day, this small individual flutter of ours; or was a hundred years ago;or will be a hundred years hence! it has or had to be gotthrough--and it's better past than to come. 

[Illustration: "THE MOONLIGHT SONATA"]

"It all leads to the same divine issue, my poor friend, " said Beethoven;"why, just see here--I'm stone-deaf, and can't hear a note of what I'msinging to you! But it is not about _that_ I weep, when I am weeping. Itwas terrible when it first came on, my deafness, and I could no longerhear the shepherd's pipe or the song of the lark; but it's well worthgoing deaf, to hear all that _I_ do. I have to write everything down, and read it to myself; and my tears fall on the ruled paper, and blisterthe lines, and make the notes run into each other; and when I try toblot it all out, there's that still left on the page, which, turned intosound by good father Louis the Dominican, will tell you, if you can onlyhear it aright, what is not to be told in any human speech; not eventhat of Plato, or Marcus Aurelius, or Erasmus, or Shakespeare; not eventhat of Christ himself, who speaks through me from His unknown grave, because I am deaf and cannot hear the distracting words of men--poor, paltry words at their best, which mean so many things at once that theymean just nothing at all. It's a Tower of Babel. Just stop your ears andlisten with your heart and you will hear all that you can see when youshut your eyes or have lost them--and those are the only realities, meinarmer Barty!"

Then the good Mozart would say:

"Lieber Barty--I'm so stupid about earthly things that I could nevereven say Boh to a goose, so I can't give you any good advice; all myheart overflowed into my brain when I was quite a little boy andmade music for grown-up people to hear; from the day of my birth tomy fifth birthday I had gone on remembering everything, but learningnothing new--remembering all that music!

"And I went on remembering more and more till I was thirty-five; andeven then there was such a lot more of it where that came from thatit tired me to try and remember so much--and I went back thither. And thither back shall you go too, Barty--when you are some thirtyyears older!

"And you already know from me how pleasant life is there--how sunnyand genial and gay; and how graceful and innocent and amiable andwell-bred the natives--and what beautiful prayers we sing, and whatlovely gavottes and minuets we dance--and how tenderly we makelove--and what funny tricks we play! and how handsome and welldressed and kind we all are--and the likes of you, how welcome!Thirty years is soon over, Barty, Barty! Bel Mazetto! Ha, ha! good!"

Then says the good Schubert:

"I'm a loud, rollicking, beer-drinking Kerl, I am! Ich bin einlustiger Student, mein Pardy; and full of droll practical jokes;worse than even you, when you were a young scapegrace in the Guards, and wrenched off knockers, and ran away with a poor policeman's hat!But I don't put my practical jokes into my music; if I did, Ishouldn't be the poor devil I am! I'm very hungry when I go to bed, and when I wake up in the morning I have Katzenjammer (from an emptystomach) and a headache, and a heartache, and penitence and shameand remorse; and know there is nothing in this world or beyond itworth a moment's care but Love, Love, Love! Liebe, Liebe! The goodlove that knows neither concealment nor shame--from the love of thebrave man for the pure maiden whom he weds, to the young nun's loveof the Lord! and all the other good loves lie between these two, andare inside them, or come out of them, . . . And that's the love I putinto my music. Indeed, my music is the only love I know, since I amnot beautiful to the eye, and can only care for tunes!. . . 

"But you, Pardy, are handsome and gallant and gay, and have alwaysbeen well beloved by man and woman and child, and always will be;and know how to love back again--even a dog! however blind you go, you will always have that, the loving heart--and as long as you canhear and sing, you will always have my tunes to fall back upon. . . . "

"And mine!" says Chopin. "If there's one thing sweeter than love, it's the sadness that it can't last; _she_ loved me once--and nowshe loves _tout le monde_! and that's a little sweet melodic sadnessof mine that will never fail you, as long as there's a piano withinyour reach, and a friend who knows how to play me on it for you tohear. You shall revel in my sadness till you forget your own. Oh, the sorrow of my sweet pipings! Whatever becomes of your eyes, keepyour two ears for _my_ sake; and for your sake too! You don't knowwhat exquisite ears you've got. You are like me--you and I are madeof silk, Barty--as other men are made of sackcloth; and their love, of ashes; and their joys, of dust!

"Even the good priest who plays me to you so glibly doesn'tunderstand what I am talking about half so well as _you_ do, whocan't read a word I write! He had to learn my language note by notefrom the best music-master in Brussels. It's your mother-tongue! Youlearned it as you sucked at your sweet young mother's breast, mypoor love-child! And all through her, your ears, like your remainingeye, are worth a hatful of the common kind--and some day it will bethe same with your heart and brain. . . . "

"Yes"--continues Schumann--"but you'll have to suffer first--likeme, who will have to kill myself very soon; because I am goingmad--and that's worse than any blindness! and like Beethoven whowent deaf, poor demigod! and like all the rest of us who've beensinging to you to-night; that's why our songs never pall--because weare acquainted with grief, and have good memories, and are quitesincere. The older you get, the more you will love us and our songs:other songs may come and go in the ear; but ours go ringing in theheart forever!"

In some such fashion did the great masters of tune and toneDiscourse to Barty through Father Louis's well-trained finger-tips. They always discourse to you a little about yourself, these greatmasters, always; and always in a manner pleasing to your self-love!The finger-tips (whosesoever's finger-tips they be) have only to beintelligent and well trained, and play just what's put before themin a true, reverent spirit. Anything beyond may be unpardonableimpertinence, both to the great masters and yourself. 

Musicians will tell you that all this is nonsense from beginning toend; you mustn't believe musicians about music, nor wine-merchantsabout wine--but vice versa!

When Father Louis got up from the music-stool, the Abbé would say toBarty, in his delightful, pure French:

"And now, mon ami--just for _me_, you know--a little song ofautrefois. "

"All right, M. L'Abbé--I will sing you the 'Adelaïde, ' ofBeethoven . . . If Father Louis will play for me. "

"Oh, non, mon ami, do not throw away such a beautiful organ as yourson such really beautiful music, which doesn't want it; it would besinful waste; it's not so much the tune that I want to hear as thefresh young voice; sing me something French, something light, something amiable and droll; that I may forget the song, and onlyremember the singer. "

"All right, M. L'Abbé, " and Barty sings a delightful little song byGustave Nadaud, called "Petit bonhomme vit encore. "

And the good Abbé is in the seventh heaven, and quite forgets toforget the song. 

And so, cakes and wine, and good-night--and M. L'Abbé goes hummingall the way home. . . . 

 "Hé, quoi! pour des peccadilles Gronder ces pauvres amours? Les femmes sont si gentilles, Et l'on n'aime pas toujours! C'est bonhomme Qu'on me nomme. . . . Ma gaîté, c'est mon trésor! Et bonhomme vit encor'-- Et bonhomme vit encor'!"

An extraordinary susceptibility to musical sound was growing inBarty since his trouble had overtaken him, and with it anextraordinary sensitiveness to the troubles of other people, theirpartings and bereavements and wants, and aches and pains, even thoseof people he didn't know; and especially the woes of children, anddogs and cats and horses, and aged folk--and all the live thingsthat have to be driven to market and killed for our eating--or shotat for our fun!

All his old loathing of sport had come back, and he was getting hisold dislike of meat once more, and to sicken at the sight of abutcher's shop; and the sight of a blind man stirred him to thedepths . . . Even when he learnt how happy a blind man can be!

These unhappy things that can't be helped preoccupied him as if hehad been twenty, thirty, fifty years older; and the world seemed tohim a shocking place, a gray, bleak, melancholy hell where there wasnothing but sadness, and badness, and madness. 

And bit by bit, but very soon, all his old trust in an all-merciful, all-powerful ruler of the universe fell from him; he shed it like anold skin; it sloughed itself away; and with it all his old conceitof himself as a very fine fellow, taller, handsomer, cleverer thananybody else, "bar two or three"! Such darling beliefs are the beststays we can have; and he found life hard to face without them. 

And he got as careful of his aunt Caroline, and as anxious about herlittle fads and fancies and ailments, as if he'd been an old womanhimself. 

Imagine how she grew to dote on him!

And he quite lost his old liability to sudden freaks and fits of noisyfractiousness about trifles--when he would stamp and rave and curse andswear, and be quite pacified in a moment: "_Soupe-au-lait_, " as he wasnicknamed in Troplong's studio!

 * * * * *

Besides his seton and his cuppings, dry and wet, and his blisters onhis arms and back, and his mustard poultices on his feet and legs, and his doses of mercury and alteratives, he had also to depletehimself of blood three times a week by a dozen or twenty leechesbehind his left ear and on his temple. All this softens and relaxesthe heart towards others, as a good tonic will harden it. 

So that he looked a mere shadow of his former self when I went overto spend my Christmas with him. 

And his eye was getting worse instead of better; at night he couldn'tsleep for the fireworks it let off in the dark. By day the troublewas even worse, as it so interfered with the sight of the othereye--even if he wore a patch, which he hated. He never knew peacebut when his aunt was reading to him in the dimly lighted room, andhe forgot himself in listening. 

Yet he was as lively and droll as ever, with a wan face as eloquentof grief as any face I ever saw; he had it in his head that theright eye would go the same way as the left. He could no longer seethe satellites of Jupiter with it: hardly Jupiter itself, except asa luminous blur; indeed, it was getting quite near-sighted, and fullof spots and specks and little movable clouds--_muscæ volitantes_, as I believe they are called by the faculty. He was always on thelookout for new symptoms, and never in vain; and his burden was asmuch as he could bear. 

He would half sincerely long for death, of which he yet had such ahorror that he was often tempted to kill himself to get the botherof it well over at once. The idea of death _in the dark_, howeverremote--an idea that constantly haunted him as his own most probableend--so appalled him that it would stir the roots of his hair!

Lady Caroline confided to me her terrible anxiety, which she managedto hide from him. She herself had been to see M. Noiret, who was nolonger so confident and cocksure about recovery. 

I went to see him too, without letting Barty know. I did not likethe man--he was stealthy in look and manner, and priestly and felineand sleek: but he seemed very intelligent, and managed to persuademe that no other treatment was even to be thought of. 

I inquired about him in Brussels, and found his reputation was ofthe highest. What could I do? I knew nothing of such things! Andwhat a responsibility for me to volunteer advice!

I could see that my deep affection for Barty was a source of immensecomfort to Lady Caroline, for whom I conceived a great and warmregard, besides being very much charmed with her. 

She was one of those gentle, genial, kindly, intelligent women ofthe world, absolutely natural and sincere, in whom it is impossiblenot to confide and trust. 

When I left off talking about Barty, because there was reallynothing more to say, I fell into talking about myself: it wasirresistible--she _made_ one! I even showed her Leah's lastphotograph, and told her of my secret aspirations; and she was sowarmly sympathetic and said such beautiful things to me about Leah'sface and aspect and all they promised of good that I have neverforgotten them, and never shall--they showed such a propheticinsight! they fanned a flame that needed no fanning, good heavens!and rang in my ears and my heart all the way to Barge Yard, Bucklersbury--while my eyes were full of Barty's figure as he againwatched me depart by the _Baron Osy_ from the Quai de la Place Vertein Antwerp; a sight that wrung me, when I remembered what amagnificent figure of a youth he looked as he left the wharf atLondon Bridge on the Boulogne steamer, hardly more than two shortyears ago. 

When I got back to London, after spending my Christmas holiday withBarty, I found the beginning of a little trouble of my own. 

My father was abroad; my mother and sister were staying with somefriends in Chiselhurst, and after having settled all businessmatters in Barge Yard I called at the Gibsons', in Tavistock Square, just after dusk. Mrs. Gibson and Leah were at home, and three orfour young men were there, also calling. There had been a party onChristmas-eve. 

I'm afraid I did not think much, as a rule, of the young men I metat the Gibsons'. They were mostly in business, like myself; and whyI should have felt at all supercilious I can't quite see! But I did. Was it because I was very tall, and dressed by Barty's tailor, inJermyn Street? Was it because I knew French? Was it because I was afriend of Barty the Guardsman, who had never been supercilioustowards anybody in his life? Or was it those maternally ancestralIrish Blakes of Derrydown stirring within me?

The simplest excuse I can make for myself is that I was a youngsnob, and couldn't help it. Many fellows are at that age. Some growout of it, and some don't. And the Gibsons were by way of spoilingme, because I was Leah's bosom friend's brother, and I gave myselfairs in consequence. 

As I sat perfectly content, telling Leah all about poor Barty, another visitor was announced--a Mr. Scatcherd, whom I didn't know;but I saw at a glance that it would not do to be supercilious withMr. Scatcherd. He was quite as tall as I, for one thing, if nottaller. His tailor might have been Poole himself; and he wasextremely good-looking, and had all the appearance and manners of aman of the world. He might have been a Guardsman. He was not that, it seemed--only a barrister. 

He had been at Eton, had taken his degree at Cambridge, and ignoredme just as frankly as I ignored Tom, Dick, and Harry--whoever theywere; and I didn't like it at all. He ignored everybody but Leah andher mamma: her papa was not there. It turned out that he was theonly son of the great wholesale furrier in Ludgate Hill, the largesthouse of the kind in the world, with a branch in New York andanother in Quebec or Montreal. He had been called to the bar toplease a whim of his father's. 

He had been at the Gibson party on Christmas-eve, and had paid Leahmuch attention there; and came to tell them that his mother hoped tocall on Mrs. Gibson on the following day. I was savagely glad thathe did not succeed in monopolizing Leah; not even I could do that. She was kind to us all round, and never made any differences in herown house. 

Mr. Scatcherd soon took his departure, and it was then that I heardall about him. 

[Illustration: ENTER MR. SCATCHERD]

There was no doubt that Mr. And Mrs. Gibson were immensely flatteredby the civilities of this very important and somewhat consequentialyoung man, and those of his mother, which were to follow; for withina week the Gibsons and Leah dined with Mr. And Mrs. Scatcherd inPortland Place. 

On this occasion Mr. Gibson was, as usual, very funny, it seems. Whether his fun was appreciated I doubt, for he confided to me thatMr. Scatcherd, senior, was a pompous and stuck-up old ass. Peoplehave such different notions of what is funny. Nobody roared at Mr. Gibson's funniments more than I did; but he was Leah's papa. 

 "Let him joke his bellyful; I'll bear it all for Sally!"

Young Scatcherd was fond of his joke too--a kind of supersubtlysatirical Cambridgy banter that was not to my taste at all; for I amno Cantab, and the wit of the London Stock Exchange is subtle enoughfor me. His father did not joke. Indeed he was full of usefulinformation, and only too fond of imparting it, and he always madeuse of the choicest language in doing so; and Mrs. Scatcherd wasimmensely genteel. 

Young Scatcherd became the plague of my life. The worst of it isthat he grew quite civil--seemed to take a liking. His hobby was tobecome a good French scholar, and he practised his French--which wasuncommonly good of its English kind--on me. And I am bound to saythat his manners were so agreeable (when he wasn't joking), and hewas such a thoroughly good fellow, that it was impossible to snubhim; besides, he wouldn't have cared if I had. 

Once or twice he actually asked me to dine with him at his club, andI actually did; and actually he with me, at mine! And we spokeFrench all through dinner, and I taught him a lot of Frenchschool-boy slang, with which he was delighted. Then he came to seeme in Barge Yard, and I even introduced him to my mother and sister, who couldn't help being charmed with him. He was fond of the bestmusic only (he had no ear whatever, and didn't know a note), andonly cared for old pictures--the National Gallery, and all that; andread no novels but French--Balzac and George Sand--and that only forpractice for he was a singularly pure young man, the purest in allCambridge, and in those days I thought him a quite unforgivableprig. 

So Scatcherd was in my thoughts all day and in my dreams allnight--a kind of incubus; and my mother made herself very unhappyabout him, on Leah's account and mine; except that now and then shewould fancy it was Ida he was thinking of. And that would havepleased my mother very much; and me too!

His mother called on mine, who returned the call--but there was noinvitation for us to dine in Portland Place. 

Nothing of all this interrupted for a moment the bosom-friendshipbetween my sister and Leah; nothing ever altered the genialsweetness of Leah's manners to me, nor indeed the cordiality of herparents: Mr. Gibson could not get on without that big guffaw ofmine, at Whatever he looked or said or did; no Scatcherd could laughas loudly and as readily as I! But I was very wretched indeed, andpoured out my woes to Barty in long letters of poetical Blaze, andhe would bid me hope and be of good cheer in his droll way; and aBlaze letter from him would hearten me up wonderfully--till I wastold of Leah's going to the theatre with Mrs. Scatcherd and her son, or saw his horses and groom parading up and down Tavistock Squarewhile he was at the Gibsons', or heard of his dining there withoutIda or me!

Then one fine day in April (the first, I verily believe) youngScatcherd proposed to Leah--and was refused--unconditionallyrefused--to the deep distress and dismay of her father and mother, who had thoroughly set their hearts on this match; and no wonder!

But Leah was an obstinate young woman, it seems, and thoroughly knewher own mind, though she was so young--not seventeen. 

Was I a happy man? Ah, wasn't I! I was sent to Bordeaux by my fatherthat very week on business--and promised myself I would soon bequite as good a catch or match as Scatcherd himself. I foundBordeaux the sunniest, sweetest town I had ever been in--and theBordelais the jolliest men on earth; and as for the beautifulBordelaises--ma foi! they might have been monkeys, for me! There wasbut one woman among women--one lily among flowers--everything elsewas a weed!

Poor Scatcherd! when I met him, a few days later, he must have beenstruck by the sudden warmth of my friendship--the quick idiomaticcordiality of my French to him. This mutual friendship of ourslasted till his death in '88. And so did our mutual French!

Except Barty, I never loved a man better; two years after hisrefusal by Leah he married my sister--a happy marriage, though achildless one; and except myself, Barty never had a more devotedfriend. And now to Barty I will return. 

Part Sixth

 "From the east to western Ind, No jewel is like Rosalind. Her worth, being mounted on the wind, Through all the world bears Rosalind. All the pictures, fairest lin'd, Are but black to Rosalind. Let no fair be kept in mind, But the fair of Rosalind. 

 * * * * *

 "Thus Rosalind of many parts By heavenly synod was devis'd, Of many faces, eyes, and hearts, To have the touches dearest priz'd. "

 --_As You Like It. _

For many months Barty and his aunt lived their usual life in the Ruedes Ursulines Blanches. 

He always looked back on those dreary months as on a long nightmare. Spring, summer, autumn, and another Christmas!

His eye got worse and worse, and so interfered with the sight of theother that he had no peace till it was darkened wholly. He triedanother doctor--Monsieur Goyers, professor at the liberal universityof Ghent--who consulted with Dr. Noiret about him one day inBrussels, and afterwards told him that Noiret of Louvain, whom hedescribed as a miserable Jesuit, was blinding him, and that he, thisGoyers of Ghent, would cure him in six weeks. 

"Mettez-vous au régime des viandes saignantes!" had said Noiret; andBarty had put himself on a diet of underdone beef and mutton. 

"Mettez-vous au lait!" said Goyers--so he metted himself at themilk, as he called it--and put himself in Goyers's hands; and in sixweeks got so much worse that he went back to Noiret and the regimenof the bleeding meats, which he loathed. 

Then, in his long and wretched _désoeuvrement_, his melancholia, hedrifted into an indiscreet flirtation with a beautiful lady--he (ashad happened before) being more the pursued than the pursuer. And soardent was the pursuit that one fine morning the beautiful ladyfound herself gravely compromised--and there was a bother and a row. 

 "Amour, amour, quand tu nous tiens, On peut bien dire 'Adieu Prudence!'"

All this gave Lady Caroline great distress, and ended mostunhappily--in a duel with the lady's husband, who was a Colonel ofArtillery, and meant business!

They fought with swords in a little wood near Laeken. Barty, whocould have run his fat antagonist through a dozen times during thefive minutes they fought, allowed himself to be badly wounded in theside, just above the hip, and spent a month in bed. He had hoped tomanage for himself a slighter wound, and catch his adversary's pointon his elbow. 

Afterwards, Lady Caroline, who had so disapproved of the flirtation, did not, strange to say, so disapprove of this bloody encounter, andthoroughly approved of the way Barty had let himself be pinked! Andnursed him devotedly; no mother could have nursed him better--nosister--no wife! not even the wife of that Belgian Colonel ofArtillery!

[Illustration: BARTY GIVES HIMSELF AWAY]

"Il s'est conduit en homme de coeur!" said the good Abbé. 

"Il s'est conduit en bon gentilhomme!" said the aristocratic FatherLouis, of the princely house of Aremberg. 

On the other hand, young de Clèves the dragoon, and Monsieur Jeanthe Viscount, who had served as Barty's seconds (I was in America), were very angry with him for giving himself away in this"idiotically quixotic manner. "

Besides which, Colonel Lecornu was a notorious bully, it seems; anda fool into the bargain; and belonged to a branch of the servicethey detested. 

The only other thing worth mentioning is that Barty and Father Louisbecame great friends--almost inseparable during such hours as theDominican could spare from the duties of his professorate. 

It speaks volumes for all that was good in each of them that thisshould have been so, since they were wide apart as the poles inquestions of immense moment: questions on which I will not enlarge, strongly as I feel about them myself--for this is not a novel, but abiography, and therefore no fit place for the airing of one's ownopinion on matters so grave and important. 

When they parted they constantly wrote to each other--an intimatecorrespondence that was only ended by the Father's death. 

Barty also made one or two other friends in Malines, and was oftenin Antwerp and Brussels, but seldom, for more than a few hours, ashe did not like to leave his aunt alone. 

One day came, in April, on which she had to leave him. 

[Illustration: SO NEAR AND YET SO FAR]

A message arrived that her father, the old Marquis (Barty'sgrandfather), was at the point of death. He was ninety-six. He hadexpressed a wish to see her once more, although he had long beenchildish. 

So Barty saw her off, with her maid, by the _Baron Osy_. Shepromised to be back as soon as all was over. Even this short partingwas a pain--they had grown so indispensable to each other. 

Tescheles was away from Antwerp, and the disconsolate Barty wentback to Malines and dined by himself; and little Frau waited on himwith extra care. 

It turned out that her mother had cooked for him a special dish ofconsolation--sausage-meat stewed inside a red cabbage, with applesand cloves, till it all gets mixed up. It is a dish not to be beatenwhen you are young and Flemish and hungry and happy and well (eventhen you mustn't take more than one helping). When you are not allthis it is good to wash it down with half a bottle of the bestBurgundy--and this Barty did (from Vougeot-Conti and Co. ). 

Then he went out and wandered about in the dark and lost himself ina dreamy dædalus of little streets and bridges and canals andditches. A huge comet (Encke's, I believe) was flaring all over thesky. 

He suddenly came across the lighted window of a small estaminet, andwent in. 

It was a little beer-shop of the humblest kind--and just started. Ata little deal table, brand-new, a middle-aged burgher of prosperousappearance was sitting next to the barmaid, who had deserted herpost at the bar--and to whom he seemed somewhat attentive; for theirchairs were close together, and their arms round each other'swaists, and they drank out of the same glass. 

There was no one else in the room, and Barty was about to makehimself scarce, but they pressed him to come in; so he sat atanother little new deal table on a little new straw-bottomed chair, and she brought him a glass of beer. She was a very handsome girl, with a tall, graceful figure and Spanish eyes. He lit a cigar, andshe went back to her beau quite simply--and they all three fell intoconversation about an operetta by Victor Massé, which had beenperformed in Malines the previous night, called _Les Noces deJeannette_. 

The barmaid and her monsieur were trying to remember the beautifulair Jeannette sings as she mends her angry husband's breeches:

 "Cours, mon aiguille, dans la laine! Ne te casse pas dans ma main; Avec de bons baisers demain Jean nous paîra de notre peine!"

So Barty sang it to them; and so beautifully that they were all butmelted to tears--especially the monsieur, who was evidently verysentimental and very much in love. Besides, there was that ineffablecharm of the pure French intonation, so caressing to the Belgianear, so dear to the Belgian soul, so unattainable by Flemish lips. It was one of Barty's most successful ditties--and if I were amiddle-aged burgher of Mechelen, I shouldn't much like to have ayoung French Barty singing "Cours, mon aiguille" to the girl of myheart. 

Then, at their desire, he went on singing things till it was time toleave, and he found he had spent quite a happy evening; nothing gavehim greater pleasure than singing to people who liked it--and hewent singing on his way home, dreamily staring at the rare gas-lampsand the huge comet, and thinking of his old grandfather who laydying or dead: "Cours, mon aiguille, it is good to live--it is goodto die!"

Suddenly he discovered that when he looked at one lamp, another lampclose to it on the right was completely eclipsed--and he soon foundthat a portion of his right eye, not far from the centre, wastotally sightless. 

The shock was so great that he had to lean against a buttress of St. Rombault for support. 

When he got home he tested the sight of his eye with a two-francpiece on the green table-cloth, and found there was no mistake--aportion of his remaining eye was stone-blind. 

He spent a miserable night, and went next day to Louvain, to see theoculist. 

M. Noiret heard his story, arranged the dark room and the lamp, dilated the right pupil with atropine, and made a minute examinationwith the ophthalmoscope. 

Then he became very thoughtful, and led the way to his library andbegged Barty to sit down; and began to talk to him very seriouslyindeed, like a father--patting the while a small Italian greyhoundthat lay and shivered and whined in a little round cot by the fire. 

M. Noiret began by inquiring into his circumstances, which were notnourishing, as we know--and Barty made no secret of them; then heasked him if he were fond of music, and was pleased to hear that hewas, since it is such an immense resource; then he asked him if hebelonged to the Roman Catholic faith, and again was pleased. 

"For"--said he--"you will need all your courage and all yourreligion to hear and bear what it is my misfortune to have to tellyou. I hope you will have more fortitude than another young patientof mine (also an artist) to whom I was obliged to make a similarcommunication. He blew out his brains on my door-step!"

"I promise you I will not do that. I suppose I am going blind?"

"Hélas! mon jeune ami! I grieve to say that the fatal disease, congestion and detachment of the retina, which has so obstinatelyand irrevocably destroyed your left eye, has begun its terrible workon the right. We will fight for every inch of the way. But I fear Imust not give you any hope, after the careful examination I havejust made. It is my duty to be frank with you. "

Then he said much about the will of God, and where true comfort wasto be found, at the foot of the Cross; in fact, he said all he oughtto have said according to his lights, as he fondled his littlegreyhound--and finally took Barty to the door, which he opened forhim, most politely bowing with his black velvet skull-cap; andpocketed his full fee (ten francs) with his usual grace of carelessindifference, and gently shut the door on him. There was nothingelse to do. 

Barty stood there for some time, quite dazed; partly because hispupil was so dilated he could hardly see--partly (he thinks) becausehe in some way became unconscious; although when he woke from thislittle seeming trance, which may have lasted for more than a minute, he found himself still standing upright on his legs. What woke himwas the _sudden consciousness of the north_, which he hadn't feltfor many years; and this gave him extraordinary confidence inhimself, and such a wholesome sense of power and courage that hequickly recovered his wits; and when the glad surprise of this hadworn itself away he was able to think and realize the terrible thingthat had happened. He was almost pleased that his aunt Caroline wasaway. He felt he could not have faced her with such news--it was athing easier to write and prepare her for than to tell by word ofmouth. 

He walked about Louvain for several hours, to tire himself. Then hewent to Brussels and dined, and again walked about the lamp-litstreets and up and down the station, and finally went back toMalines by a late train--very nervous--expecting that the retina ofHis right eye would suddenly go pop--yet hugging himself all thewhile in his renewed old comfortable feeling of companionship withthe north pole, that made him feel like a boy again; thatinexplicable sensation so intimately associated with all the bestreminiscences of his innocent and happy childhood. 

He had been talking to himself like a father all day, though not inthe same strain as M. Noiret; and had almost arrived at framing theprogramme of a possible existence--singing at cafés with hisguitar--singing anywhere: he felt sure of a living for himself, andfor the little boy who would have to lead him about--if the worstcame to the worst. 

If but the feeling of self-orientation which was so necessary to himcould only be depended upon, he felt that in time he would havepluck enough to bear anything. Indeed, total eclipse was lessappalling, in its finality, than that miserable sword of Damocleswhich had been hanging over him for months--robbing him of hismanhood--poisoning all the springs of life. 

Why not make life-long endurance of evil a study, a hobby, and apride; and be patient as bronze or marble, and ever wear aninvincible smile at grief, even when in darkness and alone? Why not, indeed!

And he set himself then and there to smile invincibly, meaning tokeep on smiling for fifty years at least--the blind live long. 

[Illustration: "'HELAS! MON JEUNE AMI . . . '"]

So he chatted to himself, saying _Sursum cor! Sursum corda!_ all theway home; and walking down the Grand Brul, he had a little adventurewhich absolutely gave him a hearty guffaw and sent him almostlaughing to bed. 

There was a noisy squabble between some soldiers and civilians onthe opposite side of the way, and a group of men in blouses werelooking on. Barty stood leaning against a lamp-post, and looked ontoo. 

Suddenly a small soldier rushed at the blouses, brandishing hisshort straight sword (or _coupe-choux_, as it is called in civilianslang), and saying:

"Ça ne vous regarde pas, savez-vous! allez-vous en bien vite, ou jevous . . . "

The blouses fled like sheep. 

Then as he caught sight of Barty he reached at him. 

"Ça ne vous regarde pas, savez-vous!. . . "

(It doesn't concern you. )

"Non--c'est moi qui regarde, savez-vous!" said Barty. 

"Qu'est-ce que vous regardez?"

"Je regarde la lune et les étoiles. Je regarde la comète!"

"Voulez-vous bien vous en aller bien vite?"

"Une autre fois!" says Barty. 

"Allez-vous en, je vous dis!"

"Après-demain!"

"Vous . . . Ne . . . Voulez . . . Pas . . . Vous . . . En . . . Aller?" says thesoldier, on tiptoe, his chest against Barty's stomach, his nosealmost up to Barty's chin, glaring up like a fiend and poising his_coupe-choux_ for a death-stroke. 

"_Non_, sacré petit pousse-cailloux du diable!" roars Barty. 

"Eh bien, restez où vous êtes!" and the little man plunged back intothe fray on the opposite side--and no blood was shed after all. 

Barty dreamt of this adventure, and woke up laughing at it in thesmall hours of that night. Then, suddenly, in the dark, heremembered the horror of what had happened. It overwhelmed him. Herealized, as in a sudden illuminating flash, what life meant for himhence-forward--life that might last for so many years. 

Vitality is at its lowest ebb at that time of night; though thebrain is quick to perceive, and so clear that its logic seemsinexorable. 

It was hell. It was not to be borne a moment longer. It must be putan end to at once. He tried to feel the north, but could not. Hewould kill himself then and there, while his aunt was away; so thatthe horror of the sight of him, after, should at least be sparedher. 

He jumped out of bed and struck a light. Thank Heaven, he wasn'tblind yet, though he saw all the bogies, as he called them, that hadmade his life a burden to him for the last two years--the retinafloating loose about his left eye, tumbling and deforming everylighted thing it reflected--and also the new dark spot in his right. 

He partially dressed, and stole up-stairs to old Torfs'sphotographic studio. He knew where he could find a bottle full ofcyanide of potassium, used for removing finger-stains left by silvernitrate; there was enough of it to poison a whole regiment. That wasbetter than taking a header off the roof. He seized a handful of thestuff, and came down and put it into a tumbler by his bedside andpoured some water over it. 

Then he got his writing-case and a pen and ink, and jumped into bed;and there he wrote four letters: one to Lady Caroline, one to FatherLouis, one to Lord Archibald, and one to me in Blaze. 

The cyanide was slow in melting. He crushed it angrily in the glasswith his penholder--and the scent of bitter-almonds filled the room. Just then the sense of the north came back to him in full; but itonly strengthened his resolve and made him all the calmer. 

He lay staring at the tumbler, watching little bubbles, revelling inwhat remained of his exquisite faculty of minute sight--with afeeling of great peace; and thought prayerfully; lost himself in akind of formless prayer without words--lost himself completely. Itwas as if the wished-for dissolution were coming of its own accord;Nirvana--an ecstasy of conscious annihilation--the blessed end, theend of all! as though he were passing

 ". . . Du sommeil au songe-- Du songe à la mort. "

It was not so. . . . 

 * * * * *

He was aroused by a knock at the door, which was locked. It wasbroad daylight. 

"Il est dix heures, savez-vous?" said little Frauoutside--"voulez-vous votre café dans votre chambre?"

"O Christ!" said Barty--and jumped out of bed. "It's all got to bedone now!"

But something very strange had happened. 

The tumbler was still there, but the cyanide had disappeared; so hadthe four letters he had written. His pen and ink were on the table, and on his open writing-case lay a letter in Blaze--in his ownhandwriting. The north was strong in him. He called out to FincheTorfs to leave his coffee in the drawing-room, and read his blazeletter--and this is what he read:

 "My dear Barty, --Don't be in the least alarmed on reading this hasty scrawl, after waking from the sleep you meant to sleep forever. There is no sleep without a live body to sleep in--no such thing as everlasting sleep. Self-destruction seems a very simple thing--more often a duty than not; but it's not to be done! It is quite impossible not to be, when once you have been. 

 "If I were to let you destroy your body, as you were so bent on doing, the strongest interest I have on earth would cease to exist. 

 "I love you, Barty, with a love passing the love of woman; and have done so from the day you were born. I loved your father and mother before you--and theirs; ça date de loin, mon pauvre ami! And especially I love your splendid body and all that belongs to it--brain, stomach, heart, and the rest; even your poor remaining eye, which is worth all the eyes of Argus!

 "So I have used your own pen and ink and paper, your own right hand and brain, your own cipher, and the words that are yours, to write you this--in English. I like English better than French. 

 "Listen. Monsieur Noiret is a fool; and you are a poor self-deluded hypochondriac. 

 "I am convinced your right eye is safe for many years to come--probably for the rest of your life. 

 "You have quite deceived yourself in fancying that the symptom you perceived in your right eye threatens the disease which has destroyed your left--for the sight of that, alas! is irretrievably gone; so don't trouble about it any more. It will always be charming to _look at_, but it will never _see_ again. Some day I will tell you how you came to lose the use of it. I think I know. 

 "M. Noiret is new to the ophthalmoscope. The old humbug never saw your right retina at all--nor your left one either, for that matter. He only pretended, and judged entirely by what you told him; and you didn't tell him very clearly. He's a Belgian, you know, and a priest, and doesn't think very quick. 

 "_I_ saw your retina, although but with _his_ eye. There is no sign of congestion or coming detachment whatever. That blind portion you discovered is in _every_ eye. It is called the '_punctum coecum_. ' It is where the optic nerve enters the retina and spreads out. It is only with one eye shut that an ordinary person can find it, for each eye supplements this defect of the other. To-morrow morning try the experiment on little Finche Torfs; on any one you meet. You will find it in everybody. 

 "So don't trouble about either eye any more. I'm not infallible, of course; it's only _your_ brain I'm using now. But your brain is infinitely better than that of poor M. Noiret, who doesn't know what his eye really perceives, and takes it for something else! Your brain is the best brain I know, although you are not aware of this, and have never even used it, except for trash and nonsense. But you _shall_--some day. _I'll_ take care of that, and the world shall wonder. 

 "Trust me. Live on, and I will never desert you again, unless you again force me to by your conduct. I have come back to you in the hour of your need. 

 "I have managed to make you, in your sleep, throw away your poison where it will injure nobody but the rats, and no one will be a bit the wiser. I have made you burn your touching letters of farewell; you will find the ashes inside the stove. Yours is a good heart!

 "Now take a cold bath and have a good breakfast, and go to Antwerp or Brussels and see people and amuse yourself. 

 "Never see M. Noiret again. But when your aunt comes back you must both clear out of this depressing priestly hole; it doesn't suit either of you, body or mind. Go to Düsseldorf, in Prussia. Close by, at a village called Riffrath, lives an old doctor, Dr. Hasenclever, who understands a deal about the human heart and something about the human body; and even a little about the human eye, for he is a famous oculist. He can't cure, but he'll give you things that at least will do you no harm. He won't rid you of the eye that remains! You will meet some pleasant English people, whom I particularly wish you to meet, and make friends, and have a holiday from trouble, and begin the world anew. 

 "As to who _I_ am, you shall know in time. My power to help you is very limited, but my devotion to you (for very good reasons) has no limits at all. 

 "Take it that my name is Martia. When you have finished reading this letter look at yourself in your looking-glass and say (loud enough for your own ears to hear you):

 "'I trust you, Martia!'

 "Then I will leave you for a while, and come back at night, as in the old days. Whenever the north is in you, there am ~I~; seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling with your five splendid wits by day--sleeping your lovely sleep at night; but only able to think with _your_ brain, it seems, and then only when you are fast asleep. I only found it out just now, and saved your earthly life, mon beau somnambule! It was a great surprise to me!

 "Don't mention this to any living soul till I give you leave. You will only hear from me on great occasions. 

 "Martia. "

 "P. S. --Always leave something to write with by your bedside at night, in case the great occasion should arise. On ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver!"

Bewildered, beside himself, Barty ran to his looking-glass, andstared himself out of countenance, and almost shouted:

"I trust you, Martia!"

And ceased suddenly to feel the north. 

Then he dressed and went to breakfast. Little Frau thought he hadgone mad, for he put a five-franc piece upon the carpet, and madeher stand a few feet off from it and cover her left eye with herhand. 

"Now follow the point of my stick with your right eye, " says he, "and tell me if the five-franc piece disappears. "

And he slowly drew with the point of his stick an imaginary linefrom the five-franc piece to the left of her, at right angles towhere she stood. When the point of the stick was about two feet fromthe coin, she said:

"Tiens, tiens, I no longer see the piece!"

When the point of the stick had got a foot farther on, she said, "Now I can see the piece again quite plain. "

Then he tried the same experiment on her left eye, rightwards, withthe same result. Then he experimented with equal success on herfather and mother, and found that every eye at No. 36 Rue desUrsulines Blanches had exactly the same blind spot as his own. 

Then off he went to Antwerp to see his friends with a lightheart--the first light heart he had known for many months; but whenhe got there he was so preoccupied with what had happened that hedid not care to see anybody. 

He walked about the ramparts and along the Scheldt, and read andre-read that extraordinary letter. 

Who and what could Martia be?

The reminiscence of some antenatal incarnation of his own soul? Thesoul of some ancestor or ancestress--of his mother, perhaps? or, perhaps, some occult portion of himself--of his own brain inunconscious cerebration during sleep?

As a child and a small boy, and even as a very young man, he hadoften dreamt at night of a strange, dim land by the sea, a landunlike any land he had ever beheld with the waking eye, wherebeautiful aquatic people, mermen and mermaids and charming littlemer-children (of which he was one) lived an amphibious life by day, diving and sporting in the waves. 

Splendid caverns, decorated with precious stones, and hung with softmoss, and shining with a strange light; heavenly music, sweet, affectionate caresses--and then total darkness; and yet one knew whoand what and where everything and everybody was by some keener sensethan that of sight. 

It all seemed strange and delightful, but so vague and shadowy itwas impossible to remember anything clearly; but ever pervading allthings was that feeling of the north which had always been such acomfort to him. 

Was this extraordinary letter the result of some such forgottendream he may have had during the previous night, and which may haveprompted him to write it in his sleep? some internal knowledge ofthe anatomy of his own eye which was denied to him when awake?

Anyhow, it was evidently true about that blind spot in the retina(the _punctum coecum_), and that he had been frightening himself outof his wits for nothing, and that his right eye was really sound;and, all through this wondrous yet simple revelation, it was timethis old hysterical mock-disease should die. 

Once more life was full of hopes and possibilities, and with suchinarticulate and mysterious promptings as he often felt within hissoul, and such a hidden gift to guide them, what might he not oneday develop into?

Then he went and found Tescheles, and they dined together with afamous pianist, Louis Brassin, and afterwards there was music, andBarty felt the north, and his bliss was transcendent as he went backto Malines by the last train--talking to Martia (as he expressed itto himself) in a confidential whisper which he made audible to hisown ear (that she, if it was a she, might hear too); almost praying, in a fervor of hope and gratitude; and begging for further guidance;and he went warmly to sleep, hugging close within himself, somewhereabout the region of the diaphragm, an ineffable imaginary somethingwhich he felt to be more precious than any possession that had everyet been his--more precious even than the apple of his remainingeye; and when he awoke next morning he felt he had been mostblissfully dreaming all night long, but could not remember anythingof his dreams, and on a piece of paper he had left by his bedsidewas written in pencil, in his own blaze:

"You must depend upon yourself, Barty, not on me. Follow your owninstincts when you feel you can do so without self-reproach, and allwill be well with you. --M. "

His instincts led him to spend the day in Brussels, and he followedthem; he still wanted to walk about and muse and ponder, andBrussels is a very nice, gay, and civilized city for such apurpose--a little Paris, with charming streets and shops and acharming arcade, and very good places to eat and drink in, and hearpretty music. 

He did all this, and spent a happy day. 

Ho came to the conclusion that the only way to keenly appreciate andthoroughly enjoy the priceless gift of sight in one eye was to losethat of the other; in the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed is king, and he fully revelled in the royalty that was now his, he hoped, forevermore; but wished for himself as limited a kingdom and as fewsubjects as possible. 

Then back to Malines by the last train--and the sensation of thenorth, and a good-night; but no message in the morning--no messagefrom Martia for many mornings to come. 

He received, however, a long letter from Lady Caroline. 

The old Marquis had died without pain, and with nearly all hisfamily round him; but perfectly childish, as he had been for two orthree years. He was to be buried on the following Monday. 

Barty wrote a long letter in reply, telling his aunt how much betterhe had suddenly become in health and spirits; how he had thought ofthings, and quite reconciled himself at last to the loss of his lefteye, and meant to keep the other and make the best of it he could;how he had heard of a certain Doctor Hasenclever, a famous oculistnear Düsseldorf, and would like to consult him; how Düsseldorf wassuch a healthy town, charming and gay, full of painters andsoldiers, the best and nicest people in the world--and also verycheap. Mightn't they try it?

He was very anxious indeed to go back to his painting, andDüsseldorf was as good a school as any, etc. , etc. , etc. He wrotepages--of the kind he knew she would like, for it was of the kind heliked writing to her; they understood each other thoroughly, he andLady Caroline, and well he knew that she could only be quite happyin doing whatever he had most at heart. 

How he longed to tell her everything! but that must not be. I canimagine all the deep discomfort to poor Barty of having to bediscreet for the first time in his life, of having to keep asecret--and from his beloved Aunt Caroline of all people in theworld!

That was a happy week he spent--mostly in Antwerp among thepainters. He got no more letters from Martia, not for many days tocome; but he felt the north every night as he sank into healthysleep, and woke in the morning full of hope and confidence inhimself--at last _sans peur et sans reproche_. 

One day in Brussels he met M. Noiret, who naturally put on a verygrave face; they shook hands, and Barty inquired affectionatelyafter the little Italian greyhound, and asked what was the Frenchfor "_punctum coecum_. "

Said Noiret: "Ça s'appelle _le point caché_--c'est une portion de larétine avec laquelle on ne peut pas voir. . . . "

Barty laughed and shook hands again, and left the Professor staring. 

Then he was a great deal with Father Louis. They went to Ghenttogether, and other places of interest; and to concerts in Brussels. 

The good Dominican was very sorrowful at the prospect of soon losinghis friend. Poor Barty! The trial it was to him not to reveal hissecret to this singularly kind and sympathetic comrade; not evenunder the seal of confession! So he did not confess at all; althoughhe would have confessed anything to Father Louis, even if FatherLouis had not been a priest. There are the high Catholics, whounderstand the souls of others, and all the difficulties of theconscience, and do not proselytize in a hurry; and the lowCatholics, the converts of the day before yesterday, who will notlet a body be!

Father Louis was a very high Catholic indeed. 

The Lady Caroline Grey, 12A Scamore Place, London, to M. Josselin, 36 Rue des Ursulines Blanches, Malines:

 "My dear little Barty, --Your nice long letter made me very happy--happy beyond description; it makes me almost jealous to think that you should have suddenly got so much better in your health and spirits while I was away: you won't want me any more! That doesn't prevent my longing to get back to you. You must put up with your poor old aunty for a little while yet. 

