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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..9b5b352 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #69361 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69361) diff --git a/old/69361-0.txt b/old/69361-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 17e0e57..0000000 --- a/old/69361-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6918 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dr. Vermont's fantasy and other -stories, by Hannah Lynch - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Dr. Vermont's fantasy and other stories - -Author: Hannah Lynch - -Release Date: November 15, 2022 [eBook #69361] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman, Benoit Verduyn and the Online - Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This - book was produced from images made available by the - HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. VERMONT'S FANTASY AND -OTHER STORIES *** - - - - - - DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY - - AND OTHER STORIES - - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - DR. VERMONT’S - FANTASY - - BY - - HANNAH LYNCH - - [Illustration] - - LONDON - J. M. DENT AND COMPANY - BOSTON: LAMSON WOLFFE & CO. - MDCCCXCVI - - - Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty - - - - - Three of these stories--‘Armand’s Mistake,’ ‘A Page of Philosophy,’ - and ‘The Little Marquis’ have already appeared in _Macmillan’s - Magazine_, and I am indebted to Messrs. Macmillan for the kind - permission to republish them. - - - - - CONTENTS - - - DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY-- - - PART FIRST--MADEMOISELLE LENORMANT PAGE - - The Island, 3 - - A Midnight Vision, 19 - - The Story of Mademoiselle Lenormant, 36 - - AN INTERLUDE, 55 - - PART SECOND--DR. VERMONT - - Dr. Vermont and his Guests upon the Island, 74 - - New Year’s Eve, 90 - - EPILOGUE, 118 - - - BRASES-- - - I., 131 - - II., 152 - - III., 167 - - - A PAGE OF PHILOSOPHY, 187 - - - ARMAND’S MISTAKE-- - - I., 227 - - II., 246 - - III., 261 - - - MR. MALCOLM FITZROY-- - - I., 269 - - II., 292 - - - THE LITTLE MARQUIS, 305 - - - - - DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY - - _To Frederick Greenwood_ - - - - - _PART FIRST_ - - MADEMOISELLE LENORMANT - - (_Told by the traveller_) - - - - - THE ISLAND - - -IT was a warm autumn that year--a luminous exception upon which the -last summer of the century was borne somewhat oppressively to the very -verge of winter. The middle hours of the afternoon could be intolerable -enough in a big, busy city well upon the confines of the South. The -rush and whirr of looms was carried far upon the air, and even into the -quietest streets wandered the noisy echoes of the boulevards. - -Yet it was dull and flat for the solitary stranger, without interest -in factories, or provincial entertainment in friendship. It was doubly -dull for a woman past youth and all its personal excitements to be -extracted from fleeting curiosity and thrills of anticipation; denied -by reason of sex the stale delights of café lounges, and by reason -of station the healthier and livelier hospitalities of _cabaret_ and -peasant reunions. - -Travelling-bag and portmanteau lay strapped in the hotel hall. The -train for Paris would not leave until late that night, and to while -away the intervening hours I went forth beyond the town. I chose the -farther end of the long boulevard, the middle of which I had not yet -passed. Down there the brilliant air lost its clearness in a yellow -mist, as if flung from the sky in a fine dust of powdered gold. Upon -its edge hung the last visible arms of the trees on either side, -lucidly, of unwonted greenness, the green we note in painted French -landscapes, brightly touched with yellow. I felt that something fresh, -cool, and soft must lie behind that golden veil. It led my imagination -as a child is led out of the real, by the illusive promises of -fairyland. - -Here sound was deadened, and city movements seemed to faint away -upon the weariness of the long hot day. I glanced back at the town. -Behind me stretched the dusty boulevard, and sharpened above it, -against the tremulous pellucid blue of the heaven, the profile of -quaint church-spires and heavy masses of buildings. Ahead, my way was -blocked by the wide grey river, black where the shadows touched it, -silver where the full light shone upon it. A bridge of grey stone -spanned it from the end of the boulevard to the other side, the -unexplored:--a bridge so old, so worn, so silent and empty, that it -might appropriately be the path to the city cemetery. - -This bridge I crossed in all its glamour of sad enchantment. One of -its arches was broken, and made a dangerous gap above the broad, quiet -waters. There were no lamps, no visible indication of life about. I saw -that it led to an island encircled by a battered and decayed dark wall, -with little castellated ornaments that gave it the look of a feudal -fortress of unusual extent and dimensions. Midway I stood upon the -bridge, and wondered what sort of land might be before me. At first I -believed it to be uninhabited, until much gazing discovered a thin curl -of blue smoke far away, beyond a square tower. It was nearing sunset -now, and the island lying west, showed out more darkly from a broad -band of reddish glory. It wore all the more dead and desolate air -because of the floating and quickened light above it. - -Have you ever, in some quaint French town washed by a wide river, -watched these lovely sunset contrasts on the blackened greyness of -stone masses and on the sombre placidity of water? The best effects -you will find upon the Loire, and if you can recall them, you will -see, better than words of mine can paint, the salient features of that -river-view set with towers and a decayed, old grey wall. - -I was saturated with the sadness of it, and my glance was still wedded -to its dead charm, when a bloused peasant came out of the under shadows -and luminous red upper sphere, like a cheerful commonplace note in the -picturesque mystery of the imagination. Very real he looked, and not -in the least like a ghost from other centuries. Prosperous, too, as -befits a peasant who has earned his right to nod to his betters, and -mayhap clink free and fraternal glasses with them through an ocean of -blood. He came along, whistling a patriotic tune, with his hands in his -pockets, and his hat in villainous emphasis cocked over one ear. - -‘Can it be,’ I asked myself, in a pang of disappointment, ‘that this -enchanted island contains the ubiquitous _cabaret_, and that the -impossible legend of liberty, equality, and fraternity has penetrated, -with its attendant train of horrid evils, into this home of silence and -poetic decay?’ - -I interrupted my gloomy moralising, for which, like all persons -naturally gay, I flatter myself I have a decided turn, and hat, -metaphorically, in hand, sued this roadside rascal for information. - -‘Yes, people lived upon the island, not many--mostly women: laundresses -upon the side that ran unprotected down to the water edge. I might -see their sheds if I made the round of the wall. There was a large -Benedictine convent at one end, and a cemetery eastward--but no hotel -accommodation, no shops, no vehicles of any sort, and but one miserable -little wine-shop, where they sold the worst brandy in all France.’ - -Of this liquid I concluded the fellow had been drinking somewhat -copiously, and left him to push inquiries for myself. - -I know not why, but the moment I set foot upon the island, and heard -the slow swish of the eddying river against its projecting base, -thought was checked upon mild and pleasurable suspense. Something -unexpected must surely happen, I believed, and step by step destiny -seemed to impel me forward in its pursuit. My footfall rang sharply -upon the empty path, and I felt it would be ignominy to leave this -strange spot until fate had spoken, and its voice been interpreted -adequately for me by circumstance. - -How still everything was, and how softly the day’s heat was stealing -out of the atmosphere! One bright star shone like a lamp over a noble -ruin, and for this I made. No sound of living voice, no clang of wooden -shoe or beat of hoofs broke the heavy silence, and by this fact I knew -that I must still be remote from the washerwomen’s quarter. There was a -fearful look about the low rocks that reached behind the ruins down to -the black water, whose perilous stillness was unwholesomely revealed by -the margin of quivering light shed from the rosy sky. - -A few yards farther brought me to the open cemetery gate. Here I -entered with a shuddering sense of the romantic appropriateness of -its aspect. Did ever churchyard wear so solemn, so forsaken an air of -death? Death was breathed in the profuseness and dankness of the weeds -that sprawled over and almost enveloped the tombstones; in the grassy -walks unworn by tread of foot; in the graves that showed no sacred -care of hand, no symbol of fond remembrance or bereaved heart. Who -were these dead so forgotten and so alone? So near a busy city, and so -remote from living man? - -Suddenly my wondering fancy was visibly answered by sight of a slim -old woman in black, who slowly came toward me by a narrow side-path. I -stopped her with an elaborate apology, and we speedily fell into talk. -She had been born on this island sixty years before, when the century -was entering into middle life, and now at its close these had been -the permanent limits of her vision. About a dozen times she may have -crossed the bridge, or walked the streets of the city yonder, and only -once had she gone down the river in a barge to have a peep at the real -South--the ardent, rose and lavender-smelling South! - -‘I pray you, Madame, tell me, who am a restless vagabond, never three -months happy in the same place, how life looks to one like you, who -have never left the boundary marks of birth, who have grown and lived -amid unchanged scenes, and have been satisfied to look for sixty years -upon these low grey walls and the spires and chimneys of that distant -city?’ I asked, profoundly astonished. - -In the old dame’s wrinkled parchment face gleamed a pair of singularly -vivid brown eyes that held, I suspect, more wisdom than my dissatisfied -and travelled glance. She eyed me curiously one long eloquent moment, -and then remarked, with some astuteness and much benevolence, that -change brought idle misery, and monotony its own reward of ignorance -and content. Further questions about the island led to an offer from -her to show me where she lived--an offer I accepted eagerly, and -together we left the cemetery, now revealing all its melancholy charm -in the last flushed smile of a lovely autumn sunset. - -Save for the glimmer of gold upon an upper casement, the grey street -was already cast into twilit gloom, and a faint ray here and there -seemed to make its own pathway through the dim troubled blue of the -atmosphere. Unmistakably evening was upon us, and the ghosts of the -imagination would surely soon be abroad among these haunted scenes. - -But nobody could be less spectral than my companion, both in speech and -in looks. She was communicative to rashness, and when I asked where I -could obtain lodging upon the island, for a week or a month, as long as -the caprice pleased me--she fixed me in a mild interrogative way, and -paused, as if equally in doubt of my discretion and of her own. - -There was no hotel, no lodgings that she knew of, but if Madame really -desired it--if, in fact, she could trust Madame to be discreet and -reserved, she did not know that it might not be managed somehow. But -she would not engage herself. - -I pressed for an explanation, and so aflame was I with sharp interest -and curiosity, that I know not what wild pledges of reserve and -discretion and prudent behaviour I proffered. Willingly at that moment -would I have undertaken to deny my whole past, and give the lie direct -to nature. What more potent than passionate sympathy? and the old -woman, I think, must have felt some desperate need for a willing ear -in which to pour her pent-up confidences. The cup of silence to which -experience had condemned her was full to overflowing, and my voice it -seems shook the brim. - -She told me then that she was the confidential servant and sole -companion of a maiden lady who lived alone with a little niece in a big -barrack of a house below the Benedictine monastery. There was a story, -of course, which perhaps one day I should hear, if matters could be -so arranged that I might sojourn a while beneath their roof. But this -also was a promise withheld. Nothing depended on her, though she had -influence--naturally, she added, with a look of meaning that set my -heart in a flutter. I declare it made me feel young again, and full of -thrilling alarm, on the heels of romance, in the quest of breathless -adventure. I cannot explain how this old peasant had the knack of -accentuating commonplace words, and of lending them a significance far -beyond that with which we are accustomed to associate them. But she -did so, and there was a nameless charm and tremor conveyed in her added -‘naturally,’ with its accompanying suppressed intimation of glance. - -The Benedictine monastery lay in massive gloom below, reaching an -aerial coldness of sharp point and spire along its jagged tops. Feudal -gashes in the arches let in large slips of green sky and glimmering -stars, and its rough stone wall along one side was the division -between the convent and the garden of my companion’s mistress. No, not -even the cemetery I had left could, in the dreariest hour, look more -inexpressibly dark, and lifeless, and forsaken than that old garden. -Its beauty was the beauty of death and sadness and neglect. There -were rotten arbours and stone seats, and mossy, weed-grown paths. The -underwood was impenetrably thick, and only the fine old trees lifted -a calm front, indifferent to man’s unkindness. They needed no human -hand to care them, and so they throve, and willingly gave grateful -shade, and the splendour of their foliage, and the majesty of their -form to the dead scene. But of flowers there were none. A coating of -moss, bleached and faded, had grown over the old sun-dial, which now -was hidden under the branching trees. Not a bird sang, nor did any -live thing skurry into hiding upon sound of my footstep, as I wandered -through the dusky alleys, while my guide went inside to consult her -mistress. - -The quiet of an empty garden, showing no sign of care or an active -presence about it, while within view of smoke and fierce city -activities, is surely not comparable with any other quiet in nature. -Restriction adds to its intensity. The silence becomes almost palpable -from the hum of existence afar, and the spirit of the place seems more -vividly personal by reason of the narrowness of vision. You may walk -along the loneliest beach man ever trod, and feel less alone than I did -in that garden. The dimness of the biggest forest would be comforting -after the intolerable motionlessness of its leaves and plumy weeds. - -I was beginning to wonder if it would be possible for me to fulfil my -contract should the lady of the house consent to share her roof with -me, when I heard a child’s clear, joyous laugh. It was a sound of -heavenly music to me just then, and effectually dispersed the gruesome -mist which was fast enveloping my reason. The desolation of the place, -and the ghastly images which threatened nightmare, could only be -accidental, I wisely concluded, if such laughter--fresh, untroubled, -and sweet--might be heard unrebuked. When the old woman reappeared, -alarm was already soothed, and I was back in the grip of fascinating -excitement. - -‘Mademoiselle gives me permission to dispose of the lower -_appartement_, which we never occupy now,’ she said, with a smile so -human and inviting that I could have embraced her on the spot. - -We walked toward the house, which, though gloomy enough, showed nothing -to match the mystery of the dark garden. Three broad discoloured -steps led to the hall of the lower story, which was offered for my -occupation, and inside the large stone hall I noted a little carriage -and two wooden horses worked by springs. - -‘The sound of Gabrielle’s carriage will not, I hope, disturb Madame? -She generally plays here, as there is not space enough upstairs.’ - -I expressed myself delighted to be in close neighbourhood with the -child’s playground. - -‘These used to be poor Madame’s rooms,’ she added, with a big sigh, as -she opened the door of a fine, chill salon. - -‘The mother of Mademoiselle,’ I conjectured. - -‘Oh, no; Mademoiselle’s mother always preferred the rooms -upstairs--those which Mademoiselle now lives in. These were her -sister’s--young Madame, Gabrielle’s mother.’ - -‘She is dead?’ - -‘Alas! yes. It is unlucky to be too much loved--unlucky for loved -one and for lovers. Dr. Vermont has never been here since his wife’s -death--has never even seen little Gabrielle since she was born, and -Mademoiselle has never once smiled.’ - -I was content to reserve my curiosity for another moment, and applied -my attention exclusively to the question of my installation. My vanity, -I will own, was something flattered by its magnificence. There were -two handsome salons, a bed- and dressing-room, and a dining-room, -all richly furnished in Empire style. The best taste may not have -prevailed, but there could be no question of substantial effectiveness, -and already an air of other days hung round it, and made a pathetic -appeal to the judgment. - -As my companion showed me over the kitchen and pantries and other -domestic offices, I noted on the farther side of the narrow passage, -beyond my bedroom, a closed door which she did not offer to open. My -sympathy with Bluebeard’s wife was instantly awakened, and that door -became an object of burning interest to me. - -From the kitchen she conducted me through the dining-room window into -a long glass-roofed gallery, jutting out beyond the house and seeming -to hang over the river, so completely hidden were the rocks below. The -city lights along the opposite bank were visible, and the heavy masses -of boats and barges made moving shadows through the dusk. - -‘How lovely!’ I exclaimed, sniffing the soft air delightedly. ‘Here -will I sit and walk and read and muse. A month, did I say! I could -cheerfully end my days here.’ - -‘We have no servant at your disposal, Madame,’ the old woman said, -phlegmatically checking my enthusiasm by a reminder of the trials of -existence. ‘But until you have procured one, I shall be glad to give -you any assistance in my power.’ - -I thanked her heartily, and inquired if I could find a fiacre to drive -at once for my luggage to town. There was no such thing on the island, -she calmly informed me. Nothing in the shape of a wheeled object ever -crossed the bridge from the city except the morning vans and the weekly -butcher’s cart. Once a week the laundresses wheeled their barrows of -linen into town and returned on the same day with the supply for the -week’s washing. She could recommend a little maid, whose mother would, -no doubt, be glad to undertake to market for me for a consideration, -and her I could engage on my way to the hotel. - -I left the amiable old dame to prepare for my reception that night, -and set forth in the dropping twilight in search of the maid and my -portmanteau. I had the wisdom, however, to dine at the hotel before -returning to the gloomy island. - - - - - A MIDNIGHT VISION - - -IT was late when I drove across the bridge from the town. The noise -of rumbling wheels upon the pavement, as the cab clattered past the -arches, was of such unearthly volume as to arouse the soundest sleeper. -In one or two casements lights and alarmed faces showed; but for the -rest, the islanders turned upon their pillows, scarcely vexed by idle -speculation upon the disturbance. - -The darkness of the house chilled my heart, as the cab drove up the -grassy pathway, and when the door opened, and the old dame stood in the -hall in the uncertain illumination of a single candle, the solitude -of the place looked so insufferably strange, that I rubbed my eyes to -ascertain if I were really awake and not dreaming. But a substantial -cabman was waiting for his fare, and the woman’s thin yellow hand was -holding mine in a cordial clasp. I believe the honest creature had -already begun to miss me, and had been counting the minutes until my -reappearance. - -She led me into the dining-room, where a supper of _pâté_, fruit, and -burgundy was prepared for me, and though I protested that I was not -hungry, she compelled me to make a pretence of eating, for the excuse -of lingering to talk to me. Mademoiselle had long since retired. She -herself had slept a little in order to be fresh for the excitement of -my return. - -We sat till far into the night, chatting about the great world, about -Paris, which to her meant all the sin and misery and gaiety of the -entire universe; and about the big town of Beaufort across the river. -This impelled me to stand up and draw the curtain, that I might have -a peep at it from the gallery. The old woman followed me, and stood -leaning beside me against the flat stone balustrade. The lights now -along the water were few and widely spread--but in the heaven they had -multiplied and twinkled, variously-hued, upon their dark ground. - -‘Down there lies the road to Beaufort--the road to Paris,’ my companion -murmured wistfully. ‘It is now ten years since Mademoiselle has been -watching it, but never a soul comes by it--never a soul.’ - -‘Whom is she watching for?’ I asked, in a tone insensibly lowered by -her whisper. - -‘For Dr. Vermont--little Gabrielle’s father.’ - -‘Is he the only relative she has?’ - -‘The only one. It is a sad story. The poor lady is eating her heart -out with sorrow for the dead, and idle sorrowing for the living. The -dead at least loved her--but the living! Ah, there is nothing harder in -nature than the heart of a man turned from a loving woman.’ - -‘Does Dr. Vermont know that Mademoiselle loves him?’ - -‘Know!’ she cried indignantly. ‘Mademoiselle is a proud woman. _I_ -know because I divine it. He too might divine it, if feeling could -touch him. But he was always a hard man. He stays away, and he does not -write. He cares no more for his child than he does for Mademoiselle.’ - -She dropped into silence, and I did not want to scare her by appearing -in any way to force her confidence. I was poignantly wakeful from -interest and the atmosphere of mystery I breathed; nevertheless, I -yielded at once to suggestion that the hours were lengthening towards -morning, and was glad enough to find myself shuddering among the cold -sheets that had lain long in lavender presses, while I listened to the -echo of the old woman’s footsteps upon the stairs and the sound of key -in lock and bolt drawn. - - * * * * * - -I was sleeping soundly when Joséphine brought me my morning chocolate -and drew up the blind. She informed me that Mademoiselle hoped I -had slept well, and would do me the honour of calling on me in the -afternoon. This courtesy both astonished and gratified me. I had -understood that Joséphine had half smuggled me into the house, and that -her mistress had only given a grudging consent to my admittance. - -The morning I devoted to examination of my quarters. I found the door -of the mysterious chamber locked, but as the key was on the outside, -I had the indiscretion to turn it and look in. It was a luxurious -bedroom, and was as blue as one of Lesueur’s paintings. Young Madame -Vermont must indeed have adored the colour to suffer it in such -monotonous excess. The bed, of black polished wood, was hung with blue -silk curtains; the carpet was of blue cloth, and blue prevailed in the -handsome rugs that relieved it. The couches, the chairs, were covered -with blue silk, and blue muslin even draped the long looking-glass. -The bed looked ready for use; the blue embroidered coverlet was -turned down, and across the lace-edged sheet was flung an unrolled -night-dress, as if somebody were momently expected to lift it. On the -dressing-table several dainty objects of feminine toilette lay ready -to hand--even a little crushed lace handkerchief was thrown hastily -against a silver hand-mirror. Beside the bed was a pair of black velvet -slippers, and across a chair a frilled and expensive wrapper. Even the -water in the carafe on the table was fresh, and there were matches -beside the silver-wrought candle-stick. A beautiful jar on an inlaid -table in the window recess contained hot-house flowers that were only -beginning to fade, but their untainted perfume told of water daily -renewed. - -It was easy to divine the secret story of that woman’s chamber. -Mademoiselle cherished the delusion, as unsubstantial food for her -hungry heart, that its occupant was merely absent, and might be -expected any day--any hour. She refused to accept the irrevocableness -of death, and kept the chamber ready for the wandering spirit when the -ties of earth should recall it. This was the meaning of the turned-down -bed and unfolded night-dress; of the flowers in the jar sent from the -city and carefully watered each evening; of the little handkerchief -eloquently wisped against the silver mirror. I retreated softly, and -closed the door as if of some sacred place. - -After an interview with the maid who came to wait upon me, I lounged in -the gallery until the midday breakfast. The aspects and surroundings -enchanted me still more by day than they had done the night before. -I felt alone--solemnly alone between large spaces of sky and water. -Underneath, the river flowed broadly, and upon its bosom the big barges -travelled southward, and lighter vessels glided swiftly by to drop -behind the bridge, whence the eye could follow their path no more. -Below the broken arches and towered points of the bridge went the road -to Beaufort and the wide world, a white dust-blown band along the grey -horizon. Under a blazing sun showed the outlines of the city, and the -strained ear might detect the far-off murmur of looms by help of the -factory chimneys. But this needed an effort of imagination in so heavy -and dense a silence. - -After breakfast I bethought myself of a visit to the melancholy garden -by way of change. On the stairs I caught the pleasant patter of small -feet and the shrill, sweet notes of a child’s voice. I stepped into the -hall, where Gabrielle was at play. She was not pretty, but so lively -and spirited and quaint, that she gave a fuller notion of the charm of -childhood than any pretty child I have known. She knew neither shyness -nor fear. When she saw me, she stopped her play, and approached me -boldly. - -‘You are the strange lady Joséphine says I am not to bore,’ she said -gravely, without any resentment or surprise that she should be asked to -consider me. - -‘I hope you will bore me a good deal, little one,’ I replied. ‘I love -children, and am delighted when they take notice of me and chatter to -me.’ - -‘I like chattering, too, but my aunt is very silent. She is always -learning lessons and reading books. Do you learn lessons still?’ - -‘Sometimes, when I am not too lazy. But I am like you, I don’t like -lessons and work,--I prefer play.’ - -‘If you like, I will play with you,’ she offered, with a serious -condescension that was captivating. ‘I have no one to play with except -Minette and Monsieur Con. Wouldn’t you like to see Minette? She is a -little fluffy, white kitten. Monsieur Con is my rabbit. Come and I will -show them to you.’ - -This was the start of a friendship delightful enough to have moored my -barque to those island shores for an indefinite period, if even there -had been no irresistible interest of environment and personality to -enthral me. But Mademoiselle Lenormant’s character was a character of -unusual fascination--not in the sense of sexual attraction but from -the point of view of study. She came and sat with me for half an hour -late that afternoon. I could not fitly describe her as formal, for she -breathed of austere sadness and study. Her pretensions to beauty, in -the accepted form, can never have been great, but defective features -found an abundant apology in the extreme delicacy of the pallid -face and a certain wistful eagerness and suppressed tenderness of -expression. It was a face to haunt you into the silent watches of the -night, in its mute eloquence of suggestion--like a spirit or a picture. -Having looked once upon it, it dwelt for ever apart in the memory, -constantly provoking thought, conjecture, and raking the fanciful -waters of romance by gliding dreams of sorrow and solitude, and the -tragedy that finds no voice or fraternal sympathy upon the noisy -surface of life. - -Silence I should say had been the great feature of her existence. -Even upon the odd impersonal subjects that sprang up for discussion -in our conversations, her talk was scant and weighted with an unusual -intonation, as if speech came to her amiss. She pondered each -commonplace I uttered, and gazed steadfastly into space or down upon -the river before replying, which she did very seriously after a long -pause. At first this eccentricity of hers much disconcerted me. To -exclaim in soft rapture, ‘How lovely the stillness here is!’ and a few -minutes later, when you had quite lost sight of the trite observation, -to have it cast back upon the wavering plain of dialogue in some such -manner, and in tones of musing gravity: - -‘You think such stillness as this lovely? It is perhaps the novelty of -it alone that enchants you’-- - -Or, in response to a previous half-forgotten remark received in -absolute silence, that the way the boats and barges dropped suddenly -out of view as they passed under the bridge was strangely attractive, -to find the idea caught by the heels, and gently forced into earnest -discussion by a word of imperious invitation. For there was an -air of extremely winning command about her, that from the first I -found impossible to resist. Her neck was long, and the head upon it -beautifully set, and her movements, her gestures and looks, were -those of a princess in disguise. An over-wrought imagination might -of course--possibly did--exaggerate this air of command and these -sovereign attitudes, but I came afterwards to see that I was not alone -in my delusion, and that upon ardent youth of the other sex, her -quiescent influence could be potential to salvation. - -Of the nature of her occupations and ideas I remained quite in the dark -for some days to come. Regularly, of an afternoon, she would visit -me in the gallery, where we sat and discussed the ‘eternal verities’ -in an abrupt, unenthusiastic way. I could see that she purposely -withheld herself, her real self, from intrusion or impertinent survey. -Seclusion had taught her prudence, and reticence was a natural gift. -But how in the name of the marvellous, upon an empty island, where -social intercourse is undreamed of, had she come by knowledge of the -hollowness of casual expansion and the nothingness of ready sympathy? - -This is a lesson the cynical society deity teaches us after harsh -and prolonged experiences of considerable variety, and except to its -votaries, could only be known to those hermits who went into the desert -to rest from the vanity of experiment and pleasure. - -Joséphine’s garrulity, however, made instructive Mademoiselle’s -reserve. From her I learnt, by meagre instalments, this enigmatic -lady’s story. But not much until a little scene had pushed me upon the -other side of discretion, and driven me to sue for enlightenment. - -It happened thus. In the grip of wakefulness I had gone out to walk -about the gallery. There was no moon, and upon the turn of the season, -the night was chill and starless. Across the smoke-coloured heaven odd -masses wandered, pursued by the wind that blew down from the North. The -river below made a stain of exceeding blackness in the dark picture, -and beat the rocks in angry protest against the whining uneasiness -of the air. For it whined dismally round the island, and blew among -the trees of the garden like an army of dreary banshees. A sense of -horror of the place grew upon me, and I began to hunger for the big -bright world beyond; for gas-lit streets and the sordid aspects of city -life. I yearned to jostle my fellows along the highways once more, -and listen to the sound of vocal dispute upon the public place. I saw -in vision streams of people emerging from illuminated theatres, heard -the cheerful roll of carriages, and the noisy murmur of laughter and -speech. I longed for it all again--all that I had despised, and told -myself in the midst of its enjoyment that I hated. After all, I was but -a poor mountebank of a hermit. Town born, I could never hope to free -myself permanently from the influences of birth, and I knew that sooner -or later nostalgia for city sounds and sights--for the multitudinous -accompaniments of its existence, must find me and pursue me into the -heart of the most congenial solitude, into the most heavenly of rural -retreats. - -The gallery ran round the angles of the house, and on the other side -looked down into the garden and in upon the window of Madame Vermont’s -blue room. I went round it in a thirst for movement, but, fearful of -disturbing the sleep of others, I walked very softly. To my complete -surprise, and I will not aver without a momentary qualm of terror, I -saw the reflection of a stream of light upon the near window of the -blue chamber. I hardly believe in ghosts; but it would indeed be rash -to hint that it was no vague dread of the supernatural that started -my unequal heart-beats just then. I felt the blood gush and swell to -bursting the arteries about my temples and throat, and at the back of -my ears. Fright was not a check upon curiosity, but rather a strong -impetus. Though I might approach in a conflict of emotions, I did not -hesitate for one moment to approach, and was confronted with sharp -disappointment when I saw that the stream of light upon the floor fell -from an earthly candle-stick, and that Mademoiselle was leaning over -the polished foot of the bed and gazing steadfastly at the empty pillow. - -It did not take me an instant to recover my balance and watch the scene -with revived interest. This was my second glimpse of the blue chamber, -and a poignant note was now added to its fascination. There was a more -speaking look about the turned-down sheet, the unrolled night-dress -across it, and the hastily flung wrapper. Not of death--but of an -unwonted disparition and a watched-for return it spoke. Not of anguish -and bereavement was it eloquent, but of the fruitless and undying -hunger of expectation. At such an hour, so sanctified by pervading -sorrow and silence, the blue of the room was no longer garish, but an -appropriate setting for imprisoned regret. Its very uniformity and -depth of colour suggested the solemnity, the profundity of a rich sky -unstained by cloud, and, enveloped in this mystic hue, Mademoiselle -seemed to be the spirit of sorrow resting upon the grave of all -joy--mute, placidly unhopeful, visibly unafraid. For surely such -solitude as hers was calculated to bend the proudest head and break -the strongest heart, and in presence of her indomitable courage I felt -abashed and mean by confrontation with my recent idle terror. - -I knew well that it was my duty to turn away my eyes and leave so -sacred a vigil unwatched, but when duty and curiosity, strongly roused, -come into mortal conflict, it is not often that the former conquers. -I waited to see how long Mademoiselle would linger in that room, what -her movements might be, and how she would depart for the upper house. -And as I waited, I saw her come round by the side of the bed with a -quick, sudden step, and gently smooth the pillow. In doing so, her -hand rested heavily in the middle, and made a distinct impression. She -started back, and I could see that desperate emotion stiffened her thin -white face, and the large grey eyes she lifted, in the full light of -the candle upon the table beside her, were full of pain. By a gesture -so slight, it appeared she had startled memory into wakeful protest, -and now she hastened to quiet it, and trod feverishly upon the living -embers to still their fires by giving to the bed its proper aspect -of emptiness. She turned the pillow, gathered up the ruffled sheet, -crushed the night-dress into careless folds, and thrust it beneath the -blue coverlet. As white was hidden under the blue, resignation seemed -to have banished expectation angrily, and brought the curtain down -ruthlessly upon the poor pathetic comedy weakness played for its own -diversion. - -She took the candle up, stood near the door, and gazed slowly around -her. The little handkerchief wisped against the silver mirror caught -her eye. She jerked forward and grasped it eagerly; so flimsy was it -that it almost melted in her slight palm. I remembered there was a -faint, subtle odour of violets about the room, which seemed to emanate -from that handkerchief. I can imagine how it must have risen and -tyrannised her senses, can measure the strength of its appeal and its -delicate charm. No women are so astute and penetrative in their use of -scent as Frenchwomen. It is their study to spread their essence with -refined cruelty, and leave an imperishably perfumed trace to check -the wandering imagination, and keep tenanted by a personal odour the -sanctuaries of the heart they have forsaken. - -The effect of the faded sweetness of the handkerchief was to irritate -her to what I concluded to be a resolution to have done with this -miserable comedy of expectation. She held it from her fiercely, and -threw back her head to get further away from its insidious appeal, -and then approached it to the flame of the candle. It needed but a -flutter of light against it, and the flimsy thing was a brief yellow -flare. She watched until the flame had burnt itself out, and then threw -the charred rag upon the marble top of the night-table, and swayed -unsteadily towards the door. By the way she grasped her throat with one -frail, nervous hand, I could divine how the thick sobs shook her, and I -wondered more and more upon the mystery of her life, and what elements -combined to form the mimic tragedy of that midnight solitude. - -Outside the breath of winter was upon us, and the wind bit and stung -with the sharpness of ice. It was December now, and vigils upon the -terrace, once the sun was gone down and the stars were out, were a -forbidden pleasure in careful middle-age. - - - - - THE STORY OF MADEMOISELLE LENORMANT - - -THE month of December ran itself out with a more ruffled mildness than -November had done. For one thing, it was cold, blustering weather, and -for days together ice sheeted the broad river. The boats and barges -plied less frequently, and foot-passengers now rarely threaded the long -boulevard from the city to the island bridge. Only the morning vans -relieved us of a complete sense of separation from our fellows, and -at odd intervals, the postman came, and carried a whiff of the outer -world into our retreat. On Saturday we had the excitement of watching -the laundresses wheel their barrows of linen across the bridge, and -diminish with the distance upon the chill, bleak road, sometimes -brightened by rays of winter sunshine. But for the rest we shared such -desert stillness as might be found in the heart of an empty forest, -instead of upon the edge of a busy and populous town. - -Within the walls, life went pleasantly enough. My presence downstairs -had served to tame Mademoiselle somewhat. She stood less impenetrably -apart, and her discourse grew daily less impersonal. When walks upon -the terrace and musing under the roof of the gallery meant perilous -exposure, she would invite me upstairs to her own _appartement_. This -I enjoyed. It gave me a sense of fraternity in silence as well as -companionable speech at discretion. - -Her rooms were less spacious than those I occupied, but more -comfortable, and not without a surprising effort at cosiness. In her -salon a wood fire burned brightly, and the deep worn arm-chairs had an -inviting aspect. Everything was faded, often frayed and rent, but the -pictures were old and of some value, and books bulged out beyond their -natural shelves, and overflowed upon the floor, and crowded the tables. -Books, books everywhere,--old books, tattered books, dog-eared, dusty, -and moth-eaten; wearing all a heavy, learned look, and suggestive of -historical research. I laughingly remarked this to her one day, as I -removed a big tome from the low chair I wished to sit upon. She blushed -that soft pink flush belonging to faces habitually pallid. It made her -look delightfully young and interesting, and conveyed the hope to me -that the last barrier of her glacial reserve was about to break down. - -‘I have been for many years engaged upon research among these volumes,’ -she admitted slowly, after a pause; ‘I am writing an important book.’ - -‘An important book?’ I cried interrogatively. - -‘Yes: the life of the Emperor Julian. I regard him as the great -Misunderstood of the Christian world, and I wish to rehabilitate him,’ -she said; and there was such a touching and simple prayer for sympathy -and encouragement in the glance she fixed on mine, that I had not the -heart to remember that others had attempted the same task, and that no -amount of learned eloquence and indignation would teach the Christian -world to regard as desirable a better understanding of him they call -the great Apostate. - -‘Would it be an indiscretion to solicit information upon your plan -of defence?’ I asked insidiously, with intent to force her into -self-exposure. To me the character of the Emperor Julian was of -comparative insignificance beside her own, but this fact I naturally -kept to myself. - -‘I shall bring him into noble relief by means of Frederick the Great -as a background--Frederick, that other famous and less reputable -disciple of Marcus Aurelius. Have you ever remarked how alike and how -unlike they were--one so sincere and the other so cynically insincere?’ - -Upon a dead island, without new books, or newspapers, or theatres, -and but little out-door life, because of the ferocity of the weather, -the Emperor Julian and Frederick the Great were as good subjects -of discussion as any others, and I entered the lists in combative -mood, fully equipped in argument and opinion, and captivated by the -grim earnestness and complete guilelessness of the Imperial Pagan’s -defender. Of modern literature she was, perhaps not unwisely, ignorant, -and knew not of a man named Ibsen who, some years earlier, had -also strayed upon this ground. She had been chiefly inspired by an -abominable novel of a French Jesuit, over which she waxed exceedingly -hot. Her anger was splendid, and I should have rejoiced to see the -Jesuit, Julian’s traducer, confronted with this thin spiritual-looking -lady, who thrilled from head to foot with generous hatred of all -meanness and unfairness. - -‘As a Christian, my defence will have more weight than if I were imbued -with the cold agnosticism of the day,’ she added naïvely. - -‘Surely,’ I assented, full of admiration, and more pleased to think -of her as a Catholic eager to make atonement to an ancient enemy of -her faith, than ‘the cold agnostic’ she dismissed in a tone of implied -disapproval. - -‘You wonder, perhaps, at the serious nature of my studies and labour,’ -she observed. And then, upon a little explanatory nod and arch of -delicate brow, ‘You see my father was a scholar, and as we lived here -quite alone and rarely received visitors, it was impossible for him to -avoid taking me into his confidence. And then, when his health began to -fail him, it naturally devolved upon me to help him, as far as I could, -and spare his eyes.’ - -Her glance travelled wistfully round the room, and a ray of mild -recognition fell upon each big volume. It was not difficult to -understand how vividly of the past they spoke to her, how eloquent -of association was their wild disorder. In the high embrasure of the -back window, which looked down upon the river, and showed a glimpse -of the chimney-tops and tall spires of Beaufort, there was a dainty, -blue-lined work-table, and near it a revolving book-stand and a -rocking-chair. From where I sat, I could note that the books were -modern--some of them were bound coquettishly, but the greater number -were paper-covered. I was not wrong in supposing this to have been -the favourite recess of the late Madame Vermont. The blue satin of -the work-table betrayed her, and a hurried inspection of the backs of -the books convinced me that her taste in literature was all that is -most correct and elegant. No ancient tomes these. No bramble-strewn -paths to historic research. Nothing whatever about the Emperor Julian; -still less about Marcus Aurelius. Bourget, Feuillet, Gyp, Loti, Marcel -Prévost, Anatole France and company: these were the friends of pretty -Madame Vermont’s solitude, the entertainers of her frugal leisure. -From the start, without description, word, or hint, I had understood -Madame Vermont to be uncommonly pretty. I pictured her small, blonde, -charmingly coquettish, and self-conscious. I endowed her with every -conventional fascination, and felt sure that if I had been a man -I should have adored her, like the rest. As a matter of fact, my -imagined picture of her came very near reality. Only instead of fair -hair, she had the loveliest brown that made a flossy network round -a little rosebud of a face; her eyes were bewitchingly blue, limpid -like a child’s, and her cheek was adorably hued. Just the conventional -angelic being to turn male heads, and set their hearts in a flutter; -just the sort of home idol to keep nurses and sisters--especially -elder, grave, and sensible sisters--perpetually on their knees, and -the domestic incensor perpetually filled with the freshest of perfumed -flattery swung by the most abject adorers. - -Now that the icy winds prevented us from sitting out in my gallery, -Mademoiselle had grown accustomed to receive me upstairs. For there -was no conquering her repugnance to my rooms. She found it less hard -to walk with Joséphine to the cemetery than to sit and talk of other -matters with a stranger in her dead sister’s house. Of me, however, -she had grown fond:--at first in a furtive way, as if not quite sure -that she was right in yielding to the weakness. Gradually she emerged -from this quaint and insular uncertainty; saw that there was no shame -attached to the discovery that a new face could delight her, and -graciously abandoned herself to the influence of a full-blown affection. - -Every morning Joséphine came down with Mademoiselle’s compliments, -and her desire to be informed if I had slept well. Every afternoon I -mounted to drink a cup of English tea with her, and listen to her last -pages on the great Misunderstood, and sometimes maliciously spur her -into passion by some sceptical raillery, which always brought pained -reproach to her sad eyes and a slight flush to her pale face. She took -everything in earnest, even my feeble jokes, which after a while, when -she began to understand them, she would proceed to discuss in her own -quaint, slow way. - -‘I suppose it must be a matter of temperament, or perhaps it is an -Irish peculiarity,’ she would say, and inspect me very seriously. - -I assured her that the Irishman was not born who could not change his -opinion at a moment’s notice for the fun of the thing, and in the midst -of comedy fall foul upon tragedy for pure diversion’s sake. She shook -her head despondently, and decided at once that there could be found -no earnest scholars, no born leaders of men, in a band of amiable -buffoons. - -My moments of recreation and distraction were enjoyed with Gabrielle, -when we walked round the desert island in search of adventures, or with -elaborate care, tried to make each other understand the caprices of our -wandering fancies in the alleys of the sad, mysterious garden. It was -pure joy to feel the little hand clinging to my arm or lost in my palm -like a soft, small bird, and hear the pretty patter of running steps -alongside of my brisk strides. For, to atone for its late appearance, -the winter was mortally cold, and there was no dallying with frozen -toes and frost-bitten ears. But to make up for this foolish superiority -of mine in the matter of steps, Gabrielle was indulgence itself to my -decided inferiority upon imaginative ground. I certainly could not -imagine so many things out of nothing, and it was clear that I could -not make up so many charming adventures for Minette and Monsieur Con. -But in my gross grown-up way, I was not an unsympathetic confidante -for the grievances and perplexities of solitary childhood. Indeed, -Gabrielle admitted, with off-hand majesty of look and deportment, -that I was rather a nice and entertaining person for a little girl to -talk to, not above the simple pleasures of play, and not beneath the -romantic joys of story-telling. Now she loved her aunt; oh, yes, she -certainly loved her aunt above and beyond all the world. But her aunt, -you see, was so very solemn, and then she read so many books, she was -quite _entichée_ of those big, hard-looking books. _Entichée_, she -admitted, in answer to my amused and not altogether edified surprise, -was an expression she had caught from my servant Marie. It was Marie, -she repeated imperiously, who said her aunt was _entichée_ of books, -and she was pleased to find it a very good word. She was the quaintest -and drollest little philosopher and playmate melancholy middle-age -could desire, and I am not without shrewd suspicion that I learnt more -from her than she from me. - -Of an evening, as I sat alone downstairs over my coffee, and snoozed -comfortably over one of Mademoiselle’s books, or puffed a meditative -cigarette in front of the bright wood fire, Joséphine would come down -for a chat on her own account. It amused me to draw her out upon the -subject of Mademoiselle, and bit by bit I pieced her story together. - - * * * * * - -Monsieur Lenormant, the father of two girls, had had a serious -political difference with his family, who were all staunch -Bonapartists, while he stood by the republic, and flung his hat into -the air whenever they played the _Marseillaise_. With no desire to -parade this difference, and being a shy and sensitive man, despite his -republican sympathies, he chose evasion by the road of retreat. He -left Beaufort, where his family were an influence, and bought the old -house on the island. Here few were likely to disturb him, and political -temptation could not be expected to pursue him. - -His ostensible excuse was the possession of scholarly tastes and -indifference to the present. The death of his wife upon the birth of -a second girl, Adèle, was seemingly a further inducement to seek the -soothing shade of solitude. So the widower, accompanied by his wife’s -confidential servant, Joséphine, and an old gardener, Marcel, drove out -of Beaufort, with his children, his books, and his cats. In a little -while he was settled and hard at work among the ancients, and the -current world of republicans and Bonapartists alike forgot him. - -There was a difference of five years between the children, and soon, -too soon, little Henriette was established upon the semi-maternal, -wholly self-sacrificing pedestal of _la grande sœur_. All she had known -of spontaneous childhood was before her mother’s death. Henceforth -she was ‘mother’ herself, with Adèle for an adored and adorable small -tyrant. While still in short frocks, her father, too, had got to rely -on her, and cling to her as to a grown-up woman. He would gravely -debate with her upon matters it was but humane to suppose she could -understand nothing of. This may be an excellent school for training -in abnegation and patient endurance, but it is a hard one. Henriette -slipped into maturity without any of the sunshine of childhood across -her backward path. She was an uncomplaining, studious little girl, and -it is not surprising that Monsieur Lenormant should have gone to the -grave without the remotest suspicion of the wrong he had done her. -Did she not love her father devotedly? Did she not worship the pretty -Adèle? And what more can any sane and reasonable young woman demand of -life than ample opportunities for the practice of self-abnegation and -the worshipping of others? - -When Henriette was a slip of a girl and Adèle a child of ten, young -Dr. Vermont, the only son of Monsieur Lenormant’s comrade of youth, -came down to Beaufort from Paris, in the full blaze of university -honours, and not without promise of future scientific renown, backed -by a substantial income and solid provincial influence. This young man -looked surprisingly well upon horseback, and found it good exercise -to ride frequently from the town to the house of his father’s old -friend upon the island. Arrived there, it amused him to notice Adèle, -who was free of anything like bashfulness, and in return, thought him -the nicest person she had ever seen. Meanwhile, a grave, tall girl, -too thin for her ungraceful age, looked on with very different eyes. -To her Dr. Vermont was the traditional Phœbus Apollo of girlhood. She -knew nothing of romance, or novels, or poetry, but she felt the dawn of -womanhood upon sight of him, and blushed in divine self-consciousness. -She was a plain girl then--unfinished, unformed, and painfully -reserved; and it was not to be expected that such an elegant article of -semi-Parisian make, as Dr. Vermont, should have an eye for material so -crude and undeveloped. Had Dr. Vermont been thirty instead of twenty, -he might have thought differently, but we all know how grandly exacting -and dramatic twenty is. Whereas his conquest was not in the least -astonishing. He was a fine-looking lad, with plenty of pluck and grace -and worldly wisdom. He carried himself with a noble self-consciousness, -was sufficiently attentive to his moustache to convince mankind of -its supreme importance, and already his handsome dark eyes wore that -look of mild scrutiny that never left them. Altogether a youth with -justifiable pretensions and fascinations of an intellectual and bodily -nature, and one by no means likely to learn to abate them by experience. - -As the years went by, and the little women of the dark house by the -river grew with them, the wealth of Monsieur Lenormant declined, and -when Dr. Vermont, now a distinctive _somebody_ in his profession, came -down one summer, and rode out from Beaufort to see him, matters were so -bad that he found it his duty to come every day during the rest of his -vacation. Adèle was now sixteen, a lovely flower opening in the sun of -romantic dreams. Can we wonder if Dr. Vermont’s glance rested on her in -amazed admiration? Dr. Vermont said nothing, but he looked. He looked -constantly, and his glances were not without eloquence for the maiden -blushing vividly beneath them. All this Henriette saw, and loved her -sister none the less, wished not the less heartily both her dear ones -happiness and success, though her own misery came of it. Only Monsieur -Lenormant understood nothing of the situation. His dream always had -been to marry his favourite Henriette to his young friend Vermont, but -death overtook him before he could accomplish it. - -One evening, as Dr. Vermont sat beside him with his hand upon his -pulse, the poor gentleman looked up at him anxiously. - -‘I have written for a relative, a lady, to come and look after my -girls, but you, François, I expect to be their real protector. I like -to think of you as my daughter’s husband. She is a good girl, François, -an excellent girl. She has been a devoted daughter, and an adoring -sister. She will make the best of wives.’ - -‘I am sure of it,’ said Dr. Vermont musingly, as he glanced down to -where the two girls were silently embroidering in the deep recess of -a window above the river. He knew perfectly well which daughter he -was expected to marry and which he intended to marry, but he kept his -counsel, and gazed in soft approbation upon the charming profile of -Adèle. - -When he came next day, Monsieur Lenormant had departed from this -world of marriage and giving in marriage, and the lady relative had -arrived. A formal engagement with Adèle was speedily entered upon, and -the Doctor took the train for Paris, a happy prospective bridegroom, -with the advantage of being in no hurry to jump into domestic -responsibilities. His betrothed was somewhat young, and meanwhile he -would have leisure to pursue pleasure elsewhere, and nourish her placid -love upon the most expensive boxes of sweets direct from Boissier, -and instalments of light and elegant literature to teach her what to -respect of life and from mankind. - -The bride was eighteen and the groom twenty-eight, when they were -married one spring morning in the Mairie and in the Cathedral of -Beaufort. That marriage still brought tears to Joséphine’s old eyes, -and tempted her to unhabitual eloquence. How lovely the bride had -looked!--too lovely, too delicate for health and long life. Eyes -limpid like an angel’s, so sweetly blue and soft, a face upon which -the tenderest breath would bring a stain of deepened colour, form slim -and curved and dainty in every detail. The groom was proud, radiantly -proud, perhaps not tender enough and unapprehensive of the rough winds -of life for a creature so fragile and for bloom so evanescent. But he -looked distinguished, well-bred, and eminently Parisian; and what more -could provincial spectators desire? - -A more interesting figure far was the grave, sad young lady, who smiled -upon her happy sister through her tears, and could find words above -the pain of a breaking heart to remind the groom that Adèle had always -been petted and spoiled and cared, and fervently implore him to do the -same by her, and treat her more like a child than a wife. The scene was -clear before me. Mademoiselle, as she must have been at twenty-three, -not pretty, but captivating enough for eyes not blinded by mere animal -beauty, as the Doctor’s were. And he, fatuous, sure of himself, at -heart indifferent to others, and intoxicated with foolish marital -satisfaction. Did he know that tragedy brushed his happiness that -moment--softly, benignantly, with blessing instead of prayer, with gaze -of hope instead of reproach? - -Joséphine could tell me nothing, and it pleased me to believe that he -understood, and some day might remember. - -After some months in Paris, the little bride was brought back to the -dark house by the river by an anxious husband, there to linger in the -warmth of two loves, two devotions, waited upon, worshipped in vain. -The opening of her baby’s eyes was the signal for the closing of her -own. Not then, not then could Dr. Vermont be expected to understand. As -far as I could gather from Joséphine’s account, he passionately loved -his young wife. Her death crushed him for a while, and he walked the -earth like one blind to the changes of seasons, blind to surrounding -faces, and fronting a future that would remain for ever a blank. -Mademoiselle came, and gently touched his hand to remind him that he -was not alone in his sorrow. He neither felt the fraternity nor the -unspoken tenderness. The paleness of her cheek held no eloquence of -suffering for him; the sadness of her eyes left his heart untouched. As -for the child, far from feeling a thrill of paternity upon sight of it, -he desired never to behold it more. He would regard it henceforth as -the cause of his moral ruin, the beginning of a broken and joyless life. - -In this hard and sullen mood he returned to Paris, and Gabrielle -grew up with Mademoiselle, without any knowledge of her father, who -apparently had forgotten the existence of both. - - - - - AN INTERLUDE - - A DECISION FIN DE SIÈCLE AT THE CAFÉ LANDER - - -IN the middle of the rue Taitbout, there is a little café, which was -not so well known twenty years ago as it is now, at the end of the -nineteenth century. Then it was only beginning to emerge from the -inferior position of crémerie. Came one day, from the unconventional -region of the Latin Quarter, somewhere in the seventies, an -enterprising proprietor; and in his wake followed a train of noble -youths, enthusiastic in the praises of Lander, wishful for the further -enjoyments of his hospitalities, and with kindly memory of his -generosity in the matter of credit. - -Lander brought the pleasant ways of the _Quarter_ across the town -with him, and the band of noble youths stood by him, encouraged and -sustained him. In consequence, the Café Lander flourished exceedingly, -and its circle of clients daily increased, until it was known, far -and wide, as the resort of embryo genius. For all the boisterous and -good-tempered young fellows who crowded round its tables, and emptied -bocks and consumed coffee (fifty centimes a cup with _fine champagne_), -were coming great men. They were the future lights in literature, art, -philosophy, and politics. The real living great man they professed to -regard with respectful admiration, but they wanted none of him in their -midst. In the slang of the day, he had made his pile, and reposed on -velvet and laurels among the Immortals. When he would have become a -part of the past, and the future was their present, they could afford -to be on more intimate terms with him. But for the present, they -belonged exclusively to the future. - -These young fools had their place a while, and expectation dwelt -indulgently upon them. They chatted loudly of isms and ologies and -oxies, with refreshing crudeness: upheld the realistic, the romantic, -the psychological, and Heaven knows what other schools of literature. -They prated of form, and matter, and art, and style, as only Frenchmen, -bitten by love of these things, can prate. And then, one by one, they -dropped out of the ranks of embryo genius, having accomplished nothing, -with the great epic unwritten, unwritten the drama, the psychological -novel that was to teach M. Bourget something new about women; unwritten -the important _History of the Franks_, that was to throw into relief -hitherto unrevealed aspects of the character of their conquerors; -unsolved the problems of metaphysics under discussion, undiscovered the -great political panacea of the age, unpainted the grand masterpiece. -With the first stone of their reputation still to be laid, they went, -and the café saw them no more. - -Some of them became commonplace advocates, and made uninteresting -citizens and fairly reputable fathers