 "And now for _my_ news--I couldn't write before. Poor papa was buried on Monday, and we all came back here next day. He has left you £200: c'est toujours ça! Everything seems in a great mess. Your Uncle Runswick[1] is going to be very poor indeed; he is going to let Castle Rohan, and live here all the year round. Poor fellow, he looks as old as his father did ten years ago, and he's only sixty-three! If Algy could only make a good marriage! At forty that's easier said than done. 

 [Footnote 1: The new Marquis of Whitby. ]

 "Archibald and his wife are at a place called Monte Carlo, where there are gaming-tables: she gambles fearfully, it seems; and they lead a cat-and-dog life. She is _plus que coquette_, and extravagant to a degree; and he is quite shrunk and prematurely old, and almost shabby, and drinks more brandy than he ought. 

 "Daphne is charming, and is to come out next spring; she will have £3000 a year, lucky child; all out of chocolate. What nonsense we've all talked about trade! We shall all have to take to it in time. The Lonlay-Savignac people were wise in their generation. 

 "And what do you think? Young Digby-Dobbs wants to marry her, out of the school-room! He'll be Lord Frognal, you know; and very soon, for his father is drinking himself to death. 

 "He's in your old regiment, and a great favorite; not yet twenty--he only left Eton last Christmas twelvemonth. She says she won't have him at any price, because he stammers. 

 "She declares you haven't written to her for three months, and that you owe her an illustrated letter in French, with priests and nuns, and dogs harnessed to a cart. 

 "And now for news that will delight you: She is to come abroad with me for a twelvemonth, and wishes to go with you and me to Düsseldorf first! _Isn't_ that a happy coincidence? We would all spend the summer there, and then Italy for the winter; you too, if you can (so you must be economical with that £200). 

 "I have already heard wonders about Dr. Hasenclever, even before your letter came; he cured General Baines, who was given up by everybody here, Lady Palmerston told me; she was here yesterday, by-the-bye, and the Duchess of Bermondsey, and both inquired most kindly after you. 

 "The Duchess looked as handsome as ever, and as proud as a peacock; for last year she presented her niece, Julia Royce, 'the divine Julia, ' the greatest beauty ever seen, I am told--with many thousands a year, if you please--Lady Jane Royce's daughter, an only child, and her father's dead. She's six feet high, so you would go mad about her. She's already refused sixty offers, good ones; among them little Lord Orrisroot, the hunchback, who'll have £1000 a day (including Sundays) when he comes into the title--and that can't be very far off, for the wicked old Duke of Deptford has got creeping paralysis, like his father and grandfather before him, and is now quite mad, and thinks himself a postman, and rat-tats all day long on the furniture. Lady Jane is furious with her for not accepting; and when Julia told her, she slapped her face before the maid!

 "There's another gigantic beauty that people have gone mad about--a Polish pianist, who's just married young Harcourt, who's a grandson of that old scamp the Duke of Towers. 

 "Talking of beauties, whom do you think I met yesterday in the Park? Whom but your stalwart friend Mr. Maurice (_he_ wasn't the beauty), with his sister, your old Paris playfellow, and the lovely Miss Gibson. He introduced them both, and I was delighted with them, and we walked together by the Serpentine; and after five minutes I came to the conclusion that Miss Gibson is as beautiful as it is possible for a dark beauty to be, and as nice as she looks. She isn't dark really, only her eyes and hair; her complexion is like cream: she's a freak of nature. Lucky young Maurice if she is to be his fate--and both well off, I suppose. 

 "Upon my word, if you were King Cophetua and she the beggar-maid, I would give you both my blessing. But how is it you never fell in love with the fair _Ida_? You never told me how handsome she is. She too complained of you as a correspondent, and declares that she gets one letter in return for three she writes you. 

 "I have bought you some pretty new songs, among others one by Charles Kingsley, which is lovely; about three fishermen and their wives: it reminds one of our dear Whitby! I can play the accompaniment in perfection, and all by heart!

 "Give my kindest remembrances to Father Louis and the dear Abbé Lefebvre, and say kind things from me to the Torfses. Martha sends her love to little Frau, and so do I. 

 "We hope to be in Antwerp in a fortnight, and shall put up at the Grand Laboureur. I shall go to Malines, of course, to say good-bye to people. 

 "Tell the Torfses to get my things ready for moving. There will be five of us: I and Martha, and Daphne and two servants of her own; for Daphne's got to take old Mrs. Richards, who won't be parted from her. 

 "Good-bye for the present. My dear boy, I thank God on my knees, night and morning for having given you back to me in my old age. 

 "Your ever affectionate aunt, "Caroline. 

 "P. S. --You remember pretty little Kitty Hardwicke you used to flirt with, who married young St. Clair, who's now Lord Kidderminster? She's just had three at a birth; she had twins only last year; the Queen's delighted. Pray be careful about never getting wet feet--"

One stormy evening in May, Mrs. Gibson drove Ida and Leah and me andMr. Babbage, a middle-aged but very dapper War Office clerk (who wasa friend of the Gibson family), to Chelsea, that we might exploreCheyne Walk and its classic neighborhood. I rode on the box by thecoachman. 

We alighted by the steamboat pier and explored, I walking with Leah. 

We came to a very narrow street, quite straight, the narroweststreet that could call itself a street at all, and rather long; wewere the only people in it. It has since disappeared, with all thatparticular part of Chelsea. 

Suddenly we saw a runaway horse without a rider coming along it atfull gallop, straight at us, with a most demoralizing sharp clatterof its iron hoofs on the stone pavement. 

"Your backs to the wall!" cried Mr. Babbage, and we flattenedourselves to let the maddened brute go by, bridle and stirrupsflying--poor Mrs. Gibson almost faint with terror. 

Leah, instead of flattening herself against the wall, put her armsround her mother, making of her own body a shield for her, andlooked round at the horse as it came tearing up the street, strikingsparks from the flag-stones. 

Nobody was hurt, for a wonder; but Mrs. Gibson was quite overcome. Mr. Babbage was very angry with Leah, whose back the horse actuallygrazed, as he all but caught his hoofs in her crinoline and hit herwith a stirrup on the shoulder. 

I could only think of Leah's face as she looked round at theapproaching horse, with her protecting arms round her mother. It wassuch a sudden revelation to me of what she really was, and itsexpression was so hauntingly impressive that I could think ofnothing else. Its mild, calm courage, its utter carelessness ofself, its immense tenderness--all blazed out in such beautifullines, in such beautiful white and black, that I lost allself-control; and when we walked back to the pier, following therest of the party, I asked her to be my wife. 

She turned very pale again, and the flesh of her chin quivered asshe told me that was _quite impossible--and could never be_. 

I asked her if there was anybody else, and she said there wasnobody, but that she did not wish ever to marry; that, beyond herparents and Ida, she loved and respected me more than anybody elsein the whole world, but that she could never marry me. She was muchagitated, and said the sweetest, kindest things, but put all hopeout of the question at once. 

It was the greatest blow I have ever had in my life. 

Three days after, I went to America; and before I came back I hadstarted in New York the American branch of the house ofVougeot-Conti, and laid the real foundation of the largest fortunethat has ever yet been made by selling wine, and of the longpolitical career about which I will say nothing in these pages. 

On my voyage out I wrote a long blaze letter to Barty, and pouredout all my grief, and my resignation to the decree which I felt tobe irrevocable. I reminded him of that playful toss-up inSouthampton Row, and told him that, having surrendered all claimsmyself, the best thing that could happen to me was that she shouldsome day marry _him_ (which I certainly did not think at alllikely). 

So henceforward, reader, you will not be troubled by your obedientservant with the loves of a prosperous merchant of wines. Had thoseloves been more successful, and the wines less so, you would neverhave heard of either. 

Whether or not I should have been a happier man in the long-run Ireally can't say--mine has been, on the whole, a very happy life, asmen's lives go; but I am bound to admit, in all due modesty, thatthe universe would probably have been the poorer by some verysplendid people, and perhaps by some very splendid things it couldill have spared; and one great and beautifully borne sorrow the lesswould have been ushered into this world of many sorrows. 

 * * * * *

It was a bright May morning (a year after this) when Barty and hisaunt Caroline and his cousin Daphne and their servants left Antwerpfor Düsseldorf on the Rhine. 

At Malines they had to change trains, and spent half an hour at thestation waiting for the express from Brussels and bidding farewellto their Mechlin friends, who had come there to wish them God-speed:the Abbé Lefebvre, Father Louis, and others; and the Torfses, pèreet mère; and little Frau, who wept freely as Lady Caroline kissedher and gave her a pretty little diamond brooch. Barty gave her agold cross and a hearty shake of the hand, and she seemed quiteheart-broken. 

Then up came the long, full train, and their luggage was swallowed, and they got in, and the two guards blew their horns, and they leftMalines behind them--with a mixed feeling of elation and regret. 

They had not been very happy there, but many people had been verykind; and the place, with all its dreariness, had a strange, stillcharm, and was full of historic beauty and romantic associations. 

Passing Louvain, Barty shook his fist at the Catholic University andits scientific priestly professors, who condemned one so lightly toa living death. He hated the aspect of the place, the very smell ofit. 

At Verviers they left the Belgian train; they had reached the limitsof King Leopold's dominions. There was half an hour for lunch in thebig refreshment-room, over which his Majesty and the Queen of theBelgians presided from the wall--nearly seven feet high each ofthem, and in their regal robes. 

Just as the Rohans ordered their repast another English party cameto their table and ordered theirs--a distinguished old gentleman ofnaval bearing and aspect; a still young middle-aged lady, veryhandsome, with blue spectacles; and an immensely tall, fair girl, very fully developed, and so astonishingly beautiful that it almosttook one's breath away merely to catch sight of her; and people weredistracted from ordering their mid-day meal merely to stare at thismagnificent goddess, who was evidently born to be a mother ofheroes. 

These British travellers had a valet, a courier, and two maids, andwere evidently people of consequence. 

Suddenly the lady with the blue spectacles (who had seated herselfclose to the Rohan party) got up and came round the table to Barty'saunt and said:

"You don't remember me, Lady Caroline; Lady Jane Royce!"

And an old acquaintance was renewed in this informalmanner--possibly some old feud patched up. 

Then everybody was introduced to everybody else, and they alllunched together, a scramble!

It turned out that Lady Jane Royce was in some alarm about her eyes, and was going to consult the famous Dr. Hasenclever, and had broughther daughter with her, just as the London season had begun. 

Her daughter was the "divine Julia" who had refused so many splendidoffers--among them the little hunchback Lord who was to have athousand a day, "including Sundays"; a most unreasonable youngwoman, and a thorn in her mother's flesh. 

The elderly gentleman, Admiral Royce, was Lady Jane's uncle-in-law, whose eyes were also giving him a little anxiety. He was a charmingold stoic, by no means pompous or formal, or a martinet, anddeclared he remembered hearing of Barty as the naughtiest boy in theGuards; and took an immediate fancy to him in consequence. 

They had come from Brussels in the same train that had brought theRohans from Malines, and they all journeyed together from Verviersto Düsseldorf in the same first-class carriage, as became Englishswells of the first water--for in those days no one ever thought ofgoing first-class in Germany except the British aristocracy and afew native royalties. 

The divine Julia turned out as fascinating as she was fair, beingpossessed of those high spirits that result from youth and healthand fancy-freedom, and no cares to speak of. She was evidently alsoa very clever and accomplished young lady, absolutely withoutaffectation of any kind, and amiable and frolicsome to the highestdegree--a kind of younger Barty Josselin in petticoats; oddlyenough, so like him in the face she might have been his sister. 

Indeed, it was a lively party that journeyed to Düsseldorf thatafternoon in that gorgeously gilded compartment, though three out ofthe six were in deep mourning; the only person not quite happy beingLady Jane, who, in addition to her trouble about her eyes (which wasreally nothing to speak of), began to fidget herself miserably aboutBarty Josselin; for that wretched young detrimental was evidentlybeginning to ingratiate himself with the divine Julia as no youngman had ever been known to do before, keeping her in fits oflaughter, and also laughing at everything she said herself. 

Alas for Lady Jane! it was to escape the attentions of a far lessdangerous detrimental, and a far less ineligible one, that she hadbrought her daughter with her all the way to Riffrath--"fromCharybdis to Scylla, " as we used to say at Brossard's, putting thecart before the horse, _more Latino_!

I ought also to mention that a young Captain Graham-Reece was apatient of Dr. Hasenclever's just then--and Captain Graham-Reece washeir to the octogenarian Earl of Ironsides, who was one of the fourwealthiest peers in the United Kingdom, and had no directdescendants. 

When they reached Düsseldorf they all went to the BreidenbacherHotel, where rooms had been retained for them, all but Barty, who, as became his humbler means, chose the cheaper hotel Domhardt, whichoverlooks the market-place adorned by the statue of the Elector thatHeine has made so famous. 

He took a long evening walk through the vernal Hof Gardens and bythe Rhine, and thought of the beauty and splendor of the divineJulia; and sighed, and remembered that he was Mr. Nobody of Nowhere, _pictor ignotus_, with only one eye he could see with, and possessedof a fortune which invested in the 3 per cents would bring him injust £6 a year--and made up his mind he would stick to his paintingand keep as much away from her divinity as possible. 

"O Martia, Martia!" he said, aloud, as he suddenly felt the north atthe right of him, "I hope that you are some loving female soul, andthat you know my weakness--namely, that one woman in every tenthousand has a face that drives me mad; and that I can see just aswell with one eye as with two, in spite of my _punctum coecum_! andthat when that face is all but on a level with mine, good Lord! thenam I lost indeed! I am but a poor penniless devil, without a name;oh, keep me from that ten-thousandth face, and cover my retreat!"

Next morning Lady Jane and Julia and the Admiral left forRiffrath--and Barty and his aunt and cousin went in search oflodgings; sweet it was, and bright and sunny, as they strolled downthe broad Allée Strasse; a regiment of Uhlans came along onhorseback, splendid fellows, the band playing the "Lorelei. "

In the fulness of their hearts Daphne and Barty squeezed eachother's hand to express the joy and elation they felt at thepleasantness of everything. She was his little sister once more, from whom he had so long been parted, and they loved each other verydearly. 

"Que me voilà donc bien contente, mon petit Barty--et toi? la jolieville, hein?"

"C'est le ciel, tout bonnement--et tu vas m'apprendre l'allemand, n'est-ce-pas, m'amour?"

"Oui, et nous lirons _Heine_ ensemble; tiens, à propos! regarde lenom de la rue qui fait le coin! _Bolker Strasse!_ c'est là qu'il estné, le pauvre Heine! Ôte ton chapeau!"

(Barty nearly always spoke French with Daphne, as he did with mysister and me, and said "thee and thou. ")

They found a furnished house that suited them in the SchadowStrasse, opposite Geissler's, where for two hours every Thursday andSunday afternoon you might sit for sixpence in a pretty garden anddrink coffee, beer, or Maitrank, and listen to lovely music, anddance in the evening under cover to strains of Strauss, Lanner, andGungl, and other heavenly waltz-makers! With all their faults, theyknow how to make the best of their lives, these good Vaterlanders, and how to dance, and especially how to make music--and also how tofight! So we won't quarrel with them, after all!

Barty found for himself a cheap bedroom, high up in an immense housetenanted by many painters--some of them English and some American. He never forgot the delight with which he awoke next morning andopened his window and saw the silver Rhine among the trees, and thefir-clad hills of Grafenberg, and heard the gay painter fellowssinging as they dressed; and he called out to the good-humored slavyin the garden below:

"Johanna, mein Frühstück, bitte!"

A phrase he had carefully rehearsed with Daphne the evening before. 

And, to his delight and surprise, Johanna understood the mysteriousjargon quite easily, and brought him what he wanted with the mostgood-humored grin he had ever seen on a female face. 

Coffee and a roll and a pat of butter. 

First of all, he went to see Dr. Hasenclever at Riffrath, which wasabout half an hour by train, and then half an hour's walk--animmensely prosperous village, which owed its prosperity to thefamous doctor, who attracted patients from all parts of the globe, even from America. The train that took Barty thither was full ofthem; for some chose to live in Düsseldorf. 

The great man saw his patients on the ground-floor of the König'sHotel, the principal hotel in Riffrath, the hall of which was alwayscrowded with these afflicted ones--patiently waiting each his turn, or hers; and there Barty took his place at four in the afternoon; hehad sent in his name at 10 A. M. , and been told that he would be seenafter four o'clock. Then he walked about the village, which wascharming, with its gabled white houses, ornamented like the cottagesin the Richter albums by black beams--and full of English, many ofthem with green shades or blue spectacles or a black patch over oneeye; some of them being led, or picking their way by means of astick, alas!

Barty met the three Royces, walking with an old gentleman ofaristocratic appearance, and a very nice-looking young one (who wasCaptain Graham-Reece). The Admiral gave him a friendly nod--LadyJane a nod that almost amounted to a cut direct. But the divineJulia gave him a look and a smile that were warm enough to make upfor much maternal frigidity. 

Later on, in a tobacconist's shop, he again met the Admiral, whointroduced him to the aristocratic old gentleman, Mr. BeresfordDuff, secretary to the Admiralty--who evidently knew all about him, and inquired quite affectionately after Lady Caroline, and invitedhim to come and drink tea at five o'clock: a new form of hospitalityof his own invention--it has caught on!

Barty lunched at the König's Hotel table d'hôte, which was crowded, principally with English people, none of whom he had ever met orheard of. But from these he heard a good deal of the Royces andCaptain Graham-Reece and Mr. Beresford Duff, and other smart peoplewho lived in furnished houses or expensive apartments away from therest of the world, and were objects of general interest andcuriosity among the smaller British fry. 

Riffrath was a microcosm of English society, from the lower middle classupwards, with all its respectabilities and incompatibilities anddisabilities--its narrownesses and meannesses and snobbishnesses, itsgossipings and backbitings and toadyings and snubbings--delicate littlesocial things of England that foreigners don't understand!

The sensation of the hour was the advent of Julia, the divine Julia!Gossip was already rife about her and Captain Reece. They had takena long walk in the woods together the day before--with Lady Jane andthe Admiral far behind, out of ear-shot, almost out of sight. 

In the afternoon, between four and five, Barty had his interviewwith the doctor--a splendid, white-haired old man, of benign andintelligent aspect, almost mesmeric, with his assistant sitting byhim. 

He used no new-fangled ophthalmoscope, but asked many questions infairly good French, and felt with his fingers, and had many Germanasides with the assistant. He told Barty that he had lost the sightof his left eye forever; but that with care he would keep that ofthe right one for the rest of his life--barring accidents, ofcourse. That he must never eat cheese nor drink beer. That he (thedoctor) would like to see him once a week or fortnight or so for afew months yet--and gave him a prescription for an eye-lotion anddismissed him happy. 

Half a loaf is so much better than no bread, if you can only countupon it!

Barty went straight to Mr. Beresford Duff's, and there found a veryagreeable party, including the divine Julia, who was singing littlesongs very prettily and accompanying herself on a guitar. 

"'You ask me why I look so pale?'" sang Julia, just as Bartyentered: and red as a rose was she. 

Lady Jane didn't seem at all overjoyed to see Barty, but Julia did, and did not disguise the seeming. 

There were eight or ten people there, and they all appeared to knowabout him, and all that concerned or belonged to him. It was the oldLondon world over again, in little! the same tittle-tattle aboutwell-known people, and nothing else--as if nothing else existed; agenial, easy-going, good-natured world, that he had so often foundcharming for a time, but in which he was never quite happy and hadno proper place of his own, all through that fatal bar-sinister--labarre de bâtardise; a world that was his and yet not his, and inwhose midst his position was a false one, but where every one tookhim for granted at once as one of _them_, so long as he nevertrespassed beyond that sufferance; that there must be no love-makingto lovely young heiresses by the bastard of Antoinette Josselin wastaken for granted also!

[Illustration: "'YOU ASK ME WHY I LOOK SO PALE?'"]

Before Barty had been there half an hour two or three people hadevidently lost their hearts to him in friendship; among them, to LadyJane's great discomfiture, the handsome and amiable Graham-Reece, thecynosure of all female eyes in Riffrath; and when Barty (after verylittle pressing by Miss Royce) twanged her guitar and sang littlesongs--French and English, funny and sentimental--he became, as he hadso often become in other scenes, the Rigoletto of the company; andRiffrath was a kingdom in which he might be court jester in ordinary ifhe chose, whenever he elected to honor it with his gracious andfacetious musical presence. 

So much for his début in that strange little overgrown busyvillage! What must it be like now?

Dr. Hasenclever has been gathered to his fathers long ago, andnobody that I know of has taken his place. All those new hotels andlodging-houses and smart shops--what can they have been turned into?Barracks? prisons? military hospitals and sanatoriums? How dull!

Lady Caroline and Daphne and Barty between them added considerablyto the gayety of Düsseldorf that summer--especially when Royces andReeces and Duffs and such like people came there from Riffrath tolunch, or tea, or dinner, or for walks or drives or rides toGrafenberg or Neanderthal, or steamboatings to Neuss. 

There were one or two other English families in Düsseldorf, livingthere for economy's sake, but yet of the world--of the kind that gotto be friends with the Rohans; half-pay old soldiers and sailors andtheir families, who introduced agreeable and handsome Uhlans andhussars--from their Serene Highnesses the Princes Fritz and Hans vonEselbraten--Himmelsblutwürst--Silberschinken, each passing rich on£200 a year, down to poor Lieutenants von this or von that, withnothing but their pay and their thirty-two quarterings. 

Also a few counts and barons, and princes not serene, but with fineGerman fortunes looming for them in the future, though noneamounting to £1000 a day, like little Lord Orrisroot's!

Soon there was hardly a military heart left whole in the town; Juliahad eaten them all up, except one or two that had been unconsciouslynibbled by little Daphne. 

Barty did not join in these aristocratic revels; he had become apupil of Herr Duffenthaler, and worked hard in his master's studiowith two brothers of the brush--one English, the other American;delightful men who remained his friends for life. 

Indeed, he lived among the painters, who all got to love "der schöneBarty Josselin" like a brother. 

Now and then, of an evening, being much pressed by his aunt, hewould show himself at a small party in Schadow Strasse, and sing andbe funny, and attentive to the ladies, and render himself discreetlyuseful and agreeable all round--and make that party go off. LadyCaroline would have been far happier had he lived with themaltogether. But she felt herself responsible for her innocent andwealthy little niece. 

It was an article of faith with Lady Caroline that no normal andproperly constituted young woman could see much of Barty withoutfalling over head and ears in love with him--and this would never dofor Daphne. Besides, they were first-cousins. So she acquiesced inthe independence of his life apart from them. She was notresponsible for the divine Julia, who might fall in love with himjust as she pleased, and welcome! That was Lady Jane's lookout, andCaptain Graham-Reece's. 

But Barty always dined with his aunt and cousin on Thursdays andSundays, after listening to the music in Geissler's Garden, opposite, and drinking coffee with them there, and also with PrinceFritz and Prince Hans, who always joined the party and smoked theircheap cigars; and sometimes the divine Julia would make one of theparty too, with her mother and uncle and Captain Reece; and the goodpainter fellows would envy from afar their beloved but too fortunatecomrade; and the hussars and Uhlans, von this and von that, wouldfind seats and tables as near the princely company as possible. 

And every time a general officer entered the garden, up stood everyofficer of inferior rank till the great man had comfortably seatedhimself somewhere in the azure sunshine of Julia's forget-me-notwarm glance. 

And before the summer had fulfilled itself, and the roses atGeissler's were overblown, it became evident to Lady Caroline, if tonone other, that Julia had eyes for no one else in the world butBarty Josselin. I had it from Lady Caroline herself. 

But Barty Josselin had eyes only (such eyes as they were) for hiswork at Herr Duffenthaler's, and lived laborious days, except onThursday and Sunday afternoons, and shunned delights, except to dineat the Runsberg Speiserei with his two fellow-pupils, and Henley andArmstrong and Bancroft and du Maurier and others, all painters, mostly British and Yankee; and an uncommonly lively and agreeablerepast that was! And afterwards, long walks by moon or star light, or music at each other's rooms, and that engrossing technical shoptalk that never palls on those who talk it. No Guardsman's talk ofturf or sport or the ballet had ever been so good as this, inBarty's estimation; no agreeable society gossip at Mr. BeresfordDuff's Riffrath tea-parties!

[Illustration: "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY YOU'RE GOING TO PAINT FORHIRE!'"]

Once in every fortnight or so Barty would report himself to Dr. Hasenclever, and spend the day in Riffrath and lunch with the good oldBeresford Duff, who was very fond of him, and who lamented over his lossof caste in devoting himself professionally to art. 

"God bless me--my dear Barty, you don't mean to say you're going topaint for _hire_!"

"Indeed I am, if any one will hire me. How else am I to live?"

"Well, _you_ know best, my dear boy; but I should have thought theRohans might have got you something better than _that_. It's true, Buckner does it, and Swinton, and Francis Grant! But _still_, youknow . . . There _are_ other ways of getting on for a fellow like you. Look at Prince Gelbioso, who ran away with the Duchess of Flitwick!He didn't sing a bit better than you do, and as for looks, you beathim hollow, my dear boy; yet all London went mad about PrinceGelbioso, and so did she; and off she bolted with him, bag andbaggage, leaving husband and children and friends and all! and she'dgot ten thousand a year of her own; and when the Duke divorced herthey were married, and lived happily ever after--in Italy; and someof the best people called upon 'em, by George!. . . Just to spite theDuke!"

Barty felt it would seem priggish or even insincere if he were todisclaim any wish to emulate Prince Gelbioso; so he merely said hethought painting easier on the whole, and not so risky; and the goodBeresford Duff talked of other things--of the divine Julia, and whata good thing it would be if she and Graham-Reece could make a matchof it. 

"Two of the finest fortunes in England, by George! they _ought_ tocome together, if only just for the fun of the thing! Not that sheis a bit in love with him--I'll eat my hat if she is! What a pity_you_ ain't goin' to be Lord Ironsides, Barty!"

Barty frankly confessed _he_ shouldn't much object, for one. 

"But, 'ni l'or ni la grandeur ne nous rendent heureux, ' as we usedto be taught at school. "

"Ah, that's all gammon; wait till you're _my_ age, my young friend, and as poor as _I_ am, " said Beresford Duff. And so the two friendstalked on, Mentor and Telemachus--and we needn't listen any further. 

Part Seventh

 "Old winter was gone In his weakness back to the mountains hoar, And the spring came down From the planet that hovers upon the shore Where the sea of sunlight encroaches On the limits of wintry night; If the land, and the air, and the sea Rejoice not when spring approaches, We did not rejoice in thee, Ginevra!" --Shelley. 

Riffrath, besides its natives and its regular English colony ofresidents, had a floating population that constantly changed. Andevery day new faces were to be found drinking tea with Mr. BeresfordDuff--and all these faces were well known in society at home, youmay be sure; and Barty made capital caricatures of them all, whichwere treasured up and carried back to England; one or two of themturn up now and then at a sale at Christie's and fetch a greatprice. I got a little pen-and-ink outline of Captain Reece there, drawn before he came into the title. I had to give forty-sevenpounds ten for it, not only because it was a speaking likeness ofthe late Lord Ironsides as a young man, but on account of the little"B. J. " in the corner. 

And only the other evening I sat at dinner next to the DowagerCountess. Heavens! what a beautiful creature she still is, with herprematurely white hair and her long thick neck!

And after dinner we talked of Barty--she with that delightfulfrankness that always characterized her through life, I am told:

"Dear Barty Josselin! how desperately in love I was with that man, to be sure! Everybody was--he might have thrown the handkerchief ashe pleased in Riffrath, I can tell you, Sir Robert! He was thehandsomest man I ever saw, and wore a black pork-pie hat and alittle yellow Vandyck beard and mustache; just the color of Turkishtobacco, like his hair! All that sounds odd now, doesn't it?Fashions have changed--but not for the better! And what a figure!and such fun he was! and always in such good spirits, poor boy! andnow he's dead, and it's one of the greatest names in all the world!Well, if he'd thrown that handkerchief at me just about then, Ishould have picked it up--and you're welcome to tell all the worldso, Sir Robert!"

 * * * * *

And next day I got a kind and pretty little letter:

 "Dear Sir Robert, --I was quite serious last night. Barty Josselin was _mes premières amours_! Whether he ever guessed it or not, I can't say. If not, he was very obtuse! Perhaps he feared to fall, and didn't feel fain to climb in consequence. I all but proposed to him, in fact! Anyhow, I am proud my girlish fancy should have fallen on such a man!

 "I told him so myself only last year, and we had a good laugh over old times; and then I told his wife, and she seemed much pleased. I can understand his preference, and am old enough to forgive it and laugh--although there is even now a tear in the laughter. You know his daughter, Julia Mainwaring, is my godchild; sometimes she sings her father's old songs to me:

 "'Petit chagrin de notre enfance Coûte un soupir!'

 "Do you remember?

 "Poor Ironsides knew all about it when he married me, and often declared I had amply made up to him for that and many other things--over and over again. Il avait bien raison; and made of me a very happy wife and a most unhappy widow. 

 "Put this in your book, if you like. 

 "Sincerely yours, "Julia Ironsides. "

Thus time flowed smoothly and pleasantly for Barty all through thesummer. In August the Royces left, and also Captain Reece--they forScotland, he for Algiers--and appointed to meet again in Riffrathnext spring. 

In October Lady Caroline took her niece to Rome, and Barty was leftbehind to his work, very much to her grief and Daphne's. 

He wrote to them every Monday, and always got a letter back on theSaturday following. 

Barty spent the winter hard at work, but with lots of play between, and was happy among his painter fellows--and sketching andcaricaturing, and skating and sleighing with the English whoremained in Düsseldorf, and young von this and young von that. Ihave many of his letters describing this genial, easy life--lettersfull of droll and charming sketches. 

[Illustration: "HE MIGHT HAVE THROWN THE HANDKERCHIEF AS HEPLEASED"]

He does not mention the fair Julia much, but there is no doubt that theremembrance of her much preoccupied him, and kept him from losing hisheart to any of the fair damsels, English and German, whom he skated anddanced with, and sketched and sang to. 

As a matter of fact, he had never yet lost his heart in hislife--not even to Julia. He never said much about his love-makingwith Julia to me. But his aunt did--and I listened between thewords, as I always do. His four or five years' career in London as athoroughgoing young rake had given him a very deep insight intowoman's nature--an insight rare at his age, for all his perceptionswere astonishingly acute, and his unconscious faculty of sympatheticobservation and induction and deduction immense. 

And, strange to say, if that heart had never been touched, it hadnever been corrupted either, and probably for that very reason--thathe had never been in love with these sirens. It is only when truelove fades away at last in the arms of lust that the youthful, manlyheart is wrecked and ruined and befouled. 

He made up his mind that art should be his sole mistresshenceforward, and that the devotion of a lifetime would not be priceenough to pay for her favors, if but she would one day be kind. Hehad to make up for so much lost time, and had begun his wooing solate! Then he was so happy with his male friends! Whatever voidremained in him when his work was done for the day could be sothoroughly filled up by Henley and Bancroft and Armstrong and duMaurier and the rest that there was no room for any other and warmerpassion. Work was a joy by itself; the rest from it as great a joy;and these alternations were enough to fill a life. To how many greatartists had they sufficed! and what happy lives had been led, withno other distraction, and how glorious and successful! Only thedivine Julia, in all the universe, was worthy to be weighed in thescales with these, and she was not for the likes of Mr. Nobody ofNowhere. 

Besides, there was the faithful Martia. Punctually every evening theever-comforting sense of the north filled him as he jumped into bed;and he whispered his prayers audibly to this helpful spirit, orwhatever it might be, that had given him a sign and saved him from acowardly death, and filled his life and thoughts as even no Juliacould. 

And yet, although he loved best to forgather with those of his ownsex, woman meant much for him! There _must_ be a woman somewhere inthe world--a needle in a bottle of hay--a nature that could dovetailand fit in with his own; but what a life-long quest to find her! Shemust be young and beautiful, like Julia--rien que ça!--and as kindand clever and simple and well-bred and easy to live with as AuntCaroline, and, heavens! how many things besides, before poor Mr. Nobody of Nowhere could make her happy, and be made happy by her!

So Mr. Nobody of Nowhere gave it up, and stuck to his work, and mademuch progress, and was well content with things as they were. 

He had begun late, and found many difficulties in spite of his greatnatural facility. His principal stock in trade was his keenperception of human beauty, of shape and feature and expression, male or female--of face or figure or movement; and a great love andappreciation of human limbs, especially hands and feet. 

With a very few little pen-strokes he could give the mostmarvellously subtle likenesses of people he knew--beautiful orordinary or plain or hideous; and the beauty of the beautifulpeople, just hinted in mere outline, was so keen and true andfascinating that this extraordinary power of expressing it amountedto real genius. 

It is a difficult thing, even for a master, to fully render with anordinary steel pen and a drop of common ink (and of a size no biggerthan your little finger nail) the full face of a beautiful woman, let us say; or a child, in sadness or merriment or thoughtfulcontemplation; and make it as easily and unmistakably recognizableas a good photograph, but with all the subtle human charm andindividuality of expression delicately emphasized in a way that nophotograph has ever achieved yet. 

And this he could always do in a minute from sheer memory andunconscious observation; and in another few minutes he would add onthe body, in movement or repose, and of a resemblance so wonderfuland a grace so enchanting, or a humor so happily, naïvely droll, that one forgot to criticise the technique, which was quite that ofan amateur; indeed, with all the success he achieved as an artist, he remained an amateur all his life. Yet his greatest admirers wereamong the most consummate and finished artists of their day, bothhere and abroad. 

It was with his art as with his singing: both were all wrong, yetboth gave extraordinary pleasure; one almost feared that regulartraining would mar the gift of God, so much of the charm we all sokeenly felt lay in the very imperfections themselves--just as oneloved him personally as much for his faults as for his virtues. 

"Il a les qualités de ses défauts, le beau Josselin, " said M. Taineone day. 

"Mon cher, " said M. Renan, "ses défauts sont ses meilleuresqualités. "

So he spent a tranquil happy winter, and wrote of his happiness andhis tranquillity to Lady Caroline and Daphne and Ida and me; andbefore he knew where he was, or we, the almond-trees blossomedagain, and then the lilacs and limes and horse-chestnuts andsyringas; and the fireflies flew in and out of his bedroom at night, and the many nightingales made such music in the Hof gardens that hecould scarcely sleep for them; and other nightingales came to makemusic for him too--most memorable music! Stockhausen, Jenny Ney, Joachim, Madame Schumann; for the triennial Musik festival was heldin Düsseldorf that year (a month later than usual); and musicalfestivals are things they manage uncommonly well in Germany. Barty, unseen and unheard, as becomes a chorus-singer, sang in the chorusesof Gluck's _Iphigenia_, and heard and saw everything for nothing. 

But, before this, Captain Reece came back to Riffrath, and, according to appointment, Admiral Royce and Lady Jane, and Julia, lovelier than ever; and all the sweetness she was so full of rose inher heart and gathered in her eyes as they once more looked on BartyJosselin. 

He steeled and stiffened himself like a man who knew that the divineJulias of this world were for his betters--not for him!Nevertheless, as he went to bed, and thought of the melting gazethat had met his, he was deeply stirred; and actually, though thenorth was in him, he forgot, for the first time in all thattwelvemonth, for the first time since that terrible night inMalines, to say his prayers to Martia--and next morning he found aletter by his bedside in pencil-written blaze of his ownhandwriting:

 "Barty my Beloved, --A crisis has come in your affairs, which are mine; and, great as the cost is to me, I must write again, at the risk of betraying what amounts to a sacred trust; a secret that I have innocently surprised, the secret of a noble woman's heart. 

 "One of the richest girls in England, one of the healthiest and most beautiful women in the whole world, a bride fit for an emperor, is yours for the asking. It is my passionate wish, and a matter of life and death to me, that you and Julia Royce should become man and wife; when you are, you shall both know why. 

 "Mr. Nobody of Nowhere--as you are so fond of calling yourself--you shall be such, some day, that the best and highest in the land will be only too proud to be your humble friends and followers; no woman is too good for you--only one good enough! and she loves you: of that I feel sure--and it is impossible you should not love her back again. 

 "I have known her from a baby, and her father and mother also; I have inhabited her, as I have inhabited you, although I have never been able to give her the slightest intimation of the fact. You are both, physically, the most perfect human beings I was ever in; and in heart and mind the most simply made, the most richly gifted, and the most admirably balanced; and I have inhabited many thousands, and in all parts of the globe. 

 "You, Barty, are the only one I have ever been able to hold communication with, or make to feel my presence; it was a strange chance, that--a happy accident; it saved your life. I am the only one, among many thousands of homeless spirits, who has ever been able to influence an earthly human being, or even make him feel the magnetic current that flows through us all, and by which we are able to exist; all the rappings and table-turnings are mere hysterical imaginations, or worse--the cheapest form of either trickery or self-deception that can be. Barty, your unborn children are of a moment to me beyond anything you can realize or imagine, and Julia must be their mother; Julia Royce, and no other woman in the world. 

 "It is in you to become so great when you are ripe that she will worship the ground you walk upon; but you can only become as great as that through her and through me, who have a message to deliver to mankind here on earth, and none but you to give it a voice--not one. But I must have my reward, and that can only come through your marriage with Julia. 

 "When you have read this, Barty, go straight to Riffrath, and see Julia if you can, and be to her as you have so often been to any women you wished to please, and who were not worth pleasing. Her heart is her own to give, like her fortune; she can do what she likes with them both, and will--her mother notwithstanding, and in the teeth of the whole world. 

 "Poor as you are, maimed as you are, irregularly born as you are, it is better for her that she should be your wife than the wife of any man living, whoever he be. 

 "Look at yourself in the glass, and say at once, "'Martia, I'm off to Riffrath as soon as I've swallowed my breakfast!'

 "And then I'll go about my business with a light heart and an easy mind. 

 "Martia. "

Much moved and excited, Barty looked in the glass and did as he wasbid, and the north left him; and Johanna brought him his breakfast, and he started for Riffrath. 

 * * * * *

All through this winter that was so happily spent by Barty inDüsseldorf things did not go very happily in London for the Gibsons. Mr. Gibson was not meant for business; nature intended him as arival to Keeley or Buckstone. 

He was extravagant, and so was his wife; they were both given tofrequent and most expensive hospitalities; and he to cards, and sheto dressing herself and her daughter more beautifully than quitebecame their position in life. The handsome and prosperous shop inCheapside--the "emporium, " as he loved to call it--was not enough toprovide for all these luxuries; so he took another in ConduitStreet, and decorated it and stocked it at immense expense, andcalled it the "Universal Fur Company, " and himself the "Head of aWest End firm. "

Then he speculated, and was not successful, and his affairs got intotangle. 

And a day came when he found he could not keep up these two shopsand his private house in Tavistock Square as well; the carriage wasput down first--a great distress to Mrs. Gibson; and finally, to herintense grief, it became necessary to give up the pretty houseitself. 

It was decided that their home in future most be over the newemporium in Conduit Street; Mrs. Gibson had a properly constitutedEnglish shopkeeper's wife's horror of living over her husband'sshop--the idea almost broke her heart; and as a little consolation, while the necessary changes were being wrought for their alteredmode of life, Mr. Gibson treated her and Leah and my sister to atrip up the Rhine--and Mrs. Bletchley, the splendid old Jewess(Leah's grandmother), who suffered, or fancied she suffered, in hereyesight, took it into her head that she would like to see thefamous Dr. Hasenclever in Riffrath, and elected to journey withthem--at all events as far as Düsseldorf. I would have escortedthem, but that my father was ill, and I had to replace him in BargeYard; besides, I was not yet quite cured of my unhappy passion, though in an advanced stage of convalescence; and I did not wish toput myself under conditions that might retard my complete recovery, or even bring on a relapse. I wished to love Leah as a sister; intime I succeeded in doing so; she has been fortunate in her brother, though I say it who shouldn't--and, O heavens! haven't I beenfortunate in my sister Leah?

My own sister Ida wrote to Barty to find rooms and meet them at thestation, and fixed the day and hour of their arrival; andcommissioned him to take seats for Gluck's _Iphigenia_. 

She thought more of _Iphigenia_ than of the Drachenfels orEhrenbreitstein; and was overjoyed at the prospect of once morebeing with Barty, whom she loved as well as she loved me, if noteven better. He was fortunate in his sister, too!

And the Rhine in May did very well as a background to all thesedelights. 

So Mr. Babbage (the friend of the family) and I saw them safely onboard the _Baron Osy_ ("the Ank-works package, " as Mrs. Gamp calledit), which landed them safely in the Place Verte at Antwerp; andthen they took train for Düsseldorf, changing at Malines andVerviers; and looked forward eagerly, especially Ida, to the meetingwith Barty at the little station by the Rhine. 

 * * * * *

Barty, as we know, started for Riffrath at Martia's written command, his head full of perplexing thoughts. 

Who was Martia? What was she? "A disembodied conscience?" Whose? Nothis own, which counselled the opposite course. 

He had once seen a man at a show with a third rudimentary legsticking out behind, and was told this extra limb belonged to atwin, the remaining portions of whom had not succeeded in gettingthemselves begotten and born. Could Martia be a frustrated andundeveloped twin sister of his own, that interested herself in hisaffairs, and could see with his eyes and hear with his ears, and hadfound the way of communicating with him during his sleep--and wasyet apart from him, as phenomenal twins are apart from each other, however closely linked--and had, moreover, not managed to have anypart of her body born into this world at all?

She wrote like him; her epistolary style was his very own, everyturn of phrase, every little mannerism. The mystery of itoverwhelmed him again, though he had grown somewhat accustomed tothe idea during the last twelvemonth. _Why_ was she so anxious heshould marry Julia? Had he, situated as he was, the right to win thelove of this splendid creature, in the face of the world'sopposition and her family's--he, a beggar and a bastard? Would it beright and honest and fair to her?

And then, again, was he so desperately in love with her, after all, that he should give up the life of art and toil he had planned forhimself and go through existence as the husband of a rich andbeautiful woman belonging, first of all, to the world and society, of which she was so brilliant an ornament that her husband mustneeds remain in the background forever, even if he were a garteredduke or a belted earl?

What success of his own would he ever hope to achieve, handicappedas he would be by all the ease and luxury she would bring him? Hehad grown to love the poverty which ever lends such strenuousness toendeavor. He thought of an engraving he had once taken a fancy to inBrussels, and purchased and hung up in his bedroom. _I_ have it now!It is after Gallait, and represents a picturesquely poor violinistand his violin in a garret, and underneath is written "Art etliberté. "

Then he thought of Julia's lovely face and magnificent body--and allhis manhood thrilled as he recalled the look in her eyes when theymet his the day before. 

This was the strongest kind of temptation by which his nature couldever be assailed--he knew himself to be weak as water when that camehis way, the ten-thousandth face (and the figure to match)! He hadoften prayed to Martia to deliver him from such a lure. But here wasMartia on the side of the too sweet enemy!

The train stopped for a few minutes at Neanderthal, and he thoughthe could think better if he got out and walked in that beautifulvalley an hour or two--there was no hurry; he would take anothertrain later, in time to meet Julia at Beresford Duff's, where shewas sure to be. So he walked among the rocks, the lonely rocks, andsat and pondered in the famous cave where the skull was found--thatsimple prehistoric cranium which could never have been sopathetically nonplussed by such a dilemma as this when it was ahuman head!

And the more he pondered the less he came to a conclusion. It seemedas though there were the "tug of war" between Martia and all that hefelt to be best in himself--his own conscience, his independence asa man, his sense of honor. He took her letter out of his pocket tore-read, and with it came another letter; it was from my sister, IdaMaurice. It told him when they would arrive in Düsseldorf. 

He jumped up in alarm--it was that very day. He had quite forgotten!

He ran off to the station, and missed a train, and had to wait anhour for another; but he got himself to the Rhine station inDüsseldorf a few minutes before the train from Belgium arrived. 

Everything was ready for the Gibson party--lodgings and tea andsupper to follow--he had seen to all that before; so there he walkedup and down, waiting, and still revolving over and over again in hismind the troublous question that so bewildered and oppressed him. Who was Martia? what was she--that he should take her for a guide inthe most momentous business of his life; and what were hercredentials?

And what was love? Was it love he felt for this young goddess withyellow hair and light-blue eyes so like his own, who towered in herfull-blown frolicsome splendor among the sons and daughters of men, with her moist, ripe lips so richly framed for happy love andlaughter--that royal milk-white fawn that had only lain in the rosesand fed on the lilies of life?

"Oh, Mr. Nobody of Nowhere! be at least a man; let no one ever call youthe basest thing an able-bodied man can become, a fortune-huntingadventurer!"

Then a bell rang, and the smoke of the coming train was visible--tenminutes late. The tickets were taken, and it slowed into the stationand stopped. Ida's head and face were seen peering through one ofthe second-class windows, on the lookout, and Barty opened the doorand there was a warm and affectionate greeting between them; themeeting was joy to both. 

Then he was warmly greeted by Mrs. Gibson, who introduced him to hermother; then he was conscious of somebody he had not seen yetbecause she stood at his blind side (indeed, he had all butforgotten her existence); namely, the presence of a very tall andmost beautiful dark-haired young lady, holding out her slendergloved hand and gazing up into his face with the most piercing andstrangest and blackest eyes that ever were; yet so soft and quickand calm and large and kind and wise and gentle that theirpiercingness was but an added seduction; one felt they could neverpierce too deep for the happiness of the heart they pronged andriddled and perforated through and through!

Involuntarily came into Barty's mind, as he shook the slender hand, a little song of Schubert's he had just learnt:

 "Du dist die Ruh', der Friede mild!"

And wasn't it odd?--all his doubts and perplexities resolvedthemselves at once, as by some enchantment, into a lovely, unexpected chord of extreme simplicity; and Martia was gently butfirmly put aside, and the divine Julia quietly relegated to thegilded throne which was her fit and proper apanage. 

Barty saw to the luggage, and sent it on, and they all went on footbehind it. 

The bridge of boats across the Rhine was open in the middle to let awood-raft go by down stream. This raft from some distant forest wasso long they had to wait nearly twenty minutes; and the prow of ithad all but lost itself in the western purple and gold and dun ofsky and river while it was still passing the bridge. 

All this was new and delightful to the Londoners, who were alsodelighted with the rooms Barty had taken for them in the König'sAllee and the tea that awaited them there. Leah made tea, and gave acup to Barty. That was a good cup of tea, better even than the teaJulia was making (that very moment, no doubt) at Beresford Duff's. 

Then the elder ladies rested, and Barty took Leah and Ida for a walkin the Hof gardens. They were charmed with everything--especiallythe fire-flies at dusk. Leah said little; she was not a verytalkative person outside her immediate family circle. But Ida andBarty had much to say. 

Then home to supper at the Gibsons' lodgings, and Barty sat oppositeLeah, and drank in the beauty of her face, which had so wonderfullyripened and accentuated and individualized itself since he had seenher last, three years before. 

As he discreetly gazed, whenever she was not looking his way, sayingto himself, like Geraint: "'Here by God's rood is the one maid forme, '" he suddenly felt the north, and started with a kind of terroras he remembered Martia. He bade the company a hasty good-night, andwent for a long walk by the Rhine, and had a long talk with hisEgeria. 

"Martia, " said he, in a low but audible voice, "it's no good, I_can't_; c'est plus fort que moi. I can't sell myself to a woman forgold; besides, I can't fall in love with Julia; I don't know why, but I _can't_; I will never marry her. I don't deserve that sheshould care for me; perhaps she doesn't, perhaps you're quitemistaken, and if she does, it's only a young girl's fancy. What doesa girl of that age really know about her own heart? and how base Ishould be to take advantage of her innocence and inexperience!"

And then he went on in a passionate and eager voice to explain allhe had thought of during the day and still further defend hisrecalcitrancy. 

"Give me at least your reasons, Martia; tell me, for God's sake, whoyou are and what! Are you _me_? are you the spirit of my mother? Whydo you love me, as you say you do, with a love passing the love ofwoman? What am I to you? Why are you so bent on worldly things?"

This monologue lasted more than an hour, and he threw himself on tohis bed quite worn out, and slept at once, in spite of thenightingales, who filled the starlit, breezy, balmy night with theirshrill, sweet clamor. 

Next morning, as he expected, he found a letter:

 "Barty, you are ruining me and breaking my life, and wrecking the plans of many years--plans made before you were, born or thought of. 

 "Who am I, indeed? Who is this demure young black-eyed witch that has come between us, this friend of Ida Maurice's?

 "She's the cause of all my misery, I feel sure; with Ida's eyes I saw you look at her; you never yet looked at Julia like that!--never at any woman before!

 "Who is she? No mate for a man like you, I feel sure. In the first place, she is not rich; I could tell that by the querulous complaints of her middle-class mother. She's just fit to be some pious Quaker's wife, or a Sister of Charity, or a governess, or a hospital nurse, or a nun--no companion for a man destined to move the world!

 "Barty, you don't _know_ what you are; you have never _thought_; you have never yet looked _within_!

 "Barty, with Julia by your side and me at your back, you will be a leader of men, and sway the destinies of your country, and raise it above all other nations, and make it the arbiter of Europe--of the whole world--and your seed will ever be first among the foremost of the earth. 

 "Will you give up all this for a pair of bright black eyes and a pretty white skin? Isn't Julia white enough for you?

 "A painter? What a trade for a man built like you! Take the greatest of them; what have they ever really mattered? What do they matter now, except to those who want to imitate them and can't, or to those who live by buying cheap the fruits of their long labors, and selling them dear as so much wall furniture for the vulgar rich? Besides, you will never be a great painter; you've begun too late!

 "Think of yourself ten years hence--a king among men, with the world at your feet, and at those of the glorious woman who will have smoothed your path to greatness and fame and power! Mistress and wife--goddess and queen in one!

 "Think of the poor struggling painter, painting his poor little pictures in his obscure corner to feed half a dozen hungry children and the anxious, careworn wife, whose beauty has long faded away in the petty, sordid, hopeless domestic struggle, just as her husband's little talent has long been wasted and used up in wretched pot-boilers for mere bread; think of poverty, debt, and degradation, and all the miserable ugliness of life--the truest, tritest, and oldest story in the world! Love soon flies out of the window when these wolves snarl at the door. 

 "Think of all this, Barty, and think of the despair you are bringing on one lost lonely soul who loves you as a mother loves her first-born, and has founded such hopes on you; dismiss this pretty little middle-class puritan from your thoughts and go back to Julia. 

 "I will not hurry your decision; I will come back in exactly a week from to-night. I am at your mercy. 

 "Martia. "

This letter made Barty very unhappy. It was a strange dilemma. 

What is it that now and again makes a woman in a single moment takesuch a powerful grip of a man's fancy that he can never shakehimself free again, and never wants to?

Tunes can be like that, sometimes. Not the pretty little tinklingtunes that please everybody at once; the pleasure of them can fadein a year, a month--even a week, a day! But those from a great mint, and whose charm will last a man his lifetime!

Many years ago a great pianist, to amuse some friends (of whom I wasone), played a series of waltzes by Schubert which I had never heardbefore--the "Soirées de Vienne, " I think they were called. They werelovely from beginning to end; but one short measure in particularwas full of such extraordinary enchantment for me that it has reallyhaunted me through life. It is as if it were made on purpose for mealone, a little intimate aside à mon intention--the gainliest, happiest thought I had ever heard expressed in music. For nobodyelse seemed to think those particular bars were more beautiful thanall the rest; but, oh! the difference to me!

And said I to myself: "That's Leah; and all the rest is someheavenly garden of roses she's walking in!"

Tempo di valsa:

 _Rum_--tiddle-iddle _um_ tum tum, _Tid_dle-tiddle-iddle-iddle _um_ tum, tum _Tum_ tiddle iddle-iddle _um_ tum, tum _Tid_dle-iddle, iddle-_hay!_ . . . Etc. , etc. 

That's how the little measure begins, and it goes on just for acouple of pages. I can't write music, unfortunately, and I've nobodyby me at just this moment who can; but if the reader is musical andknows the "Soirées de Vienne, " he will guess the particular waltz Imean. 

Well, the Düsseldorf railway station is not a garden of roses; butwhen Leah stepped out of that second-class carriage and lookedstraight at Barty, _dans le blanc des yeux_, he fitted her to thetune _he_ loved best just then (not knowing the "Soirées deVienne"), and it's one of the tunes that last forever:

 "Du bist die Ruh', der Friede mild!"

Barty's senses were not as other men's senses. With his one eye hesaw much that most of _us_ can't see with two; I feel sure of this. And he suddenly saw in Leah's face, now she was quite grown up, thatwhich bound him to her for life--some veiled promise, I suppose; wecan't explain these things. 

 * * * * *

Barty escorted the Gibson party to Riffrath, and put down Mrs. Bletchley's name for Dr. Hasenclever, and then took them to thewoods of Hammerfest, close by, with which they were charmed. On theway back to the hotel they met Lady Jane and Miss Royce and the goodBeresford Duff, who all bowed to Barty, and Julia's blue glancecrossed Leah's black one. 

"Oh, what a lovely girl!" said Leah to Barty. "What a pity she's sotall; why, I'm sure she's half a head taller than even I, and theymake _my_ life a burden to me at home because I'm such a giantess!Who is she? You know her well, I suppose?"

"She's a Miss Julia Royce, a great heiress. Her father's dead; hewas a wealthy Norfolk Squire, and she was his only child. "

"Then I suppose she's a very aristocratic person; she looks so, I'msure!"

"Very much so indeed, " said Barty. 

"Dear me! it seems unfair, doesn't it, having everything like that;no wonder she looks so happy!"

[Illustration: DR. HASENCLEVER AND MRS. BLETCHLEY]

Then they went back to the hotel to lunch; and in the afternoon Mrs. Bletchley saw the doctor, who gave her a prescription forspectacles, and said she had nothing to fear; and was charming toLeah and to Ida, who spoke French so well, and to the pretty andlively Mrs. Gibson, who lost her heart to him and spoke the mostpreposterous French he had ever heard. 

He was fond of pretty English women, the good German doctor, whatever French they spoke. 

They were quite an hour there. Meanwhile Barty went to BeresfordDuff's, and found Julia and Lady Jane drinking tea, as usual at thathour. 

"Who are your uncommonly well-dressed friends, Barty?" said Mr. Duff. "I never met any of them that _I_ can remember. "

"Well--they're just from London--the elder lady is a Mrs. Bletchley. "

"Not one of the Berkshire Bletchleys, eh?"

"Oh no--she's the widow of a London solicitor. "

"Dear me! And the lovely, tall, black-eyed _damigella_--who's she?"

"She's a Miss Gibson, and her father's a furrier in Cheapside. "

"And the pretty girl in blue with the fair hair?"

"She's the sister of a very old friend of mine, Robert Maurice--he'sa wine merchant. "

"You don't say so! Why, I took them for people of condition!" saidMr. Beresford Duff, who was a trifle old-fashioned in his ways ofspeech. "Anyhow, they're uncommonly nice to look at. "

"Oh yes, " said the not too priggishly grammatical Lady Jane;"nowadays those sort of people dress like duchesses, and thinkthemselves as good as any one. "

"They're good enough for _me_, at all events, " said Barty, who wasnot pleased. 

"I'm sure Miss Gibson's good enough for _anybody in the world_!"said Julia. "She's the most beautiful girl I ever saw!" and she gaveBarty a cup of tea. 

Barty drank it, and felt fond of Julia, and bade them all good-bye, and went and waited in the hall of the König's Hotel for hisfriends, and took them back to Düsseldorf. 

Next day the Gibsons started for their little trip up the Rhine, andBarty was left to his own reflections, and he reflected a greatdeal; not about what he meant to do himself, but about how he shouldtell Martia what he meant to do. 

As for himself, his mind was thoroughly made up: he would break atonce and forever with a world he did not properly belong to, andfight his own little battle unaided, and be a painter--a good one, if he could. If not, so much the worse for him. Life is short. 

When he would have settled his affairs and paid his small debts inDüsseldorf, he would have some ten or fifteen pounds to the good. Hewould go back to London with the Gibsons and Ida Maurice. There wereno friends for him in the world like the Maurices. There was nowoman for him in the world like Leah, whether she would ever carefor him or not. 

Rich or poor, he didn't mind! she was Leah; she had the hands, thefeet, the lips, the hair, the eyes! That was enough for him! He wasabsolutely sure of his own feelings; absolutely certain that thispath was not only the pleasant path he liked, but the right one fora man in his position to follow: a thorny path indeed, but thethorns were thorns of roses!

All this time he was busily rehearsing his part in the chorus of_Iphigenia_; he had applied for the post of second tenor chorister;the conditions were that he should be able to read music at sight. This he could not do, and his utter incapacity was tested at theMahlcasten, before a crowd of artists, by the conductor. Bartyfailed signally, amid much laughter; and he impudently sang quite alittle tune of his own, an improvisation. 

The conductor laughed too; but Barty was admitted all the same; hisvoice was good, and he must learn his part by heart--that was all;anybody could teach him. 

The Gibsons came back to Düsseldorf in time for the performance, which was admirable, in spite of Barty. From his coign of vantage, amongst the second tenors, he could see Julia's head with its goldenfleece; Julia, that rose without a thorn--

 "Het Roosje uit de dorne!"

She was sitting between Lady Jane and the Captain. 

He looked in vain for the Gibsons, as he sang his loudest, yetcouldn't hear himself sing (he was one of a chorus of avengingfuries, I believe). 

But there were three vacant seats in the same row as the Royces'. Presently three ladies, silken hooded and cloaked--one in yellow, one in pink, and one in blue--made their way to the empty places, just as the chorus ceased, and sat down. Just then Orestes(Stockhausen) stood up and lifted his noble barytone. 

 "Die Ruhe kehret mir zurück"--

And the yellow-hooded lady unhooded a shapely little black head, andit was Leah's. 

"_Prosit omen!_" thought Barty--and it seemed as if his whole heartmelted within him. 

He could see that Leah and Julia often looked at each other; hecould also see, during the intervals, how many double-barrelledopera-glasses were levelled at both; it was impossible to say whichof these two lovely women was the loveliest; probably most voteswould have been for Julia, the fair-haired one, the prima donnaassoluta, the soprano, the Rowena, who always gets the biggestsalary and most of the applause. 

The brunette, the contralto, the Rebecca, dazzles less, but touchesthe heart all the more deeply, perhaps; anyhow, Barty had no doubtas to which of the two voices was the voice for him. His passion wasas that of Brian de Bois-Guilbert for mere strength, except that hewas bound by no vows of celibacy. There were no moonlit platonicsabout Barty's robust love, but all the chivalry and tenderness andromance of a knight-errant underlay its vigorous complexity. He wasa good knight, though not Sir Galahad!

Also he felt very patriotic, as a good knight should ever feel, andproud of a country which could grow such a rose as Julia, and such alily as Leah Gibson. 

Next to Julia sat Captain Reece, romantic and handsome as ever, withmanly love and devotion expressed in every line of his face, everymovement of his body; and the heaviest mustache and the mostbeautiful brown whiskers in the world. He was either a hussar or alancer; I forget which. 

"By my halidom, " mentally ejaculated Barty, "I sincerely wish theejoy and life-long happiness, good Sir Wilfred of Ivanhoe. Thou art aright fit mate for her, peerless as she may be among women! Abenison on you both from your poor Wamba, the son of Witless. "

As he went home that night, after the concert, to his tryst withMartia, the north came back to him--through the open window as itwere, with the fire-flies and fragrances, and the song of fiftynightingales. It was for him a moment of deep and harassing emotionand keen anxiety. He leaned over the window-sill and looked out onthe starlit heavens, and whispered aloud the little speech he hadprepared:

"Martia, I have done my best. I would make any sacrifice to obeyyou, but I cannot give up my freedom to love the woman that attractsme as I have never been attracted before. I would sooner live a poorand unsuccessful straggler in the art I have chosen, with her tohelp me live, than be the mightiest man in England without her--evenwith Julia, whom I admire as much, and even more!

"One can't help these things. They may be fancies, and one may liveto repent them; but while they last they are imperious, not to beresisted. It's an instinct, I suppose; perhaps even a form ofinsanity! But I love Leah's little-finger nail better than Julia'slovely face and splendid body and all her thousands. 

"Besides, I will not drag Julia down from her high position in theworld's eye, even for a day, nor owe anything to either man or womanexcept love and fidelity! It grieves me deeply to disappoint you, though I cannot understand your motives. If you love me as you sayyou do, you ought to think of my happiness and honor before myworldly success and prosperity, about which I don't care a button, except for Leah's sake. 

"Besides, I know myself better than you know me. I'm not one ofthose hard, strong, stern, purposeful, Napoleonic men, with wills ofiron, that clever, ambitious women conceive great passions for!

[Illustration: "'MARTIA, I HAVE DONE MY BEST'"]

"I'm only a 'funny man'--a _gringalet-jocrisse!_ And now that I'm quitegrown up, and all my little funniments are over, I'm only fit to sitand paint, with my one eye, in my little corner, with a contented littlewife, who won't want me to do great things and astonish the world. There's no place like home; faire la popotte ensemble au coin dufeu--c'est le ciel!

"And if I'm half as clever as you say, it'll all come out in mypainting, and I shall be rich and famous, and all off my own bat. I'd sooner be Sir Edwin Landseer than Sir Robert Peel, or Pam, orDizzy!

"Even to retain your love and protection and interest in me, which Ivalue almost as much as I value life itself, I can't do as you wish. Don't desert me, Martia. I may be able to make it all up to you someday; after all, you can't foresee and command the future, nor can I. It wouldn't be worth living for if we could! It would all bediscounted in advance!

"I may yet succeed in leading a useful, happy life; and that shouldbe enough for you if it's enough for me, since I am your beloved, and as you love me as your son. . . . Anyhow, my mind is made up forgood and all, and. . . . "

Here the sensation of the north suddenly left him, and he went tohis bed with the sense of bereavement that had punished him all thepreceding week: desperately sad, all but heart-broken, and feelingalmost like a culprit, although his conscience, whatever that wasworth, was thoroughly at ease, and his intent inflexible. 

A day or two after this he must have received a note from Julia, making an appointment to meet him at the Ausstellung, in the AlleeStrasse, a pretty little picture-gallery, since he was seen theresitting in deep conversation with Miss Royce in a corner, and bothseeming much moved; neither the Admiral nor Lady Jane was with them, and there was some gossip about it in the British colony both inDüsseldorf and Riffrath. 

Barty, who of late years has talked to me so much, and with suchaffectionate admiration, of "Julia Countess, " as he called her, never happened to have mentioned this interview; he was veryreticent about his love-makings, especially about any love that wasmade to him. 

I made so bold as to write to Julia, Lady Ironsides, and ask her ifit were true they had met like this, and if I might print heranswer, and received almost by return of post the following kind andcharacteristic letter:

 "96 Grosvenor Square. 

 "Dear Sir Robert, --You're quite right; I did meet him, and I've no objection whatever to telling you how it all happened--and you may do as you like. 

 "It happened just like this (you must remember that I was only just out, and had always had my own way in everything). 

 "Mamma and I and Uncle James (the Admiral) and Freddy Reece (Ironsides, you know) went to the Musikfest in Düsseldorf. Barty was singing in the chorus. I saw him opening and shutting his mouth and could almost fancy I heard him, poor dear boy. 

 "Leah Gibson, as she was then, sat near to me, with her mother and your sister. Leah Gibson looked like--well, _you_ know what she looked like in those days. By-the-way, I can't make out how it is you weren't over head and ears in love with her yourself! I thought her the loveliest girl I had ever seen, and felt very unhappy. 

 "We slept at the hotel that night, and on the way back to Riffrath next morning Freddy Reece proposed to me. 

 "I told him I couldn't marry him--but that I loved him as a sister, and all that; I really was very fond of him indeed, but I didn't want to marry him; I wanted to marry Barty, in fact; and make him rich and famous, as I felt sure he would be some day, whether I married him or not. 

 "But there was that lovely Leah Gibson, the furrier's daughter!

 "When we got home to Riffrath mamma found she'd got a cold, and had a fancy for a French thing called a 'loch'; I think her cold was suddenly brought on by my refusing poor Freddy's offer!

 "I went with Grissel, the maid (who knew about _lochs_), to the Riffrath chemist's, but he didn't even know what we meant--so I told mamma I would go and get a _loch_ in Düsseldorf next day if she liked, with Uncle James. Mamma was only too delighted, for next day was Mr. Josselin's day for coming to Riffrath; but he didn't, for I wrote to him to meet me at twelve at a little picture-gallery I knew of in the Allee Strasse--as I wanted to have a talk with him. 

 "Uncle James had caught a cold too, so I went with Grissel; and found a chemist who'd been in France, and knew what a loch was and made one for me; and then I went to the gallery, and there was poor Barty sitting on a crimson velvet couch, under a picture of Milton dictating _Paradise Lost_ to his daughters (I bought it afterwards, and I've got it now). 

 "We said how d'ye do, and sat on the couch together, and I felt dreadfully nervous and ashamed. 

 "Then I said:

 "'You must think me very odd, Mr. Josselin, to ask you to meet me like this!'

 "'I think it's a very great honor!' he said; 'I only wish I deserved it. '

 "And then he said nothing for quite five minutes, and I think he felt as uncomfortable as I did. 

 [Illustration: AM RHEIN "LED WE NOT THERE A JOLLY LIFE BETWIXT THE SUN AND SHADE?"]

 "'Captain Graham-Reece has asked me to be his wife, and I refused, ' I said. 

 "'Why did you refuse? He's one of the best fellows I've ever met, ' said Barty. 

 "'He's to be so rich, and so am I, ' I said. 

 "No answer. 

 "'It would be right for me to marry a _poor_ man--man with brains and no money, you know, and help him to make his way. '

 "'Reece has plenty of brains too, ' said Barty. 

 "'Oh, Mr. Josselin--don't misunderstand me'--and then I began to stammer and look foolish. 

 "'Miss Royce--I've only got £15 in the world, and with that I mean to go to London and be an artist; and comfort myself during the struggle by the delightful remembrance of Riffrath and Reece and yourself--and the happy hope of meeting you both again some day, when I shall no longer be the poor devil I am now, and am quite content to be! And when you and he are among the great of the earth, if you will give me each a commission to paint your portraits I will do my very best!' (and he smiled his irresistible smile). 'You will be kind, I am sure, to Mr. Nobody of Nowhere, the famous portrait-painter--who doesn't even bear his father's name--as he has no right to it. '

 "I could have flung my arms round his neck and kissed him! What did _I_ care about his father's name?

 "'Will you think me dreadfully bold and indiscreet, Mr. Josselin, if I--if I--' (I stammered fearfully. )

 "'If you _what_, Miss Royce?'

 "'If I--if I ask you if you--if you--think Miss Gibson the most beautiful girl you ever saw?'

 "'Honestly, I think _you_ the most beautiful girl I ever saw!'

 "'Oh, that's _nonsense_, Mr. Josselin, although I ought to have known you would say that! I'm not fit to tie her shoes. What I mean is--a--a--oh! forgive me--are you very _fond_ of her, as I'm sure she deserves, you know?'

 "'Oh yes, Miss Royce, very fond of her indeed; she's poor, she's of no family, she's Miss Nobody of Nowhere, you know; she's all that I am, except that she has a right to her honest father's name--'

 "'Does she _know_ you're very fond of her?'

 "'No; but I hope to tell her so some day. '

 "Then we were silent, and I felt very red, and very much inclined to cry, but I managed to keep in my tears. 

 "Then I got up, and so did he--and he made some joke about Grissel and the loch-bottle; and we both laughed quite naturally and looked at the pictures, and he told me he was going back to London with the Gibsons that very week, and thanked me warmly for my kind interest in him, and assured me he thoroughly deserved it--and talked so funnily and so nicely that I quite forgave myself. I really don't think he guessed for one moment what I had been driving at all the while; I got back all my self-respect; I felt so grateful to him that I was fonder of him than ever, though no longer so idiotically in love. He was not for me. He had somehow laughed me into love with him, and laughed me out of it. 

 "Then I bade him good-bye, and squeezed his hand with all my heart, and told him how much I should like some day to meet Miss Gibson and be her friend if she would let me. 

 "Then I went back to Riffrath and took mamma her loch; but she no longer wanted it, for I told her I had changed my mind about Freddy, and that cured her like magic; and she kissed me on both cheeks and called me her dear, darling, divine Julia. Poor, sweet mamma!

 "I had given her many a bad quarter of an hour, but this good moment made up for them all. 

 "She was eighty-two last birthday, and can still read Josselin's works in the cheap edition without spectacles--thanks, no doubt, to the famous Doctor Hasenclever! She reads nothing else!

 "Et voilà comment ça s'est passé. 

 "It's I that'll be the proud woman when I read this letter, printed, in your life of Josselin. 

 "Yours sincerely, "Julia Ironsides. 

 "P. S. --I've actually just told mamma--and I'm still her dear, darling, divine Julia!"

 * * * * *

Charming as were Barty's remembrances of Düsseldorf, the mostcharming of all was his remembrance of going aboard the littlesteamboat bound for Rotterdam, one night at the end of May, with oldMrs. Bletchley, Mrs. Gibson and her daughter, and my sister Ida. 

The little boat was crowded; the ladies found what accommodationthey could in what served for a ladies' cabin, and expostulated andbribed their best; fortunately for them, no doubt, there were noEnglish on board to bribe against them. 

Barty spent the night on deck, supine, with a carpet-bag for apillow; we will take the full moon for granted. From Düsseldorf toRotterdam there is little to see on either side of a Rhinesteamboat, except the Rhine--especially at night. 

[Illustration: "'DOES SHE _KNOW_ YOU'RE VERY FOND OF HER?'"]

Next day, after breakfast, he made the ladies as comfortable as he couldon the after-deck, and read to them from _Maud_, from the _Idylls of theKing_, from the _Mill on the Floss_. Then windmills came intosight--Dutch windmills; then Rotterdam, almost too soon. They went tothe big hotel on the Boompjes and fed, and then explored Rotterdam, andfound it a most delightful city. 

Next day they got on board the steamboat bound for St. Katharine'swharf; the wind had freshened and they soon separated, and met atbreakfast next morning in the Thames. 

Barty declared he smelt Great Britain as distinctly as one can smella Scotch haggis, or a Welsh rabbit, or an Irish stew, and the oldfamiliar smell made him glad. However little you may be English, ifyou are English at all you are more English than anything else, _etplus royaliste que le Roi_!

According to Heine, an Englishman loves liberty as a good husbandloves his wife; that is also how he loves the land of his birth; atall events, England has a kind of wifely embrace for the home-comingBriton, especially if he comes home by the Thames. 

It is not unexpected, nor madly exciting, perhaps; but it issingularly warm and sweet if the conjugal relations have not beenstrained in the meanwhile. And as the Thames narrows itself, thecloser, the more genial, the more grateful and comforting thislong-anticipated and tenderly intimate uxorious dalliance seems togrow. 

Barty felt very happy as he stood leaning over the bulwarks in thesunshine, between Ida and Leah, and looked at Rotherhithe, andpromised himself he would paint it some day, and even sell thepicture!

Then he made himself so pleasant to the custom-house officers thatthey all but forgot to examine the Gibson luggage. 

Was I delighted to grasp his hand at St. Katharine's wharf, after somany months? Ah!. . . 

Mr. Gibson was there, funny as ever, and the Gibsons went home withhim to Conduit Street in a hired fly. Alas! poor Mrs. Gibson'shome-coming was the saddest part for her of the delightful littlejourney. 

And Barty and Ida and I went our own way in a four-wheeler to eatthe fatted calf in Brunswick Square, washed down with I will not saywhat vintage. There were so many available from all the wine-growinglands of Europe that I've forgotten which was chosen to celebratethe wanderers' return!

Let us say Romané-Conti, which is the "cru" that Barty loved best. 

 * * * * *

Next morning Barty left us early, with a portfolio of sketches underhis arm, and his heart full of sanguine expectation, and spent theday in Fleet Street, or there-abouts, calling on publishers ofillustrated books and periodicals, and came back to us atdinner-time very fagged, and with a long and piteous but very drollstory of his ignominious non-success: his weary waitings in dull, dingy, little business back rooms, the patronizing and snubbing heand his works had met with, the sense that he had everything tolearn--he, who thought he was going to take the publishing world bystorm. 

Next day it was just the same, and the day after, and the day afterthat--every day of the week he spent under our roof. 

Then he insisted on leaving us, and took for himself a room inNewman Street--a studio by day, a bedroom by night, a pleasantsmoking-room at all hours, and very soon a place of rendezvous forall sorts and conditions of jolly fellows, old friends and new, fromGuardsmen to young stars of the art world, mostly idle apprentices. 

Gradually boxing-gloves crept in, and foils and masks, and thefaithful Snowdrop (whose condition three or four attacks of deliriumtremens during Barty's exile had not improved). 

And fellows who sang, and told good stories, and imitated popularactors--all as it used to be in the good old days of St. James'sStreet. 

But Barty was changed all the same. These amusements were no longerthe serious business of life for him. In the midst of all the rackethe would sit at his small easel and work. He declared he couldn'tfind inspiration in silence and solitude, and, bereft of Martia, hecould not bear to be alone. 

Then he looked up other old friends, and left cards and gotinvitations to dinners and drums. One of his first visits was to hisold tailor in Jermyn Street, to whom he still owed money, and whowelcomed him with open arms--almost hugged him--and made him two orthree beautiful suits; I believe he would have dressed Barty fornothing, as a mere advertisement. At all events, he wouldn't hear ofpayment "for many years to come! The finest figure in the wholeHousehold Brigade!--the idea!"

Soon Barty got a few sketches into obscure illustrated papers, andthought his fortune was made. The first was a little sketch in themanner of John Leech, which he took to the _British Lion_, juststarted as a rival to _Punch_. The _British Lion_ died before thesketch appeared, but he got a guinea for it, and bought a beautifulvolume of Tennyson, illustrated by Millais, Holman Hunt, Rossetti, and others, and made a sketch on the fly-leaf of a lovely femalewith black hair and black eyes, and gave it to Leah Gibson. It washis old female face of ten years ago; yet, strange to say, the veryimage of Leah herself (as it had once been that of his mother). 

The great happiness of his life just then was to go to the operawith Mrs. Gibson and Leah and Mr. Babbage (the family friend), whocould get a box whenever he liked, and then to sup with themafterwards in Conduit Street, over the Emporium of the "UniversalFur Company, " and to imitate Signor Giuglini for the delectation ofMr. Gibson, whose fondness for Barty soon grew into absoluteworship!

And Leah, so reserved and self-contained in general company, wouldlaugh till the tears ran down her cheeks; and the music of herlaughter, which was deep and low, rang more agreeably to Barty's earthan even the ravishing strains of Adelina Patti--the last of thegreat prime donne of our time, I think--whose voice still stirs meto the depths, with vague remembrance of fresh girlish innocenceturned into sound. 

Long life to her and to her voice! Lovely voices should never fade, nor pretty faces either!

Sometimes I replaced Mr. Babbage and escorted Mrs. Gibson to theopera, leaving Leah to Barty; for on fine nights we walked there, and the ladies took off their bonnets and shawls in the box, whichwas generally on the upper tier, and we looked down on Scatcherd andmy mother and sister in the stalls. Then back to Conduit Street tosupper. It was easy with half an eye to see the way things weregoing. I can't say I liked it. No man would, I suppose. But Ireconciled myself to the inevitable, and bore up like a stoic. 

L'amitié est l'amour sans ailes! A happy intimate friendship, awingless love that has lasted more than thirty years without abreak, is no bad substitute for tumultuous passions that have missedtheir mark! I have been as close a friend to Barty's wife as toBarty himself, and all the happiness I have ever known has come fromthem and theirs. 

Walking home, poor Mrs. Gibson would confide to me her woes andanxieties, and wail over the past glories of Tavistock Square andall the nice people who lived there, and in Russell Square andBedford Street and Gower Street, many of whom had given up callingon her now that she lived over a shop. Not all the liveliness ofBond Street and Regent Street combined (which Conduit Street sobroadly and genially connected with each other) could compensate herfor the lost gentility, the aristocratic dulness and quiet andrepose, "almost equal to that of a West End square. "

Then she believed that business was not going on well, since Mr. Gibson talked of giving up his Cheapside establishment; he said itwas too much for him to look after. But he had lost much of his fun, and seemed harassed and thin, and muttered in his sleep; and thepoor woman was full of forebodings, some of which were to bejustified by the events that followed. 

About this time Leah, who had forebodings too, took it into her headto attend a class for book-keeping, and in a short time thoroughlymastered the science in all its details. I'm afraid she was betterat this kind of work than at either drawing or music, both of whichshe had been so perseveringly taught. She could read off any musicat sight quite glibly and easily, it is true--the result of hardplodding--but could never play to give real pleasure, and she gaveit up. And with singing it was the same; her voice was excellent andhad been well trained, but when she heard the untaught Barty shefelt she was no singer, and never would be, and left off trying. Yetnobody got more pleasure out of the singing of others--especiallyBarty's and that of young Mr. Santley, who was her pet and darling, and whom she far preferred to that sweetest and suavest of tenors, Giuglini, about whom we all went mad. I agreed with her. Giuglini'svoice was like green chartreuse in a liqueur-glass; Santley's like abumper of the very best burgundy that ever was! Oh that high G!Romané-Conti, again; and in a quart-pot! En veux-tu? en voilà!

And as for her drawing, it was as that of all intelligent youngladies who have been well taught, but have no original talentwhatever; nor did she derive any special pleasure from themasterpieces in the National Gallery; the Royal Academy was far moreto her taste; and to mine, I frankly admit; and, I fear, to Barty'staste also, in those days. Enough of the Guardsman still remained inhim to quite unfit his brain and ear and eye for what was best inliterature and art. He was mildly fond of the "Bacchus and Ariadne, "and Rembrandt's portrait of himself, and a few others; as he was ofthe works of Shakespeare and Milton. But Mantegna and Botticelli andSignorelli made him sad, and almost morose. 

The only great things he genuinely loved and revered were the ElginMarbles. He was constantly sketching them. And I am told that theyhave had great influence on his work and that he owes much to them. I have grown to admire them immensely myself in consequence, thoughI used to find that part of the British Museum a rather drearylounge in the days when Barty used to draw there. 

I am the proud possessor of a Velasquez, two Titians, and aRembrandt; but, as a rule, I like to encourage the art of my owntime and country and that of modern France. 

And I suppose there's hardly a great painter living, or recentlydead, some of whose work is not represented on my walls, either inLondon, Paris, or Scotland; or at Marsfield, where so much of mytime is spent; although the house is not mine, it's my real home;and thither I have always been allowed to send my best pictures, andmy best bric-à-brac, my favorite horses and dogs, and the oldest andchoicest liquors that were ever stored in the cellars ofVougeot-Conti & Co. Old bachelor friends have their privileges, andUncle Bob has known how to make himself at home in Marsfield. 

Barty soon got better off, and moved into better lodgings in BernersStreet; a sitting-room and bedroom at No. 12B, which has nowdisappeared. 

And there he worked all day, without haste and without rest, and atlast in solitude; and found he could work twice as well with nocompanion but his pipe and his lay figure, from which he made mostelaborate studies of drapery, in pen and ink; first in the manner ofSandys and Albert Dürer! later in the manner of Millais, Walker, andKeene. 

Also he acquired the art of using the living model for his littleillustrations. It had become the fashion; a new school had beenfounded with _Once a Week_ and the _Cornhill Magazine_, it seems;besides those already named, there were Lawless, du Maurier, Poynter, not to mention Holman Hunt and F. Leighton; and a host ofnew draughtsmen, most industrious apprentices, whose talk andexample soon weaned Barty from a mixed and somewhat rowdy crew. 

And all became more or less friends of his; a very good thing, forthey were admirable in industry and talent, thorough artists andvery good fellows all round. Need I say they have all risen to fameand fortune--as becomes poetical justice?

He also kept in touch with his old brother officers, and that was agood thing too. 

But there were others he got to know, rickety, unwholesome geniuses, whose genius (such as it was) had allied itself to madness; and whowere just as conceited about the madness as about the genius, andtook more pains to cultivate it. It brought them a quicker kudos, and was so much more visible to the naked eye. 

At first Barty was fascinated by the madness, and took the genius ontrust, I suppose. They made much of him, painted him, wrote musicand verses about him, raved about his Greekness, his beauty, hisyellow hair, and his voice and what not, as if he had been a woman. He even stood that, he admired them so! or rather, this genius oftheirs. 

He introduced me to this little clique, who called themselves aschool, and each other "master": "the neo-priapists, " or somethingof that sort, and they worshipped the tuberose. 

They disliked me at sight, and I them, and we did not dissemble!

Like Barty, I am fond of men's society; but at least I like them tobe unmistakably men of my own sex, manly men, and clean; not littlemisshapen troglodytes with foul minds and perverted passions, orself-advertising little mountebanks with enlarged and diseasedvanities; creatures who would stand in a pillory sooner than not bestared at or talked about at all. 

Whatever their genius might be, it almost made me sick--it almostmade me kick, to see the humorous and masculine Barty prostrate inadmiration before these inspired epicenes, these gifted epileptoids, these anæmic little self-satisfied nincompoops, whose proper place, it seemed to me, was either Earlswood, or Colney Hatch, orBroadmoor. That is, if their madness was genuine, which I doubt. Heand I had many a quarrel about them, till he found them out and cutthem for good and all--a great relief to me; for one got a bad nameby being friends with such nondescripts. 

"Dis-moi qui tu hantes, je te dirai ce que tu es!"

Need I say they all died long ago, without leaving the ghost of aname?--and nobody cared. Poetical justice again! How encouraging itis to think there are no such people now, and that the breed hasbeen thoroughly stamped out![1]

[Footnote 1: Editor. ]

Barty never succeeded as an illustrator on wood. He got into a wayof doing very slight sketches of pretty people in fancy dress andcoloring them lightly, and sold them at a shop in the Strand, now nomore. Then he made up little stories, which he illustrated himself, something like the picture-books of the later Caldecott, and I foundhim a publisher, and he was soon able to put aside a few pounds andpay his debts. 

Part Eighth

 "And now I see with eyes serene The very pulse of the machine; A being breathing thoughtful breath, A traveller betwixt life and death; The reason firm, the temperate will, Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill; A perfect woman, nobly planned To warn and comfort and command; And yet a spirit too and bright With something of an angel-light. " --Wordsworth. 

When Barty had been six months in England, poor Mr. Gibson's affairswent suddenly smash. My father saved him from absolute bankruptcy, and there was lamentation and wailing for a month or so in ConduitStreet; but things were so managed that Mr. Gibson was able to keepon the "West End firm, " and make with it a new start. 

He had long been complaining of his cashier, and had to dismiss himand look out for another; but here his daughter came in and insistedon being cashier herself--(to her mother's horror). 

So she took her place at a railed-in desk at the back of the shop, and was not only cashier and bookkeeper, but overseer of all thingsin general, and was not above seeing any exacting and importunatecustomer whom the shopmen couldn't manage. 

She actually liked her work, and declared she had found her realvocation, and quite ceased to regret Tavistock Square. 

Her authority in the emporium was even greater than her father's, who was too fond of being funny. She awed the shopmen into a kind ofaffectionate servility, and they were prostrate as before a goddess, in spite of her never-failing politeness to them. 

Customers soon got into a way of asking to see Miss Gibson, especially when they were accompanied by husbands or brothers ormale friends; and Miss Gibson soon found she sold better than anyshopman, and became one of the notables in the quarter. 

All Mr. Gibson's fun came back, and he was as proud of his daughteras if she'd been proposed to by an earl. But Mrs. Gibson couldn'thelp shedding tears over Leah's loss of caste--Leah, on whose beautyand good breeding she had founded such hopes; it is but fair to addthat she was most anxious to keep the books herself, so that herdaughter might be spared this degradation; for no "gentleman, " shefelt sure, would ever propose to her daughter now. 

But she was mistaken. 

One night Barty and I dined at a little cagmag he used to frequent, where he fared well--so he said--for a shilling, which included aglass of stout. It was a disgusting little place, but he liked it, and therefore so did I. 

Then we called for Mrs. Gibson and Leah, and took them to thePrincess's to see Fechter in Ruy Blas, and escorted them home, andhad supper with them, a very good supper--nothing ever interferedwith the luxuriously hospitable instincts of the Gibsons--and a verymerry one. Barty imitated Fechter to the life. 

"I 'av ze garrb of a _lacquais_--you 'av ze sôle of _wawn_!"

This he said to Mr. Gibson, who was in fits of delight. Mr. Gibsonhad just come home from his club, and the cards had been propitious;Leah was more reserved than usual, and didn't laugh at Barty, for awonder, but gazed at him with love in her eyes. 

When we left them, Barty took my arm and walked home with me, downOxford Street and up Southampton Row, and talked of Ruy Blas andFechter, whom he had often seen in Paris. 

Just where a little footway leads from the Row to Queen Square andGreat Ormond Street, he stopped and said:

"Bob, do you remember how we tossed up for Leah Gibson at this veryspot?"

"I should think I did, " said I. 

"Well, you had a fair field and no favor, old boy, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, I've long resigned any pretensions, as I wrote you morethan a year ago; you may go in and win--si le coeur t'en dit!"

"Well, then, your congratulations, please. I asked her to marry meas we crossed Regent Circus, Oxford Street, on the way home; ahansom came by and scattered and splashed us. Then we came togetheragain, and just opposite Peter Robinson's, she asked me if my mindwas quite made up--if I was sure I wouldn't ever change. I swore bythe eternal gods, and she said she would be my wife; so there weare, an engaged couple. "

I must ask the reader to believe that I was equal to the occasion, and said what I ought to have said. 

 * * * * *

Mrs. Gibson was happy at last; she was satisfied that Barty was a"gentleman, " in spite of the kink in his birth; and as for hisprospects, money was a thing that never entered Mrs. Gibson's head, and she loved Barty as a son--was a little bit in love with himherself, I believe; she was not yet forty, and as pretty as shecould be. 

Besides, a week after, who should call upon her over the shop--therewas a private entrance of course--but the Right Honorable LadyCaroline Grey and her niece, Miss Daphne Rohan, granddaughter of thelate and niece of the present Marquis of Whitby!

And Mrs. Gibson felt as much at home with them in five minutes as ifshe'd known them all her life. 

Leah was summoned from below, and kissed and congratulated by thetwo aristocratic relatives of Barty's, and relieved of her shynessin a very short time indeed. 

[Illustration: "LEAH WAS SUMMONED FROM BELOW"]

As a matter of fact, Lady Caroline, who knew her nephew well, andthoroughly understood his position, was really well pleased; she hadnever forgotten her impression of Leah when she met her in the park withIda and me a year back, and we all walked by the Serpentine together--acertain kind of beauty seems to break down all barriers of rank; and sheknew Leah's character both from Barty and me, and from her own nativeshrewdness of observation. She had been delighted to hear from Barty ofLeah's resolute participation in her father's troubles, and in hisattempt--so successful through her--to rehabilitate his business. Toher old-fashioned aristocratic way of looking at things, there waslittle to choose between a respectable West End shopkeeper and a medicalpractitioner or dentist or solicitor or architect--or even an artist, like Barty himself. Once outside the Church, the Army and Navy, or aGovernment office, what on earth did it matter _who_ or _what_ one was, or wasn't? The only thing she couldn't stand was that horrid form ofbourgeois gentility, the pretension to seem something better than youreally are. Mrs. Gibson was so naïvely honest in her little laments overher lost grandeur that she could hardly be called vulgar about it. 

Mr. Gibson didn't appear; he was overawed, and distrusted himself. Idoubt if Lady Caroline would have liked anything in the shape ofjocose familiarity; and I fear her naturalness and simplicity andcordiality of manner, and the extreme plainness of her attire, mighthave put him at his ease almost a trifle too much. 

Whether her ladyship would have been so sympathetic about thisengagement if Barty had been a legitimate Rohan--say a son of herown--is perhaps to be doubted; but anyhow she had quite made up hermind that Leah was a quite exceptional person, both in mind andmanners. She has often said as much to me, and has always had ashigh a regard for Barty's wife as for any woman she knows, and hasstill--the Rohans are a long-lived family. She has often told me shenever knew a better, sincerer, nobler, or more sensible woman thanBarty's wife. 

Besides which, as I have been told, the ancient Yorkshire house ofRohan has always been singularly free from aristocratic hauteur;perhaps their religion may have accounted for this, and also theirpoverty. 

This memorable visit, it must be remembered, happened nearly fortyyears ago, when social demarcations in England were far more rigidlydefined than at present; then, the wife of a costermonger with adonkey did not visit the wife of a costermonger who had to wheel hisbarrow himself. 

We are more sensible in these days, as all who like Mr. Chevalier'sadmirable coster-songs are aware. Old Europe itself has become lesstolerant of distinctions of rank; even Austria is becoming so. It isonly in southeastern Bulgaria--and even of this I am not absolutelysure--that the navvy who happens to be of noble birth refuses towork in the same gang with the navvy who isn't; and that's what Icall real "esprit de corps, " without which no aristocracy can everhope to hold its own in these degenerate days. 

Noblesse oblige!

Why, I've got a Lord Arthur in my New York agency, and two Hon'blesin Barge Yard, and another at Cape Town; and devilish good men ofbusiness they are, besides being good fellows all round. They hopeto become partners some day; and, by Jove! they shall. Now I've saidit, I'll stick to it. 

The fact is, I'm rather fond of noble lords: why shouldn't I be? Imight have been one myself any day these last ten years; I mightnow, if I chose; but there! Charles Lamb knew a man who wanted to bea tailor once, but hadn't got the spirit. I find I haven't got thespirit to be a noble lord. Even Barty might have been a lord--he, amere man of letters!--but he refused every honor and distinctionthat was ever offered to him, either here or abroad--even thePrussian order of Merit!

Alfred Tennyson was a lord, so what is there to make such a fussabout. Give me lords who can't help themselves, because they wereborn so, and the stupider the better; and the older--for the olderthey are the grander their manners and the manners of theirwomankind. 

Take, for instance, that splendid old dow, Penelope, Duchess ofRumtifoozleland--I always give nicknames to my grand acquaintances;not that she's particularly old herself, but she belongs to anantiquated order of things that is passing away--for she was aFitztartan, a daughter of the ducal house of Comtesbois (pronouncedCounty Boyce); and she's very handsome still. 

Have you ever been presented to her Grace, O reader?

If so, you must have been struck by the grace of her Grace's manner, as with a ducal gesture and a few courtly words she recognizes thevalue of whatever immense achievements yours must have been to haveprocured you such an honor as such an introduction, and expressesher surprise and regret that she has not known you before. Theformula is always the same, on every possible occasion. I ought toknow, for I've had the honor of being presented to her Grace seventimes this year. 

Now this lofty forgetting of your poor existence--or mine--is notaristocratic hauteur or patrician insolence; it is _bêtise pure etsimple_, as they call it in France. She was a daughter of the houseof Comtesbois, and the Fitztartans were not the inventors ofgunpowder, nor was she. 

But for a stately, magnificent Grande Dame of the ancient régime, tomeet for the seventh time, and be presented to--for the seventhtime--with all due ceremony in the midst of a distinguishedconservative crowd--say at a ball at Buckingham Palace--give mePenelope, Dowager Duchess of Rumtifoozleland!

(This seems a somewhat uncalled-for digression. But, anyhow, itshows that when it pleases me to do so I move in the very bestsociety--just like Barty Josselin. )

 * * * * *

So here was Mr. Nobody of Nowhere taking unto himself a wife fromamong the daughters of Heth; from the class he had always disliked, the buyers cheap and the sellers dear--whose sole aim in life is themaking of money, and who are proud when they succeed and ashamedwhen they fail--and getting actually fond of his future father andmother in law, as I was!

When I laughed to him about old Gibson--John Gilpin, as we used tocall him--being a tradesman, he said:

"Yes; but what an _unsuccessful_ tradesman, my dear fellow!" as ifthat in itself atoned or made amends for everything. 

"Besides, he's Leah's father! And as for Mrs. Gilpin, she's a_dear_, although she's always on pleasure bent; at all events, she'snot of a frugal mind; and she's so pretty and dresses so well--andwhat a foot!--and she's got such easy manners, too; she reminds meof dear Lady Archibald! that's a mother-in-law I shall get onwith. . . . I wish she didn't make such a fuss about living over theshop; I call that being above one's business in every way. "

"Je suis au-dessus de mes affaires, " as old Bonzig proudly said whenhe took a garret over the Mont de Piété, in the Rue des Averses. 

 * * * * *

Barty's courtship didn't last long--only five or six months--duringwhich he made lots of money by sketching little full-lengthportraits of people in outline and filling up with tints inwater-color. He thus immortalized my father and mother, and IdaScatcherd and her husband, and the old Scatcherds, and lots of otherpeople. It was not high art, I suppose; he was not a high artist;but it paid well, and made him more tolerant of trade than ever. 

He took the upper part of a house in Southampton Row, and furnishedit almost entirely with wedding-gifts; among other things, abeautiful semi-grand piano by Érard--the gift of my father. Everything was charming there and in the best taste. 

Leah was better at furnishing a house than at drawing andmusic-making; it was an occupation she revelled in. 

It is not perhaps for me to say that their cellar might hold its ownwith that of any beginners in their rank of life!

Well, and so they were married at Marylebone Church, and I wasBarty's best man (he was to have been mine, and for that verybride). Nobody else was there but the family, and Ida, whose husbandwas abroad; the sun shone, though it was not yet May--and then webreakfasted; and John Gilpin made a very funny speech, though withtears in his voice; and as for poor Maman-belle-mère, as Bartycalled her, she was a very Niobe. 

They went for a fortnight to Boulogne. I wished them joy from thebottom of my heart, and flung a charming little white satin slipperof Mrs. Gibson's; it alighted on the carriage--_our_ carriage, by-the-way; we had just started one, and now lived at LancasterGate. 

It was a sharp pang--almost unbearable, but, also, almost the last. The last was when she came back and I saw how radiant she looked. And as for Barty, he was like

 "the herald Mercury, New lighted on a heaven-kissing hill!"

and he had shaved off his beard and mustache to please his wife. 

 * * * * *

 "From George du Maurier, Esqre. , A. R. W. S. , Hampstead Heath, to the Right Honble. Sir Robert Maurice, Bart. , M. P. :

 "My Dear Maurice, --In answer to your kind letter, I shall be proud and happy to illustrate your biography of Barty Josselin; but as for editing it, _vous plaisantez, mon ami; un amateur comme moi!_ who'll edit the editor? _Quis custodiet?_. . . 

 "You're mistaken about Malines. I only got back there a week or two before he left it. I remember often seeing him there, arm in arm with his aunt, Lady Caroline Grey, and being told that he was a _monsieur anglais, qui avait mal aux yeux_ (like me); but in Düsseldorf, during the following winter, I knew him very well indeed. 

 "We, and the others you tell me you mention, had a capital time in Düsseldorf. I remember the beautiful Miss Royce they were all so mad about, and also Miss Gibson, whom I admired much the most of the two, although she wasn't quite so tall--you know my craze for lovely giantesses. 

 "Josselin and I came to London at about the same time, and there again I saw much of him, and was immensely attracted by him, of course--as we all were, in the very pleasant little artistic clique you tell me you describe; but somehow I was never very intimate with him--none of us were, except, perhaps, Charles Keene. 

 "He went a great deal into smart society, and a little of the guardsman still clung to him, and this was an unpardonable crime in those Bohemian days. 

 "He was once seen walking between two well-known earls, in the Burlington Arcade, arm in arm!

 "Z---- (to whom a noble lord was as a red rag to a bull) all but cut him for this, and we none of us approved of his swell friends, Guardsmen and others. How we've all changed, especially Z----, who hasn't missed a levée for twenty years, nor his wife a drawing-room!

 "Josselin and I acted in a little French musical farce together at Cornelys's; he had a charming voice and sang beautifully, as you know. 

 "Then he married, and a year after I did the same; and though we lived near each other for a little while, we didn't meet very often, beyond dining together once or twice at each other's houses. They lived very much in the world. 

 "It will be very difficult to draw his wife. I really think Mrs. Josselin was the most beautiful woman I ever saw; but she used to be very reserved in those early days, and I never felt quite at my ease with her. I'm sure she was sweetness and kindness itself; she was certainly charming at her own dinner-table, where she was less shy. 

 "Millais's portrait of her is very good, and so is Watts's; but the best idea of her is to be got from Josselin's little outlines in 'The Discreet Princess, ' and these are out of print. If you have any, please lend them to me, and I will faithfully return them. I have more than once tried to draw her in _Punch_, from memory, but never with success. 

 "I used to call her '_La belle dame sans merci. _'

 "I've often, however, drawn Josselin, as you must remember, and people have recognized him at once. Thanks for all his old sketches of school, etc. , which will be very useful. 

 "I wish I had known the Josselins better. But when one lives in Hampstead one has to forego many delightful friendships; and then he grew to be such a tremendous swell! Good heavens!--_Sardonyx_, etc. I never could muster courage even to write and congratulate him. 

 "It never occurred to any of us, either in Düsseldorf or London, to think him what is called _clever_; he never said anything very witty or profound. But he was always funny in a good-natured, jovial manner, and made me laugh more than any one else. 

 "As for satire, good heavens! that seemed not in him. He was always well dressed, always in high spirits and a good temper, and very demonstrative and caressing; putting his arm round one, and slapping one on the back or lifting one up in the air; a kind of jolty, noisy, boisterous boon-companion--rather uproarious, in fact, and with no disdain for a good bottle of wine or a good bottle of beer. His artistic tastes were very catholic, for he was prostrate in admiration before Millais, Burne-Jones, Fred Walker, and Charles Keene, with the latter of whom he used to sing old English duets. Oddly enough, Charles Keene had for Josselin's little amateur pencillings the most enthusiastic admiration--probably because they were the very antipodes of his own splendid work. I believe he managed to get some little initial letters of Josselin's into _Punch_ and _Once a Week_; but they weren't signed, and made no mark, and I've forgotten them. 

 "Josselin didn't really get his foot in the stirrup till a year or two after his marriage. 

 [Illustration: "BETWEEN TWO WELL-KNOWN EARLS"]

 "And that was by his illustrations to his own _Sardonyx_, which are almost worthy of the letter-press, I think; though still somewhat lacking in freedom and looseness, and especially in the sense of tone. The feeling for beauty and character in them (especially that of women and children) is so utterly beyond anything else of the kind that has ever been attempted, that technical considerations no longer count. I think you will find all of us, in or outside the Academy, agreed upon this point. 

 "I saw very little of him after he bought Marsfield; but I sometimes meet his sons and daughters, _de par le monde_. 

 "And what a pleasure that is to an artist of my particular bent you can readily understand. I would go a good way to see or talk to any daughter of Josselin's; and to hear Mrs. Trevor sing, what miles! I'm told the grandchildren are splendid--chips of the old block too. 

 "And now, my dear Maurice, I will do my best; you may count upon that, for old-times' sake, and for Josselin's, and for that of '_La belle dame sans merci_, ' whom I used to admire so enthusiastically. It grieves me deeply to think of them both gone--and all so sudden!

 "Sincerely yours, "George du Maurier. 

 "P. S. --Very many thanks for the Château Yquem and the Steinberger Cabinet; _je tâcherai de ne pas en abuser trop!_

 "I send you a little sketch of Graham-Reece (Lord Ironsides), taken by me on a little bridge in Düsselthal, near Düsseldorf. He stood for me there in 1860. It was thought very like at the time. "

 * * * * *

When the Josselins came back from their honeymoon and were settledin Southampton Row many people of all kinds called on the newlymarried pair; invitations came pouring in, and they went very muchinto the world. They were considered the handsomest couple in Londonthat year, and became quite the fashion, and were asked everywhere, and made much of, and raved about, and had a glorious time till thefollowing season, when somebody else became the fashion, and theyhad grown tired of being lionized themselves, and discovered theywere people of no social importance whatever, as Leah had longperceived; and it did them good. 

Barty was in his element. The admiration his wife excited filled himwith delight; it was a kind of reflected glory, that pleased himmore than any glory he could possibly achieve for himself. 

I doubt if Leah was quite so happy. The grand people, the famouspeople, the clever, worldly people she met made her very shy atfirst, as may be easily imagined. 

She was rather embarrassed by the attentions many smart men paid heras to a very pretty woman, and not always pleased or edified. Herdeep sense of humor was often tickled by this new position in whichshe found herself, and which she put down entirely to the fact thatshe was Barty's wife. 

She never thought much of her own beauty, which had never been mademuch of at home, where beauty of a very different order was admired, and where she was thought too tall, too pale, too slim, andespecially too quiet and sedate. 

Dimpled little rosy plumpness for Mr. And Mrs. John Gilpin, and thenever-ending lively chatter, and the ever-ready laugh that resultsfrom an entire lack of the real sense of humor and a laudable desireto show one's pretty teeth. 

Leah's only vanity was her fondness for being very well dressed; ithad become a second nature, especially her fondness for beautifulFrench boots and shoes, an instinct inherited from her mother. 

For these, and for pretty furniture and hangings, she had the trulyæsthetic eye, and was in advance of her time by at least a year. 

She shone most in her own home--by her great faculty of makingothers at home there, too, and disinclined to leave it. Her instinctof hospitality was a true inheritance; she was good at the orderingof all such things--food, wines, flowers, waiting, every littledetail of the dinner-table, and especially who should be asked tomeet whom, and which particular guests should be chosen to sit byeach other. All things of which Barty had no idea whatever. 

I remember their first dinner-party well, and how pleasant it was. How good the fare, and how simple; and how quick the hiredwaiting--and the wines! how--(but I won't talk of that); and howlively we all were, and how handsome the women. Lady Caroline andMiss Daphne Rohan, Mr. And Mrs. Graham-Reece, Scatcherd and mysister; G. Du Maurier (then a bachelor) and myself--that was theparty, a very lively one. 

After dinner du Maurier and Barty sang capital songs of the quartierlatin, and told stories of the atelier, and even danced a kind ofcancan together--an invention of their own--which they called "_ledernier des Abencerrages_. " We were in fits of laughter, especiallyLady Caroline and Mrs. Graham-Reece. I hope D. M. Has not forgottenthat scene, and will do justice to it in this book. 

There was still more of the Bohemian than the Guardsman left inBarty, and his wife's natural tastes were far more in the directionof Bohemia than of fashionable West End society, as it was called bysome people who were not in it, whatever it consists of; there wasmore of her father in her than her mother, and she was not sensitiveto the world's opinion of her social status. 

[Illustration: "LE DERNIER DES ABENCERRAGES"]

Sometimes Leah and Barty and I would dine together and go to the galleryof the opera, let us say, or to see Fechter and Miss Kate Terry in the_Duke's Motto_, or Robson in Shylock, or the _Porter's Knot_, orwhatever was good. Then on the way home to Southampton Row Barty wouldbuy a big lobster, and Leah would make a salad of it, with innovationsof her own devising which were much appreciated; and then we wouldfeast, and afterwards Leah would mull some claret in a silver saucepan, and then we (Barty and I) would drink and smoke and chat of pleasantthings till it was very late indeed and I had to be turned out neck andcrop. 

And the kindness of the two dear people! Once, when my father andmother were away in the Isle of Wight and the Scatcherds in Paris, Ifelt so seedy I had to leave Barge Yard and go home to LancasterGate. I had felt pretty bad for two or three days. Like all peoplewho are never ill, I was nervous and thought I was going to die, andsent for Barty. 

In less than twenty minutes Leah drove up in a hansom. Barty was inHampton Court for the day, sketching. When she had seen me and howill I looked, off she went for the doctor, and brought him back withher in no time. He saw I was sickening for typhoid, and must go tobed at once and engage two nurses. 

Leah insisted, on taking me straight off to Southampton Row, and thedoctor came with us. There I was soon in bed and the nurses engaged, and everything done for me as if I'd been Barty himself--all this atconsiderable inconvenience to the Josselins. 

And I had my typhoid most pleasantly. And I shall never forget thejoys of convalescence, nor what an angel that woman was in asick-room--nor what a companion when the worst was over; nor how sheso bore herself through all this forced intimacy that no unrulyregrets or jealousies mingled in my deep affection and admirationfor her, and my passionate gratitude. She was such a person to tellall one's affairs to, even dry business affairs! such a listener, and said such sensible things, and sometimes made suggestions thatwere invaluable; and of a discretion! a very tomb for momentoussecrets. 

How on earth Barty would have ever managed to get through existencewithout her is not to be conceived. Upon my word, I hardly see how Ishould have got on myself without these two people to fill my lifewith; and in all matters of real importance to me she was thenearest of the two, for Barty was so light about things, andcouldn't listen long to anything that was at all intricate. Suchmatters bored him, and that extraordinary good sense which underliesall his brilliant criticism of life was apt to fail him in practicalmatters; he was too headstrong and impulsive, and by no meansdiscreet. 

It was quite amusing to watch the way his wife managed him withoutever letting him suspect what she was doing, and how, after hisraging and fuming and storming and stamping--for all his oldfractiousness had come back--she would gradually make him work hisway round--of his own accord, as he thought--to complete concessionall along the line, and take great credit to himself in consequence;and she would very gravely and slowly give way to a delicate littlewink in my direction, but never a smile at what was all so reallyfunny. I've no doubt she often got me to do what she thought rightin just the same way--_à mon insu_--and shot her little wink atBarty. 

 * * * * *

In due time--namely, late in the evening of December 31, 1862--Bartyhailed a hansom, and went first to summon his good friend Dr. Knight, in Orchard Street; and then he drove to Brixton, and woke upand brought back with him a very respectable, middle-aged, andmotherly woman whose name was Jones; and next morning, which was avery sunny, frosty one, my dear little god-daughter was ushered intothis sinful world, a fact which was chronicled the very next day inLeah's diary by the simple entry:

 "Jan. 1. --Roberta was born and the coals came in. "

When Roberta was first shown to her papa by the nurse, he was indespair and ran and shut himself up in his studio, and, I believe, almost wept. He feared he had brought a monster into the world. Hehad always, thought that female babies were born with large blueeyes framed with long lashes, a beautiful complexion of the lily andthe rose, and their shining, flaxen curls already parted in themiddle. And this little bald, wrinkled, dark-red, howling lump ofhumanity all but made him ill. But soon the doctor came and knockedat the door, and said:

"I congratulate you, old fellow, on having produced the mostmagnificent little she I ever saw in my life--bar none; she might beshown for money. "

And it turned out that this was not the coarse, unfeeling chaff poorBarty took it for at first, but the pure and simple truth. 

So, my blessed Roberta, pride of your silly old godfather's heartand apple of his eye, mother of Cupid and Ganymede and Aurora andthe infant Hercules, think of your poor young father weeping insolitude at the first sight of you, because you were so hideous inhis eyes!

You were not so in mine. Next day--you had improved, no doubt--Itook you in my arms and thought well of you, especially your littlehands that were very prehensile, and your little feet turned in, with rosy toes and little pink nails like shiny gems; and I wascomplimented by Mrs. Jones on the skill with which I dandled you. Ihave dandled your sons and daughters, Roberta, and may I live todandle theirs!

So then Barty dried his tears, if he really shed them--and he swearshe did--and went and sat by his wife's bedside, and feltunutterably, as I believe all good men do under similarcircumstances; and lo!--proh!--to his wonderment and delight, in themiddle of it all, the sense of the north came back like a tide, likean overwhelming avalanche. He declared he all but fainted in thedouble ineffability of his bliss. 

That night he arranged by his bedside writing materials chosen withextra care, and before he went to bed he looked out of window at thestars, and filled his lungs with the clean, frozen, virtuous air ofBloomsbury, and whispered a most passionate invocation to Martia, and implored her forgiveness, and went to sleep hugging the thoughtof her to his manly breast, now widowed for quite a month to come. 

Next morning there was a long letter in bold, vigorous Blaze:

 "My more than ever beloved Barty, --It is for me to implore pardon, not for _you_! Your first-born is proof enough to me how right you were in letting your own instinct guide you in the choice of a wife. 

 "Ah! and well now I know her worth and your good-fortune. I have inhabited her for many months, little as she knows it, dear thing!

 "Although she was not the woman I first wanted for you, and had watched so many years, she is all that I could wish, in body and mind, in beauty and sense and goodness of heart and intelligence, in health and strength, and especially in the love with which she has so easily, and I trust so lastingly, filled your heart--for that is the most precious thing of all to me, as you shall know some day, and why; and you will then understand and forgive me for seeming such a shameless egotist and caring so desperately for my own ends. 

 "Barty, I will never doubt you again, and we will do great things together. They will not be quite what I used to hope, but they will be worth doing, and all the doing will be yours. All I can do is to set your brains in motion--those innocent brains that don't know their own strength any more than a herd of bullocks which any little butcher boy can drive to the slaughter-house. 

 "As soon as Leah is well enough you must tell her all about me--all you know, that is. She won't believe you at first, and she'll think you've gone mad; but she'll have to believe you in time, and she's to be trusted with any secret, and so will you be when once you've shared it with her. 

 "(By-the-way, I wish you weren't so slipshod and colloquial in your English, Barty--Guardsman's English, I suppose--which I have to use, as it's yours; your French is much more educated and correct. You remember dear M. Durosier at the Pension Brossard? he taught you well. You must read, and cultivate a decent English style, for the bulk of our joint work must be in English, I think; and I can only use your own words to make you immortal, and your own way of using them. )

 "We will be simple, Barty--as simple as Lemuel Gulliver and the good Robinson Crusoe--and cultivate a fondness for words of one syllable, and if that doesn't do we'll try French. 

 "Now listen, or, rather, read:

 "First of all, I will write out for you a list of books, which you must study whenever you feel I'm inside you--and this more for me than for yourself. Those marked with a cross you must read constantly and carefully at home, the others you must read at the British Museum. 

 "Get a reading ticket at once, and read the books in the order I put down. Never forget to leave paper and pencil by your bedside. Leah will soon get accustomed to your quiet somnambulism; I will never trouble your rest for more than an hour or so each night, but you can make up for it by staying in bed an hour or two longer. You will have to work during the day from the pencil notes in Blaze you will have written during the night, and in the evening, or at any time you are conscious of my presence, read what you have written during the day, and leave it by your bedside when you go to bed, that I may make you correct and alter and suggest--during your sleep. 

 "Only write on one side of a page, leaving a margin and plenty of space between the lines, and let it be in copybooks, so that the page on the left-hand side be left for additions and corrections from my Blaze notes, and so forth; you'll soon get into the way of it. 

 "Then when each copybook is complete--I will let you know--get Leah to copy it out; she writes a very good, legible business hand. All will arrange itself. . . . 

 "And now, get the books and begin reading them. I shall not be ready to write, nor will you, for more than a month. 

 "Keep this from everybody but Leah; don't even mention it to Maurice until I give you leave--not but what's he's to be thoroughly trusted. You are fortunate in your wife and your friend--I hope the day will come when you will find you have been fortunate in your

 "Martia. "

Here follows a list of books, but it has been more or less carefullyerased; and though some of the names are still to be made out, Iconclude that Barty did not wish them to be made public. 

 * * * * *

Before Roberta was born, Leah had reserved herself an hour everymorning and every afternoon for what she called the cultivation ofher mind--the careful reading of good standard books, French andEnglish, that she might qualify herself in time, as she said, forthe intellectual society in which she hoped to mix some day; shebuilt castles in the air, being somewhat of a hero-worshipper insecret, and dreamt of meeting her heroes in the flesh, now that shewas Barty's wife. 

But when she became a mother there was not only Roberta who requiredmuch attention, but Barty himself made great calls upon her timebesides. 

To his friends' astonishment he had taken it into his head to writea book. Good heavens! Barty writing a book! What on earth could thedear boy have to write about?

He wrote much of the book at night in bed, and corrected and put itinto shape during the daytime; and finally Leah had to copy it allout neatly in her best handwriting, and this copying out of Barty'sbooks became to her an all but daily task for many years--a happylabor of love, and one she would depute to no one else; no hiredhand should interfere with these precious productions of herhusband's genius. So that most of the standard works, English andFrench, that she grew to thoroughly master were of her husband'swriting--not a bad education, I venture to think!

Besides, it was more in her nature and in the circumstances of herlife that she should become a woman of business and a woman of theworld rather than a reader of books--one who grew to thoroughlyunderstand life as it presented itself to her; and men and women, and especially children; and the management of a large and muchfrequented house; for they soon moved away from Southampton Row. 

She quickly arrived at a complete mastery of all such science asthis--and it is a science; such a mastery as I have never seensurpassed by any other woman, of whatever world. She would have madea splendid Marchioness of Whitby, this daughter of a low-comedy JohnGilpin; she would have beaten the Whitby record!

She developed into a woman of the world in the best sense--full ofsympathy, full of observation and quick understanding of others'needs and thoughts and feelings; absolutely sincere, of a constantand even temper, and a cheerfulness that never failed--the result ofher splendid health; without caprice, without a spark of vanity, without selfishness of any kind--generous, open-handed, charitableto a fault; always taking the large and generous view of everythingand everybody; a little impulsive perhaps, but not often having toregret her impulses; of unwearied devotion to her husband, andcapable of any heroism or self-sacrifice for his sake; of that Ifeel sure. 

No one is perfect, of course. Unfortunately, she was apt to besomewhat jealous at first of his singularly catholic and veryfrankly expressed admiration of every opposite type of femalebeauty; but she soon grew to see that there was safety in numbers, and she was made to feel in time that her own type was the arch-typeof all in his eyes, and herself the arch-representative of that typein his heart. 

She was also jealous in her friendships, and was not happy unlessconstantly assured of her friends' warm love--Ida's, mine, even thatof her own father and mother. Good heavens! had ever a woman lesscause for doubt or complaint on that score!

Then, like all extremely conscientious people who always know theirown mind and do their very best, she did not like to be found faultwith; she secretly found such fault with herself that she thoughtthat was fault-finding enough. Also, she was somewhat rigid insticking to the ways she thought were right, and in the selection ofthese ways she was not always quite infallible. _On a les défauts deses qualités_; and a little obstinacy is often the fault of a verynoble quality indeed!

Though somewhat shy and standoffish during the first year or two ofher married life, she soon became "_joliment dégourdie_, " as Bartycalled it; and I can scarcely conceive any position in which shewould have been awkward or embarrassed for a moment, so ready wasshe always with just the right thing to say--or to withhold, ifsilence were better than speech; and her fit and proper place in theworld as a great man's wife--and a good and beautiful woman--wasalways conceded to her with due honor, even by the most impertinentamong the highly placed of her own sex, without any necessity forself-assertion on her part whatever--without assumption of any kind. 

It was a strange and peculiar personal ascendency she managed toexert with so little effort, an ascendency partly physical, nodoubt; and the practice of it had begun in the West End emporium ofthe "Universal Fur Company, Limited. "

[Illustration: "SARDONYX"]

How admirably she filled the high and arduous position of wife to such aman as Barty Josselin is well known to the world at large. It was nosinecure! but she gloried in it; and to her thorough apprehension andmanagement of their joint lives and all that came of them, as well as toher beauty and sense and genial warmth, was due her great popularity formany years in an immense and ever-widening circle, where the memory ofher is still preserved and cherished as one of the most remarkable womenof her time. 

With all this power of passionate self-surrender to her husband inall things, little and big, she was not of the type that cannot seethe faults of the beloved one, and Barty was very often franklypulled up for his shortcomings, and by no means had it all his ownway when his own way wasn't good for him. She was a person to reckonwith, and incapable of the slightest flattery, even to Barty, whowas so fond of it from her, and in spite of her unbounded admirationfor him. 

Such was your mother, my dear Roberta, in the bloom of her earlytwenties and ever after; till her death, in fact--on the dayfollowing his!

 * * * * *

Somewhere about the spring of 1863 she said to me:

"Bob, Barty has written a book. Either I'm an idiot, or blinded byconjugal conceit, or else Barty's book--which I've copied out myselfin my very best handwriting--is one of the most beautiful andimportant books ever written. Come and dine with me to-night;Barty's dining in the City with the Fishmongers--you shall have whatyou like best: pickled pork and pease-pudding, a dressed crab and aWelsh rabbit to follow, and draught stout--and after dinner I willread you the beginning of _Sardonyx_--that's what he's calledit--and I should like to have your opinion. "

I dined with her as she wished. We were alone, and she told me howhe wrote every night in bed, in a kind of ecstasy--between two andfour, in Blaze--and then elaborated his work during the day, andmade sketches for it. 

And after dinner she read me the first part of _Sardonyx_; it tookthree hours. 

Then Barty came home, having dined well, and in very high spirits. 

"Well, old fellow! how do you like _Sardonyx_?"

I was so moved and excited I could say nothing--I couldn't evensmoke. I was allowed to take the precious manuscript away with me, and finished it during the night. 

Next morning I wrote to him out of the fulness of my heart. 

I read it aloud to my father and mother, and then lent it toScatcherd, who read it to Ida. In twenty-four hours our gay andgenial Barty--our Robin Goodfellow and Merry Andrew, our funnyman--had become for us a demi-god; for all but my father, who lookedupon him as a splendid but irretrievably lost soul, and mourned overhim as over a son of his own. 

And in two months _Sardonyx_ was before the reading world, and themiddle-aged reader will remember the wild enthusiasm and the stormit raised. 

All that is ancient history, and I will do no more than allude tothe unparalleled bitterness of the attacks made by the Church on abook which is now quoted again and again from every pulpit inEngland--in the world--and has been translated into almost everylanguage under the sun. 

Thus he leaped into fame and fortune at a bound, and at first theydelighted him. He would take little Roberta on to the top of hishead and dance "La Paladine" on his hearth-rug, singing:

 "Rataplan, Rataplan, I'm a celebrated man--"

in imitation of Sergeant Bouncer in _Cox and Box_. 

But in less than a year celebrity had quite palled, and all hismoney bored him--as mine does me. He had a very small appetite foreither the praise or the pudding which were served out to him insuch excess all through his life. It was only his fondness for thework itself that kept his nose so constantly to the grindstone. 

Within six months of the _Sardonyx_ Barty wrote _La quatrièmeDimension_ in French, which was published by Dollfus-Moïs frères, inParis, with if possible a greater success; for the clericalopposition was even more virulent. The English translation, which isadmirable, is by Scatcherd. 

Then came _Motes in a Moonbeam, Interstellar Harmonics_, and _Bertheaux grands Pieds_ within eighteen months, so that before he wasquite thirty, in the space of two years, Barty had produced fiveworks--three in English and two in French--which, though merelynovels and novelettes, have had as wide and far-reaching aninfluence on modern thought as the _Origin of Species_, thatappeared about the same time, and which are such, for simplicity ofexpression, exposition, and idea, that an intelligent ploughboy canget all the good and all the pleasure from them almost as easily asany philosopher or sage. 

Such was Barty's début as a man of letters. This is not the place tocriticise his literary work, nor am I the proper person to do so;enough has been written already about Barty Josselin during hislifetime to fill a large library--in nearly every language there is. I tremble to think of what has yet to follow!

[Illustration: "'RATAPLAN, RATAPLAN'"]

_Sardonyx_ came of age nearly twelve years ago--what a coming of agethat was the reader will remember well. I shall not forget itscelebration at Marsfield; it happened to coincide with the birth ofBarty's first grandchild, at that very house. 

I will now go back to Barty's private life, which is the sole objectof this humble attempt at book-making on my part. 

During the next ten years Barty's literary activity was immense. Beautiful books followed each other in rapid succession--and so didbeautiful little Bartys, and Leah's hands were full. 

And as each book, English or French, was more beautiful than the last;so was each little Barty, male or female. All over Kensington andCampden Hill--for they took Gretna Lodge, next door to Cornelys, thesculptor's--the splendor of these little Bartys, their size, theirbeauty, their health and high spirits, became almost a joke, and theirmother became almost a comic character in consequence--like the oldlady who lived in a shoe. 

Money poured in with a profusion few writers of good books have everknown before, and every penny not wanted for immediate householdexpenses was pounced upon by Scatcherd or by me to be invested inthe manner we thought best: nous avons eu la main heureuse!

The Josselins kept open house, and money was not to be despised, little as Barty ever thought of money. 

Then every autumn the entire smalah migrated to the coast ofNormandy, or Picardy, or Brittany, or to the Highlands of Inverness, and with them the Scatcherds and the chronicler of these happytimes--not to mention cats, dogs, and squirrels, and guinea-pigs, and white mice, and birds of all kinds, from which the childrenwould not be parted, and the real care of which, both at home andabroad, ultimately devolved on poor Mrs. Josselin--who was not sofond of animals as all that--so that her life was full tooverflowing of household cares. 

Another duty had devolved upon her also: that of answering thepassionate letters that her husband received by every post from allparts of the world--especially America--and which he could never beinduced to answer himself. Every morning regularly he would beginhis day's work by writing "Yours truly--B. Josselin" on quite ascore of square bits of paper, to be sent through the post to fairEnglish and American autograph collectors who forwarded stampedenvelopes, and sometimes photographs of themselves, that he mightstudy the features of those who loved him at a respectful distance, and who so frankly told their love; all of which bored Barty toextinction, and was a source of endless amusement to his wife. 

But even _she_ was annoyed when a large unstamped or insufficientlystamped parcel arrived by post from America, enclosing a photographof her husband to which his signature was desired, and containing nostamps to frank it on its return journey!

And the photographers he had to sit to! and the interviewers, maleand female, to whom he had to deny himself! Life was too short!

How often has a sturdy laborer or artisan come up to him, as he andI walked together, with:

"I should very much like to shake you by the hand, Mr. Josselin, ifI might make so bold, sir!"

And such an appeal as this would please him far more than the mostfervently written outpourings of the female hearts he had touched. 

They, of course, received endless invitations to stay atcountry-houses all over the United Kingdom, where they might havebeen lionized to their hearts' content, if such had been their wish;but these they never accepted. They never spent a single night awayfrom their own house till most of their children were grown up--orever wanted to; and every year they got less and less into the wayof dining out, or spending the evening from home--and I don'twonder; no gayer or jollier home ever was than that they made forthemselves, and each other, and their intimate friends; not even atCornelys's, next door, was better music to be heard; for Barty wasfriends with all the music-makers, English and foreign, who caterfor us in and out of the season; even _they_ read his books, andunderstood them; and they sang and played better for Barty--and forCornelys, next door--than even for the music-loving multitude whofilled their pockets with British gold. 

And the difference between Barty's house and that of Cornelys wasthat at the former the gatherings were smaller and more intimate--asbecame the smaller house--and one was happier there in consequence. 

Barty gave himself up entirely to his writing, and left everythingelse to his wife, or to me, or to Scatcherd. She was really a motherto him, as well as a passionately loving and devoted helpmeet. 

To make up for this, whenever she was ill, which didn't oftenhappen--except, of course, when she had a baby--he forgot all hiswriting in his anxiety about her; and in his care of her, and hissolicitude for her ease and comfort, he became quite a motherly oldwoman, a better nurse than Mrs. Jones or Mrs. Gibson--as practicaland sensible and full of authority as Dr. Knight himself. 

And when it was all over, all his amiable carelessness came back, and with it his genius, his school-boy high spirits, his tomfooling, his romps with his children, and his utter irresponsibility, andabsolute disdain for all the ordinary business of life; and thehappy, genial temper that never seemed to know a moment's depressionor nourish an unkind thought. 

Poor Barty! what would he have done without us all, and what shouldwe have done without Barty? As Scatcherd said of him, "He's havinghis portion in this life. "

But it was not really so. 

Then, in 1870, he bought that charming house, Mansfield, by theThames, which he rechristened Marsfield; and which he--with the helpof the Scatcherds and myself, for it became our hobby--made into oneof the most delightful abodes in England. It was the real home forall of us; I really think it is one of the loveliest spots on earth. It was a bargain, but it cost a lot of money; altogether, never wasmoney better spent--even as a mere investment. When I think of whatit is worth now! Je suis homme d'affaires!

What a house-warming that was on the very day that France andGermany went to war; we little guessed what was to come for thecountry we all loved so dearly, or we should not have been so glad. 

I am conscious that all this is rather dull reading. Alas! MerryEngland is a devilish dull place compared to foreign parts--andsuccess, respectability, and domestic bliss are the dullest thingsto write--or read--about that I know--and with middle age to followtoo!

It was during that first summer at Marsfield that Barty told me theextraordinary story of Martia, and I really thought he had gone mad. For I knew him to be the most truthful person alive. 

Even now I hardly know what to think, nor did Leah--nor did Bartyhimself up to the day of his death. 

He showed me all her letters, _which I may deem it advisable topublish some day_: not only the Blaze suggestions for his books, andall her corrections; things to occupy him for life--all, of course, in his own handwriting; but many letters about herself, also writtenin sleep and by his own hand; and the style is Barty's--not thestyle in which he wrote his books, and which is not to be matched;but that in which he wrote his Blaze letters to me. 

If her story is true--and I never read a piece of documentaryevidence more convincing--these letters constitute the mostastonishing revelation ever yet vouchsafed to this earth. 

But her story cannot be true!

That Barty's version of his relations with "The Martian" isabsolutely sincere it is impossible to doubt. He was quiteunconscious of the genesis of every book he ever wrote. His firsthint of every one of them was the elaborately worked out suggestionhe found by his bedside in the morning--written by himself in hissleep during the preceding night, with his eyes wide open, whilemore often than not his wife anxiously watched him at hisunconscious work, careful not to wake or disturb him in any way. 

Roughly epitomized, Martia's story was this:

For an immense time she had gone through countless incarnations, from the lowest form to the highest, in the cold and dreary planetwe call Mars, the outermost of the four inhabited worlds of oursystem, where the sun seems no bigger than an orange, and which butfor its moist, thin, rich atmosphere and peculiar magneticconditions that differ from ours would be too cold above ground forhuman or animal or vegetable life. As it is, it is only inhabitednow in the neighborhood of its equator, and even there during itslong winter it is colder and more desolate than Cape Horn orSpitzbergen--except that the shallow, fresh-water sea does notfreeze except for a few months at either pole. 

All these incarnations were forgotten by her but the last; nothingremained of them all but a vague consciousness that they had oncebeen, until their culmination in what would be in Mars theequivalent of a woman on our earth. 

Man in Mars is, it appears, a very different being from what he ishere. He is amphibious, and descends from no monkey, but from asmall animal that seems to be something between our seal and oursea-lion. 

According to Martia, his beauty is to that of the seal as that ofthe Theseus or Antinous to that of an orangoutang. His five sensesare extraordinarily acute, even the sense of touch in his webbedfingers and toes; and in addition to these he possesses a sixth, that comes from his keen and unintermittent sense of the magneticcurrent, which is far stronger in Mars than on the earth, and farmore complicated, and more thoroughly understood. 

When any object is too delicate and minute to be examined by thesense of touch and sight, the Martian shuts his eyes and puts itagainst the pit of his stomach, and knows all about it, even itsinside. 

In the absolute dark, or with his eyes shut, and when he stops hisears, he is more intensely conscious of what immediately surroundshim than at any other time, except that all color-perception ceases;conscious not only of material objects, but of what is passing inhis fellow-Martian's mind--and this for an area of many hundreds ofcubic yards. 

In the course of its evolutions this extraordinary faculty--whichexists on earth in a rudimentary state, but only among some birdsand fish and insects and in the lower forms of animal life--hasdeveloped the Martian mind in a direction very different from ours, since no inner life apart from the rest, no privacy, no concealmentis possible except at a distance involving absolute isolation; noteven thought is free; yet in some incomprehensible way there is, asa matter of fact, a really greater freedom of thought than isconceivable among ourselves: absolute liberty in absolute obedienceto law, a paradox beyond our comprehension. 

Their habits are as simple as those we attribute to thecave-dwellers during the prehistoric periods of the earth'sexistence. But their moral sense is so far in advance of ours thatwe haven't even a terminology by which to express it. 

In comparison, the highest and best of us are monsters of iniquityand egoism, cruelty and corruption; and our planet (a very heavenfor warmth and brilliancy and beauty, in spite of earthquakes andcyclones and tornadoes) is a very hell through the creatures thatpeople it--a shambles, a place of torture, a grotesque and impurepandemonium. 

These exemplary Martians wear no clothes but the exquisite fur withwhich nature has endowed them, and which constitutes a part of theirimmense beauty, according to Martia. 

They feed exclusively on edible moss and roots and submarineseaweed, which they know how to grow and prepare and preserve. Except for heavy-winged bat-like birds, and big fish, which theyhave domesticated and use for their own purposes in an incrediblemanner (incarnating a portion of themselves and their consciousnessat will in their bodies), they have cleared Mars of all useless andharmful and mutually destructive forms of animal life. A sorryfauna, the Martian--even at its best--and a flora beneath contempt, compared to ours. 

They are great engineers and excavators, great irrigators, greatworkers in delicate metal, stone, marble, and precious gems (thereis no wood to speak of); great sculptors and decorators of thebeautiful caves, so fancifully and so intricately connected, inwhich they live, and which have taken thousands of years to designand excavate and ventilate and adorn, and which they warm and lightup at will in a beautiful manner by means of the tremendous magneticcurrent. 

This richly parti-colored light is part of their mental and morallife in a way it is not in us to apprehend, and has its exactequivalent in sound--and vice versa. 

They have no language of words, and do not need it, since they canonly be isolated in thought from each other by a distance greaterthan that which any vocal sound can traverse; but their organs ofvoice and hearing are far more complex and perfect than ours, andtheir atmosphere infinitely more conductive of phonal vibrations. 

It seems that everything which can be apprehended by the eye or handis capable of absolute sonorous translation: light, color, texture, shape in its three dimensions, weight, and density. The phonalexpression and comprehension of all these are acquired by theMartian baby almost as soon as it knows how to swim or dive, or moveupright and erect on dry land or beneath it; and the mechanicaltranslation of such expression by means of wind and wire andsounding texture and curved surface of extraordinary elaboration isthe principal business of the Martian life--an art by which all thecombined past experience and future aspirations of the race receivethe fullest utterance. Here again personal magnetism plays anenormous part. 

And it is by means of this long and patiently evolved and highlytrained faculty that the race is still developing towards perfectionwith constant strain and effort--although the planet is far advancedin its decadence and within measurable distance of its unfitness forlife of any kind. 

All is so evenly and harmoniously balanced, whether above ground orbeneath, that existence is full of joy in spite of the tremendousstrain of life, in spite also of a dreariness of outlook, on barrennature, which is not to be matched by the most inhospitable regionsof the earth; and death is looked upon as the crowning joy of all, although life is prolonged by all the means in their power. 

For when the life of the body ceases and the body itself is burnedand its ashes scattered to the winds and waves, the infinitesimal, imponderable, and indestructible something _we_ call the _soul_ isknown to lose itself in a sunbeam and make for the sun, with all itsmemories about it, that it may then receive further development, fitting it for other systems altogether beyond conception; and thelonger it has lived in Mars the better for its eternal life in thefuture. 

But it often, on its journey sunwards, gets entangled in otherbeams, and finds its way to some intermediate planet--Mercury, Venus, or the Earth; and putting on flesh and blood and bone oncemore, and losing for a space all its knowledge of its own past, ithas to undergo another mortal incarnation--a new personalexperience, beginning with its new birth; a dream and a forgetting, till it awakens again after the pangs of dissolution, and findsitself a step further on the way to freedom. 

Martia, it seems, came to our earth in a shower of shooting-stars ahundred years ago. She had not lived her full measure of years inMars; she had elected to be suppressed, through some unfitness, physical or mental or moral, which rendered it inexpedient that sheshould become a mother of Martians, for they are very particularabout that sort of thing in Mars: we shall have to be so here someday, or else we shall degenerate and become extinct; or even worse!

Many Martian souls come to our planet in this way, it seems, andhasten to incarnate themselves in as promising unborn though justbegotten men and women as they find, that they may the sooner befree to hie them sunwards with all their collected memories. 

According to Martia, most of the best and finest of our race havesouls that have lived forgotten lives in Mars. But Martia was in nohurry; she was full of intelligent curiosity, and for ten years shewent up and down the earth, revelling in the open air, lodgingherself in the brains and bodies of birds, beasts, and fishes, insects, and animals of all kinds--like a hermit crab in a shellthat belongs to another--but without the slightest inconvenience tothe legitimate owners, who were always quite unconscious of herpresence, although she made what use she could of what wits theyhad. 

Thus she had a heavenly time on this sunlit earth of ours--now aworm, now a porpoise, now a sea-gull or a dragon-fly, now somefleet-footed, keen-eyed quadruped that did not live by slaying, forshe had a horror of bloodshed. 

She could only go where these creatures chose to take her, since shehad no power to control their actions in the slightest degree; butshe saw, heard, smelled and touched and tasted with their organs ofsense, and was as conscious of their animal life as they werethemselves. Her description of this phase of her earthly career isfull of extraordinary interest, and sometimes extremelyfunny--though quite unconsciously so, no doubt. For instance, shetells how happy she once was when she inhabited a small brownPomeranian dog called "Schnapfel, " in Cologne, and belonging to aJewish family who dealt in old clothes near the Cathedral; and howshe loved them and looked up to them--how she revelled in fried fishand the smell of it--and in all the stinks in every street of thefamous city--all except one, that arose from Herr Johann MariaFarina's renowned emporium in the Julichs Platz, which so offendedthe canine nostrils that she had to give up inhabiting that smallPomeranian dog forever, etc. 

Then she took to man, and inhabited man and woman, and especiallychild, in all parts of the globe for many years; and, finally, forthe last fifty or sixty years or so, she settled herself exclusivelyamong the best and healthiest English she could find. 

She took a great fancy to the Rohans, who are singularly wellendowed in health of mind and body, and physical beauty, andhappiness of temper. She became especially fond of the ill-fated butamiable Lord Runswick--Barty's father. Then through him she knewAntoinette, and loved her so well that she determined to incarnateherself at last as their child; but she had become very cautious andworldly during her wandering life on earth, and felt that she wouldnot be quite happy either as a man or a woman in Western Europeunless she were reborn in holy wedlock--a concession she made to ourBritish prejudices in favor of respectability; she describes herselfas the only Martian Philistine and snob. 

Evil communications corrupt good manners, and poor Martia, to herinfinite sorrow and self-reproach, was conscious of a sad loweringof her moral tone after this long frequentation of the best earthlyhuman beings--even the best English. 

She grew to admire worldly success, rank, social distinction, theperishable beauty of outward form, the lust of the flesh and thepride of the eye--the pomps and vanities of this wicked world--andto basely long for these in her own person!

Then when Barty was born she loved to inhabit his singularly wellconstituted little body better than any other, and to identifyherself with his happy child-life, and enjoy his singularly perfectsenses, and sleep his beautiful sleep, and revel in the dreams he socompletely forgot when he woke--reminiscent dreams, that she wasactually able to weave out of the unconscious brain that was his:absolutely using his dormant organs of memory for purposes of herown, to remember and relive her own past pleasures and pains, sosensitively and highly organized was he; and to her immense surpriseshe found she could make him feel her presence even when awake bymeans of the magnetic sense that pervaded her strongly as itpervades all Martian souls, till they reincarnate themselves amongus and forget. 

And thus he was conscious of the north whenever she enjoyed thehospitality of his young body. 

She stuck to him for many years, till he offended her taste by hislooseness of life as a Guardsman (for she was extremelystraitlaced); and she inhabited him no more for some time, thoughshe often watched him through the eyes of others, and always lovedhim and lamented sorely over his faults and follies. 

Then one memorable night, in the energy of her despair at hisresolve to slip that splendid body of his, she was able to influencehim in his sleep, and saved his life; and all her love came backtenfold. 

She had never been able to impose a fraction of her will on anybeing, animal or human, that she had ever inhabited on earth untilthat memorable night in Malines, where she made him write at herdictation. 

Then she conceived an immense desire that he should marry thesplendid Julia, whom she had often inhabited also, that she mightone day be a child of his by such a mother, and go through herearthly incarnation in the happiest conceivable circumstances; butherein she was balked by Barty's instinctive preference for Leah, and again gave him up in a huff. 

But she soon took to inhabiting Leah a great deal, and found herjust as much to her taste for her own future earthly mother as thedivine Julia herself, and made up her mind she would make Bartygreat and famous by a clever management of his very extraordinarybrains, of which she had discovered the hidden capacity, andinfluence the earth for its good--for she had grown to love thebeautiful earth, in spite of its iniquities--and finally be a childof Barty and Leah, every new child of whom seemed an improvement onthe last, as though practice made perfect. 

Such is, roughly, the story of Martia. 

There is no doubt--both Barty and Leah agreed with me in this--thatit is an easy story to invent, though it is curiously convincing toread in the original shape, with all its minute details and theirverisimilitude; but even then there is nothing in it that the authorof _Sardonyx_ could not have easily imagined and made moreconvincing still. 

He declared that all through life on awaking from his night's sleephe always felt conscious of having had extraordinary dreams--even asa child--but that he forgot them in the very act of waking, in spiteof strenuous efforts to recall them. But now and again on sinkinginto sleep the vague memory of those forgotten dreams would comeback, and they were all of a strange life under new conditions--justsuch a life as Martia had described--where arabesques of artificiallight and interwoven curves of subtle sound had a significanceundreamt of by mortal eyes or ears, and served as conductors to aheavenly bliss unknown to earth--revelations denied to us here, orwe should be very different beings from what we most unhappily are. 

He thought it quite possible that his brain in sleep had at lastbecome so active through the exhausting and depleting medical régimethat he went through in Malines that it actually was able to dictateits will to his body, and that everything might have happened to himas it did then and afterwards without any supernatural orultranatural agency whatever--without a Martia!

He might, in short, have led a kind of dual life, and Martia mightbe a simple fancy or invention of his brain in an abnormal state ofactivity during slumber; and both Leah and I inclined to this belief(but for a strange thing which happened later, and which I will tellin due time). Indeed, it all seems so silly and far-fetched, so "outof the question, " that one feels almost ashamed at bringing thisMartia into a serious biography of a great man--un conte à dormirdebout! But you must wait for the end. 

Anyhow, the singular fact remains that in some way inexplicable tohimself Barty has influenced the world in a direction which it neverentered his thoughts even to conceive, so far as he remembered. 

Think of all he has done. 

He has robbed Death of nearly all its terrors; even for the young itis no longer the grisly phantom it once was for ourselves, butrather of an aspect mellow and benign; for to the most sceptical he(and only he) has restored that absolute conviction of anindestructible germ of Immortality within us, born of remembrancemade perfect and complete after dissolution: he alone has built thegolden bridge in the middle of which science and faith can shakehands over at least one common possibility--nay, one commoncertainty for those who have read him aright. 

There is no longer despair in bereavement--all bereavement is but ahalf parting; there is no real parting except for those who survive, and the longest earthly life is but a span. Whatever the future maybe, the past will be ours forever, and that means our punishment andour reward and reunion with those we loved. It is a happy phrase, that which closes the career of _Sardonyx_. It has become asuniversal as the Lord's Prayer!

To think that so simple and obvious a solution should have lainhidden all these æons, to turn up at last as though by chance in alittle illustrated story-book! What a nugget!

Où avions-nous donc la tête et les yeux?

Physical pain and the origin of evil seem the only questions withwhich he has not been able to grapple. And yet if those difficultiesare ever dealt with and mastered and overcome for us it can only beby some follower of Barty's methods. 

It is true, no doubt, that through him suicide has become the normalway out of our troubles when these are beyond remedy. I will notexpress any opinion as to the ethical significance of this admittedresult of his teaching, which many of us still find it so hard toreconcile with their conscience. 

Then, by a dexterous manipulation of our sympathies that amounts toabsolute conjuring, he has given the death-blow to all cruelty thatserves for our amusement, and killed the pride and pomp andcircumstance of glorious sport, and made them ridiculous with hislusty laugh; even the bull-fights in Spain are coming to an end, andall through a Spanish translation of _Life-blood_. All thecruelties of the world are bound to follow in time, and this not somuch because they are cruel as because they are ridiculous and meanand ugly, and would make us laugh if they didn't make us cry. 

And to whom but Barty Josselin do we owe it that our race is on anaverage already from four to six inches taller than it was thirtyyears ago, men and women alike; that strength and beauty are rapidlybecoming the rule among us, and weakness and ugliness the exception?

He has been hard on these; he has been cruel to be kind, and theyhave received notice to quit, and been generously compensated inadvance, I think! Who in these days would dare to enter the holystate of wedlock unless they were pronounced physically, morally, and mentally fit--to procreate their kind--not only by their ownconscience, but by the common consent of all who know them? And thatbeauty, health, and strength are a part of that fitness, and old agea bar to it, who would dare deny?

I'm no Adonis myself. I've got a long upper lip and an Irish kink inmy nose, inherited perhaps from some maternally ancestral Blake ofDerrydown, who may have been a proper blackguard! And that kinkshould be now, no doubt, the lawful property of some ruffianlycattle-houghing moonlighter, whose nose--which should have beenmine--is probably as straight as Barty's. For in Ireland are to befound the handsomest and ugliest people in all Great Britain, and inGreat Britain the handsomest and ugliest people in the whole world. 

Anyhow, I have known my place. I have not perpetuated that kink, andwith it, possibly, the base and cowardly instincts of which it wasmeant to be the outward and visible sign--though it isn't in mycase--that my fellow-men might give me a wide berth. 

Leah's girlish instinct was a right one when she said me nay thatafternoon by the Chelsea pier--for how could she see inside me, poorchild? How could Beauty guess the Beast was a Prince in disguise? Itwas no fairy-tale!

Things have got mixed up; but they're all coming right, and allthrough Barty Josselin. 

And what vulgar pride and narrownesses and meannesses and vanitiesand uglinesses of life, in mass and class and individual, are nowimpossible!--and all through Barty Josselin and his quaint ironiesof pen and pencil, forever trembling between tears and laughter, with never a cynical spark or a hint of bitterness. 

How he has held his own against the world! how he has scourged itswickedness and folly, this gigantic optimist, who never wrote asingle line in his own defence!

How quickly their laugh recoiled on those early laughers! and howBarty alone laughed well because he laughed the last, and taught thelaughers to laugh on his side! People thought he was alwayslaughing. It was not so. 

Part Ninth

 "Cara deûm soboles, magnum Jovis incrementum. "

 --Virgil. 

The immense fame and success that Barty Josselin achieved were tohim a source of constant disquiet. He could take neither pride norpleasure in what seemed to him not his; he thought himself a fraud. 

Yet only the mere skeleton of his work was built up for him by hisdemon; all the beauty of form and color, all the grace of movementand outer garb, are absolutely his own. 

It has been noticed how few eminent men of letters were intimatewith the Josselins, though the best among them--except, of course, Thomas Carlyle--have been so enthusiastic and outspoken in theirlove and admiration of his work. 

He was never at his ease in their society, and felt himself a kindof charlatan. 

The fact is, the general talk of such men was often apt to be overhis head, as it would have been over mine, and often made himpainfully diffident and shy. He needn't have been; he little knewthe kind of feeling he inspired among the highest and best. 

Why, one day at the Marathonæum, the first and foremost of themall, the champion smiter of the Philistines, the apostle of cultureand sweetness and light, told me that, putting Barty's books out ofthe question, he always got more profit and pleasure out of Barty'ssociety than that of any man he knew. 

"It does me good to be in the same room with him; the freshness ofthe man, his voice, his aspect, his splendid vitality andmother-wit, his boyish spirit, and the towering genius behind itall. I only wish to goodness I was an intimate friend of his as youare; it would be a liberal education to me!"

But Barty's reverence and admiration for true scholarship and greatliterary culture in others amounted to absolute awe, and filled himwith self-distrust. 

There is no doubt that until he was universally accepted, thecrudeness of his literary method was duly criticised with greatseverity by those professional literary critics who sometimes carpwith such a big mouth at their betters, and occasionally kill theKeatses of this world!

In writing, as in everything else, he was an amateur, and more orless remained one for life; but the greatest of his time acceptedhim at once, and laughed and wept, and loved him for his obviousfaults as well as for his qualities. Tous les genres sont bons, hormis le genre ennuyeux! And Barty was so delightfully the reverseof a bore!

Dear me! what matters it how faultlessly we paint or write or singif no one will care to look or read or listen? He is all fault thathath no fault at all, and we poor outsiders all but yawn in his facefor his pains. 

They should only paint and write and sing for each other, theseimpeccables, who so despise success and revile the successful. Howdo they live, I wonder? Do they take in each other's washing, orreview each other's books?

It edifies one to see what a lot of trouble these deriders of otherpeople's popularity will often take to advertise themselves, and howthey yearn for that popular acclaim they so scornfully denounce. 

Barty was not a well-read man by any means; his scholarship was thatof an idle French boy who leaves school at seventeen, after havingbeen plucked for a cheap French degree, and goes straightway intoher Majesty's Household Brigade. 

At the beginning of his literary career it would cut him to thequick to find himself alluded to as that inspired Anglo-Gallicbuffoon, the ex-Guardsman, whose real vocation, when he wasn'ttwaddling about the music of the spheres, or writing moral Frenchbooks, was to be Mr. Toole's understudy. 

He was even impressed by the smartness of those second-ratedecadents, French and English, who so gloried in their owndegeneracy--as though one were to glory in scrofula or rickets;those unpleasant little anthropoids with the sexless little muse andthe dirty little Eros, who would ride their angry, jealous littletilt at him in the vain hope of provoking some retort which wouldhave lifted them up to glory! Where are they now? He has improvedthem all away! Who ever hears of decadents nowadays?

Then there were the grubs of Grub Street, who sometimes manage tosquirt a drop from their slime-bags on to the swiftly passing bootthat scorns to squash them. He had no notion of what manner ofcreatures they really were, these gentles! He did not meet them atany club he belonged to--it was not likely. Clubs have a way ofblackballing grubs--especially grubs that are out of the commongrubby; nor did he sit down to dinner with them at any dinner-table, or come across them at any house he was by way of frequenting; buthe imagined they were quite important persons because they did notsign their articles! and he quite mistook their place in the economyof creation. C'était un naïf, le beau Josselin!

Big fleas have little fleas, and they've got to put up with them!There is no "poudre insecticide" for literary vermin--and more's thepity! (Good heavens! what would the generous and delicate-mindedBarty say, if he were alive, at my delivering myself in thisunworthy fashion about these long-forgotten assailants of his, andat my age too--he who never penned a line in retaliation! He wouldsay I was the most unseemly grub of them all, and he would be quiteright; so I am just now, and ought to know better--but it amusesme. )

Then there were the melodious bardlets who imitate those who imitatethose who imitate the forgotten minor poets of the olden time andlog-roll each other in quaint old English. They did not log-rollBarty, whom they thought coarse and vulgar, and wrote to that effectin very plain English that was not old, but quite up to date. 

"How splendidly they write verse!" he would say, and actually onceor twice he would pick up one or two of their cheap little archaicmannerisms and proudly use them as his own, and be quite angry tofind that Leah had carefully expunged them in her copy. 

"A _fair_ and _gracious_ garden indeed!" says Leah. "I _won't_ haveyou use such ridiculous words, Barty--you mean a _pretty_ garden, and you shall say so; or even a _beautiful_ garden if you like!--andno more '_manifolds_, ' and '_there-anents_, ' and '_in veriestsooths_, ' and '_waters wan_, ' and '_wan waters_, ' and all that. Iwon't stand it; they don't suit your style at all!"

She and Scatcherd and I between us soon laughed him out of theseinnocent little literary vagaries, and he remained content with thehomely words he had inherited from his barbarian ancestors inEngland (they speak good English, our barbarians), and the simplephrasing he had learnt from M. Durosier's classe de littérature atthe Institution Brossard. 

One language helps another; even the smattering of a dead language isbetter than no extra language at all, and that's why, at such cost oftime and labor and paternal cash, we learn to smatter Greek and Latin, Isuppose. "Arma virumque cano"--"Tityre tu patulæ?"--"Mæcenasatavis"--"[Greek: Mênin aeide]"--and there you are! It sticks in thememory, and it's as simple as "How d'ye do?"

Anyhow, it is pretty generally admitted, both here and in France, that for grace and ease and elegance and absolute clearnesscombined, Barty Josselin's literary style has never been surpassedand very seldom equalled; and whatever his other faults, when he wasat his ease he had the same graceful gift in his talk, both Frenchand English. 

It might be worth while my translating here the record of animpression made by Barty and his surroundings on a very accomplishedFrenchman, M. Paroly, of the _Débats_, who paid him a visit in thesummer of 1869, at Campden Hill. 

I may mention that Barty hated to be interviewed and questionedabout his literary work--he declared he was afraid of being foundout. 

But if once the interviewer managed to evade the lynx-eyed Leah, whohad a horror of him, and get inside the studio, and make good hisfooting there, and were a decently pleasant fellow to boot, Bartywould soon get over his aversion--utterly forget he was beinginterviewed--and talk as to an old friend; especially if thereviewer were a Frenchman or an American. 

The interviewer is an insidious and wily person, and often presentshimself to the soft-hearted celebrity in such humble and patheticguise that one really hasn't the courage to snub him. He has comesuch a long way for such a little thing! it is such a lowly functionhe plies at the foot of that tall tree whose top you reached at asingle bound! And he is supposed to be a "gentleman, " and has noother means of keeping body and soul together! Then he is soprostrate in admiration before your Immensity. . . . 

So you give way, and out comes the little note-book, and out comesthe little cross-examination. 

As a rule, you are none the worse and the world is none the better;we know all about you already--all, at least, that we want to know;we have heard it all before, over and over again. But a poorfellow-creature has earned his crust, and goes home the happier forhaving talked to you about yourself and been treated like a man anda brother. 

But sometimes the reviewer is very terrible indeed in his jauntyvulgarization of your distinguished personality, and you have towince and redden, and rue the day you let him inside your house, andlive down those light familiar paragraphs in which he describes youand the way you dress and how you look and what jolly things yousay; and on what free and easy terms _he_ is with you, of all peoplein the world!

But the most terrible of all is the pleasant gentleman from America, who has yearned to know you for _so_ many years, and comes perhapswith a letter of introduction--or even without!--not to interviewyou or write about you (good heavens! he hates and scorns thatmodern pest, the interviewer), but to sit at your feet and worshipat your shrine, and tell you of all the good you have done him andhis, all the happiness you have given them all--"the debt of alifetime!"

And you let yourself go before him, and so do your family, and so doyour old friends; is _he_ not also a friend, though not an old one?You part with him almost in sorrow, he's so nice! And in three weekssome kind person sends you from the other side such a printedaccount of you and yours--so abominably true, so abominablyfalse--that the remembrance of it makes you wake up in the dead ofnight, and most unjustly loathe an entire continent for breeding andharboring such a shameless type of press reptile!

I feel hard-hearted towards the interviewer, I own. I wish him, andthose who employ him, a better trade; and a better taste to whoeverreads what he writes. But Barty could be hard-hearted to nobody, andalways regretted having granted the interview when he saw thepublished outcome of it. 

Fortunately, M. Paroly was decently discreet. 

"I've got a Frenchman coming this afternoon--a tremendous swell, "said Barty, at lunch. 

 * * * * *

_Leah. _ "Who is he?"

_Barty. _ "M. Paroly, of the _Débats_. "

_Leah. _ "What is he when he's at home?"

_Barty. _ "A famous journalist; as you'd know if you'd read theFrench newspapers sometimes, which you never do. "

_Leah. _ "Haven't got the time. He's coming to interview you, Isuppose, and make French newspaper copy out of you. "

_Barty. _ "Why shouldn't he come just for the pleasure of making myacquaintance?"

_Leah. _ "And mine--I'll be there and talk to him, too!"

_Barty. _ "My dear, he probably doesn't speak a word of English; andyour French, you know! You never _would_ learn French properly, although you've had me to practise on for so many years--not tomention Bob and Ida. "

_Leah. _ "How unkind of you, Barty! When have I had time to troubleabout French? Besides, you always laugh at my French accent andmimic it--and _that's_ not encouraging!"

_Barty. _ "My dear, I _adore_ your French accent; it's so unaffected!I only wish I heard it a little oftener. "

_Leah. _ "You shall hear it this afternoon. At what o'clock is hecoming, your Monsieur Paroly?"

_Barty. _ "At four-thirty. "

_Leah. _ "Oh, Barty, _don't_ give yourself away--don't talk to him aboutyour writings, or about yourself, or about your family. He'll vulgarizeyou all over France. Surely you've not forgotten that nice 'gentleman'from America who came to see you, and who told you that _he_ was nointerviewer, not _he_! but came merely as a friend and admirer--adistant but constant worshipper for many years! and how you talked tohim like a long-lost brother, in consequence! 'There's nobody in theworld like the best Americans, ' you said. You adored them _all_, andwanted to be an American yourself--till a month after, when he publishedevery word you said, and more, and what sort of cravat you had on, andhow silent and cold and uncommunicative your good, motherly English wifewas--you, the brilliant and talkative Barty Josselin, who should havemated with a countrywoman of his own! and how your bosom friend was ahuge, overgrown everyday Briton with a broken nose! _I_ saw what he wasat, from the low cunning in his face as he listened; and felt that everysingle unguarded word you dropped was a dollar in his pocket! How we'veall had to live down that dreadfully facetious and grotesque andfamiliar article he printed about us all in those twenty Americannewspapers that have got the largest circulation in the world! and howyou stamped and raved, Barty, and swore that never another American'gentleman' should enter your house! What names you called him: 'cad!''sweep!' 'low-bred, little Yankee penny-a-liner!' Don't you remember?Why, he described you as a quite nice-looking man somewhat over themiddle height!"

"Oh yes; damn him, _I_ remember!" said Barty, who was three or fourinches over six feet, and quite openly vain of his good looks. 

_Leah. _ "Well, then, pray be cautious with this Monsieur Paroly youthink so much of because he's French. Let _him_ talk--interview_him_--ask him all about his family, if he's got one--his children, and all that; play a game of billiards with him--talk Frenchpolitics--dance 'La Paladine'--make him laugh--make him smoke one ofthose strong Trichinopoli cigars Bob gave you for the tops ofomnibuses--make him feel your biceps--teach him how to play cup andball--give him a sketch--then bring him in to tea. Madame Cornelyswill be there, and Julia Ironsides, and Ida, who'll talk French bythe yard. Then we'll show him the St. Bernards and Minerva, and I'llgive him an armful of Gloire de Dijon roses, and shake him warmly bythe hand, so that he won't feel ill-natured towards us; and we'llget him out of the house as quick as possible. "

 * * * * *

Thus prepared, Barty awaited M. Paroly, and this is a free renderingof what M. Paroly afterwards wrote about him:

 "With a mixture of feelings difficult to analyze and define, I bade adieu to the sage and philosopher of Cheyne Row, and had myself transported in my hansom to the abode of the other great _sommité littéraire_ in London, the light one--M. Josselin, to whom we in France also are so deeply in debt. 

 "After a longish drive through sordid streets we reached a bright historic vicinity and a charming hill, and my invisible Jehu guided me at the great trot by verdant country lanes. We turned through lodge gates into a narrow drive in a well-kept garden where there was a lawn of English greenness, on which were children and nurses and many dogs, and young people who played at the lawn-tennis. 

 "The door of the house was opened by a charming young woman in black with a white apron and cap, like a waitress at the Bouillon Duval, who guided me through a bright corridor full of pictures and panoplies, and then through a handsome studio to a billiard-room, where M. Josselin was playing at _the_ billiard to himself all alone. 

 "M. Josselin receives me with jovial cordiality; he is enormously tall, enormously handsome, like a drum-major of the Imperial Guard, except that his lip and chin are shaved and he has slight whiskers; very well dressed, with thick curly hair, and regular features, and a singularly sympathetic voice: he is about thirty-five. 

 "I have to decline a game of billiards, and refuse a cigar, a very formidable cigar, very black and very thick and very long. I don't smoke, and am no hand at a cue. Besides, I want to talk about _Étoiles Mortes_, about _Les Trépassées de François Villon_, about _Déjanire et Dalila_!

 [Illustration: "'HE PRESENTS ME FIRST TO MADAME JOSSELIN'"]

 "M. Josselin speaks French as he writes it, in absolute perfection; his mother, he tells me, was from Normandy--the daughter of fisherfolk in Dieppe; he was at school in Paris, and has lived there as an art student. 

 "He does not care to talk about _Les Trépassées_ or _Les Étoiles_, or any of his immortal works. 

 "He asks me if I'm a good swimmer, and can do _la coupe_ properly; and leaning over his billiard-table he shows me how it ought to be done, and dilates on the merits of that mode of getting through the water. He confides to me that he suffers from a terrible nostalgia--a consuming desire to do _la coupe_ in the swimming-baths of Passy against the current; to take a header _à la hussarde_ with his eyes open and explore the bed of the Seine between Grenelle and the Île des Cygnes--as he used to do when he was a school-boy--and pick up mussels with his teeth. 

 "Then he explains to me the peculiar virtues of his stove, which is almost entirely an invention of his own, and shows me how he can regulate the heat of the room to the fraction of a degree centigrade, which he prefers to Fahrenheit--just as he prefers metres and centimetres to inches and feet--and ten to twelve!

 "After this he performs some very clever tricks with billiard-balls; juggles three of them in each hand simultaneously, and explains to me that this is an exceptional achievement, as he only sees out of one eye, and that no acrobat living could do the same with one eye shut. 

 "I quite believe him, and wonder and admire, and his face beams with honest satisfaction--and this is the man who wrote _La quatrième Dimension_!

 "Then he tells me some very funny French school-boy stories; he delights in my hearty laughter; they are capital stories, but I had heard them all before--when I was at school. 

 "'And now, M. Josselin, ' I say, 'à propos of that last story you've just told me; in the _Trépassées de François Villon_ you have omitted "la très-sage Héloïse" altogether. '

 "'Oh, have I? How stupid of me!--Abélard and all that! Ah well--there's plenty of time--nous allons arranger tout ça! All that sort of thing comes to me in the night, you know, when I'm half asleep in bed--a--a--I mean after lunch in the afternoon, when I take my siesta. '

 "Then he leads me into his studio and shows me pencil studies from the life, things of ineffable beauty of form and expression--things that haunt the memory. 

 "'Show me a study for Déjanire, ' I say. 

 "'Oh! I'll draw Déjanire for you, ' and he takes a soft pencil and a piece of smooth card-board, and in five minutes draws me an outline of a naked woman on a centaur's back, a creature of touching beauty no other hand in the world could produce--so aristocratically delicately English and of to-day--so severely, so nobly and classically Greek. C'est la chasteté même--mais ce n'est pas Déjanire!

 "He gives me this sketch, which I rechristen Godiva, and value as I value few things I possess. 

 "Then he shows me pencil studies of children's heads, from nature, and I exclaim:

 "'O Heaven, what a dream of childhood! Childhood is never so beautiful as that. '

 "'Oh yes it is, in England, I assure you, ' says he. 'I'll show you _my_ children presently; and you, have you any children?'

 "'Alas! no, ' I reply; 'I am a bachelor. '

 "I remark that from time to time, just as the moon veils itself behind a passing cloud, the radiance of his brilliant and jovial physiognomy is eclipsed by the expression of a sadness immense, mysterious, infinite; this is followed by a look of angelic candor and sweetness and gentle heroism, that moves you strangely, even to the heart, and makes appeal to all your warmest and deepest sympathies--the look of a very masculine Joan of Arc! You don't know why, but you feel you would make any sacrifice for a man who looks at you like that, follow him to the death--lead a forlorn hope at his bidding. 

 "He does not exact from me anything so arduous as this, but passing round my neck his powerful arm, he says:

 "'Come and drink some tea; I should like to present you to my wife. '

 "And he leads me through another corridor to a charming drawing-room that gives on to the green lawn of the garden. 

 "There are several people there taking the tea. 

 "He presents me first to Madame Josselin. If the husband is enormously handsome, the wife is a beauty absolutely divine; she, also, is very tall--très élégante; she has soft wavy black hair, and eyes and eyebrows d'un noir de jais, and a complexion d'une blancheur de lis, with just a point of carmine in the cheeks. She does not say much--she speaks French with difficulty; but she expresses with her smiling eyes so cordial and sincere a welcome that one feels glad to be in the same room with her, one feels it is a happy privilege, it does one good--one ceases to feel one may possibly be an intruder--one almost feels one is wanted there. 

 "I am then presented to three or four other ladies; and it would seem that the greatest beauties of London have given each other rendezvous in Madame Josselin's salon--this London, where are to be found the most beautiful women in the world and the ugliest. 

 "First, I salute the Countess of Ironsides--ah, mon Dieu, la Diane chasseresse--la Sapho de Pradier! Then Madame Cornelys, the wife of the great sculptor, who lives next door--a daughter of the ancient gods of Greece! Then a magnificent blonde, an old friend of theirs, who speaks French absolutely like a Frenchwoman, and says thee and thou to M. Josselin, and introduces me to her brother, un vrai type de colosse bon enfant, d'une tenue irréprochable [thank you, M. Paroly], who also speaks the French of France, for he was at school there--a school-fellow of our host. 

 "There are two or three children, girls, more beautiful than anything or anybody else in the house--in the world, I think! They give me tea and cakes, and bread and butter; most delicious tartines, as thin as wafers, and speak French well, and relate to me the biographies of their animals, une vraie ménagerie which I afterwards have to visit--immense dogs, rabbits, hedgehogs, squirrels, white mice, and a gigantic owl, who answers to the name of Minerva. 

 "I find myself, ma foi, very happy among these wonderful people, and preserve an impression of beauty, of bonhomie, of naturalness and domestic felicity quite unlike anything I have ever been privileged to see--an impression never to be forgotten. 

 "But as for _Étoiles Mortes_ and _Les Trépassées de François Villon_, I really have to give them up; the beautiful big dogs are more important than all the books in the world, even the master's--even the master himself!

 "However, I want no explanation to see and understand how M. Josselin has written most of his chefs-d'oeuvre from the depths of a happy consciousness habituated to all that is most graceful and charming and seductive in real life--and a deeply sympathetic, poignant, and compassionate sense of the contrast to all this. 

 "Happy mortal, happy family, happy country where grow (poussent) such people, and where such children flourish! The souvenir of that so brief hour spent at Gretna Lodge is one of the most beautiful souvenirs of my life--and, above all, the souvenir of the belle châtelaine who filled my hansom with beautiful roses culled by her own fair hand, which gave me at parting that cordial English pressure so much more suggestive of _Au revoir_ than _Adieu_!

 "It is with sincere regret one leaves people who part with one so regretfully. 

 "Alphonse Paroly. "

 * * * * *

Except that good and happy women have no history, I should almostlike to write the history of Barty's wife, and call it the historyof the busiest and most hard-working woman in Great Britain. 

Barty left everything to her--to the very signing of cheques. Hewould have nothing to do with any business of any kind. 

He wouldn't even carve at lunch or dinner. Leah did, unless _I_ wasthere. 

It is but fair to say he worked as hard as any man I know. When hewas not writing or drawing, he was thinking about drawing orwriting; when they got to Marsfield, he hardly ever stirred outsidethe grounds. 

There he would garden with gardeners or cut down trees, or docarpenter's work at his short intervals of rest, or groom a horse. 

How often have I seen him suddenly drop a spade or axe or saw orcurry-comb, and go straight off to a thatched gazebo he had builthimself, where writing materials were left, and write down the happythought that had occurred; and then, pipe in mouth, back to hisgardening or the rest!

I also had a gazebo close to his, where I read blue-books and wrotemy endless correspondence with the help of a secretary--only tooglad, both of us, to be disturbed by festive and frolicsome youngBartys of either sex--by their dogs--by their mother!

Leah's province it was to attend to all the machinery by which lifewas carried on in this big house, and social intercourse, and theeducation of the young, and endless hospitalities. 

She would even try to coach her boys in Latin and Euclid duringtheir preparation times for the school where they spent the day, twomiles off. Such Latin! such geometry! She could never master theablative absolute, nor what used to be called at Brossard's _le queretranché_, nor see the necessity of demonstrating by A + B what wassufficiently obvious to her without. 

"Who helps you in your Latin, my boy?" says the master, with a grin. 

"My father, " says Geoffrey, too loyal to admit it was his mother whohad coached him wrong. 

"Ah, I suppose he helps you with your Euclid also?" says the master, with a broader grin still. 

"Yes, sir, " says Geoffrey. 

"Your father's French, I suppose?"

"I dare say, sir, " says Geoffrey. 

"Ah, I thought so!"

All of which was very unfair to Barty, whose Latin, like that ofmost boys who have been brought up at a French school, was probablyquite as good as the English school-master's own, except for itsinnocence of quantities; and Blanchet and Legendre are easier tolearn than Euclid, and stick longer in the memory; and Bartyremembered well. 

Then, besides the many friends who came to the pleasant house tostay, or else for lunch or tea or dinner, there were pious pilgrimsfrom all parts of the world, as to a shrine--from Paris, fromGermany, Italy, Norway, and Sweden; from America especially. Leahhad to play the hostess almost every day of her life, and show offher lion and make him roar and wag his tail and stand on his hindlegs--a lion that was not always in the mood to tumble and be shownoff, unless the pilgrims were pretty and of the female sex. 

Barty was a man's man par excellence, and loved to forgather withmen. The only men he couldn't stand were those we have agreed tocall in modern English the Philistines and the prigs--or bothcombined, as they can sometimes be; and this objection of his wouldhave considerably narrowed his circle of male acquaintances but thatthe Philistines and the prigs, who so detest each other, were sodotingly fond of Barty, and ran him to earth in Marsfield. 

The Philistines loved him for his world-wide popularity; the prigsin spite of it! They loved him for himself alone--because theycouldn't help it, I suppose--and lamented over him as over a fallenangel. 

He was happiest of all with the good denizens of Bohemia, who haveknown want and temptation and come unscathed out of the fire, butwith their affectations and insincerities and conventionalities allburnt away. 

Good old Bohemia--alma mater dolorosa; stern old gray she-wolf withthe dry teats--marâtre au coeur de pierre! It is not a bad schoolin which to graduate, if you can do so without loss of principle orsacrifice of the delicate bloom of honor and self-respect. 

Next to these I think he loved the barbarians he belonged to on hisfather's side, who, whatever their faults, are seldom prigs orPhilistines; and then he loved the proletarians, who had good, straightforward manners and no pretension--the laborer, the skilledartisan, especially the toilers of the sea. 

In spite of his love of his own sex, he was of the kind that can goto the devil for a pretty woman. 

He did not do this; he married one instead, fortunately for himselfand for his children and for her, and stuck to her and preferred hersociety to any society in the world. Her mere presence seemed tohave an extraordinarily soothing influence on him; it was as thoughlife were short, and he could never see enough of her in theallotted time and space; the chronic necessity of her nearness tohim became a habit and a second nature--like his pipe, as he wouldsay. 

Still, he was such a slave to his own æsthetic eye and ever-youthfulheart that the sight of lovely woman pleased him more than the sightof anything else on earth; he delighted in her proximity, in therustle of her garments, in the sound of her voice; and lovelywoman's instinct told her this, so that she was very fond of Bartyin return. 

He was especially popular with sweet, pretty young girls, to whomhis genial, happy, paternal manner always endeared him. They felt assafe with Barty as with any father or uncle, for all his facetiouslove-making; he made them laugh, and they loved him for it, and theyforgot his Apolloship, and his Lionhood, and his general Immensity, which he never remembered himself. 

It is to be feared that women who lacked the heavenly gift of goodlooks did not interest him quite so much, whatever other gifts theymight possess, unless it were the gift of making lovely music. Thelittle brown nightingale outshone the brilliant bird of paradise ifshe were a true nightingale; if she were very brown indeed, he wouldshut his eyes and listen with all his ears, rapt, as in a heavenlydream. And the closed lids would moisten, especially the lid thathid the eye that couldn't see--the emotional one!--although he wasthe least lachrymose of men, since it was with such a dry eye hewrote what I could scarcely read for my tears. 

But his natural kindliness and geniality made him always try andplease those who tried to please him, beautiful or the reverse, whether they succeeded or not; and he was just as popular with theducks and geese as with the swans and peacocks and nightingales andbirds of paradise. The dull, commonplace dames who prosed and buzzedand bored, the elderly intellectual virgins who knew nothing of lifebut what they had read--or written--in "Tendenz" novels, yet sadlyrebuked him, more in sorrow than in anger, for this passage or thatin his books, about things out of their ken altogether, etc. 

His playful amenity disarmed the most aggressive bluestocking, orthodoxor Unitarian, Catholic or Hebrew--radicals, agnostics, vegetarians, teetotalers, anti-vaccinationists, anti-vivisectionists--evenanti-things that don't concern decent women at all, whether married orsingle. 

It was only when his privacy was invaded by some patronizing, loud-voiced nouvelle-riche with a low-bred physiognomy that nomillions on earth could gild or refine, and manners to match; somefoolish, fashionable, would-be worldling, who combined the archlittle coquetries and impertinent affectations of a spoilt beautywith the ugliness of an Aztec or an Esquimau; some silly, titled oldfrump who frankly ignored his tea-making wife and daughters andtalked to _him_ only--and only about her grotesque and uglyself--and told him of all the famous painters who had wanted topaint her for the last hundred years--it was only then he grew glumand reserved and depressed and made an unfavorable impression on theother sex. 

What it must have cost him not to express his disgust more frankly!for reticence on any matter was almost a torture to him. 

Most of us have a mental sanctum to which we retire at times, locking the door behind us; and there we think of high and beautifulthings, and hold commune with our Maker; or count our money, orimprovise that repartee the gods withheld last night, and shakehands with ourselves for our wit; or caress the thought of somedarling, secret wickedness or vice; or revel in dreams of somehidden hate, or some love we mustn't own; and curse those we have tobe civil to whether we like them or not, and nurse our little enviestill we almost get to like them. 

There we remember all the stupid and unkind things we've ever saidor thought or done, and all the slights that have ever been put onus, and secretly plan the revenge that never comes off--because timehas softened our hearts, let us hope, when opportunity serves atlast!

That Barty had no such holy of holies to creep into I feel prettysure--unless it was the wifely heart of Leah; whatever came into hishead came straight out of his mouth; he had nothing to conceal, andthought aloud, for all the world to hear; and it does credit, Ithink, to the singular goodness and guilelessness of his nature thathe could afford to be so outspoken through life and yet give solittle offence to others as he did. His indiscretion did very littleharm, and his naïve self-revelation only made him the more lovableto those who knew him well. 

They were poor creatures, the daws who pecked at that manly heart, so stanch and warm and constant. 

As for Leah, it was easy to see that she looked upon her husband asa fixed star, and was well pleased to tend and minister and revolve, and shine with no other light than his; it was in reality anabsolute adoration on her part. But she very cleverly managed tohide it from him; she was not the kind of woman that makes a doormatof herself for the man she loves. She kept him in very good orderindeed. 

It was her theory that female adoration is not good for masculinevanity, and that he got quite enough of it outside his own home; andshe would make such fun of him and his female adorers all over theworld that he grew to laugh at them himself, and to value a pat onthe back and a hearty "Well done, Barty!" from his wife more than

 "The blandishments of all the womankind In Europe and America combined. "

Gentle and kind and polite as she was, however, she could do battlein defence of her great man, who was so backward at defendinghimself; and very effective battle too. 

As an instance among many, illustrating her method of warfare: Onceat an important house a very immense personage (who had an eye for apretty woman) had asked to be introduced to her and had taken herdown to supper; a very immense personage indeed, whose fame hadpenetrated to the uttermost ends of the earth and deservedly madehis name a beloved household word wherever our tongue is spoken, sothat it was in every Englishman's mouth all over the world--asBarty's is now. 

Leah was immensely impressed, and treated his elderly Immensity to avery full measure of the deference that was his due; and such openhomage is not always good for even the Immensest Immensities--itsometimes makes them give themselves immense airs. So that thisparticular Immensity began mildly but firmly to patronize Leah. Thisshe didn't mind on her own account, but when he said, quitecasually:

"By-the-way, I forget if I _know_ your good husband; _do_ I?"

--she was not pleased, and immediately answered:

"I really can't say; I don't think I ever heard him mention yourname!"

This was not absolutely veracious on Leah's part; for to Barty inthose days this particular great man was a god, and he was alwaysfull of him. But it brought the immense one back to his bearings atonce, and he left off patronizing and was almost humble. 

Anyhow, it was a lie so white that the recording angel will probablydelete what there is of it with a genial smile, and leave a littleblank in its place. 

 * * * * *

In an old diary of Leah's I find the following entry:

"March 6th, 1874. --Mamma and Ida Scatcherd came to stay. In theevening our sixth daughter and eighth child was born. "

Julia (Mrs. Mainwaring) was this favored person--and is still. Juliaand her predecessors have all lived and flourished up to now. 

The Josselins had been exceptionally fortunate in their children;each new specimen seemed an even finer specimen than the last. Thehealth of this remarkable family had been exemplary--measles, andmumps, and whooping-cough their only ailments. 

During the month of Leah's confinement Barty's nocturnal literaryactivity was unusually great. Night after night he wrote in hissleep, and accumulated enough raw material to last him a lifetime;for the older he grew and the more practised his hand the longer ittook him to give his work the shape he wished; he became morefastidious year by year as he became less of an amateur. 

One morning, a day or two before his wife's complete recovery, hefound a long personal letter from Martia by his bedside--a letterthat moved him very deeply, and gave him food for thought duringmany weeks and months and years:

 * * * * *

 "My Beloved Barty, --The time has come at last when I must bid you farewell. 

 "I have outstayed my proper welcome on earth as a disembodied conscience by just a hundred years, and my desire for reincarnation has become an imperious passion not to be resisted. 

 "It is more than a desire--it is a duty as well, a duty far too long deferred. 

 "Barty, I am going to be your next child. I can conceive no greater earthly felicity than to be a child of yours and Leah's. I should have been one long before, but that you and I have had so much to do together for this beautiful earth--a great debt to pay: you, for being as you are; I, for having known you. 

 "Barty, you have no conception what you are to me and always have been. 

 [Illustration: "'I DON'T THINK I EVER HEARD HIM MENTION YOUR NAME'"]

 "I am to you but a name, a vague idea, a mysterious inspiration; sometimes a questionable guide, I fear. You don't even believe all I have told you about myself--you think it all a somnambulistic invention of your own; and so does your wife, and so does your friend. 

 "O that I could connect myself in your mind with the shape I wore when I was last a living thing! No shape on earth, not either yours or Leah's or that of any child yet born to you both, is more beautiful to the eye that has learned how to see than the fashion of that lost face and body of mine. 

 "_You_ wore the shape once, and so did your father and mother, for you were Martians. Leah was a Martian, and wore it too; there are many of them here--they are the best on earth, the very salt thereof. I mean to be the best of them all, and one of the happiest. Oh, help me to that!

 "Barty, when I am a splendid son of yours or a sweet and lovely daughter, all remembrance of what I was before will have been wiped out of me until I die. But _you_ will remember, and so will Leah, and both will love me with such a love as no earthly parents have ever felt for any child of theirs yet. 

 "Think of the poor loving soul, lone, wandering, but not lost, that will so trustfully look up at you out of those gleeful innocent eyes!

 "How that soul has suffered both here and elsewhere you don't know, and never will, till the secrets of all hearts shall be disclosed; and I am going to forget it myself for a few decades--sixty, seventy, eighty years perhaps; such happy years, I hope--with you for my father and Leah for my mother during some of them at least--and sweet grandchildren of yours, I hope, for my sons and daughters! Why, life to me now will be almost a holiday. 

 "Oh, train me up the way I should go! Bring me up to be healthy and chaste and strong and brave--never to know a mean ambition or think an ungenerous thought--never to yield to a base or unworthy temptation. 

 "If I'm a boy--and I want to be a boy very much (although, perhaps, a girl would be dearer to your heart)--don't let me be either a soldier or a sailor, however much I may wish it as a Josselin or a Rohan; don't bring me up to buy or sell like a Gibson, or deal in law like a Bletchley. 

 "Bring me up to invent, or make something useful, if it's only pickles or soap, but not to buy and sell them; bring me up to build or heal or paint or write or make music--to help or teach or please. 

 "If I'm a girl, bring me up to be as much like Leah as you can, and marry me to just such another as yourself, if you can find him. Whether I'm a girl or a boy, call me Marty, that my name may rhyme with yours. 

 "When my conscience re-embodies itself, I want it never to know another pang of self-reproach. And when I'm grown up, if you think it right to do so, tell me who and what I once was, that I may love you both the more; tell me how fondly I loved you when I was a bland and fleeting little animalcule, without a body, but making my home in yours--so that when you die I may know how irrevocably bound up together we must forever be, we three; and rejoice the more in your death and Leah's and my own. Teach me over again all I've ever taught you, Barty--over and over again!

 "Alas! perhaps you don't believe all this! How can I give you a sign. 

 "There are many ways; but a law, of necessity inexorable, forbids it. Such little entity as I possess would cease to be; it was all but lost when I saved your life--and again when I told you that you were the beloved of Julia Royce. It would not do for us Martians to meddle with earthly things; the fat would soon be in the fire, I can tell you!

 "Try and trust me, Barty, and give me the benefit of any doubt. 

 "You have work planned out for many years to come, and are now yourself so trained that you can do without me. You know what you have still to say to mankind; never write a line about which you are not sure. 

 "For another night or two you will be my host, and this splendid frame of yours my hostelry; on y est très bien. Be hospitable still for a little while--make the most of me; hug me tight, squeeze me warm!

 "As soon as Leah is up and about and herself again you will know me no more, and no more feel the north. 

 "Ah! you will never realize what it is for me to bid you good-bye, my Barty, my Barty! All that is in your big heart and powerful brain to feel of grief belongs to me, now that you are fast asleep. And your genius for sorrow, which you have never really tested yet, is as great as any gift you possess. 

 "Happy Barty, who have got to forty years without sounding the great depths, and all through me! what will you do without your poor devoted unknown Martia to keep watch over you and ward--to fight for you like a wild-cat, if necessary?

 "Leah must be your wild-cat now. She has it in her to be a tigress when you are concerned, or any of her children! Next to you, Leah is the darling of my heart; for it's your heart I make use of to love her with. 

 "I want you to tell the world all about your Martia some day. They may disbelieve, as you do; but good fruit will come of it in the future. Martians will have a freer hand with you all, and that will be a good thing for the earth; they were trained in a good hard school--they are the Spartans of our universe. 

 "Such things will come to pass, before many years are over, as are little dreamt of now, and all through your wanting to swallow that dose of cyanide at No. 36 Rue des Ursulines Blanches, and my having the gumption to prevent you!

 "It's a good seed that we have sown, you and I. It was not right that this beautiful planet should go much longer drifting through space without a single hope that is not an illusion, without a single hint of what life should really be, without a goal. 

 "Why such darkness under so bright a sun! such blindness to what is so patent! such a deaf ear to the roaring of that thunderous harmony which you call the eternal silence!--you of the earth, earthy, who can hear the little trumpet of the mosquito so well that it makes you fidget and fret and fume all night, and robs you of your rest. Then the sun rises and frightens the mosquitoes away, and you think that's what the sun is for and are thankful; but why the deuce a mosquito should sting you, you can't make out!--mystery of mysteries!

 "At the back of your brain is a little speck of perishable matter, Barty; it is no bigger than a needle's point, but it is bigger in you than in anybody else I know, except in Leah; and in your children it is bigger still--almost as big as the point of a pin!

 "If they pair well, and it is in them to do so if they follow their inherited instinct, their children and their children's children will have that speck still bigger. When that speck becomes as big as a millet-seed in your remote posterity, then it will be as big as in a Martian, and the earth will be a very different place, and man of earth greater and even better than the Martian by all the greatness of his ampler, subtler, and more complex brain; his sense of the Deity will be as an eagle's sense of the sun at noon in a cloudless tropical sky; and he will know how to bear that effulgence without a blink, as he stands on his lonely summit, ringed by the azure world. 

 "Indeed, there will be no more Martians in Mars by that time; they are near the end of their lease; all good Martians will have gone to Venus, let us hope; if not, to the Sun itself!

 "Man has many thousands of years before him yet ere his little ball of earth gets too cold for him; the little speck in his brain may grow to the size of a pea, a cherry, a walnut, an egg, an orange! He will have in him the magnetic consciousness of the entire solar system, and hold the keys of time and space as long and as far as the sun shines for us all--and then there will be the beginning of everything. And all through that little episode in the street of those White Ursulines! And the seed of Barty and Leah will overflow to the uttermost ends of the earth, and finally blossom and bear fruit for ever and ever beyond the stars. 

 "What a beginning for a new order of things! what a getting up-stairs! what an awakening! what an annunciation!

 "Do you remember that knock at the door?

 "'Il est dix heures, savez-vous? Voulez-vous votre café dans votre chambre?'

 "She little knew, poor little Frau! humble little Finche Torfs, lowly Flemish virgin, who loved you as the moth loves the star; vilain mangeur de coeurs que vous êtes!

 "Barty, I wish your wife to hear nothing of this till the child who once was your Martia shall have seen the light of day with eyes of its own; tell her that I have left you at last, but don't tell her why or how; tell her some day, years hence, if you think she will love me the better for it; not otherwise. 

 "When you wake, Barty, I shall still be inside you; say to me in your mezza voce all the kind things you can think of--such things as you would have said to your mother had she lived till now, and you were speeding her on a long and uncertain journey. 

 "How you would have loved your mother! She was most beautiful, and of the type so dear to you. Her skin was almost as white as Leah's, her eyes almost as black, her hair even blacker; like Leah, she was tall and slim and lithe and graceful. She might have been Leah's mother, too, for the likeness between them. How often you remind me of her when you laugh or sing, and when you're funny in French; those droll, quick gestures and quaint intonations, that ease and freedom and deftness as you move! And then you become English in a moment, and your big, burly, fair-haired father has come back with his high voice, and his high spirits, and his frank blue eyes, like yours, so kind and brave and genial. 

 "And _you_, dear, what a baby you were--a very prince among babies; ah! if I can only be like that when I begin again!

 "The people in the Tuileries garden used to turn round and stare and smile at you when Rosalie with the long blue streamers bore you along as proudly as if Louis Philippe were your grandfather and she the royal wet-nurse; and later, after that hideous quarrel about nothing, and the fatal fight by the 'mare aux biches, ' how the good fisher people of Le Pollet adored you! 'Un vrai petit St. Jean! il nous portera bonheur, bien sûr!'

 "You have been thoroughly well loved all your life, my Barty, but most of all by me--never forget that!

 "I have been your father and your mother when they sat and watched your baby-sleep; I have been Rosalie when she gave you the breast; I have been your French grandfather and grandmother quarrelling as to which of the two should nurse you as they sat and sunned themselves on their humble doorstep in the Rue des Guignes!

 "I have been your doting wife when you sang to her, your children when you made them laugh till they cried. I've been Lady Archibald when you danced the Dieppoise after tea, in Dover, with your little bare legs; and Aunt Caroline, too, as she nursed you in Malines after that silly duel where you behaved so well; and I've been by turns Mérovée Brossard, Bonzig, old Laferté, Mlle. Marceline, Finche Torfs, poor little Marianina, Julia Royce, Father Louis, the old Abbé, Bob Maurice--all the people you've ever charmed, or amused, or been kind to--a legion; good heavens! I have been them all! What a snowball made up of all these loves I've been rolling after you all these years! and now it has all got to melt away in a single night, and with it the remembrance of all I've ever been during ages untold. 

 "And I've no voice to bid you good-bye, my beloved; no arms to hug you with, no eyes to weep--I, a daughter of the most affectionate, and clinging, and caressing race of little people in existence! Such eyes as I once had, too; such warm, soft, furry arms, and such a voice--it would have wanted no words to express all that I feel now; that voice--nous savons notre orthographie en musique là bas!

 "How it will please, perhaps, to remember even this farewell some day, when we're all together again, with nothing to come between!

 "And now, my beloved, there is no such thing as good-bye; it is a word that has no real meaning; but it is so English and pretty and sweet and child-like and nonsensical that I could write it over and over again--just for fun!

 "So good-bye! good-bye! good-bye! till I wake up once more after a long living sleep of many years, I hope; a sleep filled with happy dreams of you, dear, delightful people, whom I've got to live with and love, and learn to lose once more; and then--no more good-byes!

 "Martia. "

 * * * * *

So much for Martia--whoever or whatever it was that went by thatname in Barty's consciousness. 

After such close companionship for so many years, the loss ofher--or it--was like the loss of a sixth and most valuable sense, worse almost than the loss of his sight would have been; and withthis he was constantly threatened, for he most unmercifully taxedhis remaining eye, and the field of his vision had narrowed year byyear. 

But this impending calamity did not frighten him as in the old days. His wife was with him now, and as long as she was by his side hecould have borne anything--blindness, poverty, dishonor--anything inthe world. If he lost her, he would survive her loss just longenough to put his affairs in order, and no more. 

But most distressfully he missed the physical feeling of thenorth--even in his sleep. This strange bereavement drew him and Leaheven more closely together, if that were possible; and she was wellcontent to reign alone in the heart of her fractious, unreasonablebut most affectionate, humorous, and irresistible great man. Although her rival had been but a name and an idea, a mereabstraction in which she had never really believed, she did not findit altogether displeasing to herself that the lively Martia was nomore; she has almost told me as much. 

And thus began for them both the happiest and most beautiful periodof their joint lives, in spite of sorrows yet to come. She took suchcare of him that he might have been as blind as Belisarius himself, and he seemed almost to depend upon her as much--so wrapt up was hein the work of his life, so indifferent to all mundane and practicalaffairs. What eyesight was not wanted for his pen and pencil hereserved to look at her with--at his beloved children, and thethings of beauty in and outside Marsfield: pictures, old china, skies, hills, trees, and river; and what wits remained he kept toamuse his family and his friends--there was enough and to spare. 

The older he grew the more he teemed and seethed and bubbled andshone--and set others shining round him--even myself. It is nowonder Marsfield became such a singularly agreeable abode for allwho dwelt there, even for the men-servants and the maid-servants, and the birds and the beasts, and the stranger within its gates--andfor me a kind of earthly paradise. 

 * * * * *

And now, gentle reader, I want very badly to talk about myself alittle, if you don't mind--just for half a dozen pages or so, whichyou can skip if you like. Whether you do so or not, it will not hurtyou--and it will do me a great deal of good. 

I feel uncommonly sad, and very lonely indeed, now that Barty isgone; and with him my beloved comrade Leah. 

[Illustration: "'I'M A PHILISTINE, AND AM NOT ASHAMED'"]

The only people left to me that I'm really fond of--except my dearwidowed sister, Ida Scatcherd--are all so young. They're Josselins, ofcourse--one and all--and they're all that's kind and droll andcharming, and I adore them. But they can't quite realize what this sortof bereavement means to a man of just my age, who has still got someyears of life before him, probably--and is yet an old man. 

The Right Honorable Sir Robert Maurice, Bart. , M. P. , etc. , etc. , etc. That's me. I take up a whole line of manuscript. I might be anoble lord if I chose, and take up two!

I'm a liberal conservative, an opportunist, a pessi-optimist, anin-medio-tutissimist, and attend divine service at the TempleChurch. 

I'm a Philistine, and not ashamed; so was Molière--so was Cervantes. So, if you like, was the late Martin Farquhar Tupper--and those whoread him; we're of all sorts in Philistia, the great and the small, the good and the bad. 

I'm in the sixties--sound of wind and limb--only two falseteeth--one at each side, bicuspids, merely for show. I'm ratherbald, but it suits my style; a little fat, perhaps--a pound and ahalf over sixteen stone! but I'm an inch and a half over six feet, and very big-boned. Altogether, diablement bien conservé! I sleepwell, the sleep of the just; I have a good appetite and a gooddigestion, and a good conceit of myself still, thank Heaven--thoughnothing like what it used to be! One can survive the loss of one'sself-respect; but of one's vanity, never. 

What a prosperous and happy life mine has been, to be sure, up to afew short months ago--hardly ever an ache or a pain!--my only realgriefs, my dear mother's death ten years back, and my father's in1870. Yes, I have warmed both hands at the fire of life, and evenburnt my fingers now and then, but not severely. 

One love disappointment. The sting of it lasted a couple of years, the compensation more than thirty! I loved her all the better, perhaps, that I did not marry her. I'm afraid it is not in me tolove a very good wife of my own as much as I really ought!

And I love her children as well as if they'd been mine, and hergrandchildren even better. They are irresistible, thesegrandchildren of Barty's and Leah's--mine wouldn't have been a patchon them; besides, I get all the fun and none of the bother andanxiety. Evidently it was my true vocation to remain single--and bea tame cat in a large, warm house, where there are lots of nicechildren. 

O happy Bob Maurice! O happy sexagenarian!

"O me fortunatum, mea si bona nôrim!" (What would Père Brossard sayat this? he would give me a twisted pinch on the arm--and serve meright!)

I'm very glad I've been successful, though it's not a very highachievement to make a very large fortune by buying and selling thatwhich put into a man's mouth is said to steal away his brains!

But it does better things than this. It reconciles and solves andresolves mental discords, like music. It makes music for people whohave no ear--and there are so many of these in the world that I'm amillionaire, and Franz Schubert died a pauper. So I prefer to drinkbeer--as _he_ did; and I never miss a Monday Pop if I can help it. 

_I_ have done better things, too. I have helped to govern my countryand make its laws; but it all came out of wine to begin with--allfrom learning how to buy and sell. We're a nation of shopkeepers, although the French keep better shops than ours, and more of them. 

I'm glad I'm successful because of Barty, although success, whichbrings the world to our feet, does not always endear us to thefriend of our bosom. If I had been a failure Barty would have stuckto me like a brick, I feel sure, instead of my sticking to him likea leech! And the sight of his success might have soured me--thateternal chorus of praise, that perpetual feast of pudding in which Ishould have had no part but to take my share as a mere guest, andlisten and look on and applaud, and wish I'd never been born!

As it is, I listened and looked on and clapped my hands with as muchpride and pleasure as if Barty had been my son--and my share of thepudding never stuck in my throat!

I should have been always on the watch to take him down a peg whenhe was pleased with himself--to hold him cheap and overpraise someduffer in his hearing--so that I might save my own self-esteem; topay him bad little left-handed compliments, him and his, whenever Iwas out of humor; and I should have been always out of humor, havingfailed in life. 

And then I should have gone home wretched--for I have aconscience--and woke up in the middle of the night and thought ofBarty; and what a kind, genial, jolly, large-minded, andgenerous-hearted old chap he was and always had been--and buried myface in my pillow, and muttered:

"Ach! what a poor, mean, jealous beast I am--un fruit sec! unmalheureux raté!"

With all my success, this life-long exclusive cultivation of Barty'ssociety, and that of his artistic friends, which has somehowunfitted me for the society of my brother-merchants of wine--andmost merchants of everything else--has not, I regret to say, quitefitted me to hold my own among the "leaders of intellectual modernthought, " whose company I would fain seek and keep in preference toany other. 

My very wealth seems to depress and disgust them, as it does me--andI'm no genius, I admit, and a poor conversationalist. 

To amass wealth is an engrossing pursuit--and now that I haveamassed a good deal more than I quite know what to do with, it seemsto me a very ignoble one. It chokes up everything that makes lifeworth living; it leaves so little time for the constant and regularpractice of those ingenuous arts which faithfully to have learned issaid to soften the manners, and make one an agreeable person allround. 

It is even more _abrutissant_ than the mere pursuit of sport orpleasure. 

How many a noble lord I know who's almost as beastly rich as myself, and twice as big a fool by nature, and perhaps not a better fellowat bottom--yet who can command the society of all there is of thebest in science, literature, and art!

Not but what they will come and dine with me fast enough, theseshining lights of culture and intellect--my food is very good, although I say it, and I get noble lords to meet them. 

But they talk their real talk to each other--not to me--and to thenoble lords who sit by them at my table, and who try to understandwhat they say. With me they fall back on politics and bimetallism, for all the pains I've taken to get up the subjects that interestthem, and keep myself posted in all they've written and done. Precious little they know about bimetallism or politics!

Is it only on account of their pretty manners that my titled friendsare such favorites with these highly intellectual guests ofmine--and with me? If so, then pretty manners should come beforeeverything else in the world, and be taught instead of Latin andGreek. 

But if it's only because they're noble lords, then I'm beginning tothink with Mr. Labouchere that it's high time the Upper House wereabolished, and its denizens wafted into space, since they make suchsnobs of us all--including your humble servant, of course, who atleast is not quite so snobbish as to know himself for a damned snoband pretend he isn't one. 

Anyhow, I'm glad my life has been such a success. But would I liveit all over again? Even the best of it? The "forty year"?

Taking one consideration with another, most decidedly not. 

I have only met two men of my own age who would live their livesover again. They both cared more for their meals than for anythingelse in the world--and they have always had four of these every day;sometimes even five! plenty of variety, and never a meal to disagreewith them! affaire d'estomac! They simply want to eat all thosemeals once more. They lived to feed, and to refeed would re-live!

My meals have never disagreed with me either--but I have alwaysfound them monotonous; they have always been so simple and soregular when I've had the ordering of them! Fried soles, chops orsteaks, and that sort of thing, and a pint of lager-beer--no winefor me, thank you; I sell it--and all this just to serve as a merefoundation for a smoke--and a chat with Barty, if possible!

Hardly ever an ache or a pain, and I wouldn't live it all overagain! yet I hope to live another twenty years, if only to takeLeah's unborn great-grandchildren to the dentist's, and tip them atschool, and treat them to the pantomime and Madame Tussaud's, as Idid their mothers and grandmothers before them--or their fathers andgrandfathers. 

This seems rather inconsistent! For would I care, twenty yearshence, to re-live these coming twenty years? Evidently not--it's outof the question. 

So why don't I give up at once? I know how to do it, without pain, without scandal, without even invalidating my life-insurance, aboutwhich I don't care a rap!

Why don't I? why don't _you_, O middle-aged reader--with all theinfirmities of age before you and all the pleasures of youth behind?Anyhow, we don't, either you or I--and so there's an end on't. 

O Pandora! I have promised myself that I would take agreat-grandchild of Barty's on a flying-machine from Marsfield toLondon and back in half an hour--and that great-grandchild can'twell be born for several years--perhaps not for another twenty!

And now, gentle reader, I've had my little say, and I'm a good dealbetter, thanks, and I'll try not to talk about myself any more. 

Except just to mention that in the summer of 1876 I contested EastRosherville in the Conservative interest and was successful--andowed my success to the canvassing of Barty and Leah, who had nopolitics of their own whatever, and would have canvassed for me justas conscientiously if I'd been a Radical, probably more so! For ifBarty had permitted himself any politics at all, he would have beena red-hot Radical, I fear--and his wife would have followed suit. And so, perhaps, would I!

Part Tenth

 "Je suis allé de bon matin Cueillir la violette, Et l'aubépine, et le jasmin, Pour célébrer ta fête. J'ai lié de ma propre main Bouton de rose et romarin Pour couronner ta blonde tête. 

 "Mais de ta royale beauté Sois humble, je te prie. Ici tout meurt, la fleur, l'été, La jeunesse et la vie: Bientôt, bientôt ce jour sera, Ma belle, où l'on te portera Dans un linceul, pâle et flétrie. "

 --A _Favorite Song of_ Mary Trevor's. 

That was a pleasant summer. 

First of all we went to Ste. Adresse, a suburb of Hâvre, where thereis very good bathing--with rafts, _périssoires_, _pique-têtes_ todive from--all those aquatic delights the French are so clever atinventing, and which make a "station balnéaire" so much more amusingthan a mere British watering-place. 

We made a large party and bathed together every morning; and Bartyand I taught the young ones to dive and do "la coupe" in the trueorthodox form, with that free horizontal sweep of each alternate armthat gives it such distinction. 

It was very good fun to see those rosy boys and girls taking their"hussardes" neatly without a splash from the little platform at thetop of the pole, and solemnly performing "la coupe" in the wake oftheir papa; one on his back. Right out to sea they went, I bringingup the rear--and the faithful Jean-Baptiste in attendance with hisboat, and Leah inside it--her anxious eyes on the stretch to countthose curly heads again and again. She was a good mathematician, andthe tale always came right in the end; and home was reached at last, and no one a bit the worse for a good long swim in those well-aired, sunlit waves. 

Once we went on the top of the diligence to Étretat for the day, andthere we talked of poor Bonzig and his first and last dip in thesea; and did "la coupe" in the waters that had been so fatal to him, poor fellow!

Then we went by the steamer _Jean Bart_ to Trouville and Deauville, and up the Seine in a steam-launch to Rouen. 

In the afternoons and evenings we took long country walks and caughtmoths, or went to Hâvre by tramway and cleared out all thepastry-cooks in the Rue de Paris, and watched the transatlanticsteamers, out or home, from that gay pier which so happily combinesbusiness with pleasure--utile dulci, as Père Brossard would havesaid--and walked home by the charming Côte d'Ingouville, sacred tothe memory of Modeste Mignon. 

And then, a little later on, I was a good Uncle Bob, and took thewhole party to Auteuil, near Paris, and hired two lordly mansionsnext door to each other in the Villa Montmorency, and turned theirgardens into one. 

Altogether, with the Scatcherds and ourselves, eight children, governesses, nurses, and other servants, and dogs and the smalleranimals, we were a very large party, and a very lively one. I likethis sort of thing better than anything else in the world. 

I hired carriages and horses galore, and for six weeks we madeourselves thoroughly comfortable and at home in Paris and around. 

That was the happiest holiday I ever had since the vacation Bartyand I spent at the Lafertés' in the Gué des Aulnes when we wereschool-boys. 

And such was our love for the sport he called "_la chasse auxsouvenirs_" that one day we actually went there, travelling by trainto La Tremblaye, where we spent the night. 

It was a sad disenchantment!

The old Lafertés were dead, the young ones had left that part of thecountry; and the house and what remained of the gardens now belongedto another family, and had become formal and mean and business-likein aspect, and much reduced in size. 

Much of the outskirts of the forest had been cleared and was beingcleared still, and cheap little houses run up for workmen; animmense and evil-smelling factory with a tall chimney had replacedthe old home-farm, and was connected by a single line of rails withthe station of La Tremblaye. The clear, pellucid stream where weused to catch crayfish had been canalized--"s'est encanaillé, " asBarty called it--its waters fouled by barge traffic and all kinds ofhorrors. 

We soon found the haunted pond that Barty was so fond of--but quitein the open, close to an enormous brick-field, and only half full;and with all its trees cut down, including the tree on which theyhad hanged the gay young Viscount who had behaved so badly toSéraphine Doucet, and on which Séraphine Doucet afterwards hangedherself in remorse. 

No more friendly charcoal-burners, no more wolves or boars orcerfs--dix-cors; and as for were-wolves, the very memory of them haddied out. 

There seems no greater desecration to me than cutting down an oldand well-remembered French forest I have loved; and solving all itsmystery, and laying bare the nakedness of the land in a way sobrutal and expeditious and unexpected. It reminds one of the mannerin which French market-women will pluck a goose before it's quitedead; you bristle with indignation to see it, but you mustn'tinterfere. 

La Tremblaye itself had become a flourishing manufacturing town, andto our jaundiced and disillusioned eyes everybody and everything wasas ugly as could be--and I can't say we made much of a bag in theway of souvenirs. 

We were told that young Laferté was a barrister at Angers, prosperous and married. We deliberated whether we would hunt him upand talk of old times. Then we reflected how curiously cold andinhospitable Frenchmen can sometimes be to old English friends incircumstances like these--and how little they care to talk of oldtimes and all that, unless it's the Englishman who plays the host. 

Ask a quite ordinary Frenchman to come and dine with you in London, and see what a genial and charming person he can be--what a quickbosom friend, and with what a glib and silver tongue to praise thewarmth of your British welcome. 

Then go and call on him when you find yourself in Paris--and youwill soon learn to leave quite ordinary Frenchmen alone, on theirown side of the Channel. 

Happily, there are exceptions to this rule!

Thus the sweet Laferté remembrance, which had so often come back tome in my dreams, was forever spoiled by this unlucky trip. 

It had turned that leaf from the tablets of my memory into a kind ofpalimpsest, so that I could no longer quite make out the oldhandwriting for the new, which would not be obliterated, and thesewere confused lines it was hard to read between--with all my skill!

Altogether we were uncommonly glad to get back to the VillaMontmorency--from the distorted shadows of a nightmare to happyreality. 

There, all was fresh and delightful; as boys we had often seen theoutside walls of that fine property which had come to thespeculative builder at last, but never a glimpse within; so thatthere was no desecration for us in the modern laying out of thatbeautiful double garden of ours, whatever there might have been forsuch ghosts of Montmorencys as chose to revisit the glimpses of themoon. 

We haunted Auteuil, Passy, Point du Jour, Suresnes, Courbevoie, Neuilly, Meudon--all the familiar places. Especially we oftenhaunted the neighborhood of the rond point de l'Avenue du Bois deBoulogne. 

One afternoon, as he and I and Leah and Ida were driving round whatonce was our old school, we stopped in the lane not far from theporte-cochère, and Barty stood up on the box and tried to look overthe wall. 

Presently, from the grand stone loge which had replaced Jaurion'sden, a nice old concierge came out and asked if we desired anything. We told him how once we had been at school on that very spot, andwere trying to make out the old trees that had served as bases in"la balle au camp, " and that if we really desired anything just thenit was that we might become school-boys once more!

"Ah, ma foi! je comprends ça, messieurs--moi aussi, j'ai étéécolier, et j'aimais bien la balle au camp, " said the good old man, who had been a soldier. 

He informed us the family were away, but that if we liked to comeinside and see the garden he was sure his master would have noobjection. We jumped at this kind offer and spent quite an hourthere, and if I were Barty I could so describe the emotions of thathour that the reader would feel quite as tearfully grateful to me asto Barty Josselin for Chapters III. And IV. In _Le Fil de laVierge_, which are really founded, _mutatis mutandis_, on thisself-same little adventure of ours. 

Nothing remained of our old school--not even the outer walls;nothing but the big trees and the absolute ground they grew out of. Beautiful lawns, flower-beds, conservatories, summer-houses, ferns, and evergreen shrubs made the place seem even larger than it hadonce been--the very reverse of what usually happens--and softenedfor us the disenchantment of the change. 

Here, at least, was no desecration of a hallowed spot. When the pasthas been dead and buried a long while ago there is no sweeterdecking for its grave than a rich autumn tangle, all yellow andbrown and pale and hectic red, with glossy evergreens and soft, dampmoss to keep up the illusion of spring and summer all the yearround. 

Much to the amusement of the old concierge and his wife, Bartyinsisted on climbing into a huge horse-chestnut tree, in which was anatural seat, very high up, where, well hidden by the dense foliage, he and I used to color pipes for boys who couldn't smoke withoutfeeling sick. 

Nothing would suit him now but that he must smoke a pipe there whilewe talked to the good old couple below. 

"Moi aussi, je fumais quand c'était défendu; que voulez-vous? Ilfaut bien que jeunesse se passe, n'est ce pas?" said the oldsoldier. 

"Ah, dame!" said his old wife, and sighed. 

Every tree in this enchanted place had its history--every corner, every square yard of soil. I will not inflict these histories on thereader; I will restrain myself with all my might, and merely statethat just as the old school had been replaced by this noble dwellingthe noble dwelling itself has now been replaced, trees and gardenand all, by a stately palace many stories high, which rears itselfamong so many other stately palaces that I can't even identify thespot where once stood the Institution F. Brossard!

Later, Barty made me solemnly pledge my word that if he and Leahshould pre-decease me I would see to their due cremating and thefinal mingling of their ashes; that a portion of these--sayhalf--should be set apart to be scattered on French soil, in placeshe would indicate in his will, and that the lion's share of thathalf should be sprinkled over the ground that once was ourplay-ground, with--or without--the legitimate owner's permission. 

(Alas! and ah me! These instructions would have been carried out tothe letter but that the place itself is no more; and, with aconviction that I should be merely acting just as they would havewished, I took it on myself to mingle with their ashes those of avery sweet and darling child of theirs, dearer to them and to me andto us all than any creature ever born into this cruel universe; andI scattered a portion of these precious remains to the four winds, close by the old spot we so loved. )

 * * * * *

Yes, that was a memorable holiday; the charming fête de St. Cloudwas in full swing--it was delightful to haunt it once more withthose dear young people so little dreamt of when Barty and I firstgot into scrapes there, and were duly punished by Latin verbs toconjugate in our best handwriting for Bonzig or Dumollard. 

Then he and I would explore the so changed Bois de Boulogne for thelittle "Mare aux Biches, " where his father had fallen under thesword of Lieutenant Rondelys; but we never managed to find it:perhaps it had evaporated; perhaps the does had drunk it all up, before they, too, had been made to vanish, before the Germaninvader--or inside him; for he was fond of French venison, as wellas of French clocks! He was a most omnivorous person. 

Then Paris had endless charms for us both, and we relieved ourselvesat last of that long homesickness of years, and could almost believewe were boys again, as we dived into such old and well-rememberedstreets as yet remained. 

There were still some slums we had loved; one or two of them existeven now. Only the other day I saw the Rue de Cléry, the Rue de laLune, the Rue de la Montagne--all three on the south side of theBoulevard Bonne Nouvelle: they are still terrible to look at fromthe genial Boulevard, even by broad daylight--the houses so tall, soirregular, the streets so narrow and winding and black. They seemedto us boys terrible, indeed, between eight and nine on a winter'sevening, with just a lamp here and there to make their darknessvisible. Whither they led I can't say; we never dared explore theirobscure and mysterious recesses. They may have ended in the _courdes miracles_ for all we knew--it was nearly fifty years ago--andthey may be quite virtuous abodes of poverty to-day; but they seemedto us then strange, labyrinthine abysses of crime and secret dens ofinfamy, where dreadful deeds were done in the dead of long winternights. Evidently, to us in those days, whoever should lose himselfthere would never see daylight again; so we loved to visit themafter dark, with our hearts in our mouths, before going back toschool. 

We would sit on posts within call of the cheerful Boulevard, and watchmysterious women hurry up and down in the cold, out of darkness intolight and back again, poor creatures--dingy moths, silent but ominousnight-jars, forlorn women of the town--ill-favored and ill-dressed, someof them all but middle-aged, in common caps and aprons, with cottonumbrellas, like cooks looking for a situation. 

They never spoke to us, and seemed to be often brutally repulsed bywhatever men they did speak to--mostly men in blouses. 

"Ô dis-donc, _Hôr_tense! qu'y _faît_ froid! quand donc qu'y s'ra_ônze_ heures, q'nous allions nous _coû_cher?"

So said one of them to another one cold, drizzly night, in a raucousvoice, with low intonations of the gutter. The dimly felt horror anddespair and pathos of it sent us away shivering to our Passy omnibusas fast as our legs could carry us. 

That phrase has stuck in my memory ever since. Thank Heaven! theeleventh hour must have struck long ago, and Hortense and her friendmust be fast asleep and well out of the cold by now--they need walkthose evil streets no more. . . . 

When we had exhausted it all, and we felt homesick for Englandagain, it was good to get back to Marsfield, high up over theThames--so beautiful in its rich October colors which the riverreflected--with its old trees that grew down to the water's edge, and brooded by the boat-house there in the mellow sunshine. 

And then again when it became cold and dreary, at Christmas-timethere was my big house at Lancaster Gate, where Josselins were fondof spending some of the winter months, and where I managed to findroom for them all--with a little squeezing during the Christmasholidays when the boys came home from school. What good times theywere!

 * * * * *

"On May 24th, at Marsfield, Berks, the wife of Bartholomew Josselin, of a daughter"--or, as Leah put it in her diary, "our seventhdaughter and ninth child--to be called Martia, or Marty for short. "

It seems that Marty, prepared by her first ablution for this life, and as she lay being powdered on Mrs. Jones's motherly lap, was of adifferent type to her predecessors--much whiter, and lighter, andslighter; and she made no exhibition of that lusty lung-power whichhad so characterized the other little Barties on their introductionto this vale of tears. 

Her face was more regularly formed and more highly finished, and ina few weeks grew of a beauty so solemn and pathetic that it wouldsometimes make Mrs. Jones, who had lost babies of her own, shedmotherly tears merely to look at her. 

Even _I_ felt sentimental about the child; and as for Barty, hecould talk of nothing else, and made those rough and hastysilver-point studies of her head and face--mere sketches--which, being full of obvious faults, became so quickly famous amongæsthetic and exclusive people who had long given up Barty as awriter on account of his scandalous popularity. 

Alas! even those silver-points have become popular now, and theirphotogravures are in the shop-windows of sea-side resorts and in theback parlors of the lower middle-class; so that the æstheticexclusives who are up to date have had to give up Barty altogether. No one is sacred in those days--not even Shakespeare and MichaelAngelo. 

We shall be hearing Schumann and Wagner on the piano-organ, and"_nous autres_" of the cultured classes will have to fall back onBalfe and Byron and Landseer. 

In a few months little Marty became famous for this extra beauty allover Henley and Maidenhead. 

She soon grew to be the idol of her father's heart, and hermother's, and Ida's. But I really think that if there was one personwho idolized her more than all the rest, it was I, Bob Maurice. 

She was extremely delicate, and gave us much anxiety and manyalarms, and Dr. Knight was a very constant visitor at MarsfieldLodge. It was fortunate, for her sake, that the Josselins had leftCampden Hill and made their home in Marsfield. 

Nine of these children--including one not yet born then--developedthere into the finest and completest human beings, take them for allin all, that I have ever known; nine--a good number!

"Numero Deus impare gaudet. "

Or, as poor Rapaud translated this (and was pinched black and blueby Père Brossard in consequence):

"Le numéro deux se réjouit d'être impair!" (Number two takes apleasure in being odd!)

The three sons--one of them now in the army, as becomes a Rohan; andone a sailor, as becomes a Josselin; and one a famous actor, thetrue Josselin of all--are the very types of what I should like forthe fathers of my grandchildren, if I had marriageable daughters ofmy own. 

And as for Barty's daughters, they are all--but one--so well knownin society and the world--so famous, I may say--that I need hardlymention them here; all but Marty, my sweet little "maid of Dove. "

When Barty took Marsfield he and I had entered what I have eversince considered the happiest decade of a successful and healthyman's life--the forties. 

"Wait till you get to _forty year_!"

So sang Thackeray, but with a very different experience to mine. Heseemed to look upon the fifth decade as the grave of all tenderillusions and emotions, and exult!

My tender illusions and emotions became realties--things to live byand for. As Barty and I "dipped our noses in the Gasconwine"--Vougeot-Conti & Co. --I blessed my stars for being free ofMarsfield, which was, and is still, my real home, and for the warmfriendship of its inhabitants who have been my real family, and forseveral years of unclouded happiness all round. 

Even in winter what a joy it was, after a long solitary walk, orride, or drive, or railway journey, to suddenly find myself at duskin the midst of all that warmth and light and gayety; what acontrast to the House of Commons; what a relief after Barge Yard orDowning Street; what tea that was, what crumpets and buttered toast, what a cigarette; what romps and jokes, and really jolly good fun;and all that delightful untaught music that afterwards became socultivated! Music was a special inherited gift of the entire family, and no trouble or expense was ever spared to make the best and themost of it. 

Roberta became the most finished and charming amateur pianist I everheard, and as for Mary _la rossignolle_--Mrs. Trevor--she's almostas famous as if she had made singing her profession, as she once sowished to do. She married happily instead, a better professionstill; and though her songs are as highly paid for as any--except, perhaps, Madame Patti's--every penny goes to the poor. 

She can make a nigger melody sound worthy of Schubert and a song ofSchumann go down with the common herd as if it were a nigger melody, and obtain a genuine encore for it from quite simple people. 

Why, only the other night she and her husband dined with me at theBristol, and we went to Baron Schwartzkind's in Piccadilly to meetRoyal Highnesses. 

Up comes the Baron with:

"Ach, Mrs. Drefor! vill you not zing zomzing? ze Brincess vould beso jarmt. "

"I'll sing as much as you like, Baron, if you promise me you'll senda checque for £50 to the Foundling Hospital to-morrow morning, " saysMary. 

"_I_'ll send _another_ fifty, Baron, " says Bob Maurice. And theBaron had to comply, and Mary sang again and again, and the Princesswas more than charmed. 

She declared herself enchanted, and yet it was Brahms and Schumannthat Mary sang; no pretty little English ballad, no French, noItalian. 

 "Aus meinen Thränen spriessen Viel' blühende Blumen hervor; Und meine Seufze werden Ein Nachtigallen Chor. . . . "

So sang Mary, and I declare some of the royal eyes were moist. 

They all sang and played, these Josselins; and tumbled and acted, and were droll and original and fetching, as their father had beenand was still; and, like him, amiable and full of exuberant life;and, like their mother, kind and appreciative and sympathetic andever thoughtful of others, without a grain of selfishness orconceit. 

[Illustration: "'ZE BRINCESS VOULD BE SO JARMT'"]

They were also great athletes, boys and girls alike; good swimmersand riders, and first-rate oars. And though not as good at books andlessons as they might have been, they did not absolutely disgracethemselves, being so quick and intelligent. 

Amid all this geniality and liveliness at home and this beauty ofsurrounding nature abroad, little Marty seemed to outgrow in ameasure her constitutional delicacy. 

It was her ambition to become as athletic as a boy, and she waspersevering in all physical exercises--and throw stones verystraight and far, with a quite easy masculine sweep of the arm; Itaught her myself. 

It was also her ambition to draw, and she would sit for an hour ormore on a high stool by her father, or on the arm of his chair, andwatch him at his work in silence. Then she would get herself paperand pencil, and try and do likewise; but discouragement wouldovertake her, and she would have to give it up in despair, with aheavy sigh and a clouded look on her lovely little pale face; andyet they were surprisingly clever, these attempts of hers. 

Then she took to dictating a novel to her sisters and to me: it wasall about an immense dog and three naughty boys, who were awfuldunces at school and ran away to sea, dog and all; and performedheroic deeds in Central Africa, and grew up there, "booted andbearded, and burnt to a brick!" and never married or fell in love, or stooped to any nonsense of that kind. 

This novel, begun in the handwriting of all of us, and continued inher own, remained unfinished; and the precious MS. Is now in mypossession. I have read it oftener than any other novel, French orEnglish, except, perhaps, _Vanity Fair_!

I may say that I had something to do with the development of herliterary faculty, as I read many good books to her before she couldread quite comfortably for herself: _Evenings at Home_, _The SwissFamily Robinson_, _Gulliver_, _Robinson Crusoe_, books byBallantyne, Marryat, Mayne Reid, Jules Verne, etc. , and _TreasureIsland_, _Tom Sawyer_, _Huckleberry Finn_, _The Wreck of theGrosvenor_, and then her father's books, or some of them. 

But even better than her famous novel were the stories sheimprovised to me in a small boat which I often rowed up-stream whileshe steered--one story, in particular, that had no end; she wouldtake it up at any time. 

She had imagined a world where all trees and flowers and vegetation(and some birds) were the size they are now; but men and beasts nobigger than Lilliputians, with houses and churches and buildings tomatch--and a family called Josselin living in a beautiful housecalled Marsfield, as big as a piano organ. 

Endless were the adventures by flood and field of these littlepeople: in the huge forest and on the gigantic river which it tookthem nearly an hour to cross in a steam-launch when the wind washigh, or riding trained carrier-pigeons to distant counties, and thecoasts of Normandy, Brittany, and Picardy, where everything was on asimilar scale. 

It would astonish me to find how vivid and real she could make theseimaginations of hers, and to me how fascinating--oddly enough shereserved them for me only, and told no one else. 

There was always an immensely big strong man, one Bobby Maurice, agood-natured giant, nearly three inches high and over two ounces inweight, who among other feats would eat a whole pea at a sitting, and hold out an acorn at arm's-length, and throw a pepper-corn overtwo yards--which has remained the record. 

Then, coming back down-stream, she would take the sculls and I thetiller, and I would tell her (in French) all about our schooladventures at Brossard's and Bonzig, and the Lafertés, and theRevolution of February; and in that way she picked up a lot ofuseful and idiomatic Parisian which considerably astonished FräuleinWerner, the German governess, who yet knew French almost as well asher own language--almost as well as Mr. Ollendorff himself. 

She also changed one of the heroes in her famous novel, _TommyHolt_, into a French boy, and called him _Rapaud_!

She was even more devoted to animals than the rest of the family:the beautiful Angora, Kitty, died when Marty was five, from anabscess in her cheek, where she'd been bitten by a strangebull-terrier; and Marty tearfully wrote her epitaph in a beautifulround hand--

 "Here lies Kitty, full of grace; Died of an _abbess_ in her face!"

This was her first attempt at verse-making, and here's her last, from the French of Sully-Prudhomme:

 "If you but knew what tears, alas! One weeps for kinship unbestowed, In pity you would sometimes pass My poor abode!

 "If you but knew what balm, for all Despond, lies in an angel's glance, Your looks would on my window fall As though by chance!

 "If you but knew the heart's delight To feel its fellow-heart is by, You'd linger, as a sister might, These gates anigh!

 "If you but knew how oft I yearn For one sweet voice, one presence dear, Perhaps you'd even simply turn And enter here!"

She was only just seventeen when she wrote them, and, upon my word, I think they're almost as good as the original!

Her intimate friendship with Chucker-out, the huge St. Bernard, lasted for nearly both their lives, alas! It began when they bothweighed exactly the same, and I could carry both in one arm. When hedied he turned the scale at sixteen stone, like me. 

It has lately become the fashion to paint big dogs and little girls, and engravings of these pictures are to be seen in all theprint-sellers' shops. It always touches me very much to look atthese works of art, although--and I hope it is not libellous to sayso--the big dog is always hopelessly inferior in beauty and dignityand charm to Chucker-out, who was champion of his day. And as forthe little girls--_Ah, mon Dieu!_

Such pictures are not high art of course, and that is why I don'tpossess one, as I've got an æsthetic character to keep up; but why theyshouldn't be I can't guess. Is it because no high artist--except BritonRiviere--will stoop to so easily understood a subject?

A great master would not be above painting a small child or a bigdog separately--why should he be above putting them both in the samepicture? It would be too obvious, I suppose--like a melody byMozart, or Handel's "Harmonious Blacksmith, " or Schubert's Serenade, and other catchpenny tunes of the same description. 

_I_ was also very intimate with Chucker-out, who made more of methan he even did of his master. 

One night I got very late to Marsfield by the last train, and, letting myself in with my key, I found Chucker-out waiting for me inthe hall, and apparently in a very anxious frame of mind, andextremely demonstrative, wanting to say something more thanusual--to confide a trouble, to confess!

We went up into the big music-room, which was still lighted, and layon a couch together; he, with his head on my knees, whimperingsoftly as I smoked and read a paper. 

Presently Leah came in and said:

"Such an unfortunate thing happened; Marty and Chucker-out wereplaying on the slope, and he knocked her down and sprained herknee. "

As soon as Chucker-out heard Marty's name he sat up and whinedpiteously, and pawed me down with great violence; pawed threebuttons off my waistcoat and broke my watch-chain--couldn't becomforted; the misadventure had been preying on his mind forhours. 

I give this subject to Mr. Briton Riviere, who can paint both dogs andchildren, and everything else he likes. I will sit for him myself, if hewishes, and as a Catholic priest! He might call it a confession--and anabsolution! or, "The Secrets of the Confessional. "

The good dog became more careful in future, and restrained hisexuberance even going down-stairs with Marty on the way to a ramblein the woods, which excited him more than anything; if he camedown-stairs with anybody else, the violence of his joy was such thatone had to hold on by the banisters. He was a dear, good beast, anda splendid body-guard for Marty in her solitary woodlandrambles--never left her side for a second. I have often watched himfrom a distance, unbeknown to both; he was proud of hisresponsibility--almost fussy about it. 

I have been fond of many dogs, but never yet loved a dog as I lovedbig Chucker-out--or _Choucroûte_, as Coralie, the French maid, called him, to Fräulein Werner's annoyance (Choucroûte is French forsauerkraut); and I like to remember him in his splendid prime, guarding his sweet little mistress, whom I loved better thananything else on earth. She was to me a kind of pet Marjorie, andsaid such droll and touching things that I could almost fill a bookwith them. I kept a diary on purpose, and called it Martiana. 

She was tall, but lamentably thin and slight, poor dear, with hermother's piercing black eyes and the very fair curly locks of herpapa--a curious and most effective contrast--and features and acomplexion of such extraordinary delicacy and loveliness that italmost gave one pain in the midst of the keen pleasure one had inthe mere looking at her. 

Heavens! how that face would light up suddenly at catching theunexpected sight of some one she was fond of! How often it haslighted up at the unexpected sight of "Uncle Bob"! The mereremembrance of that sweet illumination brightens my old age for menow; and I could almost wish her back again, in my senileselfishness and inconsistency. Pazienza!

Sometimes she was quite embarrassing in her simplicity, and remindedme of her father. 

Once in Dieppe--when she was about eight--she and I had gone throughthe Établissement to bathe, and people had stared at her even morethan usual and whispered to each other. 

"I bet you don't know why they all stare so, Uncle Bob?"

"I give it up, " said I. 

"It's because I'm so _handsome_--we're _all_ handsome, you know, andI'm the handsomest of the lot, it seems! _You_'re _not_ handsome, Uncle Bob. But oh! aren't you _strong_! Why, you could tuck apiou-piou under one arm and a postman under the other and walk up tothe castle with them and pitch them into the sea, _couldn't_ you?And that's better than being handsome, _isn't_ it? I wish _I_ waslike that. "

And here she cuddled and kissed my hand. 

When Mary began to sing (under Signor R. ) it was her custom of anafternoon to lock herself up alone with a tuning-fork in a largegarret and practise, as she was shy of singing exercises before anyone else. 

Her voice, even practising scales, would give Marty extraordinarypleasure, and me, too. Marty and I have often sat outside andlistened to Mary's rich and fluent vocalizings; and I hoped thatMarty would develop a great voice also, as she was so like Mary inface and disposition, except that Mary's eyes were blue and her hairvery black, and her health unexceptionable. 

Marty did not develop a real voice, although she sang very prettilyand confidentially to me, and worked hard at the piano with Roberta;she learned harmony and composed little songs, and wrote words tothem, and Mary or her father would sing them to her and make herhappy beyond description. 

Happy! she was always happy during the first few years of herlife--from five or six to twelve. 

I like to think her happiness was so great for this brief period, that she had her full share of human felicity just as if she hadlived to the age of the Psalmist. 

It seemed everybody's business at Marsfield to see that Marty had agood time. This was an easy task, as she was so easy to amuse; andwhen amused, herself so amusing to others. 

As for me, it is hardly too much to say that every hour I couldspare from business and the cares of state was spent in organizingthe amusement of little Marty Josselin, and I was foolish enough tobe almost jealous of her own father and mother's devotion to thesame object. 

Unlike her brothers and sisters, she was a studious little person, and fond of books--too much so indeed, for all she was such atomboy; and all this amusement was designed by us with the purposeof winning her away from the too sedulous pursuit of knowledge. Imay add that in temper and sweetness of disposition the child wassimply angelic, and could not be spoiled by any spoiling. 

It was during these happy years at Marsfield that Barty, althoughbereft of his Martia ever since that farewell letter, managed, nevertheless, to do his best work, on lines previously laid down forhim by her. 

For the first year or two he missed the feeling of the north mostpainfully--it was like the loss of a sense--but he grew in timeaccustomed to the privation, and quite resigned; and Marty, whom heworshipped--as did her mother--compensated him for the loss of hisdemon. 

_Inaccessible Heights_, _Floréal et Fructidor_, _The InfinitelyLittle_, _The Northern Pactolus_, _Pandore et sa Boîte_, _Cancer andCapricorn_, _Phoebus et Séléné_ followed each other in leisurelysuccession. And he also found time for those controversies that somoved and amused the world; among others, his famous and triumphantconfutation of Canon ----, on one hand, and Professor ----, thefamous scientist, on the other, which has been compared to theclassic litigation about the oyster, since the oyster itself fell toBarty's share, and a shell to each of the two disputants. 

Orthodox and agnostic are as the poles asunder, yet they could notbut both agree with Barty Josselin, who so cleverly extended a handto each, and acted as a conductor between them. 

That irresistible optimism which so forces itself upon allJosselin's readers, who number by now half the world, and willprobably one day include the whole of it--when the whole of it iscivilized--belonged to him by nature, by virtue of his health andhis magnificent physique and his happy circumstances, and anadmirably balanced mind, which was better fitted for his particularwork and for the world's good than any special gift of genius in onedirection. 

His literary and artistic work never cost him the slightest effort. It amused him to draw and write more than did anything else in theworld, and he always took great pains, and delighted in taking them;but himself he never took seriously for one moment--never realizedwhat happiness he gave, and was quite unconscious of the true valueof all he thought and wrought and taught!

He laughed good-humoredly at the passionate praise that for thirtyyears was poured upon him from all quarters of the globe, andshrugged his shoulders at the coarse invective of those whosereligious susceptibilities he had so innocently wounded; left allpublished insults unanswered; never noticed any lie printed abouthimself--never wrote a paragraph in explanation or self-defence, butsmoked many pipes and mildly wondered. 

Indeed he was mildly wondering all his life: at his luck--at all theease and success and warm domestic bliss that had so compensated himfor the loss of his left eye and would almost have compensated himfor the loss of both. 

"It's all because I'm so deuced good-looking!" says Barty--"and so'sLeah!"

And all his life he sorrowed for those who were less fortunate thanhimself. His charities and those of his wife were immense--he gaveall the money, and she took all the trouble. 

"C'est papa qui paie et maman qui régale, " as Marty would say; andnever were funds distributed more wisely. 

But often at odd moments the Weltschmerz, the sorrow of the world, would pierce this man who no longer felt sorrows of his own--stabhim through and through--bring the sweat to his temples--fill hiseyes with that strange pity and trouble that moved you so deeplywhen you caught the look; and soon the complicated anguish of thatdim regard would resolve itself into gleams of a quite celestialsweetness--and a heavenly message would go forth to mankind in suchsimple words that all might read who ran. . . . 

All these endowments of the heart and brain, which in him weremasculine and active, were possessed in a passive form by his wife;instead of the buoyant energy and boisterous high spirits, she hadpatience and persistency that one felt to be indomitable, and asilent sympathy that never failed, and a fund of cheerfulness andgood sense on which any call might be made by life without fear ofbankruptcy; she was of those who could play a losing game and helpothers to play it--and she never had a losing game to play!

These gifts were inherited by their children, who, more-over, wereso fed on their father's books--so imbued with them--that one feltsure of their courage, endurance, and virtue, whatever misfortunesor temptations might assail them in this life. 

One felt this especially with the youngest but one, Marty, who, witheven more than her due share of those gifts of the head and heartthey had all inherited from their two parents, had not inheritedtheir splendid frames and invincible health. 

Roderick, _alias_ Mark Tapley, _alias_ Chips, who is now the sailor, was, oddly enough, the strongest and the hardiest of the wholefamily, and yet he was born two years after Marty. She alwaysdeclared she brought him up and made a man of him, and taught himhow to throw stones, and how to row and ride and swim; and that itwas entirely to her he owed it that he was worthy to be asailor--her ideal profession for a man. 

He was devoted to her, and a splendid little chap, and in theholidays he and she and I were inseparable, and of courseChucker-out, who went with us wherever it was--Hâvre, Dieppe, Dinard, the Highlands, Whitby, etc. 

Once we were privileged to settle ourselves for two months in CastleRohan, through the kindness of Lord Whitby; and that was the bestholiday of all--for the young people especially. And more especiallyfor Barty himself, who had such delightful boyish recollections ofthat delightful place, and found many old friends among the sailorsand fisher people--who remembered him as a boy. 

Chips and Marty and I and the faithful Chucker-out were neverhappier than on those staiths where there is always such an ancientand fishlike smell; we never tired of watching the miraculousdraughts of silver herring being disentangled from the nets andcounted into baskets, which were carried on the heads of thestalwart, scaly fishwomen, and packed with salt and ice ininnumerable barrels for Billingsgate and other great markets; orelse the sales by auction of huge cod and dark-gray dog-fish as theylay helpless all of a row on the wet flags amid a crowd of sturdymariners looking on, with their hands in their pockets and theirpipes in their mouths. 

Then over that restless little bridge to the picturesque old town, and through its long, narrow street, and up the many stone steps tothe ruined abbey and the old church on the East Cliff; and the oldchurchyard, where there are so many stones in memory of those whowere lost at sea. 

It was good to be there, in such good company, on a sunny Augustmorning, and look around and about and down below: the miles andmiles of purple moor, the woods of Castle Rohan, the wide North Sea, which turns such a heavenly blue beneath a cloudless sky; the twostone piers, with each its lighthouse, and little people patientlylooking across the waves for Heaven knows what! the busy harbor fullof life and animation; under our feet the red roofs of the old townand the little clock tower of the market-place; across the streamthe long quay with its ale-houses and emporiums and jet shops andlively traffic; its old gabled dwellings and their rotting woodenbalconies. And rising out of all this, tier upon tier, up theopposite cliff, the Whitby of the visitors, dominated by a giganticwindmill that is--or was--almost as important a landmark as the oldabbey itself. 

To the south the shining river ebbs and flows, between its bigship-building yards and the railway to York, under endless movingcraft and a forest of masts, now straight on end, now slantinghelplessly on one side when there's not water enough to float theirkeels; and the long row of Cornish fishing-smacks, two or threedeep. 

How the blue smoke of their cooking wreathes upward in savory whiffsand whirls! They are good cooks, these rovers from Penzance, and dothemselves well, and remind us that it is time to go and get lunchat the hotel. 

We do, and do ourselves uncommonly well also; and afterwards we takea boat, we four (if the tide serves), and row up for a mile or so toa certain dam at Ruswarp, and there we take another boat on a lovelylittle secluded river, which is quite independent of tides, andwhere for a mile or more the trees bend over us from either side aswe leisurely paddle along and watch the leaping salmon-trout, pulling now and then under a drooping ash or weeping-willow to gazeand dream or chat, or read out loud from _Sylvia's Lovers_; SylviaRobson once lived in a little farm-house near Upgang, which we knowwell, and at Whitby every one reads about Sylvia Robson; or else wetell stories, or inform each other what a jolly time we're having, and tease old Chucker-out, who gets quite excited, and we admire thediscretion with which he disposes of his huge body as ballast totrim the boat, and remains perfectly still in spite of hisexcitement for fear he should upset us. Indeed, he has been learningall his life how to behave in boats, and how to get in and out ofthem. 

And so on till tea-time at five, and we remember there's a littleinn at Sleights, where the scones are good; or, better still, aleafy garden full of raspberry-bushes at Cock Mill, where they giveexcellent jam with your tea, and from which there are three ways ofwalking back to Whitby when there's not enough water to row--andwhich is the most delightful of those three ways has never beendecided yet. 

Then from the stone pier we watch a hundred brown-sailed Cornishfishing-smacks follow each other in single file across the harborbar and go sailing out into the west as the sun goes down--a mostbeautiful sight, of which Marty feels all the mystery and the charmand the pathos, and Chips all the jollity and danger and romance. 

Then to the trap, and home all four of us _au grand trot_, betweenthe hedge-rows and through the splendid woods of Castle Rohan; thereat last we find all the warmth and light and music and fun ofMarsfield, and many good things besides: supper, dinner, tea--all inone; and happy, healthy, hungry, indefatigable boys and girls who'vebeen trapesing over miles and miles of moor and fell, to beautifulmills and dells and waterfalls--too many miles for slender Marty orlittle Chips; or even Bob and Chucker-out--who weigh thirty-twostone between them, and are getting lazy in their old age, and fatand scant of breath. 

Whitby is an ideal place for young people; it almost makes oldpeople feel young themselves there when the young are about; thereis so much to do. 

I, being the eldest of the large party, chummed most of the timewith the two youngest and became a boy again; so much so that I feltmyself almost a sneak when I tactfully tried to restrain suchexuberance of spirits on their part as might have led them intomischief: indeed it was difficult not to lead them into mischiefmyself; all the old inventiveness (that had got me and others intoso many scrapes at Brossard's) seemed to come back, enhanced byexperience and maturity. 

At all events, Marty and Chips were happier with me than without--ofthat I feel quite sure, for I tested it in many ways. 

I always took immense pains to devise the kinds of excursion thatwould please them best, and these never seemed to fail of theirobject; and I was provident and well skilled in all details of thecommissariat (Chips was healthily alimentative); I was a very_Bradshaw_ at trains and times and distances, and also, if I am notbragging too much, and making myself out an Admirable Crichton, extremely weatherwise, and good at carrying small people pickabackwhen they got tired. 

Marty was well up in local folk-lore, and had mastered the historyof Whitby and St. Hilda, and Sylvia Robson; and of the old obsoletewhaling-trade, in which she took a passionate interest; and fixedpoor little Chips's mind with a passion for the Polar regions (he isnow on the coast of Senegambia). 

We were much on the open sea ourselves, in cobles; sometimes the bigdog with us--"Joomboa, " as the fishermen called him; and theymarvelled at his good manners and stately immobility in a boat. 

One afternoon--a perfect afternoon--we took tea at Runswick, fromwhich charming little village the Whitbys take their second title, and had ourselves rowed round the cliffs to Staithes, which wereached just before sunset; Chips and his sister also taking an oarbetween them, and I another. There, on the brink of the little bay, with the singularly quaint and picturesque old village behind it, were fifty fishing-boats side by side waiting to be launched, andall the fishing population of Staithes were there to launchthem--men, women and children; as we landed we were immediatelypressed into the service. 

Marty and Chips, wild with enthusiasm, pushed and yo-ho'd with thebest; and I also won some commendation by my hearty efforts in thecommon cause. Soon the coast was clear of all but old men and boys, women and children, and our four selves; and the boats all sailedwestward, in a cluster, and lost themselves in the golden haze. Itwas the prettiest sight I ever saw, and we were all quite romanticabout it. 

Chucker-out held a small court on the sands, and was worshipped andfed with stale fish by a crowd of good-looking and agreeable littlelasses and lads who called him "Joomboa, " and pressed Chips andMarty for biographical details about him, and were not disappointed. And I smoked a pipe of pipes with some splendid old salts, andshared my Honeydew among them. 

Nous étions bien, là!

So sped those happy weeks--with something new and exciting everyday--even on rainy days, when we wore waterproofs and bigindia-rubber boots and sou'westers, and Chucker-out's coat got soheavy with the soak that he could hardly drag himself along: and wesettled, we three at least, that we would never go to France orScotland--never any more--never anywhere in the world but Whitby, jolly Whitby--

Ah me! l'homme propose. . . . 

Marty always wore a red woollen fisherman's cap that hung downbehind over the waving masses of her long, thick yellow hair--a bluejersey of the elaborate kind women knit on the Whitby quay--a short, striped petticoat like a Boulogne fishwife's, and light brownstockings on her long, thin legs. 

I have a photograph of her like that, holding a shrimping-net; witha magnifying-glass, I can see the little high-light in the middle ofeach jet-black eye--and every detail and charm and perfection of herchildish face. Of all the art-treasures I've amassed in my longlife, that is to me the most beautiful, far and away--but I can'tlook at it yet for more than a second at a time. . . . 

 "O tempo passato, perchè non ritorni?"

As Mary is so fond of singing to me sometimes, when she thinks I'vegot the blues. As if I haven't always got the blues!

All Barty's teaching is thrown away on me, now that he's not herehimself to point his moral--

 "Et je m'en vais Au vent mauvais Qui m'emporte Deçà, delà, Pareil à la Feuille morte. . . . "

Heaven bless thee, Mary dear, rossignolet de mon âme! Would thouwert ever by my side! fain would I keep thee for myself in a goldencage, and feed thee on the tongues of other nightingales, so thoumightst warble every day, and all day long. By some strangecongenital mystery the native tuning of thy voice is such, for me, that all the pleasure of my past years seems to go forever ringingin every single note. Thy dear mother speaks again, thy gay youngfather rollicks and jokes and sings, and little Marty laughs herhappy laugh. 

_Da capo, e da capo_, Mary--only at night shouldst thou cease fromthy sweet pipings, that I might smoke myself to sleep, and dreamthat all is once more as it used to be. 

 * * * * *

The writing, such as it is, of this life of Barty Josselin--whichalways means the writing of so much of my own--has been to me, up tothe present moment, a great source of consolation, almost ofdelight, when the pen was in my hand and I dived into the past. 

But now the story becomes such a record of my own personal griefthat I have scarcely the courage to go on; I will get through it asquickly as I can. 

It was at the beginning of the present decade that the bitter thingarose--medio de fonte leporum; just as all seemed so happy andsecure at Marsfield. 

One afternoon in May I arrived at the house, and nobody was at home;but I was told that Marty was in the wood with old Chucker-out, andI went thither to find her, loudly whistling a bar which served as arallying signal to the family. It was not answered, but after a longhunt I found Marty lying on the ground at the foot of a tree, andChucker-out licking her face and hands. 

She had been crying, and seemed half-unconscious. 

When I spoke to her she opened her eyes and said:

"Oh, Uncle Bob, I _have_ hurt myself so! I fell down that tree. Doyou think you could carry me home?"

Beside myself with terror and anxiety, I took her up as gently as Icould, and made my way to the house. She had hurt the base of herspine as she fell on the roots of the tree; but she seemed to getbetter as soon as Sparrow, the nurse, had undressed her and put herto bed. 

I sent for the doctor, however, and he thought, after seeing her, that I should do well to send for Dr. Knight. 

Just then Leah and Barty came in, and we telegraphed for Dr. Knight, who came at once. 

Next day Dr. Knight thought he had better have Sir ---- ----, andthere was a consultation. 

Marty kept her bed for two or three days, and then seemed to havecompletely recovered but for a slight internal disturbance, broughton by the concussion, and which did not improve. 

One day Dr. Knight told me he feared very much that this would endin a kind of ataxia of the lower limbs--it might be sooner or later;indeed, it was Sir ---- ----'s opinion that it would be sure to doso in the end--that spinal paralysis would set in, and that thechild would become a cripple for life, and for a life that would notbe long. 

I had to tell this to her father and mother. 

 * * * * *

Marty, however, recovered all her high spirits. It was as if nothinghad happened or could happen, and during six months everything atMarsfield went on as usual but for the sickening fear that we threemanaged to conceal in our hearts, even from each other. 

At length, one day as Marty and I were playing lawn-tennis, shesuddenly told me that her feet felt as if they were made of lead, and I knew that the terrible thing had come. . . . 

I must really pass over the next few months. 

In the summer of the following year she could scarcely walk withoutassistance, and soon she had to go about in a bath-chair. 

Soon, also, she ceased to be conscious when her lower limbs werepinched and pricked till an interval of about a second had elapsed, and this interval increased every month. She had no naturalconsciousness of her legs and feet whatever unless she saw them, although she could move them still and even get in and out of bed, or in and out of her bath-chair, without much assistance, so long asshe could see her lower limbs. Often she would stumble and falldown, even on a grassy lawn. In the dark she could not control hermovements at all. 

She was also in constant pain, and her face took on permanently theexpression that Barty's often wore when he thought he was goingblind in Malines, although, like him in those days, she was alwayslively and droll, in spite of this heavy misfortune, which seemed tobreak every heart at Marsfield except her own. 

For, alas! Barty Josselin, who has so lightened for us the sorrow ofmere bereavement, and made quick-coming death a little thing--forsome of us, indeed, a lovely thing--has not taught us how to bearthe sufferings of those we love, the woful ache of pity for pangs weare powerless to relieve and can only try to share. 

Endeavor as I will, I find I cannot tell this part of my story as itshould be told; it should be a beautiful story of sweet youngfeminine fortitude and heroic resignation--an angel's story. 

During the four years that Martia's illness lasted the only comfortI could find in life was to be with her--reading to her, teachingher blaze, rowing her on the river, driving her, pushing or draggingher bath-chair; but, alas! watching her fade day by day. 

Strangely enough, she grew to be the tallest of all her sisters, andthe most beautiful in the face; she was so wasted and thin she couldhardly be said to have had a body or limbs at all. 

I think the greatest pleasure she had was to lie and be sung to byMary or her father, or played to by Roberta, or chatted to aboutdomestic matters by Leah, or read to by me. She took the keenestinterest in everything that concerned us all; she lived out ofherself entirely, and from day to day, taking short views of life. 

It filled her with animation to see the people who came to the houseand talk with them; and among these she made many passionatelydevoted friends. 

There were also poor children from the families of laborers in theneighborhood, in whom she had always taken a warm interest. She noworganized them into regular classes, and taught and amused them andtold them stories, sang funny songs to them, and clothed and fedthem with nice things, and they grew to her an immense hobby andconstant occupation. 

She also became a quite surprising performer on the banjo, which herfather had taught her when she was quite a little girl, and inventedcharming tunes and effects and modulations that had never been triedon that humble instrument before. She could have made a handsomeliving out of it, crippled as she was. 

She seemed the busiest, drollest, and most contented person inMarsfield; she all but consoled us for the dreadful thing that hadhappened to herself, and laughingly pitied us for pitying her. 

So much for the teaching of Barty Josselin, whose books she knew byheart, and constantly read and reread. 

And thus, in spite of all, the old, happy, resonant cheerfulnessgradually found its way back to Marsfield, as though nothing hadhappened; and poor broken Marty, who had always been our idol, became our goddess, our prop and mainstay, the angel in the house, the person for every one to tell their troubles to--little orbig--their jokes, their good stories; there was never a laugh likehers, so charged with keen appreciation of the humorous thing, therelish of which would come back to her again and again at anytime--even in the middle of the night when she could not alwayssleep for her pain; and she would laugh anew. 

Ida Scatcherd and I, with good Nurse Sparrow to help, wished to takeher to Italy--to Egypt--but she would not leave Marsfield, unless itwere to spend the winter months with all of us at Lancaster Gate, orthe autumn in the Highlands or on the coast of Normandy. 

[Illustration: MARTY]

And indeed neither Barty nor Leah nor the rest could have got on withouther; they would have had to come, too--brothers, sisters, younghusbands, grandchildren, and all. 

Never but once did she give way. It was one June evening, when I wasreading to her some favorite short poems out of Browning's _Men andWomen_ on a small lawn surrounded with roses, and of which she wasfond. 

The rest of the family were on the river, except her father andmother, who were dressing to go and dine with some neighbors; for awonder, as they seldom dined away from home. 

The carriage drove up to the door to fetch them, and they came outon the lawn to wish us good-night. 

Never had I been more struck with the splendor of Barty and hiswife, now verging towards middle age, as they bent over to kisstheir daughter, and he cut capers and cracked little jokes to makeher laugh. 

Leah's hair was slightly gray and her magnificent figure somewhatmatronly, but there were no other signs of autumn; her beautifulwhite skin was still as delicate as a baby's, her jet-black eyes asbright and full, her teeth just as they were thirty years back. 

Tall as she was, her husband towered over her, the finest andhandsomest man of his age I have ever seen. And Marty gazed afterthem with her heart in her eyes as they drove off. 

"How splendid they are, Uncle Bob!"

Then she looked down at her own shrunken figure and limbs--her long, wasted legs and her thin, slight feet that were yet so beautifullyshaped. 

And, hiding her face in her hands, she began to cry:

"And I'm their poor little daughter--oh dear, oh dear!"

She wept silently for a while, and I said nothing, but endured anagony such as I cannot describe. 

Then she dried her eyes and smiled, and said:

"What a goose I am, " and, looking at me--

"Oh! Uncle Bob, forgive me; I've made you very unhappy--it shallnever happen again!"

Suddenly the spirit moved me to tell her the story of Martia. 

Leah and Barty and I had often discussed whether she should be toldthis extraordinary thing, in which we never knew whether to believeor not, and which, if there were a possibility of its being true, concerned Marty so directly. 

They settled that they would leave it entirely to me--to tell her ornot, as my own instinct would prompt me, should the opportunityoccur. 

My instinct prompted me to do so now. I shall not forget thatevening. 

The full moon rose before the sun had quite set, and I talked on andon. The others came in to dinner. She and I had some dinner broughtto us out there, and on I talked--and she could scarcely eat forlistening. I wrapped her well up, and lit pipe after pipe, and wenton talking, and a nightingale sang, but quite unheard by MartyJosselin. 

She did not even hear her sister Mary, whose voice went lightly upto heaven through the open window:

 "Oh that we two were maying!"

And when we parted that night she thanked and kissed me soeffusively I felt that I had been happily inspired. 

"I believe every word of it's true; I know it, I feel it! Uncle Bob, you have changed my life; I have often desponded when nobodyknew--but never again! Dear papa! Only think of him! As if any humanbeing alive could write what he has written without help from aboveor outside. Of course it's all true; I sometimes think I can almostremember things. . . . I'm sure I can. "

Barty and Leah were well pleased with me when they came home thatnight. 

That Marty was doomed to an early death did not very deeply distressthem. It is astonishing how lightly they thought of death, thesepeople for whom life seemed so full of joy; but that she should everbe conscious of the anguish of her lot while she lived was to themintolerable--a haunting preoccupation. 

To me, a narrower and more selfish person, Marty had almost becometo me life itself--her calamity had made her mine forever; and lifewithout her had become a thing not to be conceived: her life was mylife. 

That life of hers was to be even shorter than we thought, and I loveto think that what remained of it was made so smooth and sweet bywhat I told her that night. 

I read all Martia's blaze letters to her, and helped her to readthem for herself, and so did Barty. She got to know them byheart--especially the last; she grew to talk as Martia wrote; shetold me of strange dreams she had often had--dreams she had toldSparrow and her own brothers and sisters when she was achild--wondrous dreams, in their seeming confirmation of what seemedto us so impossible. Her pains grew slighter and ceased. 

And now her whole existence had become a dream--a tranquil, happydream; it showed itself in her face, its transfigured, unearthlybeauty--in her cheerful talk, her eager sympathy; a kind of heavenlypity she seemed to feel for those who had to go on living out theirnormal length of days. And always the old love of fun and frolic andpretty tunes. 

Her father would make her laugh till she cried, and the same fountof tears would serve when Mary sang Brahms and Schubert and Lassento her--and Roberta played Chopin and Schumann by the hour. 

So she might have lived on for a few years--four or five--even ten. But she died at seventeen, of mere influenza, very quickly andwithout much pain. Her father and mother were by her bedside whenher spirit passed away, and Dr. Knight, who had brought her into theworld. 

She woke from a gentle doze and raised her head, and called out in aclear voice:

"_Barty--Leah--come, to me, come!_"

And fell back dead. 

Barty bowed his head and face on her hand, and remained there as ifasleep. It was Leah who drew her eyelids down. 

An hour later Dr. Knight came to me, his face distorted with grief. 

"It's all over?" I said. 

"Yes, it's all over. "

"And Leah?"

"Mrs. Josselin is with her husband. She's a noble woman; she seemsto bear it well. "

"And Barty?"

"Barty Josselin is no more. "

THE END

GLOSSARY

[First figure indicates Page; second figure, Line. ]

 3, 26. _odium theologicum_--theological hatred. 

 3, 27. _sæva indignatio_--fierce indignation. 

 5, 1. "_De Paris à Versailles_, " etc. -- "From Paris to Versailles, lon, là, From Paris to Versailles-- There are many fine walks, Hurrah for the King of France! There are many fine walks, Hurrah for the school-boys!"

 5, 2. _salle d'études des petits_--study-room of the smaller boys. 

 6, 11. _parloir_--parlor. 

 6, 14. _e da capo_--and over again. 

 6, 16. _le Grand Bonzig_--the Big Bonzig. 

 6, 17. _estrade_--platform. 

 8, 2. _à la malcontent_--convict style. 

 8, 5. _ceinture de gymnastique_--a wide gymnasium belt. 

 8, 16. _marchand de coco_--licorice-water seller. 

 8, 17. _Orphéonistes_--members of musical societies. 

 8, 32. _exceptis excipiendis_--exceptions being made. 

 9, 10. "_Infandum, regina, jubes renovare_" ("_dolorem_"), etc. "Thou orderest me, O queen, to renew the unutterable grief. "

 9, 17. "_Mouche-toi donc, animal! tu me dégoûtes, à la fin!_"--"Blow your nose, you beast, you disgust me!"

 9, 20. "_Taisez-vous, Maurice--ou je vous donne cent vers à copier!_ "--"Hold your tongue, Maurice, or I will give you a hundred lines to copy!"

 10, 20. "_Oui, m'sieur!_"--"Yes, sir!"

 10, 25. "_Moi, m'sieur?_"--"I, sir?"

 10, 26. "_Oui, vous!_"--"Yes, you!"

 10, 27. "_Bien, m'sieur!_"--"Very well, sir!"

 10, 31. "_Le Roi qui passe!_"--"There goes the King!"

 12, 3. "_Fermez les fenêtres, ou je vous mets tous au pain sec Pour un mois!_"--"Shut the windows, or I will put you all on dry bread for a month!"

 13, 1. "_Soyez diligent et attentif, mon ami; à plus tard!_"--"Be Diligent and attentive, my friend; I will see you later!"

 13, 6. _en cinquième_--in the fifth class. 

 13, 11. _le nouveau_--the new boy. 

 14, 8. "_Fermez votre pupitre_"--"Shut your desk. "

 14, 34. _jocrisse_--effeminate man. 

 15, 1. _paltoquet_--clown. _petit polisson_--little scamp. 

 15, 32. _lingère_--seamstress. 

 16, 13. _quatrième_--fourth class. 

 16, 21. "_Notre Père, . . . Les replies les plus profonds de nos coeurs_"--"Our Father, who art in heaven, Thou whose searching glance penetrates even to the inmost recesses of our hearts. "

 16, 24. "_au nom du Père, du Fils, et du St. Esprit, ainsi soit-il!_"--"in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, so be it!"

 18, 21. _concierge_--janitor. _croquets_--crisp almond cakes. 

 18, 22. _blom-boudingues_--plum puddings. _pains d'épices_--gingerbreads. _sucre-d'orge_--barley sugar. 

 18, 23. _nougat_--almond cake. _pâte de guimauve_--marshmallow paste. _pralines_--burnt almonds. _dragées_--sugarplums. 

 18, 30. _le père et la mère_--father and mother. 

 19, 2. _corps de logis_--main buildings. 

 19, 13. _la table des grands_--the big boys' table. _la table des petits_--the little boys' table. 

 19, 27. _brouet noir des Lacédémoniens_--the black broth of the Spartans. 

 20, 25. _À la retenue_--To be kept in. 

 20, 29. _barres traversières_--crossbars. 

 20, 30. _la raie_--leap-frog. 

 21, 14. _rentiers_--stockholders. 

 21, 20. _Classe d'Histoire de France au moyen âge_--Class of the History of France during the Middle Ages. 

 21, 27. _trente-septième légère_--thirty-seventh light infantry. 

 22, 13. _nous avons changé tout cela!_--we have changed all that!

 22, 16. _représentant du peuple_--representative of the people. 

 22, 19. _les nobles_--the nobles. 

 22, 27. _par parenthèse_--by way of parenthesis. 

 22, 30. _lingerie_--place where linen is kept. 

 24, 30. _Berthe aux grands pieds_--Bertha of the big feet. (She was the mother of Charlemagne, and is mentioned in the poem that Du Maurier elsewhere calls "that never to be translated, never to be imitated lament, the immortal 'Ballade des Dames du Temps Jadis'" of François Villon. )

 25, 23. _Allée du Bois de Boulogne_--Lane of the Bois de Boulogne. 

 25, 28. _pensionnat_--boarding-school. 

 28, 4. _la belle Madame de Ronsvic_--the beautiful Lady Runswick. 

 28, 33. _deuxième Spahis_--second Spahi regiment. 

 30, 4. _Mare aux Biches_--The Roes Pool. 

 30, 14. _la main si malheureuse_--such an unfortunate hand. 

 31. 2. _La Dieppoise_--a dance of Dieppe. 

 31, 5. "_Beuvons, donc_, " etc. "Let's drink, drink, drink then Of this, the best wine in the world . . . Let's drink, drink, drink then Of this, the very best wine! For if I didn't drink it, I might get the pip! Which would make me. . . . "

 31, 13. "_Ah, mon Dieu! quel amour d'enfant! Oh! gardons-le!_"--"Ah, my Lord! what a love of a child! Oh! let us keep him!"

 32, 5. _cæteris paribus_--other things being equal. 

 34, 19. _à propos_--seasonable. 

 35, 3. _chaire_--master's raised desk. 

 35, 6. _recueillement_--contemplation. 

 35, 11. "_Non, m'sieur, je n'dors pas. J' travaille. _"--"No, sir, I'm not asleep. I'm working. "

 36, 1. _à la porte_--to leave the room. 

36, 14. _On demande Monsieur Josselin au parloir_--Mr. Josselin is Wanted in the parlor. 

 36, 24. _pensum_--a task. 

 36, 31. _maître de mathématiques_ (_et de cosmographie_)--teacher of mathematics (and cosmography). 

 37, 17. _Mes compliments_--My compliments. 

 38, 5. "_Quelquefois je sais . . . Il n'y a pas à s'y tromper!_"--"Sometimes I know--sometimes I don't--but when I know, I know, and there is no mistake about it!"

 38, 18. "_À l'amandier!_"--"At the almond-tree!"

 38, 21. _la balle au camp_--French baseball. 

 39, 6. _aussi simple que bonjour_--as easy as saying good-day. 

 40, 17. "_C'était pour Monsieur Josselin. _"--"It was for Mr. Josselin!"

 41, 11. _quorum pars magna fui_--of which I was a great part. 

 41, 16. _bourgeois gentilhomme_--citizen gentleman. (The title of one of Molière's comedies in which M. Jourdain is the principal character. )

 42, 29. _Dis donc_--Say now. 

 43, 4. "_Ma foi, non! c'est pas pour ça!_"--"My word, no! it isn't for that!"

 43, 5. "_Pourquoi, alors?_"--"Why, then?"

 43, 21. _Jolivet trois_--the third Jolivet. 

 44, 2. _au rabais_--at bargain sales. 

 44, 32. "_Comme c'est bête, de s'battre, hein?_"--"How stupid it is to fight, eh?"

 45, 9. _tuum et meum_--thine and mine. 

 45, 19. _magnifique_--magnificent. 

 45, 32. _La quatrième Dimension_--The fourth Dimension. 

 46, 14. _Étoiles mortes_--Dead Stars. 

 46, 15. _Les Trépassées de François Villon_--The Dead of François Villon. 

 46, 29. _École des Ponts et Chaussées_--School of Bridges and Roads. 

 47, 8. _en cachette_--in hiding. _Quelle sacrée pose!_--What a damned bluff!

 47, 12. "_Dis donc, Maurice!--prête-moi ton Ivanhoé!_"--"Say now, Maurice!--lend me your _Ivanhoe_!"

 47, 20. "_Rapaud, comment dit-on 'pouvoir' en anglais?_"--"Rapaud, how do they say 'to be able' in English?"

 47, 21. "_Sais pas, m'sieur!_"--"Don't know, sir!"

 47, 22. "_Comment, petit crétin, tu ne sais pas!_"--"What, little idiot, you don't know!"

 47, 26. "_Je n' sais pas!_"--"I don't know!"

 47, 27. "_Et toi, Maurice_"--"And you, Maurice?"

 47, 28. "_Ça se dit 'to be able' m'sieur!_"--"They would say 'to be able, ' sir!"

 47, 29. "_Mais non, mon ami . . . 'je voudrais pouvoir'?_"--"Why no, my friend--you forget your native language--they would say 'to can'! Now, how would you say, 'I would like to be able' in English?"

 47, 32. _Je dirais_--I would say. 

 47, 33. "_Comment, encore! petit cancre! allons--tu es Anglais--tu sais bien que tu dirais!_"--"What, again! Little dunce--come, you are English--you know very well that you would say, . . . "

 48, 1. _À ton tour_--Your turn. 

 48, 4. "_Oui, toi--comment dirais-tu, 'je pourrais vouloir'?_"--"Yes, you--how would you say 'I would be able to will'?"

 48, 7. "_À la bonne heure! au moins tu sais ta langue, toi!_"--"Well and good! you at least know your language!"

 48, 17. _Île des Cygnes_--Isle of Swans. 

 48, 18. _École de Natation_--Swimming-school. 

 48, 26. _Jardin des Plantes_--The Paris Zoological Gardens. 

 49, 1. "_Laissons les regrets et les pleurs A la vieillesse; Jeunes, il faut cueillir les fleurs De la jeunesse!_"--Baïf. 

 "Let us leave regrets and tears To age; Young, we must gather the flowers Of youth. "

 49, 13. _demi-tasse_--small cup of coffee. 

 49, 14. _chasse-café_--drink taken after coffee. 

 49, 19. _consommateur_--consumer. 

 49, 21. _Le petit mousse noir_--The little black cabin boy. 

 49, 24. "_Allons, Josselin, chante-nous ça!_"--"Come, Josselin, sing that to us!"

 50, 7. "_Écoute-moi bien, ma Fleurette_"--"Listen well to me, my Fleurette. " "_Amis, la matinée est belle_"--"Friends, the morning is fine. "

 50, 12. "_Conduis ta barque avec prudence_, " etc. "Steer thy bark with prudence, Fisherman! speak low! Throw thy nets in silence, Fisherman! speak low! And through our toils the king Of the seas can never go. "

 52, 21. _Boulevard Bonne Nouvelle_--Boulevard of Good News. 

 52, 24. _galette du gymnase_--flat cake, sold in booths near the Theatre du Gymnase. 

 52, 26. _yashmak_--a double veil worn by Turkish women. 

 52, 34. _queue_--in a line. 

 53, 5. _chiffonniers_--rag-pickers. 

 53, 33. _Accélérées (en correspondence avec les Constantines)_--Express omnibuses (connecting with the Constantine line). 

 54, 3. _comme on ne l'est plus_--as one is no longer. 

 54, 6. _distribution de prix_--prize distribution. 

 54, 19. "_Au clair de la lune!_"--"By the light of the moon!" (A French nursery rhyme. Readers of "Trilby" will remember her rendering of this song at her Paris concert. )

 54, 20. "_Vivent les vacances-- . . . Gaudio nostrò. _" "Hurrah for the vacations-- Come at length; And the punishments Will have ended! The ushers uncivil, With barbarous countenance, Will go to the devil, To our joy. "

 56, 20. _Musée de Marine_--Marine Museum. 

 56, 28. _ennui_--tedium. 

 57, 7. _en rhétorique et en philosophie_--in the rhetoric and Philosophy classes. 

 57, 9. _cerf-dix-cors_--ten-branched stags. 

 57, 13. _ventre à terre_--at full speed. 

 57, 17. _Toujours au clair de la lune_--Always by moonlight. 

 58, 2. _hommes du monde_--men of the world (in society). 

 58, 4. _Splendide mendax_--Nobly false. 

 58. 18. _salle d'études_--school-room. 

 58, 22. _en cinquième_--in the fifth class. 

 59, 16. _de service_--on duty. 

 59, 17. _la suite au prochain numéro_--to be continued in our next. 

 59. 19. _Le Tueur de Daims_--The Deerslayer. 

 59, 20. _Le Lac Ontario_--The Lake Ontario. _Le Dernier des Mohicans_--The Last of the Mohicans. _Les Pionniers_--The Pioneers. 

 59, 31. _Bas-de-cuir_--Leather-stocking. 

 60, 10. _la flotte de Passy_--the Passy crowd. _voyous_--blackguards. 

 60, 13. _Liberté--égalité--fraternité! ou la mort! Vive la république_--Liberty--equality--fraternity! or death! Hurrah for the republic!

 60, 22. _le rappel_--to arms. _la générale_--the fire drum. 

 61, 11. _Brigand de la Loire_--Brigand of the Loire. 

 62, 3. _en pleine révolution_--in the midst of the revolution. 

 62, 5. _piou-piou_--the French equivalent of Tommy Atkins. A Private soldier. 

 62, 17. _Sentinelles, prenez-garde à vous_--Sentinels, keep on the alert. 

 62, 22. _feu de peloton_--platoon fire. 

 63, 6. "_Ce sacré Josselin--il avait tous les talents!_"--"That Confounded Josselin--he had all the talents!"

 64, 10. _lebewohl_--farewell. 

 64, 11. _bonsoir, le bon Mozart_--good-night, good Mozart. 

 64, 13. _Château des Fleurs_--Castle of Flowers. 

 65, 5. _Tout vient à qui ne sait pas attendre_--Everything comes to him who does not know how to wait. 

 65, 13. _revenons_--let us go back. 

 65, 24. _impériale_--outside seat. 

 65, 26. _saucisson de Lyon à l'ail_--a Lyons sausage flavored with garlic. 

 65, 27. _petits pains_--rolls of bread. 

 65, 28. _bière de Mars_--Mars beer. 

 66, 12. _entre les deux âges_--between the two ages. 

 66, 18. _Le Gué des Aulnes_--Alders Ford. 

 67, 1. _Si vis pacem, para bellum_--If you wish peace, prepare for war. 

 67, 13. _tutoyées_--addressed as "thee" and "thou, " usual only among familiars. 

 67, 16. _bonnets de coton_--cotton caps. 

 68, 19. _à l'affût_--on the watch. 

 68, 28. "_Caïn! Caïn! qu'as-tu fait de ton frère?_"--"Caïn! Caïn! what hast thou done with thy brother?"

 69, 8. _le saut périlleux_--the perilous leap. 

 69, 20. _que j' n'ai jamais vu_--whom I've never seen. 

 69, 29. "_Dis-moi qué'q' chose en anglais. _"--"Tell me something in English. "

 69, 32. "_Qué'q' çà veut dire?_"--"What's that mean?"

 69, 33. "_Il s'agit d'une église et d'un cimetière!_"--"It's about a church and a cemetery!"

 70, 5. "_Démontre-moi un problème de géométrie_"--"Demonstrate to me a problem of geometry. "

 70, 13. "_Démontre-moi que A + B est plus grand que C + D. _"--"Demonstrate to me that A + B is greater than C + D. "

 70, 17. "_C'est joliment beau, la géométrie!_"--"It's mighty fine, this geometry!"

 70, 24. _brûle-gueule_--jaw-burner (a short pipe). 

 70, 31. "_Mange-moi ça--ça t' fera du bien!_"--"Eat that for me; it'll do you good!"

 72, 1. _Sais pas_--Don't know. 

 72, 4. _Père Polyphème_--Father Polyphemus. 

 72, 12. _ces messieurs_--those gentlemen. 

 72, 22. "_Hé! ma femme!_"--"Hey! my wife!"

 72, 23. "_Voilà, voilà, mon ami!_"--"Here, here, my friend!"

 72, 24. "_Viens vite panser mon cautère!_"--"Come quick and dress my cautery!"

 72, 27. _café_--coffee. 

 72, 32. "_Oui, M'sieur Laferté_"--"Yes, M'sieur Laferté. "

 72, 33. "_Tire moi une gamme_"--"Fire off a scale for me. "

 73, 3. "_Ah! q' ça fait du bien!_"--"Ah! that does one good!"

 73, 20. "_'Colin, ' disait Lisette_, " etc. -- "'Colin, ' said Lisette, 'I want to cross the water! But I am too poor To pay for the boat!' 'Get in, get in, my beauty! Get in, get in, nevertheless! And off with the wherry That carries my love!'"

 75, 18. _le droit du seigneur_--the right of the lord of the manor. 

 75, 27. _Àmes en peine_--Souls in pain. 

 75, 28. _Sous la berge hantée_, etc. Under the haunted bank The stagnant water lies-- Under the sombre woods The dog-fox cries, And the ten-branched stag bells, and the deer come to drink at the Pond of Respite. "Let me go, Were-wolf!" How dark is the pool When falls the night-- The owl is scared, And the badger takes flight! And one feels that the dead are awake--that a nameless shadow pursues. "Let me go, Were-wolf!"

 76, 29. "_Prom'nons-nous dans les bois Pendant que le loup n'y est pas_. "

 "Let us walk in the woods While the wolf is not there. "

 77, 7. _pas aut' chose_--nothing else. 

 77, 10. _C'est plus fort que moi_--It is stronger than I. 

 77, 20. "_Il est très méchant!_"--"He is very malicious!"

 77, 26. "_venez donc! il est très mauvais, le taureau!_"--"come now! the bull is very mischievous!"

 78, 1. _Bon voyage! au plaisir_--Pleasant journey! to the pleasure (of seeing you again). 

 78, 8. "_le sang-froid du diable! nom d'un Vellington!_"--"the devil's own coolness, by Wellington!"

 78, 15. _diable_--devil. 

 78, 17. "_ces Anglais! je n'en reviens pas! à quatorze ans! hein, ma femme?_"--"those English! I can't get over it! At fourteen! eh, my wife?"

 80, 10. _en famille_--at home. 

 80, 18. _charabancs_--wagonettes. 

 80, 32. _des chiens anglais_--English dogs. 

 81, 1. _charmilles_--hedges. _pelouses_--lawns. _quinconces_--quincunxes. 

 81, 13. _Figaro quà, Figaro là_--Figaro here, Figaro there. 

 81, 17. _charbonniers_--charcoal burners. 

 81, 25. _dépaysé_--away from home. _désorienté_--out of his bearings. 

 81, 26. _perdu_--lost. 

 81, 27. "_Ayez pitié d'un pauvre orphelin!_"--"Pity a poor orphan!"

 82, 19. "_Pioche bien ta géométrie, mon bon petit Josselin! c'est la plus belle science au monde, crois-moi!_"--"Dig away at your geometry, my good little Josselin! It's the finest science in the world, believe me!"

 82, 26. _bourru bienfaisant_--a gruff but good-natured man. 

 82, 34. "_Enfin! Ça y est! quelle chance!_"--"At last! I've got it! what luck!"

 83, 1. _quoi_--what. 

 83, 2. "_Le nord--c'est revenu!_"--"The north--it's come back!"

 83, 7. _une bonne fortune_--a love adventure. 

 83, 10. _Les Laiteries_--The Dairies. _Les Poteries_--The Potteries. _Les Crucheries_--The Pitcheries (also The Stupidities). 

 83, 26. _toi_--thou. 

 83, 27. _vous_--you. 

 83, 28. _Notre Père_, etc. --See note to page 16, line 21. 

 83, 80. _Ainsi soit-il_--So be it. 

 84, 4. _au nom du Père_--in the name of the Father. 

 84, 31. _pavillon des petits_--building occupied by the younger boys. 

 86, 4. _cancre_--dunce. 

 86, 5. _crétin_--idiot. 

 86, 6. _troisième_--third class. 

 86, 7. _Rhétorique_ (_seconde_)--Rhetoric (second class). 

 86, 8. _Philosophie_ (_première_)--Philosophy (first class). 

 86, 10. _Baccalauréat-ès-lettres_--Bachelor of letters. 

 87, 27. _m'amour_ (_mon amour_)--my love. 

 87, 33. _en beauté_--at his best. 

 88, 8. "_Le Chant du Départ_"--"The Song of Departure. "

 88, 10. "_La victoire en chantant nous ouvre la carrière! La liberté-é gui-i-de nos pas_" . . . 

 "Victory shows us our course with song! Liberty guides our steps" . . . 

 88, 25. "_Quel dommage . . . C'est toujours ça!_"--"What a pity that we can't have crumpets! Barty likes them so much. Don't you like crumpets, my dear? Here comes some buttered toast--it's always that!"

 88, 29. "_Mon Dieu, comme il a bonne mine . . . Dans la glace_"--"Good heavens, how well he looks, the dear Barty!--don't you think so, my love, that you look well? Look at yourself in the glass. "

 88, 32. "_Si nous allions à l'Hippodrôme . . . Aussi les jolies femmes?_"--"If we went to the Hippodrome this afternoon, to see the lovely equestrian Madame Richard? Barty adores pretty women, like his uncle! Don't you adore pretty women, you naughty little Barty? and you have never seen Madame Richard. You'll tell me what you think of her; and you, my friend, do you also adore pretty women?"

 89, 5. "_Ô oui, allons voir Madame Richard_"--"Oh yes! let us go and see Madame Richard. "

 89, 9. _la haute école_--the high-school (of horsemanship). 

 89, 14. _Café des Aveugles_--Café of the Blind. 

 90, 4. "_Qu'est-ce que vous avez donc, tous?_"--"What's the matter with you all?"

 90, 5. "_Le Père Brassard est mort!_"--"Father Brossard is dead!"

 90, 10. "_Il est tombé du haut mal_"--"He died of the falling sickness. "

 90, 13. _désoeuvrement_--idleness. 

 91, 8. _de service as maître d'études_--on duty as study-master. 

 93, 27. "_Dites donc, vous autres_"--"Say now, you others. "

 93, 29. _panem et circenses_--bread and games. 

 94, 19. "_Allez donc . . . à La Salle Valentino_"--"Go it, godems--this is not a quadrille! We're not at Valentino Hall!"

 95, 1. "_Messieurs . . . Est sauf_"--"Gentlemen, blood has flown; Britannic honor is safe. "

 95, 3. "_J'ai joliment faim!_"--"I'm mighty hungry!"

 96, 1. "_Que ne puis-je aller_, " etc. "Why can I not go where the roses go, And not await The heartbreaking regrets which the end of things Keeps for us here?"

 96, 8. "_Le Manuel du Baccalauréat_"--"The Baccalaureat's Manual. "

 96, 24. _un prévôt_--a fencing-master's assistant. 

 97, 5. _rez-de-chaussée_--ground floor. 

 97, 9. "_La pluie de Perles_"--"The Shower of Pearls. "

 97, 12. _quart d'heure_--quarter of an hour. 

 97, 17. _au petit bonheur_--come what may. 

 97, 26. _vieux loup de mer_--old sea-wolf. 

 98, 2. _Mon Colonel_--My Colonel. 

 98, 6. _endimanché_--Sundayfied (dressed up). 

 99, 11. _chefs-d'oeuvre_--masterpieces. 

 99, 24. _chanson_--song. 

 99, 27. "_C'était un Capucin_, " etc. "It was a Capuchin, oh yes, a Capuchin father, Who confessed three girls-- Itou, itou, itou, là là là! Who confessed three girls At the bottom of his garden-- Oh yes-- At the bottom of his garden! He said to the youngest-- Itou, itou, itou, là là là! He said to the youngest . . . 'You will come back to-morrow. '"

100, 7. _un écho du temps passé_--an echo of the olden times. 

100, 11. _esprit Gaulois_--old French wit. 

100, 20. "_Sur votre parole d'honneur, avez-vous chanté?_"--"On your word of honor, have you sung?"

100, 22. "_Non, m'sieur!_"--"No, sir!"

100, 32. "_Oui, m'sieur!_"--"Yes, sir. "

101, 5. "_Vous êtes tous consignés!_"--"You are all kept in!"

101, 10. _de service_--on duty. 

101, 19. "_Au moins vous avez du coeur . . . Sale histoire de Capucin!_"--"You at least have spirit. Promise me that you will not again sing that dirty story about the Capuchin!"

102, 24. "_Stabat mater_, " etc. "By the cross, sad vigil keeping, Stood the mournful mother weeping, While on it the Saviour hung" . . . 

102, 30. "_Ah! ma chère Mamzelle Marceline!. . . Et une boussole dans l'estomac!_"--"Ah! my dear Miss Marceline, if they were only all like that little Josselin! things would go as if they were on wheels! That English youngster is as innocent as a young calf! He has God in his heart. " "And a compass in his stomach!"

104, 29. "_Ah! mon cher!. . . Chantez-moi ça encore une fois!_"--"Ah! my dear! what wouldn't I give to see the return of a whaler at Whitby! What a 'marine' that would make! eh? with the high cliff and the nice little church on top, near the old abbey--and the red smoking roofs, and the three stone piers, and the old drawbridge--and all that swarm of watermen with their wives and children--and those fine girls who are waiting for the return of the loved one! By Jove! to think that you have seen all that, you who are not yet sixteen . . . What luck! . . . Say--what does that really mean?--that

 'Weel may the keel row!' Sing that to me once again!"

105, 21. "_Ah! vous verrez . . . Vous y êtes, en plein!_"--"Ah! you will see, during the Easter holidays I will make such a fine picture of all that! with the evening mist that gathers, you know--and the setting sun, and the rising tide, and the moon coming up on the horizon, and the sea-mews and the gulls, and the far-off heaths, and your grandfather's lordly old manor; that's it, isn't it?"

 "Yes, yes, Mr. Bonzig--you are right in it. "

106, 29. "_C'était dans la nuit brune_, " etc. "'Twas in the dusky night On the yellowed steeple, The moon, Like a dot on an i!"

108, 17. _en flagrant délit_--in the very act. 

109, 4. _la perfide Albion_--perfidious Albion. 

109, 8. "_À bas Dumollard!_"--"Down with Dumollard!"

109, 17. _l'étude entière_--the whole school. 

109, 19. "_Est-ce toi?_"--"Is it thou?"

109, 23. "_Non, m'sieur, ce n'est pas moi!_"--"No, sir, it isn't me!"

110, 17. "_Parce qu'il aime les Anglais, ma foi--affaire de goût!_"--"Because he likes the English, in faith--a matter of taste!"

110, 19. "_Ma foi, il n'a pas tort!_"--"In faith, he's not wrong!"

110, 24. "_Non! jamais en France, Jamais Anglais ne régnera!_"

 "No! never in France, Never shall Englishman reign!"

111, 5. _au piquet pour une heure_--in the corner for an hour. _a la retenue_--kept in. 

111, 6. _privé de bain_--not to go swimming. _consigné dimanche prochain_--kept in next Sunday. 

111, 9. _de mortibus nil desperandum_--an incorrect version of _de mortuis nil nisi bonum_: of the dead nothing but good. 

111, 27. _avec des gens du monde_--with people in society. 

111, 34. _et, ma foi, le sort a favorisé M. Le Marquis_--and, in faith, fortune favored M. Le Marquis. 

112, 9. _vous êtes un paltoquet et un rustre_--you are a clown and a boor. 

112, 18. _classe de géographie ancienne_--class of ancient geography. 

112, 25. "_Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes!_"--"I fear the Greeks even when they bear gifts!"

114, 3. "_Le troisième coup fait feu, vous savez_"--"The third blow strikes fire, you know. "

114, 23. _tisanes_--infusions. 

114, 31. "_C'est moi qui voudrais . . . Comme il est poli_"--"It's myself that would like to have the mumps here. I should delay my convalescence as much as possible!" "How well your uncle knows French, and how polite he is!"

116, 13. _Nous avons tous passé par là_--We have all been through it. 

116, 33. "_Te rappelles-tu . . . Du père Jaurion?_"--"Do you recall Berquin's new coat and his high-hat?" "Do you remember father Jaurion's old angora cat?"

118, 7. "_Paille à Dine_, " etc. , is literally: "Straw for Dine--straw for Chine-- Straw for Suzette and Martine-- Good bed for the Dumaine!"

119, 1. "_Pourquoi, m'sieur?_" "_Parce que ça me plaît!_" "What for, sir?" "Because it pleases me!"

119, 18. _un point_, etc. --a period--semi-colon--colon--exclamation --inverted commas--begin a parenthesis. 

119, 31. "_Te rappelles-tu cette omelette?_"--"Do you remember that omelette?"

120, 1. _version écrite_--written version. 

120, 15. _que malheur!_--what a misfortune!

120, 19. "_Ça pue l'injustice, ici!_"--"It stinks of injustice, here!"

120, 25. "_Mille francs par an! ç'est le Pactole!_"--"A thousand francs a year! it is a Pactolus!"

122, 7. "_Je t'en prie, mon garçon!_"--"I pray you, my boy!"

123, 24. _La chasse aux souvenirs d'enfance!_--Hunting remembrances of childhood!

124, 3. "_Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées_, " etc. "I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts, Seeing nothing outside, without hearing a sound-- By myself, unknown, with bowed back and hands crossed: Sad--and the day will for me be as night. "

125, 4. _beau comme le jour_--beautiful as day. 

125, 6. _la rossignolle_--the nightingale (feminine. )

125, 15. "_A Saint-Blaize, à la Zuecca_" etc. "At St. Blaize, and at Zuecca . . . You were, you were very well! At St. Blaize, and at Zuecca . . . We were, we were happy there! But to think of it again Will you ever care? Will you think of it again? Will you come once more? At St. Blaize, and at Zuecca . . . To live there and to die!"

125, 32. _fête de St. -Cloud_--festival of St. Cloud. 

125, 33. _blanchisseuse_--laundress. 

133, 30. "_Roy ne puis, prince ne daigne, Rohan je suis!_"--"King I Cannot be, prince I would not be, Rohan I am!"

133, 34. "_Rohan ne puis, roi ne daigne. Rien je suis!_"--"Rohan I cannot be, king I would not be. Nothing I am!"

135, 10. _grandes dames de par le monde_--great ladies of the world. 

137, 6. "_O lachrymarum fons!_"--"O font of tears!"

140, 28. Jewess is in French, _juive_. 

141, 10. "_Esker voo her jer dwaw lah vee? Ah! kel Bonnure!_" Anglo-French for "_Est ce que vous que je dois laver. Ah! quel bonheur!_"--"Is it that you that I must wash? Ah! What happiness!"

142, 12. _Pazienza_--Patience. 

143, 8. "_Ne sulor ultra crepidam!_"--"A cobbler should stick to his last!"

145, 1. "_La cigale ayant chanté_, " etc. "The grasshopper, having sung The summer through, Found herself destitute When the north wind came. ". . . 

146, 20. "_Spretæ injuria formæ_"--"The insult to her despised beauty. "

146, 31. _billets doux_--love letters. 

152, 8. "_La plus forte des forces est un coeur innocent_"--"The Strongest of strengths is an innocent heart. "

154, 3. "_Tiens, tiens!. . . écoute!_"--"There, there! it's deucedly pretty that--listen!"

154, 8. "_Mais, nom d'une pipe--elle est divine, cette musique--là!_"--"But, by jingo, it's divine, that music!"

155, 26. _bourgeois_--the middle class. 

155, 34. _nouveaux riches_--newly rich people. 

158, 2. "_La mia letizia!_"--"My Joy!"

160, 17. "_Beau chevalier qui partez pour la guerre_, " etc. "Brave cavalier, off to the war, What will you do So far from here? Do you not see that the night is dark, And that the world Is only care?"

160, 23. "_La Chanson de Barberine_"--"The Song of Barberine. "

160, 28. _cascamèche_--nightcap tassel. _moutardier du pape_--pope's mustardman. _tromblon-bolivard_--broad-brimmed blunderbuss. 

160, 29. _vieux coquelicot_--old poppy. 

160, 31. "_Voos ayt oon ôter!_" Anglo-French for "_Vous êtes un autre!_"--"You are another!"

162, 10. _C'est toujours comme ça_--It's always like that. 

163, 17. _à bon chat, bon rat_--a Roland for an Oliver. 

166, 14. _poudre insecticide_--insect-powder. _mort aux punaises_--death to the bugs. 

166, 22. _pensionnat de demoiselles_--young ladies' boarding-school. 

166, 28. _Je connais ça_--I know that. 

168, 8. _eau sucrée_--sweetened water. 

168, 18. _Coeur de Lion_--Lion Heart. _le Pré aux Clercs_--Parson's Green. 

169, 17. _rapins_--art students. 

170, 14. "_Bonjour, Monsieur Bonzig! comment allez-vous?_"--"Good-day, Mr. Bonzig! how do you do?"

170, 17. "_Pardonnez-moi, monsieur--mais je n'ai pas l'honneur de vous remettre!_"--"Pardon me, sir--but I have not the honor to remember your face!"

170, 19. "_Je m'appelle Josselin--de chez Brossard!_"--"My name is Josselin--from Brossard's!"

170, 20. "_Ah! Mon Dieu, mon cher, mon très-cher!_"--"Ah! My God, my dear, my very dear!"

170, 23. "_Mais quel bonheur. . . . Je n'en reviens pas!_"--"But what good luck it is to see you again. I think of you so often, and of Whitby! How you have altered! and what a fine-looking fellow you are! who would have recognized you! Lord of Lords--it's a dream! I can't get over it!"

170, 34. "_Non, mon cher Josselin_"--"No, my dear Josselin. "

172, 4. _un peintre de marines_--a painter of marines. 

172, 16. _garde champêtre_--park-keeper. 

172, 27. _ministère_--public office. 

172, 31. "_l'heure où le jaune de Naples rentre dans la nature_"--"the hour when Naples yellow comes again into nature. "

173, 31. _bonne friture_--good fried fish. 

173, 32. _fricassée de lapin_--rabbit fricasee. _pommes sautées_--French fried potatoes. _soupe aux choux_--cabbage soup. 

174, 1. _café chantant_--music-hall. _bal de barrière_--ball held in the outer districts of Paris, usually composed of the rougher element. 

174, 3. _bonsoir la compagnie_--good-night to the company. 

174, 26. _prix-fixe_--fixed price. 

175, 6. _aile de poulet_--chicken's wing. _pêche au vin_--peach preserved in wine. 

175, 9. _entre la poire et le fromage_--between pear and cheese. 

175, 15. _flâning_--from _flâner_, to lounge. 

175, 28. "_Ma foi, mon cher!_"--"My word, my dear!"

176, 3. _ma mangeaille_--my victuals. 

176, 18. _Mont de Piété_--pawnshop. 

176, 24. _moult tristement, à l'anglaise_--with much sadness, after the English fashion. 

177, 12. _un jour de séparation, vous comprenez_--a day of separation, you understand. 

177, 14. _à la vinaigrette_--with vinegar sauce. 

177, 16. _nous en ferons l'expérience_--we will try it. 

177, 19. _maillot_--bathing-suit. _peignoir_--wrapper. 

177, 21. "_Oh! la mer! . . . Chez Babet!_"--"Oh! the sea, the sea! At last I am going to take my header into it--and not later than to-morrow evening. . . . Till to-morrow, my dear comrade--six o'clock--at Babet's!"

177, 27. _piquant sa tête_--taking his header. 

178, 1. _sergent de ville_--policeman. 

178, 4. "_un jour de séparation . . . Nagerons de conserve_"--"a day Of separation! but come also, Josselin--we will take our headers together, and swim in each other's company. "

178, 13. "_en signe de mon deuil_"--"as a token of my mourning. "

178, 23. _plage_--beach. 

178, 30. _dame de comptoir_--the lady at the counter. 

178, 33. _demi-tasse_--small cup of coffee. _petit-verre_--small glass of brandy. 

180, 13. _avec tant d'esprit_--so wittily. 

180, 14. _rancune_--grudge. 

181, 14. _bon raconteur_--good story-teller. 

181, 16. "_La plus belle fille . . . Ce qu'elle a!_"--"The fairest girl in the world can give only what she has!"

182, 5. _ comme tout un chacun sait_--as each and every one knows. 

182, 24. _Tout ça, c'est de l'histoire ancienne_--that's all ancient history. 

183, 8. "_très bel homme . . . Que joli garçon hein?_"--"fine man, Bob; more of the fine man than the handsome fellow, eh?"

183, 12. _Mes compliments_--My compliments. 

183, 19. "_Ça y est, alors! . . . à ton bonheur!_"--"So it's settled, then! I congratulate you beforehand, and I keep my tears for when you have gone. Let us go and dine at Babet's: I long to drink to your welfare!"

184, 1. _atelier_--art studio. 

184, 6. _le Beau Josselin_--the handsome Josselin. 

184, 33. _serrement de coeur_--heart burning. 

185, 22. _Marché aux oeufs_--Egg Market. 

186, 4. "_Malines_" or "_Louvain_"--Belgian beers. 

186, 25. "_Oui; un nommé Valtères_"--"Yes; one called Valtères" (French pronunciation of Walters). 

186, 28. "_Parbleu, ce bon Valtères--je l'connais bien!_"--"Zounds, good old Walters--I know him well!"

188, 26. _primo tenore_--first tenor. 

188, 29. _Guides_--a Belgian cavalry regiment. 

188, 32. _Cercle Artistique_--Art Club. 

191, 1. "_O céleste haine_, " etc. "O celestial hate, How canst thou be appeased? O human suffering, Who can cure thee? My pain is so heavy I wish it would kill me-- Such is my desire. 

 "Heart-broken by thought, Weary of compassion, To hear no more, Nor see, nor feel, I am ready to give My parting breath-- And this is my desire. 

 "To know nothing more, Nor remember myself-- Never again to rise, Nor go to sleep-- No longer to be, But to have done-- That is my desire!"

191, 23. _Fleur de Blé_--Corn-flower. 

192, 31. "_Vous allez à Blankenberghe, mossiê?_"--"You go to Blankenberghe, sah?"

193, 1. "_Je souis bienn content--nous ferons route ensiemblè!_" (_je suis bien content--nous ferons route ensemble_)--"I am fery glad--ve will make ze journey togezzar!"

193, 5. _ragazza_--girl. 

193, 7. "_un' prodige, mossié--un' fenomeno!_"--"a prodigy, sah--a phenomenon!"

193, 24. _Robert, toi que j'aime_--Robert, thou whom I love. 

193, 29. "_Ma vous aussi, vous êtes mousicien--jé vois ça par la Votre figoure!" (Mais vous aussi vous etes musicien--je vois ça par votre figure!)_--"But you also, you are a moosician--I see zat by your face!"

194, 4. _elle et moi_--she and I. 

194, 5. _bon marché_--cheap. 

194, 34. _en famille_--at home. 

195, 7. "_Jé vais vous canter couelquê cose (Je vais vous chanter quelque-chose)--una piccola cosa da niente!--vous comprenez l'Italien?_"--"I vill sing to you somezing--a leetle zing of nozzing!--you understand ze Italian?"

195, 12. _je les adore_--I adore them. 

195, 16. "_Il vero amore_"--"True Love. "

195, 17. "_E la mio amor è andato a soggiornare A Lucca bella--e diventar signore. . . . _"

 "And my love has gone to dwell In beautiful Lucca--and become a gentleman. . . . "

195, 29. "_O mon Fernand!_"--"O my Fernand!"

196, 13. "_Et vous ne cantez pas . . . Comme je pourrai. _" "And you do not sing at all, at all?" "Oh yes, sometimes!" "Sing somezing--I vill accompany you on ze guitar!--do not be afraid--ve vill not be hard on you, she and I--" "Oh--I'll do my best to accompany myself. "

196, 21. "_Fleur des Alpes_"--"Flower of the Alps. "

199, 23. _médaille de sauvetage_--medal for saving life. 

200, 2. _Je leur veux du bien_--I wish them well. 

200, 17. _Largo al factotum_--Make way for the factotum. 

201, 24. _bis! ter!_--a second time! a third time!

201, 26. "_Het Roosje uit de Dorne_"--"The Rose without the Thorn. "

202, 15. _sans tambour ni trompette_--without drum or trumpet (French leave). 

202, 29. _Hôtel de Ville_--Town-hall. 

203, 4. "_Una sera d' amore_"--"An Evening of Love. "

203, 16. "_Guarda che bianca luna_"--"Behold the silver moon. "

204, 15. _boute-en-train_--life and soul. 

205, 10. "_À vous, monsieur de la garde . . . Tirer les premiers!_" "Your turn, gentleman of the guard. " "The gentlemen of the guard should always fire the first!"

205, 20. "_Je ne tire plus . . . Main malheureuse un jour!_"--"I will fire no more--I am too much afraid that some day my hand may be unfortunate!"

205, 33. "_Le cachet . . . Je lui avais demandé!_"--"Mr. Josselin's seal, which I had asked him for!"

206, 4. _Salle d'Armes_--Fencing-school. 

206, 10. _des enfantillages_--child's play. 

206, 15. "_Je vous en prie, monsieur de la garde!_"--"I pray you, gentleman of the guard!"

206, 17. "_Cette fois, alors, nous allons tirer ensemble!_"--"This time, then, we will draw together!"

206, 23. _maître d'armes_--fencing-master. 

206, 29. "_Vous êtes impayable . . . Pour la vie_"--"You are extraordinary, you know, my dear fellow; you have every talent, and a million in your throat into the bargain! If ever I can do anything for you, you know, always count upon me. "

208, 1. "_Et plus jamais . . . Quand vous m'écrirez!_"--"And no more empty envelopes when you write to me!"

208, 10. _la peau de chagrin_--the shagreen skin. (The hero of this story, by Balzac, is given a piece of shagreen, on the condition that all his wishes will be gratified, but that every wish will cause the leather to shrink, and that when it disappears his life will come to an end. _Chagrin_ also means sorrow, so that Barty's retina was indeed "a skin of sorrow, " continually shrinking. )

208, 29. "_Les misères du jour font le bonheur du lendemain!_"--"The misery of to-day is the happiness of to-morrow!"

210, 23. _dune_--a low sand-hill. (They are to be found all along the Belgian coast. )

214, 22. _par_--by. 

214. 32. _dit-on_--they say. 

216, 22. _bien d'accord_--of the same mind. 

217, 1. _née_--by birth. 

217, 29. _moi qui vous parle_--I who speak to you. 

219, 3. _Kermesse_--fair. 

219, 6. _estaminet_--a drinking and smoking resort. 

219, 10. _à la Teniers_--after the manner of Teniers, the painter. 

219, 34. _in secula seculorum!_--for ages of ages!

220, 3. _Rue des Ursulines Blanches_--Street of the White Ursulines. 

220, 5. _des Soeurs Rédemptoristines_--Sisters of the Redemption. 

220, 11. _Frau_--Mrs. (This is German; the Flemish is _Juffrow_. )

220, 26. "_La Cigogne_"--"The Stork Inn. "

221, 9. _salade aux fines herbes_--salad made of a mixture of herbs. 

222, 28. _à fleur de tête_--on a level with their heads. 

223, 6. _savez vous?_--do you know?

223, 26. _chaussées_--roads. 

224, 26. _Les Maîtres Sonneurs_--The Master Ringers. _La Mare au Diable_--The Devil's Pool. 

225, 21. _séminaire_--clerical seminary. 

225, 29. "_Mio caro Paolo di Kocco!_"--"My dear Paul de Kock!"

225, 32. "_Un malheureux_" etc. "An unfortunate dressed in black, Who resembled me like a brother. " (Du Maurier himself. )

228, 14. _mein armer_--my poor. 

228, 17. _Lieber_--dear. 

229, 5. _Bel Mazetto_--Beautiful Mazetto. 

229, 7. "_Ich bin ein lustiger Student, mein Pardy_"--"I am a jolly Student, my Barty. "

229, 15. _Katzenjammer_--sore head. 

229, 18. _Liebe_--love. 

230, 2. _tout le monde_--everybody. 

231, 18. _autrefois_--the times of yore. 

231, 21. "_Oh, non, mon ami_"--"Oh, no, my friend. "

231, 29. "_Petit bonhomme vit encore_"--"Good little fellow still alive. "

232, 1. "_Hé quoi! pour des peccadilles_, " etc. "Eh, what! for peccadilloes To scold those little loves? Women are so pretty, And one does not love forever! Good fellow They call me . . . My gayety is my treasure! And the good fellow is still alive-- And the good fellow is still alive!"

233, 10. _Soupe-au-lait_--Milk porridge. 

234, 2. _muscæ volitantes_--(literally) hovering flies. 

242, 1. "_Mettez-vous au régime des viandes saignantes!_"--"Put Yourself on a diet of rare meat!"

242, 4. "_Mettez-vous au lait!_"--"Take to milk!"

242, 9. _désoeuvrement_--idleness. 

242, 16. "_Amour, Amour_, " etc. "Love, love, when you hold us, Well may we say: 'Prudence, good-bye!'"

244, 1. "_Il s'est conduit en homme de coeur!_"--"He has behaved like a man of spirit!"

244, 3. "_Il s'est conduit en bon gentilhomme_"--"He has behaved like a thorough gentleman!"

247, 9. _Les Noces de Jeannette_--Jeannette's Wedding. 

247, 13. "_Cours, mon aiguille . . . De notre peine!_" "Run, my needle, through the wool! Do not break off in my hand; For to-morrow with good kisses Jean will pay us for our trouble!"

249, 3. "_Hélas! mon jeune ami!_"--"Alas! my young friend!"

252, 1. _Sursum cor! sursum corda!_--Lift up your heart! Lift up Your hearts!

252, 11. _coupe-choux_--cabbage-cutter. 

252, 13. "_Ça ne vous regarde pas, . . . Ou je vous . . . _"--"It's none of your business, you know! take yourselves off at once, or I'll . . . "

252, 19. "_Non--c'est moi qui regarde, savez-vous!_"--"No--it is I who am looking, you know!"

252, 20. "_Qu'est-ce que vous regardez?. . . Vous ne voulez pas vous en aller?_" "What are you looking at?" "I am looking at the moon and the stars. I am looking at the comet!" "Will you take yourself off at once?" "Some other time!" "Take yourself off, I tell you!" "The day after to-morrow!" "You . . . Will . . . Not . . . Take . . . Yourself . . . Off?"

252, 32. "_Non, sacré petit . . . Restez où vous êtes!_" "No, you confounded little devil's gravel-pusher!" "All right, stay where you are!"

254, 16. "_. . . Du sommeil au songe-- Du songe à la mort. _"

 ". . . From sleep to dream-- From dream to death. "

254, 21. "_Il est dix heures . . . Dans votre chambre?_"--"It's ten o'clock, you know? Will you have your coffee in your room?"

255, 14. _ça date de loin, mon pauvre ami_--it goes a long way back, my poor friend. 

256, 8. _punctum coecum_--blind spot. 

257, 27. _mon beau somnambule_--my handsome somnambulist. 

257, 33. _On ne sait pas ce qui peut arriver_--One never knows what may happen. 

258, 17. _tiens_--look. 

262, 10. _sans peur et sans reproche_--without fear and without reproach. 

262, 15. "_Ça s'appelle le point caché--c'est une portion de la rétine avec laquelle on ne peut pas voir. . . . _"--"It is called the blind spot--it is a part of the retina with which we cannot see. . . . "

263, 13. _c'est toujours ça_--that's always the way. 

263, 23. _plus que coquette_--more than coquettish. 

269, 8. _père et mère_--father and mother. 

271, 31. _more Latino_--in the Latin manner. 

272, 12. _pictor ignotus_--the unknown painter. 

273, 6. "_Que me voilà. . . . Ôte ton chapeau!_" "How happy I am, my little Barty--and you? what a pretty town, eh?" "It's heaven, pure and simple--and you are going to teach me German, aren't you, my dear?" "Yes, and we will read Heine together; by the way, look! Do you see the name of the street at the corner? Bolker Strasse! that's where he was born, poor Heine! Take off your hat!"

273, 19. _Maitrank_--May drink. (An infusion of woodruff in light White wine. )

273, 34. "_Johanna, mein Frühstück, bitte!_"--"Johanna, my breakfast, please!"

276, 27. _la barre de bâtardise_--the bar of bastardy. 

279, 15. _der schöne_--the handsome. 

280, 24. _Speiserei_--eating-house. 

283, 5. "_ni l'or ni la grandeur ne nous rendent heureux_"--"neither gold nor greatness makes us happy. "

285, 22. _mes premières amours_--my first loves. 

286, 3. "_Petit chagrin . . . Un soupir!_" "Little sorrow of childhood costing a sigh!"

286, 9. _Il avait bien raison_--He was quite right. 

289, 15. _rien que ça_--nothing but that. 

290, 29. "_Il a les qualités . . . Sont ses meilleures qualités. _" "The handsome Josselin has the qualities of his faults. " "My dear, his faults are his best qualities. "

297, 4. _Art et liberté_--Art and liberty. 

299, 11. "_Du bist die Ruh', der Friede mild!_"--"Thou art rest, sweet peace!"

300, 19. _c'est plus fort que moi_--it is stronger than I. 

304, 2. _dans le blanc des yeux_--straight in the eyes. 

306, 20. _damigella_--maiden. 

308, 27. "_Die Ruhe kehret mir zurück_"--"Peace comes back to me. "

308, 30. _prosit omen_--may the omen be propitious. 

309, 5. _prima donna assoluta_--the absolute first lady. (Grand Opera, the "leading lady. ")

310, 32. _gringalet-jocrisse_--an effeminate fellow. 

312, 3. _faire la popotte ensemble au coin du feu; c'est le ciel_--to potter round the fire together; that is heaven. 

312, 29. _Ausstellung_--exhibition. 

314, 8. _loch_--a medicine of the consistence of honey, taken by licking or sucking. 

318, 10. "_Et voilà comment ça s'est passé_"--"And that's how it happened. "

320, 14. _et plus royaliste que le Roi_--and more of a royalist than the King. 

321, 13. _cru_--growth. 

323, 32. _L'amitié est l'amour sans ailes_--Friendship is love without wings. 

325, 9. _En veux-tu? en voilà!_--Do you want some? here it is!

327, 10. _kudos_--glory. 

328, 9. _Dis-moi qui tu hantes, je te dirai ce que tu es_--Tell me who are your friends, and I will tell you what you are. 

331, 20. _si le coeur t'en dit_--if your heart prompts you. 

335, 5. _esprit de corps_--brotherhood. 

335, 8. _Noblesse oblige_--Nobility imposes the obligation of nobleness. 

336, 15. _bêtise pure et simple_--downright folly. 

337, 15. _Je suis au-dessus de mes affaires_--I am above my business. 

338, 11. _Maman-belle-mère_--Mama-mother-in-law. 

338, 30. _vous plaisantez, mon ami; un amateur comme moi_--you are joking, my friend; an amateur like myself. 

338, 31. _Quis custodiet (ipsos custodes)?_--Who shall guard the guards themselves?

339, 2. _monsieur anglais, qui avait mal aux yeux_--English gentleman, who had something the matter with his eyes. 

340, 5. _La belle dame sans merci_--The fair lady merciless. 

342, 4. _de par le monde_--in society. 

342, 18. _je tâcherai de ne pas en abuser trop!_--I will try not to take too much of it!

344, 15. _le dernier des Abencerrages_--the last of the Abencerrages. (The title of a story by Châteaubriand. )

347, 24. _à mon insu_--unknown to me. 

354, 11. _On a les défauts de ses qualités_--One has the faults of one's virtues. 

354, 15. _joliment dégourdie_--finely sharpened. 

358, 10. _La quatrième Dimension_--The Fourth Dimension. 

360, 25. _nous avons eu la main heureuse_--we have been fortunate. 

360, 28. _smalah_--encampment of an Arab chieftain. 

363, 19. _Je suis homme d'affaires_--I am a man of business. 

373, 28. _un conte à dormir debout_--a story to bore one to sleep. 

374, 23. _Ou avions-nous donc la tête et les yeux?_--What were we doing with our minds and eyes?

377, 1. "_Cara deúm soboles, magnum Jovis incrementum_"--"The dear offspring of God, the increase of Jove. "

378, 22. _Tous les genres sont bons, hormis le genre ennuyeux_--All kinds are good, except the boring kind. 

380, 3. _C'était un naïf, le beau Josselin_--He was ingenuous, the handsome Josselin. 

381, 9. _Arma virumque cano_--Arms and the man I sing. --The first words of Virgil's _Æneid_. _Tityre tu patulæ (recubans sub tegmine fagi)_--Thou, Tityrus, reclining beneath the shade of a spreading beech. --The first line of the first _Eclogue_ of Virgil. _Mæcenas atavis (edite regibus)_--Mæcenas descended from royal ancestors. --Horace, _Odes_, 1, 1, l. 

381, 10. [Greek: Mênin aeide]--Sing the wrath. --The first words of Homer's _Iliad_. 

381, 21. _Débats--Le Journal des Débats_, --a Parisian literary newspaper. 

386, 3. _sommité littéraire_--literary pinnacle. 

386, 16. _Rouillon Duval_--a class of cheap restaurants in Paris. 

386, 30. _Étoiles Mortes_--Dead Stars. 

388, 5. _la coupe_--the cutwater. 

388, 11. _à la hussarde_--head first. 

389, 2. _la très-sage Héloïse_--the most learned Heloise. (Another of the ladies mentioned in Villon's "Ballade of the Ladies of Olden Time. " See note to page 24, line 30. )

389, 5. _nous allons arranger tout ça_--we'll arrange all that. 

389, 20. _C'est la chasteté même, mais ce n'est pas Dèjanire_--It is chastity itself, but it is not Dèjanire. 

390, 20. _très élégante_--very elegant. 

390, 22. _d'un noir de jais, d'une blancheur de lis_--jet black, lily white. 

391, 1. _ah, mon Dieu, la Diane chasseresse, la Sapho de Pradier!_--ah, My God, Diana the huntress, Pradier's Sappho!

391, 8. _un vrai type de colosse bon enfant, d'une tenue irréprochable_--a perfect image of a good-natured colossus, of irreproachable bearing. 

391, 15. _tartines_--slices of bread and butter. 

391, 17. _une vraie ménagerie_--a perfect menagerie. 

392, 7. _belle châtelaine_--beautiful chatelaine. 

393, 1. _gazebo_--summer-house. 

393, 18. _le que retranché_--name given in some French-Latin grammars to the Latin form which expresses by the infinitive verb and the accusative noun what in French is expressed by "que" between two verbs. 

394, 32. _alma mater dolorosa_--the tender and sorrowful mother. 

394, 33. _marâtre au coeur de pierre_--stony-hearted mother. 

396, 19. _Tendenz novels_--novels with a purpose. 

396, 28. _nouvelle-riche_--newly rich. 

404, 11. _on y est très bien_--one is very well there. 

406, 26. "_Il est dix heures_" etc. --See note to page 254, line 21. 

406, 30. _vilain mangeur de coeurs que vous êtes_--wretched eater of hearts that you are. 

407, 30. _Un vrai petit St. Jean! il nous portera bonheur, bien sûr_--A perfect little St. John! he will bring us good luck, for sure. 

408, 27. _nous savons notre orthographie en musique là bas_--we know our musical a b c's over there. 

412, 8. _in-medio-tutissimus (ibis)_--You will go safest in the middle. 

412, 20. _diablement bien conservé_--deucedly well preserved. 

413, 11. _O me fortunatum, mea si bona nôrim!_--O happy me, had I known my own blessings!

414, 28. _un malheureux raté_--an unfortunate failure

415, 9. _abrutissant_--stupefying. 

416, 15. _affaire d'estomac_--a matter of stomach. 

418, 1. "_Je suis allé de bon matin_, " etc. "I went at early morn To pick the violet, And hawthorne, and jasmine, To celebrate thy birthday. With my own hands I bound The rosebuds and the rosemary To crown thy golden head. 

 "But for thy royal beauty Be humble, I pray thee. Here all things die, flower, summer, Youth and life: Soon, soon the day will be, My fair one, when they'll carry thee Faded and pale in a winding-sheet. "

418, 19. _périssoires_--paddle-boats. _pique-têtes_--diving-boards. 

418, 21. _station balnéaire_--bathing resort. 

419, 25. _utile dulci_--the useful with the pleasant. 

420, 9. _la chasse aux souvenirs_--the hunt after remembrances. 

420, 25, _s'est encanaillé_--keeps low company. 

422, 25. _porte-cochère_--carriage entrance. 

423, 1. "_Ah, ma foi!. . . La balle au camp_"--"Ah, my word, I understand that, gentlemen--I, too, was a school-boy once, and was fond of rounders. "

423, 11. _Le Fils de la Vierge_--The Virgin's Son. 

423, 12. _mutatis mutandis_--the necessary changes being made. 

423, 34. "_Moi aussi, je fumais . . . N'est ce pas?_"--"I too smoked when it was forbidden; what do you expect? Youth must have its day, musn't it?"

424, 3. _dame_--indeed. 

425, 30. _cour des miracles_--the court of miracles. (A meeting-place of beggars described in Hugo's "Notre Dame de Paris. " So called on account of the sudden change in the appearance of the pretended cripples who came there. )

426, 16. "_Ô dis-donc, Hórtense_, " etc. --"Oh say, Hortense, how cold it is! whenever will it be eleven o'clock, so that we can go to bed?"

428, 5. _nous autres_--we others. 

428, 22. _Numero Deus impare gaudet_--The god delights in uneven numbers. 

430, 22. "_Aus meinen Thränen spriessen_, " etc. "Out of my tear-drops springeth A harvest of beautiful flowers; And my sighing turneth To a choir of nightingales. " Heine. 

435, 24. _Ah, mon Dieu!_--Ah, my God!

437, 34. _Établissement_--establishment. 

439, 31. _Pandore et sa Boîte_--Pandore and her Box. 

441, 12. "_C'est papa qui paie et maman qui régale_"--"Papa pays and mamma treats. "

445, 8. _au grande trot_--at a full trot. 

447, 12. _Nous étions bien, là_--We were well, there. 

447, 21. _l'homme propose_--man proposes. 

448, 1. "_O tempo passato, perchè non ritorni?_"--"O bygone days, why do you not return?"

448, 7. "_Et je m'en vais, "_ etc. "And off I go On the evil wind Which carries me Here and there Like the Leaf that is dead. "

448. 13. _rossignolet de mon âme_--little nightingale of my soul. 

448, 23. _Da capo, e da capo_--Over and over again. 

449, 4. _medio de fonte leporum (surgit amari aliquid)_--from the midst of the fountain of delights something bitter arises. 

By GEORGE DU MAURIER

 * * * * *

TRILBY

Written and Illustrated by George du Maurier. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 75; Three-quarter Calf, $3 50; Three-quarter Levant, $4 50. 

It is the secret of the extraordinary charm of this story that itdoes not appear to be a story; it has almost no marks of artifice;it hardly appears to have been planned; it affects us as a record, kept in the simplest and most informal way, of certain veryinteresting events and persons. --_Outlook_, N. Y. 

A book that every one will like because it has the essentialqualities of wit, passion, character, and human nature; a book thathas the grace and charm of a finely artistic style all through, andthat is likely to rest on our shelves long after most of the novelsof this year of grace have passed out of our remembrance. --_St. James's Gazette_, London. 

PETER IBBETSON

With an Introduction by his Cousin, Lady ***** ("Madge Plunket"). Edited and Illustrated by George du Maurier. Post 8vo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1 50; Three-quarter Calf, $3 25; Three-quarter Levant, $4 25. 

There are so many beauties, so many singularities, so much that isfresh and original in Mr. Du Maurier's story that it is difficult totreat it at all adequately from the point of view of criticism. Thatit is one of the most remarkable books that have appeared for a longtime is, however, indisputable. --_N. Y. Tribune. _

ENGLISH SOCIETY

Sketched by George du Maurier. 4to, Oblong, Cloth, $2 50. 

In it a searching observer of many phases of humanity, charming inhis wit and without the blemish of malice, presents with his pencilas much of his social philosophy as he could give with his pen in ahundred novels. In spite of its title and origin, a collection ofMr. Du Maurier's sketches covers any society; and in looking it overone is only too content that the artist chose to exploit a societywhich affords the beauty and elegance of the Du Mauriertype. --_N. Y. Sun. _

The kindly humor of Du Maurier, the quiet incisiveness of hissatire, and his inimitable skill at the portrayal of social typesare delightfully manifested in this series of one hundred plates, ending up with the melodramatic death-bed scene of Trilby. --_BostonBeacon. _

IN BOHEMIA WITH DU MAURIER

By Felix Moscheles. With Sixty-three Illustrations by George duMaurier. 8vo, Cloth, Gilt Tops and Uncut Edges, $2 50. 

For these, and for a few references to the originals of thecharacters in the novel, and to the hypnotic experiments in which DuMaurier was interested in his youth, the book will doubtless bebought. But he must be a dull person who does not find another charmin Mr. Moscheles's artless narrative, mostly about nothing at all, or about the nothings that make up the joy of living to madcapboys. --_N. Y. Mail and Express. _

It possesses the literary quality that marked his more matureillustrations, and evinces the quality of reticence that preservedhis humor from becoming caricature. He has often been compared toThackeray; this work suggests Hood, and it would be interesting toknow how much he cared for his English predecessors andassimilated. --_Philadelphia Press. _

Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York

_The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent bythe publishers by mail, postage prepaid, on receipt of the price. _