of families: or sordid notaries, -or humdrum bourgeois. Romance shook its bridle rein with a regretful -backward glance: ‘Farewell for evermore,’ and the converted fool turned -upon his heel to enter into the ignoble strife with his fellows in -quest of daily bread. Others there were who had a troublesome way of -right-about-facing upon fond expectation. They jilted the muse for -historical research, or discarded art for literature, or drifted -from sonnets to the stage. One youth of philosophic tastes was known, -with inexcusable fickleness, to shake off the secular garb, and array -himself in the white of the cloister. He was the only one who made -a serious reputation; he became a fashionable preacher, and wrote a -_History of the Church_ which brought upon him the wrath of Rome. - -But if they were mostly crude, ineffectual youths, they had bright -faces, and eager glances, and hearts full of hope and enthusiasm. They -were each confident of his own powers, inapprehensive of defeat or -failure, bound upon a fiery race for experience and new sensations, -contemptuous of the past, and looked gaily toward a future of glorious -achievement. Not a city but furnishes the type, and in no other city -is it so persistent as in Paris. Paint one such, and you paint all her -young men, nourished upon vivid imagination, upon inexhaustible hope -and unconquerable self-faith. - -Into this circle of frank and amiable egotists, Dr. Vermont dropped -accidentally some ten years ago. Being of an experimental turn of -mind, and apt to fall upon mild curiosity in his casual scrutiny -of impetuous youth, he stayed. It is a mistake to assume that an -interest in youth, and a tolerance of its nonsense, is an indication of -lingering kindness of heart Dr. Vermont liked youth as a vivisectionist -likes animals. It taught him much that he desired to know, and where -it did not teach him precisely, it helped him along the path of -observation. Men are grown-up children; boys are rude philosophers, -artists, poets, what you will. - -A cold, passionless man was Dr. Vermont, the one feeble flame of human -feeling he had thrilled to having faded out of memory almost upon the -death of his just buried young wife. She, too, had interested him, only -differently, being of a less calculable and possibly less shallow order -of being than the embryo great men of Lander’s. Widowhood had sundered -him sharply from all personal ties, and left him all the freer to -indulge his passion for experimental psychology. - -As he sat evening after evening, and drank his coffee and little glass, -and smoked a meditative cigar, it amused him to encourage the vivacious -contentment around him, and lead the unborn reputations to reveal -their bent. His influence upon young men was a thing to make older and -saner persons gape. It was, perhaps, all the stronger and more subtle -because it was unrecognised. He was feared, and yet admired, to an -incredible degree. His mild, sarcastic face, with its finished features -and wholly effaced humanity of expression, put a point upon emulation -and goaded to rash display. But none were made to feel the rashness -of their flights, or the absurdity of their theories. Dr. Vermont was -too clever a man to scare expansion, or cow ambition. This was how he -kept his hold upon the fresh-moustached lads around him. This was how -they spoke of him among themselves as a good fellow--_un bon garçon, -malgré_--well, in spite of a great many things. - -Thus he sat, and smoked, and listened, while the years passed, and -out of the circle familiar faces went and new ones came. It must be -admitted there was not much variety in the entertainment. Always the -same questions of form and expression, of style and matter; always the -same comparison of international literatures and the relative virtues -of different forms of government; above and beyond all, sex and its -unexplained and stinging problems. They never tired, and each batch -came up, fresh and eager for the old discussions. Names may vary, -fashions may alter, but the rough, broad facts of life are there, -immutable like nature, ever recurrent like the ebb and flow of the tide. - -A sense of weariness was upon Dr. Vermont the December night I write -of, as he walked toward the Café Lander. Most of the lads were -dispersed by the Christmas vacation. But he knew precisely those -who were expecting him. Anatole Buzeval, his favourite, a charming -young fellow, with healthy Norman blood in his veins, and in spite of -the disastrous environment of Paris _fin de siècle_, with something -throbbing under his coat that suspiciously resembled a boy’s free -heart. He came from a Norman fishing town, near the beat of the -channel, washed by a friendly old river and wooded by still friendlier -trees. In boyhood, he had walked in the woods, he had fished in the -river, he had known the delights of amateur seafaring, and rode, and -shot live things, and was first awakened by love to the melody of -the birds, and to heroism by the genial spirit of endurance of the -fishermen. These influences kept him partially sheltered from the -century-worn cynicism and exhausted emotions prevailing. It accounted -for the ring of sincerity in his laughter, for the zest of his -ephemeral enthusiasms and the courageous freedom of his blue eyes. But -he was nevertheless bitten by the disease of the hour, and his speech -was tainted with the cheap _fin de siècle_ indifference and dejection. -He was the youngest of the party, the most intelligent and the -brightest. Beside him sat Gaston Favre, a youth who would have been an -artist if the death-throes of the century left him any room to believe -in art. Nothing any longer interested him, but he was still capable of -remarking upon sight of a bad picture-- - -‘Now, if it were worth the trouble, or really mattered, there is food -for indignation in that picture.’ - -Whereupon he would survey it in the spirit of ostentatious tolerance, -without a wince or a critical flash of eye. - -The third, Julien Renaud, was a little older than these two, and -professed a dead interest in politics. Time was when Lander’s echoed -with the noble flow of his eloquence. Time was when it was confidently -believed that he was destined, not only in his own imagination, to -reach the tribune, and thunder effectively against the abuses of -government. But that was in M. Constans’ hour, and M. Constans was -notoriously Julien’s pet aversion. In those remote days, he was -antagonistic toward what he called ‘the whole shop of the Elysian -Fields,’ and relished M. Carnot as little as he had ever relished -‘old Father Grévy.’ But these were now half-forgotten ebullitions of -youth, and like his beloved France, he was battered and bruised by the -defeats of life into complete indifference. Nothing mattered. In reply -to everything, he had but one response, a quiet shrug, a weariedly -lifted eyebrow, and a murmured _cui bono_ upon a long-drawn sigh. -On this evening the chosen drink was punch, which resulted in more -boisterous converse, and showed Anatole in almost a lyric mood. The -first mention of the insipidly recurrent phrase of the hour--‘end of -the century’--inspired him to fall upon mirthful reminiscences, just as -Dr. Vermont entered the café. - -‘M. le docteur désire?’ said the waiter, helping him off with his -overcoat. - -The doctor named his drink as he took a seat, and blandly scrutinised -each flushed and smiling face. - -‘We were talking, Doctor,’ Anatole cried, ‘of ways of ending the -year. Do you remember, two years ago, when I first joined you, coming -straight from Barbizon, where I chummed with a queer and amusing Scotch -artist? how I taught you all to sing what I conceived to be a Scotch -melody--_Les Temps Jadis_--and we drank at midnight an execrable -decoction called in Scotland a tod-dy, standing, and gave an English -shake-hands all round, which I am told is the way in Scotland of -toasting the departing year?’ - -The Doctor paused in the act of lifting his glass, and nodded, as -he threw out a couple of absent names in signification of his keen -remembrance of the evening. - -Followed good-natured and regretful words for each absent face. _Les -temps jadis_ were not such bad times after all, though the melancholy -Scotch might chant them with more melody than the vivacious sons of -Gaul. Jean this was an excellent heart; Henri that, a capital good -fellow, the pity was he stuttered so. Frédéric, poor fool, had settled -down, and married a _dot_ and a squint, and the squint, alas! was so -marked, that the dowry was a totally inadequate compensation. Upon -which, Julien made cynical mention of the greater security of marital -rights when backed by aid so powerful as a squint. - -‘But, since women are only happy in virtue of their lovers and not in -virtue of their husbands,’ shouted Anatole, with a charming look of -_rouerie_, ‘what a dismal future for Frédéric’s wife! I declare I could -find it in my heart to rush off and console her. I should be so blinded -by my own burning eloquence, as I flung myself at her feet, that I -would have no eyes left for the squint.’ - -‘Not until you came to yourself in a revulsion of feeling, my friend,’ -sneered Julien Renaud. - -‘Has any one seen Henri Lemaître since the night we drank our Scotch -tod-dy, Anatole, and sang, or tried to sing, _Les Temps Jadis_?’ asked -Dr. Vermont. - -‘No. He was last heard of in Japan, studying the gentle art of -self-defence, as practised by the gentle Japanese. He derided the duel, -and loathed European pugilism, and he thought something might be done -towards a more civilised settlement of disputes by borrowing of the -remoter civilisation of the land of the chrysanthemum. What will you? -Did he not study the washy water-colours of the immortal Monsieur Loti?’ - -‘Oh, an affection for Pierre Loti would explain any absurdity!’ said -Gaston Favre, with a grim smile. ‘If we could hope to sit here a -hundred years hence, and make a summary of the gods of the coming -century, I wonder what sort of intellectual company should we have -under discussion.’ - -‘Finished humbugs, I dare swear,’ shouted Anatole. ‘Already, from force -of mere good writing, we have fallen upon intellectual inanition. -The last century wound up by unveiling the goddess of reason; we’ve -unveiled the goddess of form, and the devil swallow me, if there is -anything to be found behind our excellent style. Each light of a new -school sounds a loud trumpet to inform the world that he has at last -discovered truth. So does a silly hen who lays an ordinary egg, the -counterpart of her fellow-hen’s. You can’t convince her of the fatuous -impertinence of her cackle, nor prove to her that there is nothing -particularly great in the laying of eggs. I declare, nowadays, every -trumpery artist and scribbler takes himself as seriously as the hen, -and divides his time between laying and cackling.’ - -‘Each one has his theory, and it is more important that he should -reveal that theory to the public than even paint his picture, write his -play, or novel, or story upon it. So much has America taught him by -means of that strange institution, the interviewer.’ - -‘Ah,’ cried Anatole, in a burst of exaggerated despair, ‘I gave up -France when she took the American interviewer to her bosom, and the -best papers were not ashamed to give us the opinions of the latest -Minister, and expose the lack of taste and modesty in the youngest -Master.’ - -‘Not France alone, _mon cher_,’ interposed Dr. Vermont; ‘English -journalism has become no whit less vulgar and personal. Vulgarity, -ostentation, fraud, rapacious advertisement--these are all the symptoms -of the great moral disease of the century. Were a Lycurgus to rise -up for each state, I doubt if the nations of the earth would have -the wisdom to return to frugality, courage, and simplicity--so much -have we lost by the long race of civilisation, so much our superiors -were the old Pagan Spartans, and so dead are we to all promptings of -delicacy,--without moral or physical value, without even valour.’ - -The Doctor spoke dejectedly, as if the hope of all good had died within -him. The young men suddenly remembered that they, too, were weighted -with a like lassitude and unbelief, and finished their punch in silence. - -‘I expect we shall see the century out in a lugubrious spirit,’ sighed -Anatole, when, upon a sign from Dr. Vermont, the waiter had replenished -their glasses. - -‘Where’s the use of facing a new one?’ asked the Doctor, with a vague, -dull glance into space. ‘The same chatter, the same humbug, the same -vulgarity and fraud. Always the same, and inevitably the same. New -idols, new theories, new habits start up to prove more monotonous than -the old ones----’ - -‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,’ interrupted Gaston Favre. - -‘Exactly, and Alphonse Karr was not the first to find it out. I have a -better plan, lads, for saluting the new century than your Scotchman’s -tod-dy and _Les Temps Jadis_,--than even the insipid shake-hands of -Albion.’ - -The punch had gone to the young heads, and gave them a craving for -excitement. Each one leant forward over his glass, with shining eyes -and flushed cheeks, eager and expectant. It was not often that Dr. -Vermont condescended to plan for their amusement. - -‘Let us suppose ourselves singing _Les Neiges d’Antan_, and toasting -our old acquaintances. We shall awaken into a new century, just the -same as the old. The more it changes, the more it will be the same. Are -you not prospectively tired of it already?’ - -He looked round gravely upon the young men, and excitement died out of -each glance under the sad indifference of his. They felt upon their -honour to be no less weary and cynical than he. A nod of emphatic -agreement from the three young pessimists was supplemented to the -Doctor’s monologue, as he continued-- - -‘Suppose we salute the twentieth century--already worn before birth--by -a single pistol-shot, the mouth of each man’s to his brains. As we -are none of us likely to do anything with our brains, more than the -hundreds of other young men I have seen vanish from these tables into -nothingness, there can be no patriotic objection to our blowing them -out in company.’ - -The young men sat back in their chairs, and drew a long, deep breath. -They were almost sobered for the moment, and profoundly troubled by -their leader’s extraordinary proposition. However firmly we may be -convinced of the nothingness of life, such a method of toasting the -new year is calculated to give the stoutest courage pause. Not that -they held any squeamish objections to suicide--quite the contrary, -they professed to regard it as the natural and legitimate remedy for a -broken heart, damaged honour, or a ruined life. But, _tudieu!_ they all -sat there drinking their punch in freedom and security, with pockets -not inconveniently full, it is true, but with sound hearts and sounder -appetites. The prison was not before them: then, why the deuce should -they be offered the grave? - -‘I thought, like Solomon, you were disposed to complain of the sameness -of all things under the sun,’ sneered the Doctor. - -‘That is true, Doctor,’ assented Anatole. ‘But suppose we were to find -things just as same beyond the sun--or a good deal worse? For, after -all, we may flatter ourselves with being sceptics, but what security -have we that the pistol-shot will be the end of it all? and what if it -happened to be infernally disagreeable somewhere else, and there was no -getting back?’ - -‘Bah, another glass of punch will put you all right,’ laughed Julien. -‘On reflection, I find the Doctor’s proposal an excellent one. We are -sick of everything here--wine, women, and song, such as Paris now -furnishes. Then, let us go and see for ourselves what is going on among -the stars. There’s this comfort, Anatole, we go in a body, if there -is anything ugly to face. That’s the difficulty about suicide,--its -lugubrious solitude. In company, one may snap his fingers at fear. -To see three friendly faces round you, all ready to plunge at once -into the same boat, and exchange jokes simultaneously with old Father -Charon! When you lift your own cocked pistol to your forehead, to see -three other hands and all four be shot together out of the mystery, -either into eternity or--_le néant_.’ - -‘Ah, there, you’re not sure either, Gaston,’ Anatole protested, -reproachfully. - -‘That’s just it, boy; I know nothing now, but with the dawn of the new -century I should know everything.’ - -‘My humble contribution to the Doctor’s plan is the proposal that we -blow our brains out together--I mean in the same room,’ suggested -Julien. - -‘Precisely; I have just been thinking the matter out. Now here in -Paris, we should excite excessive attention. But it might better be -managed in some quiet place--near the sea, or close to a river bank, -where our bodies might disappear easily, without giving rise to -immediate alarm. I know of a half deserted island down near Beaufort, -my native town. You will hardly believe that a place so near a busy -factory town--one of the largest provincial cities of France--could -be so forsaken and desolate. I doubt if any one lives on it now. My -father-in-law had a big gloomy house on that island. I don’t think -there was another inhabitant but himself. We might go down there, and -toast the new century in among the dark rocks above the river.’ - -‘Beaufort! a commonplace train with such an end in view,’ sighed -Anatole. - -‘Not necessarily a train. What is to prevent us from taking horse, as -your favourite heroes of Dumas did?’ said the Doctor, smiling a little -at him. - -‘With all my heart, if we are going to ride to Beaufort,’ cried -Anatole. ‘I don’t care if I am shot then.’ - - - - - _PART SECOND_ - - DR. VERMONT - - (_Told by the author_) - - DR. VERMONT AND HIS GUESTS UPON THE ISLAND - - -IT wanted three days to the end of the year. The afternoon had been -so exceptionally mild, that Mademoiselle Lenormant and her foreign -friend were still sitting out on the gallery enjoying the sunset. The -air was very clear, and the heavens beautifully coloured, though the -winter dusk was beginning to drop. But it was as yet a mere suggestion -of dimness that did not hide, while it accentuated, the edge of bleak -and empty road along the sky-line. It sharpened the outlines of the -bridge and its castellated points below. The river was smooth like dark -glass, and rosy clouds made a blood-red margin along its outer bank. -No wind blew among the trees of the melancholy garden, visible from -the other side of the gallery, and so still was it, that the farthest -sounds sent back their travelling echoes. The footfall of a solitary -peasant crossing the bridge made a martial clatter, so clear and strong -and self-assertive was it upon the pavements that seemed to sleep since -feudal times. - -Little Gabrielle sat in a corner of the gallery in jacket and hood, -hugging Minette, who bore the discomfort bravely, while she spelled out -a story from a large picture-book on her knee. It was satisfactory to -see that the kitten took as much interest in the story as the reader, -and enlivened the study by occasional lunges at the brown finger -following each line. The child’s pretty voice hardly interrupted the -low conversation of the two ladies, who faced the view of Beaufort, and -watched the road, while they discoursed upon the philosophy of life. -Mademoiselle Lenormant always watched that road, whether she sat in the -gallery or upstairs in her own room. It was the rival of Gabrielle and -her books, for she would willingly leave either at any moment to look -at it. - -Joséphine came down to carry Gabrielle inside, out of the chill air, -and the child was still protesting loudly, and calling imperiously on -her aunt to rescue her from private tyranny, when Mademoiselle bent -forward with an excited gesture, her eyes riveted upon the point where -the road seemed to issue from the sky. - -‘Do you not see something down there--something dark that moves?’ she -breathed, without looking at her companion. - -‘Effectively. It appears to be a group of men on horseback. Yes, -Mademoiselle, it is a party of riders, and they are coming straight -towards the bridge.’ - -Mademoiselle shook from head to foot, and went and caught the -balustrade to steady herself, while she continued to examine the blot -of moving shadow upon the landscape, that increased with each wink of -eyelid, until soon it was a visible invasion of males on horseback. A -dull thud of hoofs was borne upon the air, and near the bridge, one of -the party, apparently the leader, drew up, and seemed to address the -others. These at once fell behind, three in number, and the foremost -turned his face to the island, and galloped ahead. - -‘Joséphine, viens, viens vite,’ shrieked Mademoiselle, her whole face -dyed pink, and her grey eyes dark and luminous with emotion. - -Joséphine hurried out, cap-strings flying, all in a state of wild -concern. What was it, but what on earth was it? What did Mademoiselle -see? - -Mademoiselle began in a thick voice-- - -‘Je crois, Joséphine, que c’est le docteur’--and then stopped, and drew -her hand slowly across her eyes, like one awakened from a moment’s -stupor. ‘C’est Monsieur le docteur qui nous arrive enfin,’ she added, -in her usual voice, and with a full return to her old self. - -Joséphine peered over the balustrade, but she only saw three moving -shapes upon the bridge, the outlines of horse and man intermelted to -her vision. - -‘The foremost rider must now be half way up the street,’ cried -Mademoiselle’s companion, glad yet ashamed that she should be there at -such a moment. - -‘Take Gabrielle, Joséphine, and put on her pretty grey dress and her -laces. Marie will open the door for Dr. Vermont.’ - -Joséphine carried off the startled child, too frightened to ask -questions or demur, and at that moment the bell rang loudly, with -violent emphasis. - -‘I will leave you now, dear Mademoiselle,’ said her friend, with -sympathetic pressure of her fingers. ‘Monsieur will doubtless require -this _appartement_, in which case I can return to Beaufort this -evening.’ - -‘No, no, there is a bedroom upstairs. You will not leave me so -abruptly, not now, when perhaps I may most need a friend. Stay yet a -while.’ - -A heavy step was crossing the hall, and came through the dining-room -towards the gallery. The foreigner, on her way to her own room, caught -sight of a lean, youngish-looking gentleman, with a fair beard and -thin brown hair worn off temples, deeply marked by life. He glanced at -her keenly, as he stood for her to pass, and she had time to note the -social polish of his manners, and the melancholy dignity of his aspect, -and then he crossed the floor and stepped out through the window, -searching with mild brown eyes for the woman who had waited for his -coming for ten long years. - -His face lit up with a soft smile when he saw her, and he went -forward, upon the pleasant exclamation--‘Ma sœur!’ His intention was to -bestow upon her a formal embrace. His hand was stretched out, and when -her cold slim fingers touched it, and lay in his palm, and he saw the -lustre of unshed tears in the sad grey eyes that met his own steadily, -and a rosy flame tremble like confession over the cheeks’ pallor, a new -impulse came to him, and he simply lifted her hand to his lips. - -‘Henriette,’ he murmured, in a troubled voice. - -‘The silence has been long, François,’ she said, and smiled. - -He still held her hand, and gazed at her curiously. She was not so -changed as he, and if the years had thinned, they had not lined her -face. At thirty-three, he even found her more attractive than at -twenty. There was that about her which compelled interest, and gave an -odd charm to the simplest speech. - -‘Henriette, you have much to pardon me, and your indulgence will have -to go still further than you dream. Ah, how vividly a forgotten past -may bear down upon a man at the first sight of a familiar place! All -my life down here had clean gone from my mind. This queer old house, -your father, you, even Adèle, have been for me years past, not even a -memory, much less a link with all that is gone. It is incredible how -completely a man may forget. No regret, no remembrance pursued me in -Paris, and the instant I crossed the bridge it all surged back on me, -not as remembered days, but as the actual present. Verily, we are droll -rascals, Henriette, and mercilessly tyrannised by experience.’ - -He had dropped her hand now, and was leaning against a pillar, staring -across at Beaufort. Mademoiselle’s brows twitched sharply, but she -uttered no word of reproach, partly from pride, and partly from -surprise. - -‘It will be good news for Gabrielle, and for me, if such a change -decided you to remain here now,’ she said. - -‘Gabrielle?’ he interrogated softly. - -‘Your child, François!’ - -Oh, this he understood as a reproach, though it touched him but -slightly. He made a step forward, still questioning her with movement -of brow and eyelid. - -‘_Tiens!_ It is true. Is it credible I could forget I had a child? Oh! -I know what you must think of me, Henriette; and the worst of it is, -you cannot think badly enough of me;’ he said, laughing drearily. - -‘It would be a poor satisfaction for me to think badly of you, -François. I am not your judge. It is enough for me that you have come -back--at last.’ - -‘What a sweet woman!’ cried Dr. Vermont, in amazement. ‘My sister, -your kindness confounds me. Life has not taught me to expect anything -like it, and I begin to believe I am not the sage I have lately loved -to contemplate. What, indeed, if these steadfast, silent creatures be -the sages after all, and we, the philosophers and seekers after light, -but the fools, who wear cap and bells, and mistake them for badges of -sovereignty.’ - -‘Here comes Gabrielle, François,’ said Mademoiselle, interrupting his -reflections. - -The little girl lingered shyly upon the edge of the gallery, which -Joséphine endeavoured to make her cross by whispered entreaty and -pushes. She did not know this man who was her father, and her small -brains were busy contriving a way to greet him. She made a pretty -picture thus, in grey silk and white lace, with a broad crimson sash, -and a big bow of red ribbon on the top of her curly brown head. Dr. -Vermont stared at her as an object of natural curiosity rather than a -charming little girl, his own daughter. - -‘She is very like you, Henriette,’ he said, and held out his hand with -an ingratiating smile. - -Gabrielle came slowly forward, and took it; then looked up into his -face in grave and silent deliberation. She decided suddenly to offer -her cheek for the paternal kiss, which she did, with much conscious -dignity and no sense of pleasure whatever. - -‘Let me see,’ said Dr. Vermont, when he had perfunctorily kissed her, -‘she is now about ten. The very age her mother was when I first beheld -her. Poor pretty Adèle! She does not in any way resemble her.’ - -He sighed deeply, and Henriette’s eyes, fixed on Gabrielle, filled with -tears. - -‘What rooms does Monsieur wish me to prepare for him?’ Joséphine asked -in the pause. - -The Doctor started, and remembered, with a quick disagreeable -sensation, the nearness of his friends, and its extraordinary -significance. If that good soul Joséphine but knew! If Henriette -suspected! - -‘That reminds me, Henriette--I have left three friends outside. I -suppose you can put us up down here, or upstairs, for a couple of -nights?’ - -‘Only a couple of nights?’ Mademoiselle exclaimed. - -‘Yes. By the dawn of New Year’s Day we shall be far from Beaufort, so -we will leave you on New Year’s Eve after dinner. What accommodation -have you here?’ - -‘You have forgotten that, too! There is your old room--the large one -opposite, which a friend of mine has been using. There is a canapé, -which one of the gentlemen can sleep on. And then there is my sister’s -room, and in the little dressing-room off it, another bed could be put -up. I think you can manage.’ - -‘Capitally. We shall be lodged like kings. Gaston and Julien in my old -room--yes, I quite remember it now. Yellow hangings, and an engraving -of Da Vinci’s “Last Supper,” and a picture of Madame Lebrun. Not so? -Anatole will sleep in the dressing-room, and I in the blue room. Is it -still so blue? There used to be a photograph of my favourite Del Sarto, -“The Madonna with St John.” Poor Adèle! What would I not give to be -the same enamoured young fellow of ten years ago, violently combating -death? But I have lived twenty years since, and everything is dead for -me.’ - -He thrust his hands into his pockets, and went toward the door in -search of his friends, without troubling to note the effect of his -heartless words upon Henriette. - -These he found trotting unconcernedly up and down the broken pavement. -With all eternity before them, a few minutes more or less outside a -particular door could not affect them. And when they were ushered into -the house by the Doctor, and presented to his sister-in-law, they -cast a glance of pity upon her that she should be at so much pains -to welcome doomed, indifferent men. They listened politely to her -apologies for the insufficiencies of their installation, and to her -prayers for indulgence in the matter of _cuisine_; and shook their -heads in despondent wonder. As for Anatole, he was as lugubrious as a -funeral mute, and the Doctor’s cynical animation at table completely -mystified him. - -When once the fumes of punch had abated, poor Anatole saw his mad -engagement in quite a novel light. The thought of that pistol held -by his own hand to his own brains drove him to panic. He looked wan -with fear, and fierce from desire to conceal his fear. He was a -coward in both senses: without courage to stand out against a foolish -engagement, and equally without courage to face death. Despite his -boasted conviction that one death is as good as another, and any -possibly better than life, he entertained a very private notion that -suicide is a social as well as a moral crime, hardly justifiable by the -most abject blunder and excesses--and by nothing less than absolute -dishonour. - -Besides, at heart he loved life, and he only played at pessimism not -to look less jaded and cynical than the rest of the century. It was -the fashion not to be gay, to have no belief, to have exhausted all -emotions, and reached the end of all things. Now what would those -around him say if it were known that Anatole Buzeval relished in the -privacy of his own chamber Alexandre Dumas, and shed tears at the death -of Porthos? What self-respecting Parisian of his day would associate -with a youth, whose favourite hero was D’Artugnan, and who loved -the great optimist Scott, whose novels he studied stealthily in an -indifferent translation, and knew by heart. - -He was abashed by contemplation of his own spuriousness as member of -an effete circle, where death was regarded as the best of all things; -and Mademoiselle Lenormant was seriously distressed by the wretchedness -of his appetite and the misery of his boyish face. She forgot herself -in another, and left the Doctor to entertain her friend, who had -been invited to join them at dinner, while she set herself the task -of rescuing the poor lad from his own reflections. Anatole was an -affectionate and grateful young fellow, and the way to his heart was -inconveniently easy of access. When he went to bed that night, to his -other woes was added the delightful misfortune of being head and ears -in love with the Doctor’s sister-in-law. - -This was a complication not unnoted by Dr. Vermont or his companions. -The Doctor calmly stroked his beard, and watched Anatole between the -pauses of his conversation on matters English with the foreign lady. -The foreigner, he was pleased afterwards to describe, as intelligent, -but as she had already touched the rim of the arid plain of middle-age, -with equal dulness, far from the hills of youth and from the valley of -old age, he saw no reason to pursue her thoughts or shades of speech -upon her face--by the way, he did not like English women; they lacked -_atmosphere_, and were born without any natural grace, or coquetry, or -any desire to please--and hence he had the more leisure to devote to -inspection of Mademoiselle Lenormant and his susceptible comrade. He -understood all the boy thought hidden of the struggle within him. He -contemplated a magnanimous turn at the last moment, and caressed it -in all its dramatic details. Meanwhile, it amused him to follow the -conflict, and watch the childish eagerness with which Anatole, thinking -his last hour at hand, abandoned himself to this new fancy, with a -volume of eloquent declaration on the edge of his eyelids. - -And yet the Doctor’s calm inspection was not without a twinge of anger, -as at a kind of infringement of his personal rights. As he sat in the -old salon, where in his youth he used to chat with Monsieur Lenormant, -he was in the grip of the past, softened, almost sentimental. Nothing -was changed about the place, which wore the same homely aspect of -shabbiness and comfortable untidiness. But three of the personages -of that little drama were dead: Monsieur Lenormant, Adèle, and young -Dr. Vermont. For he, too, had been young and bright and pleasant. -Once he had thrilled from head to foot when Adèle, with a charming -movement, took one of his long fingers, and helped him to vamp the -_Marseillaise_, and their eyes met in a foolish fluttering glance, and -_tudieu!_ his own were wet! - -These were extraordinary things to remember, perhaps, but not so -extraordinary as the persistence with which his backward glance rested, -not on the image of his lovely young wife evoked from the past--but -upon Henriette as she then was. That picture of grave, silent girlhood -haunted him in a singular and unexpected way. The forgotten drama rose -up, and confronted him with its ruthless _dénouement_. And if he were -not too proud and wilful ever to acknowledge regret, he might know -that it was there the sting lay, as he remembered: that he should have -played an ignoble trick upon poor old Monsieur Lenormant, and have -looked at Adèle instead of at Henriette--on one memorable occasion. -He had played for his happiness, and happiness had passed him by. -Perchance, had he played a more honourable game, happiness would have -been with him all these years, and the noble woman, whose suffering -in his choice he now knew he had then divined, would have brought -him finer and more delicate enjoyment than that which he had found -elsewhere. - -‘Yet who knows?’ he added, as a sound lash upon sentimental musing. -‘There is no such thing as happiness, and I should have tired of her -goodness as I have tired of the badness of others.’ - -But he smiled indulgently, when Anatole droned a melancholy melody upon -her charms that night. - - - - - NEW YEAR’S EVE - - -WHILE the young men were still sitting over their coffee and rolls in -uncheerful converse, Dr. Vermont stole upstairs--not to see Gabrielle, -but to talk to Henriette. His thoughts had been with her all night, and -he was eager for sight of her by day. - -When he entered, a spot of insufferable radiance burnt into the hollow -of her thin cheek; but this confession was counteracted by the extreme -sadness of her greeting. She, too, had thought during the night, and -thought had cruelly struck at her life-long idol. For had he not -forgotten Adèle? and was Adèle’s child anything more than his by name? -To have found him indifferent to her because of the dead! But to find -him indifferent to both! There was the point of pain, and with it the -wrench of a wounded faith, which could never more uphold her in her -solitude. - -She looked at him anxiously, to see if a night spent in the blue room -had stamped his cynical, handsome face with a trace of suffering, of -revived feeling. The poor lady could not be expected to interpret any -such sign except as homage to her dead sister. So she lifted up her -heart in honest gratitude for the touch of humanity in his manner as he -held Gabrielle to his knee, and stroked her brown hair gently. Such is -the guileness and simplicity to be found on a forsaken island, where -gossip is not, and society revelations are unknown. - -‘And you have lived here the old quiet life, Henriette, with no thought -of marriage or change,’ the Doctor said musingly, and noted with -pleasure the charming habit of blushing she had retained, like a very -young girl. - -‘Surely, François, you would have expected to be apprised of my -marriage, or of any other change?’ - -‘I? Why should I? Had I not of my own will dropped out of your -existence? If I chose to forget our relationship, what claim on your -courtesy could I urge? You are too sensitive, too loyal, too good, -Henriette. You were always that. Your father used to say so, and so -used Adèle. Ah! they loved you well--those two. I wish now for your -sake--I honestly wish you had dealt me the measure I deserved, and my -neglect would have stung you less.’ - -‘It did not sting me, François. I have no pride of that kind. Life is -too full of pain. But I was sorry and grieved for Gabrielle’s sake.’ - -Had she not the right to hide the rest from him--simple-minded lady? -who believed she had succeeded--since she so honourably strove to hide -it from herself? Dr. Vermont pushed the child away, and came and stood -before his sister-in-law. His imperious glance compelled hers, which -she lifted timidly, apprehensively. - -‘You are an angel, Henriette--oh, I don’t mean in the hackneyed -conventional sense, but as a man means it when the goodness of another -forces him to face right and wrong, and he feels he cannot undo the -wrong and cannot choose the right. It is a miserable position. Ah! if -it were not so late? But my tongue is tied. My first mistake was here, -in this very room, years ago--twenty, thirty, a lifetime may be. Your -father lay on the canapé dying, and I was sitting beside him. He spoke -of you; I knew well that he spoke of you, though he did not mention -your name. It was you he wished me to marry, and I, following his -glance, looked at Adèle instead. Happiness seemed to woo me from that -flower-like face, and I believed in happiness then. Now!’ he shrugged -in his expressive way, and added, in a softer voice, drooping humbly to -her: ‘God forgive me, Henriette, but now I question the wisdom of that -choice.’ - -‘It was a natural choice, François, and it would be anguish for me to -think that you could regret it. Spare me that sorrow. Surely I have -suffered enough, and have not reproached you. But this indignity would -indeed give voice to the pain of silent years, and bid me utter words -neither you nor I could forget. I gave her to you,’ she went on, in a -dull tone of protest. ‘It was the best I had, my dearest and sole one -on earth. But what did it matter if I was the lonelier, so that you and -she were happy together? I have asked so little of life. Leave me that -remembrance, François. No man had a sweeter wife than my Adèle, and for -her I can be satisfied with a loyalty no less from her husband than -that which I have given her.’ - -She glided from the room without another look for him. He stood and -stared after her, with a fantastic, almost amused movement of eyebrow, -though the heart within him felt heavy to bursting with an odd -assortment of sensations. - -When they met again, it was at the luncheon table, with his companions -and Mademoiselle’s foreign friend. - -‘Anatole devours her with his eyes,’ he said to himself. ‘Poor moth! he -is sadly burnt, and the fact that she is eight or nine years his senior -makes his hurt the graver. There are compensations in a hopeless love -when the ages are reversed.’ - -But his mild sarcastic face wore no look of dejection or dismay as he -sat and discoursed upon Shakespeare and Molière with the foreigner, -only of intelligent survey and an amiable satisfaction in all things, -including the clowns of Shakespeare, from whom most Frenchmen -instinctively shrink. After lunch they played chess and discussed, -in the usual way, the school of realists, décadents, symbolists, and -the recent revival of romanticism in a gentleman, said to combine the -melodious style of George Sand with the adventurous spirit of the -great Dumas. It was only when the foreigner retired, and the young men -went upstairs to study the stars in the friendly odour of tobacco, that -the Doctor ventured again to address Henriette. - -‘He is an interesting lad, Anatole--eh?’ - -‘Very. But it distresses me to see him so sad and worried at his age. -He appears to have some trouble on his mind,’ said Mademoiselle, -leaning her elbows on the table and her chin upon her folded hands. - -‘He has fallen in love with you--that’s his trouble, Henriette. I -assure you, up in Paris, he is the reverse of sad or worried. He is the -life of Lander’s.’ - -Dr. Vermont achieved his purpose: he made her blush from neck to -forehead. - -‘You forget, François, that you are talking to a middle-aged woman of a -very young man,’ she said, in surprise. - -‘Not so middle-aged as that,’ laughed Dr. Vermont, unjoyously. ‘And the -others,--do they appear to have any trouble on their minds?’ - -‘It has not struck me. I should say they are rather futile men, who -would probably fail in any undertaking in an abject way,’ she said, -dismissing them. - -But she did not dismiss Anatole from her mind, and when he came to say -‘Good-night’ to her, she greeted him with so much direct and personal -sympathy in her smile, in her glance, and in the slight pressure of -her fingers, that I declare the poor fellow was only restrained by the -presence of Dr. Vermont from bursting into tears then and there, and -confessing all to her. Instead, he choked an inclination to sob, and -turned despairingly on his heel. - -It rained heavily all next day--the fatal New Year’s Eve. With an -instinct for dramatic fitness, Anatole spent the first half in a state -of suppressed tearfulness, as an appropriate ending of his young -life. He was unrecognisable to himself even, for never before had he -dropped into the elegiac mood. With the lyric, with the martial, with -the bacchanalian, he was familiar enough. He tried to recover his -self-esteem by imagining what his state would be on the battle-field. -But the satisfaction he might feel in shooting a German, or bayoneting -an insolent Englishman, was wanting to take from the horror of -contemplated death; and the candid wretchedness of his face provoked -sympathetic misery in the glance of all who beheld him. What would he -not give for one more sight of the old fishing town in Normandy, for a -chat with the genial honest fishermen who had never heard that accursed -phrase, _Fin de siècle_, and little cared whether they were at the -beginning or the end of the century. No, if his mother were alive, he -was convinced he never would have entered into that wicked jest upon -matter so solemn as death. He would have known better, had he even a -sister, like that sweet and noble-looking lady, Mademoiselle Lenormant. - -It was too late now, and this was his last day. Thank God it rained! -It rained so darkly and so dismally that the regrets of life were -mitigated by the mournfulness of nature. It was relieved thereby of -much of its attraction and of all its enchantment. Had a single ray of -sunlight fallen upon the damp earth, it would have shaken him to the -depth of his being. This fact he jealously kept to himself, dreading -the sneer of those two superior young men, Julien and Gaston, who -thought themselves such very fine fellows because they persisted in -their indifference to eternity, and cared not a rush for the poor -old world they were going from. But Anatole knew better than to envy -them. He held that it requires but a bad heart, or none at all, and -feeble brains atrophied by the cheap philosophy of the hour, to reach -this stage. So, while they smoked and joked downstairs in dismal -hilarity, he sat upstairs with the ladies, and drank tea, and made a -gallant effort to play with little Gabrielle. How happy he might be -if this were to be permanent reality, and Paris, with its unrest, its -bitterness, its noise and glitter, an ugly dream! - -Dr. Vermont showed himself neither upstairs nor downstairs. Before -lunch he walked to Beaufort, and on his return, he slowly made the tour -of the island. It had been mentioned that upon one side of the island, -as you stepped from the bridge beyond a broken arch and a dangerous -reach of rocks down to the inky waters, there was an old tower. -Monsieur Lenormant’s house was lower down on the opposite side, facing -the cemetery. This tower had been an ancient fort when the entire isle -was the fortified retreat of an illustrious and rebel house. It had -sustained sieges, and known the roar of musketry, and it still stood -nobly upon its martial memories, albeit a ruin of centuries. All was -silence and desolation on this side of the island. No one walked its -pavements, and the laundresses wheeling their barrows to town from the -lower end, instinctively chose the inhabited quarter to pass. - -‘A man might rot to carrion here,’ said Dr. Vermont, as he stood -between the battered walls of the tower, and looked up at the weeping -heavens, and then down at the sullen and swollen river. ‘None would -know, and a few days’ persistent rain would rush the river beyond the -rocks in among these ruins, and carry our bodies away to the sea.’ - -And then he walked with his hands in his pockets, unmindful of the -rain, to the neglected cemetery. He stood a while against the white -tomb of his young wife, upon which some flowers lay, a lifeless pulp in -a pool of water. Thirty-nine only, and two days ago he believed he had -tasted all life had to offer, and wanted no more of its bitterness or -its sweetness? But he would not humble himself to admit that he had -erred two days ago, and that there still remained at the bottom of the -cup a draught he would willingly drink. He put the present from him, -and the stirring voice of a troubled consciousness, and leaned there in -the rain to dream a while of youth, and hope, and all things good that -have been and are no more. - -It was late in the afternoon when he returned and shut himself in the -blue-room to write letters. This done, he examined a pair of pistols, -loaded one which he laid upon the table, and with his odd, hard -smile, carried the other into the dressing-room where Anatole slept, -and placed it on the bed. There was still half an hour to dispose of -before dinner--his last half hour of solitude. He took up the candle, -and walked slowly round the room, inspecting each object, pricking by -association, memory, that just then needed no pricking. The pity was -that the man’s sharp face never lost its calm irony of expression, -and his shapely mouth never lost its trick of quiet smiling. For him -absurdity lay at the bottom of all things--if not absurdity, something -so much worse as to be beyond toleration. - -Man in all his moods, he insisted, was a mixture of grossness and -absurdity, and it mattered little which of the two elements prevailed. -The one excess worked mischief for himself, and the other mischief for -his neighbours. - -When the dinner-bell rang, Dr. Vermont appeared still smiling and -humorously observant. He it was who spoke most, and most coherently, -at table. Julien and Gaston swaggered a little, and their faces were -pale and excited. Anybody with an eye in his head might have guessed -they were morally perturbed, and Mademoiselle, mindful of the hurried -departure that night, questioned her foreign friend, sitting below -with Dr. Vermont, in a swift, apprehensive glance. But the Doctor was -so cool and steady, and discoursed so blandly with his neighbour, -that she dismissed her fears, and set herself to cheer and encourage -poor Anatole. If his depression were really due to a violent fancy -for herself, then she was in duty bound to act the part of mother, or -at least of elder affectionate sister,--which she did with consummate -ability, and drove the unhappy lad to despair. - -After dinner the Doctor, instead of rising, said, laughing-- - -‘Henriette, to-night we men will follow the example of our barbarous -brothers of England, and will remain over our wine after the ladies. To -borrow a habit from your countrymen, Madame, cannot offend your taste, -though I am afraid I should not find a Frenchwoman tolerant of it.’ - -‘I believe Englishmen sit at wine and the ladies retire,’ said -Mademoiselle, hesitating. She did not like the innovation, and frankly -showed it. - -‘Your pardon, Henriette, we have our plans to discuss. You, Madame, -too, will hold us excused?’ - -‘Certainly, Monsieur, I think it a commendable custom which keeps men -and women so much apart. They meet then with greater zest and novelty.’ - -Dr. Vermont held the door for the ladies and bowed. He stooped and -kissed little Gabrielle, and held her head a moment against him. And -then when the door closed, he shrugged his shoulders, and sighed. - -‘That’s the Englishwoman for you--a creature without tact or charm. -The British matron is only fitted to be a mother of a family. She can -neither hold us back, nor encourage us with dignity. Ah! lucky we are, -gentlemen, to be the slaves and masters of that adorable bundle of -perversities--_la femme française_!’ - -While he spoke he uncorked a bottle of Monsieur Lenormant’s fine old -Burgundy, and filled each glass to the brim. - -‘_Allons, Messieurs._ Let us drink the last hours away. I give you a -toast to begin with--the delicious Frenchwoman.’ - -The young men half emptied their glasses at a draught, and then cast -haggard glances at the sarcastic Doctor. He slowly drained his glass, -and lifted the bottle again. - -‘And since our delightful torment would never consent to go unmated, -even in a toast, let us drink, gentlemen, to her inadequate, but -sympathetic partner--the gallant Frenchman.’ - -The first bottle of Burgundy loosened their tongues again, and inspired -them to a febrile gaiety. They laughed loudly, broke into snatches of -song, and by the time the second bottle was empty, one and all had -fallen upon sentimental reminiscences. They thought themselves back -at Lander’s, and the discretion of the ladies’ retreat could not be -questioned. Anatole thundered roughly upon the perfidy of a certain -Susanne, and Gaston vowed that none of her crimes could equal the trick -one Blanche played him--the men used to call her ‘Blanche of Castille,’ -in recognition of the many virtues she seemed to have inherited from -her illustrious namesakes, doubtless; and Julien interposed dryly, with -a droll anecdote of a lady once known in Paris as ‘_La Perle Noire_’. - -Dr. Vermont said nothing, but listened and attacked the third bottle. -He reached across, and filled Anatole’s glass, and smiled upon him -almost pleasantly. - -‘Never mind Susanne, or any other perfidious fair, my lad. It comes -to the same at the end, whether they have been faithful or not. They -die, and we die, and sleep “a long, an endless, unawakeable sleep”. -It’s half-past nine now,’ he added, looking at his watch. ‘In two more -hours, we shall be starting out upon the road that has no ending, leads -nowhither, unless it be to dark, bottomless space.’ - -‘Why so?’ asked Julien. ‘May we not be shooting through the stars? -Anatole in his present mood will make straight for Venus, but I, -seeking compensation for the dulness of a peaceful life, will rather -choose Mars. One ought to fall in for some good fighting there, eh?’ - -Anatole stood up, and went over to the window. The melancholy flow of -water from the drooping eaves could be heard, and the sky was as black -as the river and the landscape. No light in the heavens, no light below -nearer than Beaufort, no sound but the splash of rain. The susceptible -fellow shivered visibly, and went back to the table to comfort himself -with another draught of Burgundy. - -‘There is not a star to be shot into,’ he said gloomily; ‘and it is -raining as if the whole universe were melted.’ - -‘We have a couple more toasts to drink, gentlemen,’ said the Doctor, -standing. ‘Are your glasses filled?’ - -Well, if they could do nothing else, they could at least get drunk -before they went on a voyage among the stars, or fell asleep like dogs -for eternity. - -‘An Englishman, when he is tired of life, takes to drink; a Frenchman -blows his brains out,’ Julien observed, as he helped his neighbour to -the bottle. - -‘Upon my conscience, I do not know that the Englishman has not the best -of it.’ - -‘He is of hardier build, my friend, and can take his drinking and -pessimism in equal doses. We are the slaves of our nerves, and can -stand neither pessimism nor drink.’ - -‘Are you ready? The toast is the downfall of France.’ - -The young men stolidly laid down their untasted wine, and looked at the -Doctor for explanation. They themselves might go to the dogs, and the -mischief take them there, or elsewhere. The universe might melt away -into nothingness, but France, beloved France, must ever stand fast, -proud and honoured and beautiful. Drink to her downfall? Was Doctor -Vermont mad? - -‘Why not?’ said Doctor Vermont imperturbably. ‘We shall be no more. And -what can it matter to us? France has had her day, as Egypt, Greece, and -Rome had theirs. I would have her spared the misery of a slow decline. -It is now the turn of Russia, which will be the civilisation of the -future. If you prefer it, we will drink then to Russia.’ - -So they drank to Russia, long and deeply; and Anatole, who had a pretty -tenor voice, intoned the Russian Hymn, which the others listened to on -their feet. And then to keep up the musical glow, and the golden moment -of unconsciousness, he burst into the _Marseillaise_, knowing well that -few can resist that most thrilling and spirited of national songs. - -When he had finished the last verse, and the last chorus was sung, -his companions sat silently gazing into their empty glasses. They had -finished six bottles of Burgundy between them, and were now passably -drunk, though not incapable of presenting themselves before the ladies -to say good-bye. The Doctor went first, and waited for Anatole outside -the salon door. - -‘Remember, boy, it is “Good-night”--not “Good-bye,”’ he said sadly, as -he pressed his friend’s shoulder. - -Mademoiselle and her companion sat before a low wood fire, chatting -quietly. They heard the songs from the dining-room, and smiled and -shook their heads. Mademoiselle remarked that the young men were -discourteous enough to carry the habits of the Latin Quarter into -private houses, but since her brother-in-law tolerated such behaviour, -it was not for her to object, since they were his guests. - -When the door opened, both ladies looked blankly round at the invasion. -The Doctor stood a moment on the threshold and arched his brows in -smiling signification. The foreigner felt she would give a good deal -to get behind that smile, and understand that queer lifting of the -eyebrow. That the man wore his smile as a mask, she had no doubt, and -she was not without suspicion that behind it lay concealed a different -personage from the actor on view. He advanced, and came and stood in -front of his sister-in-law, looking down on her with a new gravity on -his reckless handsome face. The flush under his eyes gave a brilliance -to his wistful gaze that justified the fascinated flutter of the poor -lady’s heart. For she had never seen him look in the least like that, -though she had seen his eyes melt to another. - -‘Henriette, good-night,’ he said softly. - -She gave him her hand, with a glance of sharp inquiry. - -‘Is it good-bye, François?’ - -‘Good-bye? Why good-bye? It’s a lugubrious word. _Au revoir, ma sœur._’ - -His lips touched her fingers an instant, and already he had turned to -shake hands with her companion. Gaston and Julien came behind him, and -bent their bodies in two in a dignified salute, but Anatole held out -his hand, and clung feverishly to hers when she took it, while his eyes -held hers in dismayed conjecture. Was it despair she read in them, or -terror, or simply the pain of young love? But his speech was lagging -and broken, not that, she decided, of a sober man, and she withdrew her -hand abruptly, with a curt movement of dismissal of her head. - -The boy turned to follow his companions, and felt his heart break -within him as he went downstairs. While they passed through the -blue-room, the Doctor again leant in affectionate pressure upon his -shoulder. - -‘Courage, Anatole. No woman is worth a pang.’ - -‘Ah, Monsieur le Docteur, you cannot think that of her. She is worth -the best man could offer, and all he might suffer. You know it, Doctor. -Deny if you admire her.’ - -‘I don’t deny it, if that will console you.’ - -‘And you can fling away such a chance,’ moaned Anatole. - -‘I fling away nothing, for the simple reason, I have nothing to fling -away. It is not chance any of us lack, chances of making fools of -ourselves, of others. Chance, my friend, is generally another word for -blunder. Some philosophers call the world chance, and is not that the -biggest blunder of all?’ - -‘You mystify me, Vermont. I call perversity the worst of all blunders. -And is it not perversity, if you love Mademoiselle Lenormant, to----’ - -‘Who says I love Mademoiselle Lenormant? I loved her sister, in a way, -and she is dead. You’ll find your pistol all ready there on the bed. -Put it into your pocket. It is half-past eleven. Tell the others I will -join them instantly.’ - -Before crossing the passage to the other bedroom, Anatole stole softly -upstairs, and knocked at the salon door. Mademoiselle Lenormant opened -the door, and surveyed him in disapproving surprise. - -‘In what way can I serve you, Monsieur?’ she asked. He slipped into -the room under her arm. There was an empty chair near, and into it he -dropped, glancing up at her prayerfully. - -‘Mademoiselle, I am about to face a long, perhaps a perilous voyage,’ -he said, and the slight break in his voice and the wet lustre of his -boyish blue eyes captivated her judgment, and melted her into all heart -as she listened and looked down upon him. - -‘I have come back to you, to ask you before I set out for the unknown, -just one moment, to place your hand on my forehead and say, “God bless -you, Anatole.” Do you pardon the presumption?’ - -She bent forward, brushed the tossed hair off his forehead, kissed it -tenderly, and said, ‘God bless you, Anatole.’ - -Silently and sobered the four men went out into the wet night. They -walked round the island first to make sure that every house slept. -There was not a light anywhere, not a sound. They trod the ground as -quietly as booted men can tread, and came round by the cemetery and -the low broken wall to the tower. Here they entered, and the Doctor -struck a match that through the blurred illumination they might see -the advantages of the spot he had chosen to salute the new century. It -was certainly better than the sensation they should create anywhere -near Paris. I doubt not that each one privately regretted the rash -engagement they had made over their punch at Lander’s a week ago. But -none had the courage to give the first voice to regret. False shame and -fear of ridicule held them tongue-tied, and resolved to make the best -of their bargain. - -When they had selected a spot near the hollow of the encroaching rocks, -where, if they fell, they might be washed unnoted down into the river -when the flood came high, Julien separated himself from the group, -and walked over to the lower wall, whence the lights of Beaufort -could be seen. These lights were rare and dim, but they cheered him -inexpressibly. They were eloquent of life in the monotony of darkness. - -He sat on the edge of the wall, and stared past the shadow of the -bridge, out into the terrible loneliness of night, and shuddered at -the roar of the eddying river below. Upon the breast of that river one -might float into the beautiful South--a word made up of the sense of -sweetness, and flowers, and sunshine, and blue waters, and clear skies. -When he was a youngster he used to tell himself that he would save up -his money, and go to Italy. And now he was no longer young, had not -saved up his money, had not seen Italy, and was going to die--and -leave it all behind. - -At that moment a peal of bells was heard from over the water, and -Gaston Favre announced in a cold, dull voice that the cathedral of -Beaufort was pealing the midnight chimes. Had there been light, each -man would have been seen to quiver from head to foot, and then grow -rigid upon his feet. - -‘My friends, is it agreed that we salute the dying century upon the -last stroke of the cathedral bell?’ asked Dr. Vermont, in a hushed, -muffled voice. - -‘It is agreed,’ said Gaston, after an imperceptible pause. The four men -gathered together, and took their pistols out of their breast-pocket. -Dr. Vermont lifted his face up to the cold wet wind. His lips parted -to the heavens’ moisture, and he felt refreshed. Since there could be -pleasure in the fall of raindrops upon heated lips, why not even then -admit that life may be worth living? Why not see the bright background -to present pain as well as the dark contrast of evil behind joy? We -have said the Doctor was a proud and wilful man, and he would accept no -sensation as admonishment of error,--but this gave him some pause. - -In one swift backward glance, he saw the long roll of travelled -years--years misspent, possibly, but not without their baggage of -unearned joys; saw the start of resplendent youth ringing him onward to -a manhood of renown: remembered friends he had once regarded with other -than mere cynical interest: moments that had throbbed with light, and -all the loveliness of untainted freshness--perfumed, dewy like a May -orchard in blossom, swathed in youth’s eternal purple. While the lads -around him faced the inevitable, as they thought, and though shrinking, -white-lipped, and frozen with horror, from his cold acquiescence, -endeavoured to warm themselves to the last act in the spirit of bravado -and contemplation of the deluged earth, he had taken a sudden rebound -from his old attitude. It was no longer the dislike of life and the -weariness of experience that held him in chill imprisonment The old -desire for boyish blisses, and the cordial of laughter mantled and -burst in his brain like a riot of song. It was a revelation, with all -the meaning of prayer first understood. A pulsing regret for all he -was leaving, for what he had known, and, above all, for that which was -yet unknown, swept him instantly upon a fiery wave. It shot his arm -down nervelessly. The pallid, spiritual face of Henriette seemed to -hang in the sullen space of black sky and wet black earth. It glowed -like a lamp, and shed a faint illumination upon the dusk. The faded -monotone of her voice murmured prayerfully above the weighted splash -upon the stones, and awoke the essential impulse of existence. While -such women lived and prayed for men, could the deeps of life be said to -have closed? ’Tis an old-fashioned notion, but, like most old-fashioned -things, ’tis the simplest and the best. It softened the hard -retrospection of Dr. Vermont’s glance, and lent a wavering tenderness -to his peculiar smile. - -Upon the sixth stroke of the cathedral bell, he offered his hand in -silence to Julien Renaud, who squeezed it roughly, in assurance of -undiminished courage. Poor lad! He needed the assurance sadly. Upon the -eighth stroke, Dr. Vermont sought Gaston’s hand, but the limp moist -fingers he grasped made no effort to respond to his pressure. - -‘Courage, Gaston,’ he cried, in a friendly, animated voice, and upon -the tenth stroke he turned to Anatole, and had there been a ray of -light above or around, Dr. Vermont’s face would have been seen to -undergo a wonderful and beautiful change. Honest affection that makes -no pretence of concealment, humanised it, and a magnanimous resolve -filled its expression with cheering purport. The worst of us, you -see, have our heroic moments, only it often happens that, like Dr. -Vermont’s, they pass unnoticed in the dark. - -‘There is happiness ahead for you yet, Anatole,’ he breathed quickly -through his teeth, while he swung the unhappy young fellow’s arm once -up and down, in warm emphasis to communicate the reassuring fluid to -him. - -‘Gentlemen, ’twas an excellent joke, and as might be expected of such -excellent lads as you, carried out with uncommon spirit and dash. I’m -proud of you, gentlemen, and shall feel honoured in the privilege of -saluting the new century in your midst. We fire heavenward--a good -omen--and then we shake hands again, in cordial assent that humanity -is not so worn but it may still be relied upon for entertainment. -You will say there are higher things. I’m not so sure there are not. -Anyway, ’tis not an excessive claim that youthful pessimists may -without shame start a fresh century as cheerful philosophers. The -heavens are not always weeping, and most of us are the better for the -sun’s shining.’ - -He spoke rapidly, and a muffled shout dying away upon a thick sob, -broke from each troubled breast. The first throb of emotion spent -itself in obedience. - -When the last stroke of the cathedral bell had fallen upon the silence -with a prolonged thin echo, a loud simultaneous report was heard to -startle the night, and travel above the roar of the river, far across -the empty country. - -Gaston and Julien Renaud, utterly unnerved by the reaction, fell -sobbing into each other’s arms, but Anatole, bewildered past -understanding, thought he was shot, and fell in a heap at Dr. Vermont’s -feet. - - - - - EPILOGUE - - (_From the travellers notebook_) - - -THE suppressed excitement of the past two days has more than made up -for the stillness of the two months that preceded them. Against these -forty-eight hours of trembling anticipation and surmise, the long -weeks of undisturbed and pleasant converse and childish chatter make a -background of placid years, instead of weeks. - -I see them filled with fireside talks, dips into musty volumes, walks -in a long gallery, to the murmured music of water, and in frosty -starlight, with the lamps of Beaufort lending cheerfulness to the -scene. Sometimes an expedition to some castellated town, southward, and -wanderings through vividly coloured streets, or among lovely hills, -where winter flowers grew and sweetened the air, and the grey of the -river was shot with blue, as it glided into sunnier regions. And then -the friendly greetings upon return, and a child’s excited demand to -know what I had seen, how far I had travelled, perhaps since morning, -or the day before; above all, what I had brought back for her. - -Beautiful calm days, already remembered regretfully as part of the -for ever past! They will outlive, I hope, recent events, though they -have sent them to slumber a while in the cemetery of the mind. For -perturbation fell upon us, from the hour Mademoiselle and I stood -watching a party of riders bear down toward us along the great road, -like a picture sharply evoked from the time of postchaise and tragedy -carried upon the momentous clatter of hoofs. - -I had met Dr. Vermont, had spoken to him, and found he did not realise -in any way my expectations. He was a well-bred man, as far as the -superficialities of the drawing-room permitted me to judge. But his -face was inexplicable and tormenting. It may once have been a strong -face, but its strength was almost effaced by life. And yet there was -no weakness about it--only an indifference that saps at strength. It -could look daring and reckless, was never without a smile of quiet -irony, and there was surely enough humorous observation in the mild -brown eyes to fill his days with easy pleasure and interest. But was -there not something worse than sadness behind this good-humoured mask? -I thought so from the first, and my impression was soon justified by -an incredible episode. I also believed that before the Doctor had been -twenty-four hours in the house, he had fallen in love with Mademoiselle -Lenormant. But why he should have wanted Anatole to marry her, I cannot -understand. Surely, surely, he knew that she loved him! must have known -it all along. - -When he and his companions left the salon on that last evening, I said -good-night at once to Mademoiselle. I almost reproached myself with -seeing so much, divining so much that remained untold. I sat in my -room with a pen in my hand, unable to write from excess of interest in -what was going on around me. Why should peaceable modern men start off -upon a midnight expedition in this mediæval fashion? Neither my own -imagination could devise an adequate explanation, nor did I receive any -assistance from the objects that surrounded me in Monsieur Lenormant’s -room, which I attentively examined. How heavily, drearily the rain -fell, and what an awful darkness outside! I stood at the window and -listened to the midnight chimes from the cathedral and churches of -Beaufort. On New Year’s Eve most people feel sentimental at this hour, -and recall the various places and circumstances in which they have -listened to the peal of bells upon the death of the old year. But this -I felt to be a sadder occasion than any other New Year’s Eve, because a -whole century was dying with it, the only century I was familiar with, -and I rather shrank from trial of the new. - -An extraordinary sound followed at once upon the last peal of the -bells. It seemed so close, that it jerked me back from the window, -quite shaken with the reverberation. There could be no doubt either of -its nature or of the fact that it rose from some near point upon the -island. It was more than a single pistol-shot. Now, the washerwomen -could not have devised that singular method of saluting the new-born -century. Neither could the chaplain of the Benedictines, who occupied -an old, dark house at the end of the island upon our side. The -wine-shop of Geraud always closed at nine o’clock, and on such a wet -night no living soul would have crossed the bridge for the sake of his -bad liquids. - -I went to Mademoiselle’s room, anxious to hear what opinion she would -have upon the startling occurrence. - -‘Somebody has been murdered near us,’ she cried excitedly, when I -entered. - -‘Good heavens! what ought we to do?’ - -‘I don’t know what we ought to do, but what I should like to do would -be to go and see for myself,’ she said, and looked questioningly at me. - -‘You are a brave woman, Mademoiselle; I should have feared to propose -it, but I will gladly accompany you.’ - -‘Let us go and call up the chaplain of the Benedictines. He and I -are almost the lords of this island, and if any one were wounded, or -in need of our help, it is our duty to be on the spot. We will take -Joséphine’s big umbrella and her lantern.’ - -The rain was awful, and the darkness of the night was so thick that -we seemed to cleave a way through it as we buffeted with the driving -downpour. To my troubled ear, our steps, along the deluged pavement, -carried a portentous message into the silent night. There was a light -in the priest’s house, and the sound of our footsteps approaching -brought him to the door even before we had knocked. - -‘Who is it? What is it?’ he whispered. - -‘It is I, Mademoiselle Lenormant, father. We want you to come and -examine the island with us. There is shooting somewhere, and somebody -may have been murdered or dying.’ - -‘You have a lamp. Wait a moment, and I will join you.’ Outside he said, -‘Let us try the cemetery. Phew! how it rains. It is a deluge. I am not -surprised at your courage, Mademoiselle, for it is not since yesterday -that I know you. But your friend--ah, I forgot, she is English, and the -Englishwoman, I have always heard, is capable of anything.’ - -I doubt not the little compliment of the good chaplain was as welcome -to my friend as to myself, and warmed us both upon that dreary -adventure. In silence we beat our way round to the cemetery, and then -only remembered, what we should not have forgotten, that it was locked. -Seeing how unlikely it was that any one should have contrived to get -inside without the key for any black purpose whatsoever, the chaplain -thought it unnecessary to go back for it. So we then decided to examine -the rocks along as far as the tower, and afterwards go over the ruin. - -There was nothing about the rocks but an occasional water-rat, that ran -into hiding as soon as the gleam of the lantern revealed him. Nothing -along the pavement under the low wall. We bent under the nearest broken -arch of the tower, and entered it upon the river side. At first our -lantern only served to accentuate the darkness, and show the deeper -masses of shadow in the walls. We groped forward, and held our breath, -in mingled fear and expectation. Nothing stirred; only the rain fell -heavily with the noise of splashing when it touched the water below. I -advanced foremost, and my foot brushed something that was not jagged -stone or bramble. - -‘Bring your lamp here, Monsieur, whoever you are,’ a familiar voice -cried out, in an imperious tone. - -I started, and stood to let the priest and Mademoiselle approach, -wondering what it could mean. The priest held the lantern down low, -and we at once recognised Dr. Vermont’s pale face looking up from a -tangled heap of black against his knee. - -‘We stopped before crossing the bridge to fire a shot in welcome to the -new century, and this unstrung boy must needs topple off his balance, -and faint away in sheer fright,’ he hurriedly explained. - -‘A very strange proceeding, Monsieur,’ said the priest, frowning. - -I knelt down and touched poor Anatole’s chill face, but Mademoiselle -had no word. She could only stand and stare in haggard amazement. - -‘I have not asked your opinion, Monsieur. It is your help I desire,’ -said Dr. Vermont, with an unabated ferocity of pride. - -‘Am I not shot?’ asked Anatole vaguely, opening his eyes and glancing -about in terror. - -He made an instinctive gesture to feel for the wound on his forehead, -and sat up straight. He was wild and giddy, and, seeing me first, could -not take his eyes off my face; he even stretched out his hand in awe to -touch me. - -‘But for that confounded darkness, we might have had him in shelter -long ago,’ muttered Dr. Vermont. ‘Julien and Gaston have gone to look -for a lamp. Can you stand, Anatole?’ he asked the bewildered youth. - -Anatole stood up quite promptly, without any assistance. The rain fell -from every part of his form in rills, and, as he shook himself free, he -breathed a deep, happy sigh. - -‘Great God! I am saved,’ he murmured, and staggered forward. - -‘Will nobody explain this hideous mystery?’ shouted the chaplain, like -ourselves on the verge of hysterics from emotion. - -Dr. Vermont, standing with the lantern in his hand, shrugged -impertinently, and a ray of light glancing off his pale face, revealed -its enigmatic smile. - -‘Take my arm, Henriette,’ he said, very gently, approaching -Mademoiselle, who throughout the scene was silent. ‘My poor girl,’ I -heard him add, in quite an altered tone, as he gathered her trembling -frame to him. - - * * * * * - -At an end for me the quiet studies and the pleasant talks upon the -lovely long terrace of that old house by the grey river. At an end -for Mademoiselle the waiting; at an end the long shadow of deferred -hope stretched like a pall upon the backward years. I know not if the -defence of the Emperor Julian has been concluded. When last I heard -from her she was in Italy with Joséphine, Gabrielle, and Gabrielle’s -strange father. She stands clear before me in her new home, the snow -gathering early upon her head, and the mark of the silent, tragic -years deepening the austerity that autumnal joys could never melt from -sensitive lips and shadowed glance. I frame her image against some -old Italian palace in the blackened arches of its balcony, and see -her, when the stars are out, and regret throbs more poignantly, gazing -across the blue waters that wash her beloved land, the mirthful, sunlit -waters, into which flows her own grey river. - -The old house beyond the broken arches of the bridge, that leads to -the desolate island, has been sold. Who now sits upon the terrace that -overlooks the towers and spires of Beaufort? I cherish the hope that it -is some one with a bosom not insusceptible to the thrill of romance, -some one with a heart that still can beat to the swift measure of fear. - -Anatole I have since seen in Paris. He is working steadily at some -profession, and sharp illness has made a saner and stronger man of -him. Upheaval, after a while, when the elements quiet down again, -generally brings reform. The Café Lander knows him no more, I have -ascertained, and while he shrinks from mention of Dr. Vermont’s name, -he is ever glad and grateful to talk of Henriette Lenormant. He bore -his dismissal bravely, after she had so devotedly nursed him through -that heavy shock, and he is generous enough to give thanks for the -cherishing friendship of the woman he loved in vain. - -Gaston Favre has accepted an official post in the provinces, and Julien -Renaud is an industrious journalist. - - - - - BRASES - - _À Madame Bohomoletz_ - - - - - BRASES - - I - - -LIKE another foreigner, I had my ideal of the Irishwoman--bewitching, -naturally, but built upon somewhat hackneyed and high-coloured lines: -vivacious play of feature, blue-black hair, violet eyes, and complexion -made up of lilies and roses. So when Trueberry, the gallantest friend -man ever found on English shores, asked me to join him in a trip to -Erin, imagination hastily evoked this resplendent creature of my -desire, and I straightway proposed to myself the pleasing excitement -of a flirtatious romance. I told Trueberry I thought nothing more -delightful than the prospect I had formed, to fall in love, and ride -away. Trueberry, in his fatal Saxon way, made some grim rejoinder about -the riding away being the pleasantest part of it. - -We shot and rode and fished, and stared at the girls, without any -fervour of glance or flutter of pulse, it must be confessed, I alertly -on the look-out for this creature of dazzling contrasts and laughing -provocation. With fancy still uncomforted, Trueberry was dangerously -hurt, and we were several miles distant from the nearest village. A -peasant offered to help me carry my comrade down the glen, and assured -me that the lady of the grey manor would be glad to receive him. Our -claim at the hall was courteously responded to by an old man-servant, -who drew a couch out on which we stretched my moaning friend, and then -I was directed to the doctor’s house, some way along the uplands. My -guide offered me the shelter of his roof hard by, when I spoke of -looking for a lodging. - -It was late in the afternoon when the doctor and I reached the manor. -The sun was level on the western horizon, an arch of misty gold upon -a broad sheet of silver lying behind the nearer low-hanging clouds, -so that the silver heaven, beyond this chain of grey and opal hills, -looked mystically remote and clear, while lower down lake and purple -mountains were softened by a fine white veil of mist, and the sea was -visible curling its delicate foam upon the crest of the tide among -the rocks. The valley below was dusk, shut in by the grand sweep of -girdling mountains, and so still was the air that every far-off sound -carried, from the echo of ocean’s murmuring to the nearer crash of a -waterfall hissing down the rocks, and the pleasant lilt at my feet of -a little rivulet lipping its daisied marge. The birds were in full -chorus, and each of the dense trees nested song. We left the breezy, -wandering moors, which swept the horizon in a measurelessness of space -as triumphant and vast seemingly as the illimitable Atlantic rolling -from their base, and took the narrow road that sloped down to the glen -of firs and oak, where the light could scarce make a path among the -deepening shadows. Outside all was great, in air, on land, on water. -Here intolerable compression of space and such a diminution of light -as to harass nerves and imagination. My preoccupation about Trueberry -rather stimulated than blunted my visual faculties, and I noted with -abhorrence each detail of the sharp, precise landscape; the thin vein -of water glimmering through the darkening grass like a broken mirror, -the abrupt curve of the road from the shoulder of the bluff, and the -stiff, dim plumes of the heather washed of purple pretension in the -twilight, while through a clump of black firs the rough front of the -manor made a fainter shade in the grey air. The solitude was scented -with the fragrance of wild thyme, and as we approached, old-fashioned -odours blew against us from the garden. - -Trueberry was restored to a vague consciousness, and lay with shut eyes -in a darkened room. I walked outside with the doctor, who was a cheery, -hopeful fellow, and in diagnosing my friend’s case, furnished me with -no occasion for alarm. I found it strange that no member of the family -had come forward to explain the gracious hospitality by a personal -interest in the wounded man. As I stood in the chill air musing on this -odd unconcern, I heard a light step behind, coming from the house. I -turned, and faced the woman who was to dominate my heart by one swift -sweep of all that had ever claimed it. - -She looked at me, and in one grave, steadfast glance the miracle was -accomplished. Is this love? I have been so often, so continuously in -love, and yet have never known anything that approached it. It was -like the mystery of life and death--not to be explained, not to be -conquered, not to be eluded. It needs no will to be born, to die; so it -needs no will to surrender to such an influence. Upon a single throb of -pulse, it has established itself permanently upon the altar of life, -and sentimental fancies and shabby yearnings drop out of memory with -the sacramental transfusion of soul. - -Of course I saw that she was a beautiful woman, but this only -afterwards. What I first saw was the deep impersonal gaze that drew -the heart from my breast. It met mine with a full, free beam, and held -it upon a wave of inexplicable emotion. Bondage to it was a glory, -a consecration of my manhood. The subtle, the elusive nature of my -captivation was the spiritual point upon an ordinary passion. It was -the spurs, the belt of knighthood. For this I understood to be no mere -command of senses, but the imperative claims of life-long allegiance, -whether for suffering or for happiness. - -Perhaps by nature I was attuned to such surrender. Since ever romantic -hopes first broke their deeps in my boyish brain, and my heart was -lifted on the first warm wave of desire, I have eagerly yearned for -free passionate servitude to one sovereign lady. There was always the -mediæval strain in me, though I have fluttered idly enough, like the -moth round the flame, and hovered in a sort of protective sympathy and -admiration, round pretty womanhood, not objecting to being trampled on -as a holocaust to graceful and bewildering caprice. But now had come -the enslavement of the soul, not of the senses; of the spirit, not of -the eye. Homage did not bend in banter, but was exalted on the wings -of reverence. It was only afterwards that I remembered the details of -the face: its unchanging pallor and exceeding finish, the peculiar -unrippling sheen of the blonde hair, like gold leaf in its unshaded -polish, the inner curves of coil as deep an amber as the outer edges, -without shadow of curl or ring round neck and temple. So smooth and -shining a frame was admirably adjusted to the small, grave, glacial -oval, with its look of wistful abstracted charm, with a delicate -chiselling only an inspired pencil could copy, with an exquisite line -from brow to chin. Such was the transparency of the colourless skin -that like a shell, it seemed in the light to reflect the warm rose of -life beneath. Under the arch of the unerring brows, long grey eyes, -shadowed blackly, that in girlhood must have presaged storm, but now -the black lay broodingly, a seal to the clear grey depths. You looked -into, not through them; and found them too bewilderingly unstirred by -the yearning trouble of the gazer. - -There was, perhaps, a conscious but not an undignified expression in -her dress. Sweeping folds of grey matched the austere stillness of -her eyes, as did the full cambric of throat a wanness reminiscent of -a mediæval saint. Long sleeves lined with silk fell backward, and the -inner ones were of crimped cambric: hardly affectation, but the supreme -touch to beauty so visibly haloed as hers. Her voice was in keeping -with the clear eloquence of her glance; full, unperturbed, sustained -without conscious modulation or trick, harmonious like all sounds -of natural sweetness. It fell with the sentence, as the Irish voice -habitually does, but softly, without abrupt cadences or huskiness. - -‘All that lies in our power for your friend’s care and comfort will be -done,’ she said, after her unhurried survey of me. ‘There is little -to offer in such an out-of-the-way place but home medicines and home -resources, and there will not be much in the way of distraction for -him, since I live here alone with my children, and my solitude is -unbroken. I regret that you have decided to lodge elsewhere, but pray -do not spare us your visits. The house is your friend’s, and I am -honoured in being of use to him.’ - -It was hardly a bow she made, but drooped her eyelids with a curious -movement, and lowered her chin from its ineffable upward line. The -words I scarcely heard, though every fibre trembled with emotion at -her speech. I thought the voice, with the softening syllables dropping -into silence, more exquisite than any music dreamed of. Its tones -accompanied me as a murmur rather than the remembrance of actual -words in my walk up to the free bluff, whence I could look down on -the grey manor, and mixed with the resounding roar of ocean, as the -wind blew the melody of the waves shoreward. What was the distinction -of this woman who through all the days to come offered me rapture -and agony by noontide and by midnight? Not her beauty so much as her -essential difference from others. Not the gleaming gold of her hair, -but the solemn simplicity of her bearing in such accord with the vast -and unbroken solitude around her. Her voice I acknowledged without -shrinking or terror, as we accept all essential elements, to be -henceforth the dominant key of life for me, the note to sound my depths -and touch me at will as an impassive instrument. Was this woman free? I -asked myself, with a thrill of revolt, as I remembered her mention of -children. But no word of husband! This fact let in a ray of hope upon -my dread. I could never again belong to myself with the cheap security -of an hour ago, and what was there for me if there was no room for me -in the chambers of her heart? - -At the cottage I found my host frying some salmon for supper. He -was a tall, bent peasant, meagre and pallid from much thinking and -under-feeding, with all the Celt’s quaint mixture of melancholy and -humour in his keen blue eyes and wrinkled smile. He did the honours -of his humble dwelling with stately courtesy, and was too proud and -well-bred to offer futile apologies for the poverty of his shepherd -fare and rude bed. - -‘Your friend, sir, is not anything worse, I trust,’ he said. I gave -him the doctor’s report, and said it was now a case for complete rest -and care. I reddened with remorse, remembering how little I had been -thinking of Trueberry. - -‘Ah, ’tis he that’s in excellent hands,’ said the peasant, turning the -salmon, and then dreamily rested his cheek against the closed hand that -held the fork, with his elbow supported on the other wrist. - -‘May I not learn to whom we are indebted for so much kindness?’ I asked -tremulously. - -‘Your friend, sir, is at the house of Lady Brases Fitzowen,’ he -answered, and I shrank beneath the sharp look he cast on me. ‘’Tis -herself, sure, we all love and delight in as if she was one of God’s -angels.’ - -This seemed to me in my exalted mood as such an obvious statement that -I received it with the same simplicity it had been uttered. Were we not -brother Celts,--albeit, I a Parisianised Breton, and he an illiterate -native of wild Kerry uplands? His tribute to the lady of my destiny -raced a flame through me like a delicious flattery. - -‘I have seen her,’ I said, striving to command my voice in unconfessing -tones. ‘I can quite believe you. I should like to know something of -her, if you will not deem my curiosity an impertinence. She spoke of -her children. Does her husband live?’ - -‘He does,’ the peasant answered, I thought sullenly. - -I caught a fork fiercely in my hand, and bent to trace figures with it -on the cloth, hoping thereby to shield my excessive pain from his sharp -scrutiny. - -‘She did not mention him to me,’ I half cried. - -‘’Tis natural. They’re no longer one.’ - -Oh, the warm revulsion, the wild joy in that queer reply. I read in it -the peasant’s definition of divorce. It sprang light and flame through -me, and heated senses benumbed a moment ago. It gave definiteness to -rash hope, and melted away all doubt and apprehension. Brases free -was to be wooed. Heaven knows conceit was never more eliminated from -self-judgment than then, but I felt the urgent claim of the rare -passion so instantaneously born. All my worth lay in the quality of -that love, and it was not such that any woman could reject without a -pang. - -‘Then she is free,’ I said, and heard the thrill in my own voice. - -‘Free!’ exclaimed the peasant, frowning. ‘That’s as may be. Them -Protestants believe such-like things, but we don’t, sir. However things -happen, we hold folk once married can only be freed by death. I take -it, sir, you come from foreign parts, though ’tis a wonder to me how -you have learnt the English tongue so well. May be, beyond in your -land, they’re like the Protestants, and play fast and loose with the -marriage tie.’ - -He laid the dish of salmon on the table, and disappeared outside. My -state of mixed emotions, of exasperated nerves, of pulses throbbing -against my consciousness like a discordant instrument, anger with that -prejudiced peasant predominating, reduced me to the level of savage -and child. The fellow in his implied abhorrence of divorce was so -aggravatingly phlegmatic, so heartlessly unconscious of all it might -mean for me. I did not knock him down or force him to eat his obnoxious -words, but sat still and endeavoured not to observe the rest of his -rational preparations for the evening meal. I was on fire for further -facts of the tale, but dared not question, in my uncontrollable -temper. When the peasant at length seated himself opposite me, with -a dish of salmon, smoking potatoes, and a bottle of potheen between -us, I was able to make a fair pretence of hunger. I had no difficulty -in praising the salmon and the big flowery potatoes, the best of the -world, and novelty supplied the needful sauce. The potheen was simply -barbarous, a suitable drink for Caliban or the Indian brave, and no -amount of water could soothe it to my French palate. But between lively -grimaces over it, I was enabled to ask, without self-betrayal-- - -‘Then, I suppose, Lady Fitzowen’s husband does not live at the manor?’ - -He looked at me gravely over his glass, and nodded. - -‘They are divorced?’ - -‘Not quite as I should say. Separated, they call it.’ - -Here was a toppling down of the airiest edifice built of gossamer. I -could have cried out at the stab like any thwarted child. And yet the -barrier of a living husband, like an unclean skeleton, between us, made -that vision in the early twilight no less pure and spiritual than when -not seen across the tragic story, _married widowhood_. A widow, still -had sanctity lain upon my suit, where now reproach would lie as a pall. -Suppose my love drew hers, how should I live through terror of waking -some poisonous snake to her mortal injury, of the nameless dread of -slander to breathe its dark flame against her sinless brow? A shadow -upon such devotion as mine was an unacceptable desecration. Torture -itself prompted me to further questioning. - -‘Was it she who sought separation?’ - -‘I believe it was her people, sir. He was a bad lot, they say, wild -after the women, and not over nice in his ways. She’s gentle now, but -she was proud and passionate as a girl, and she felt the shame of the -thing and ran. ’Tis a wonder the poor crathurs don’t oftener run, the -provocation thim fine gentlemen gives them. Anyway, her people settled -the matter, and she came to live here, ’tis now close on four years -ago. The second child was born here, God bless it, and we all love it -like our own.’ - -I went outside to smoke a cigarette in the solitude of starlit night. -One never wants for proof of how much cruelty, shame, misery, and -injustice may be gathered into an innocent girl’s existence by -marriage. I had already seen much of it, and was familiar with the -musings melancholy contemplation of it provoked. But here was matter -not for musing but for fiery revolt. Every nerve thrilled with a -sympathy so complete as to make her retrospective pain most personally -mine, to thrust my individuality from its old bright environment out -for ever into her desperate loneliness. Joy seemed to me a miserable -mockery, the portion of trivial, contemptible humanity. The best proof -of moral worth lay in the excess of suffering endured. Virtue was -measured by the degree of pain, and laughter dwelt with the ignoble -jesters and clowns. Sorrow was a diadem upon that golden head, I -murmured, and looked for confirmation in the cold radiance of the stars -above, darting their shuttles of lambent flame in and out the purple -depths of sky. - -I peered down through the darkness, searching for the grey manor among -the massive shadows. But no lighted window revealed it to my yearning -gaze, and somehow I felt glad that Brases had suffered. Tears were the -mark of the elect, and had given her eyes that penetrating, unjoyous -clearness of the stars, had given her beautiful lips their set line of -austere silence, had placed on that frail white brow the conquering -seal of valour and forbearance. A passion so remote from whimpering -sentiment as that which she had inspired, was one to take pride in, and -I cared not now whether grief or weal were my portion, for I, too, was -crowned, and, like her, stood apart. - -I was glad to face the wide, empty moors by sunrise. The valley lay -below the brilliantly lit mountain shoulder, where scarcely a shadow -offered rest for the eyes. The Reeks opening out, peak upon peak, -glittering and wild, made a magnificent picture. Here a crescent of -shattered points, there a sunny tarn through the hollow of the cliff, -shot with amber rays; and downward, deep valley beyond deep valley, -dusk with foliage, and broken by zigzag pathways. I sat on the shelf of -a rock, whence I could perceive the glen and grey mass of the manor. An -eagle sweeping over the brow of the bluff, the shrill cry of curlews in -their undulary shoreward flight, presaging tempest, the thunder of the -Atlantic in the steady roll of its surges, were the sole sounds in my -majestic solitude. - -I sat and dreamed, and filled in the unknown pages of that one volume -now for me, the life of an innocent and high-spirited girl, urged in -the passivity of an untroubled heart into an uncongenial marriage. -The thought that she might have loved a worthless husband was an -intolerable smart, and I rejected it for the more bearable belief -that she had entered bondage in a neutral condition, without any -apprehension of the warmer moments of life, unawakened to the imperious -claims of the heart. - -And in dwelling bitterly on the penalties of such experience, the -illimitable price exacted for limitable error, I started to my feet -in angry denial that part of the price was the harsh sentence against -other choice. What did it matter if the world’s wisdom rebuked our -folly? What did it matter if the callous eye saw stain where I felt -glory? What did anything matter, so long as I had the will to leap all -barriers that lay between Brases and me? To pass through flame and -wave, so that she was on the other side of peril with outstretched -arms? - -The manor, with its air of rude decay, was curious rather than -picturesque. It fronted a lawn that dropped into a thick plantation -of fir, along which ran a silver trout-stream. The gravelled walks -wandered away into the woodlands that waved in brilliant arches of -beech and larch by an upward slope to the horizon, where the spires of -pine scalloped the skyline. Trueberry was asleep, so I amused myself -by inspecting the portraits of the hall. They were all members of my -hostess’s family. That was obvious, even if the old butler had not -informed me of the fact. A fair lady in velvet and long ruffles looked -at me with her clear eyes, just so sweet, but bolder, and one tall girl -was so vividly like her that I greeted her with a flame of enamoured -recognition I would not dare bestow on the living woman. The same -gold-leaf of hair, the same exquisite intangibility of look, the same -wanness of cheek and ineffable upward line of chin and brow. - -When at last I saw Trueberry, I found him coherent and eager for my -visit. He lay in a faded, heavily-curtained room, so old and dim that -the bright rays of morning penetrating through the crimson curtains -sparkled incongruously, and turned squares of the silk into blood-red. -Coming in from the sunlit air, its sombreness shot me blind, and I -could see nothing until I had blinked the sun out of my eyes. - -‘What a dark room!’ I cried. - -‘Oh, it’s a delightful room,’ said Trueberry dreamily, with the look of -a visionary. ‘I’m so glad I had that accident, and was carried in here. -Visions seem to start out of half-forgotten romances, and everything -is suggestive. It’s so dark and quaint and big. Just the room to be -ill in, and not mope. I like my condition, too, now that pain is on -the wane. Fact and fancy are so deliciously inextricable. I never know -what is really happening and what I am imagining. Last night I saw a -picture that seemed to be real, and was in perfect harmony with the -antique air of the room. A sort of Saint Elizabeth in a mediæval frame. -You know one’s ideal of St Elizabeth?’ he added, looking at me with -a little quizzical stir in his languid glance. ‘Sweet, serious, and -lovely, carrying roses from heaven, and smiling softly on children and -the sick. She smiled at me when she saw me staring.’ - -‘Your hostess?’ I asked, chill with apprehension. - -‘I suppose so, if it wasn’t a dream. There’s fever in my blood still, -and at night the imagination is a terrible agent. Yet the picture -remains so distinct upon memory: the voice was so real, so musical, I -can hear it still.’ - -‘Tell me about it,’ I said, curious and alarmed. - -‘I was trying to make out my surroundings in the dull lamplight, and -wondering where you were, when a curtain was lifted by the whitest hand -I have ever seen, and framed in the folds was a beautiful pale woman in -grey. She held a lamp high up, and the light caught and played over her -brilliant hair till it shone like living gold. I feared to wink lest -the vision should vanish. The light revealed the bust, while the folds -of the skirt fell into heavy shadow. It was the crimped white about -neck and wrists and the long queer sleeves that made me imagine fever -had evoked some recollection of Italian galleries--half Giotto, half -Botticelli: but she actually moved, and the unfathomable gravity of her -gaze held mine, and when she smiled, I ceased to feel pain.’ - -He spoke almost to himself, as if he had forgotten my presence, and -as I looked down at him, so drowsily contented, I saw the old tragic -monster lifting its terrible head between us. For the first time I was -conscious of a jealous pang in contemplation of his favour of person. -_Grands dieux!_ and I so fatally ugly! And if Trueberry had possessed -nothing but good looks, I had my brains and my reputation to balance -that advantage. But he was no mere hero of sentimental girlhood--he -was a handsome, high-bred gentleman, with all the finest qualities to -repay a noble woman’s love, with all the personal charm to captivate -a fastidious woman’s fancy. What had won my admiring friendship might -be trusted to win Brases’ responsive love:--his sincerity, a certain -picturesque dash that always made me think of Buckingham as described -by Dumas--Anne of Austria’s Buckingham. It breathed so essentially the -high air of romance, the chivalry, the ennobling sentimentality of -vigorous manhood. He was no troubadour, but as I have said, Buckingham -to the heels in modern raiment, unflinching before peril, of delightful -manners, faithful to friend, implacable to foe, brilliant, generous, -and full of romantic spirit. Such a woman as Brases I deemed above -susceptibility to a mere facile charm of manner, averse from so -vulgar a quality as fascination. But Trueberry did not fascinate: he -captivated. He carried sunshine with him to appeal to the austerest -temperament, and in some subtle way, without an effort, became a need. -A more attractive manliness was nowhere to be met, and if in friendship -I found him indispensable, what would he not be to the woman whose -heart he won? - -Should I repeat the peasant’s talk? Better not. Silence between us was -best until speech could not be avoided. So I took an aching heart back -to the cottage, with a promise to return in the afternoon. - - - II - -That afternoon, passing through the hall on my way to Trueberry’s -room, I was arrested upon no direct effort of will by the face of the -pale blonde girl, looking at me so vividly out of canvas through the -dear glance my own ached with longing to behold. Standing thus, my -ear detected with a thrill of recognition the light footfall behind -me. I turned, and the sight was water to a man fevered with thirst. -All morning I had wondered if a transient state of nerves might not -be accountable for an effect perhaps over-excited imagination had -exaggerated. But this second meeting was full confirmation of the -agonising power of Brases over me. I rejoiced in this added proof of my -servitude. Because of her presence, life revealed deeper meaning, earth -fresher hues. My heart fluttered on the topmost crest of emotion, and -tossed on a violent wave of joy. The awful quietude of our full long -gaze held me tranced in silence. - -‘You found your friend better,’ she said, and her voice in that tense -moment was like the bursting of the surges upon their swell. My eyes -must have told it with fatal illumination, had hers not absently fallen -on a portrait. ‘I should gladly press you to stay here with him, but I -fear you would find it dull. The house, I know, is gloomy, and I see -no one. But if you can face the dulness for your friend’s sake, if it -would lessen your anxiety----’ - -‘You are too kind,’ I burst out eagerly, for some inexplicable reason -repelled by the suggestion of Trueberry and myself together under her -roof. ‘My friend is in the best of hands, and I should not dream of -trespassing so far. Besides, I enjoy my walks to and from the cottage.’ - -What an idiot I was, to be sure, and what a miserably inadequate -refusal! Yet could I give my real reason? That a sharp-witted man of -the world, an intelligent French writer of some fame, should be driven -to inane stuttering at the greatest moment of his existence, was -surely a grotesque fatality. I saw with a shock the contraction of the -delicate brows, and the surprised interrogation of the proud glance -she levelled at me. Then pride and surprise ebbed back to their still -depths, and the brows smoothed by sheer effort of will, I divined, -and she smiled coldly, a little austere smile, remote and frosted -like a ray on ice. A woman of my own land would have read below the -commonplace words the deeper melody of the heart’s unuttered eloquence. -But Brases, so untutored, so wrapped in her musing and undiscerning -solitude, had not this tact of sympathy, this subtle divination, this -keen scent of sex. Her simplicity was mournful and gentle, but not -penetrative nor scrutinising. Mute fervour I saw would leave her -untroubled, and with Trueberry near, I feared to hope her regard would -ever gleam and drop in glad surrender at my coming, or her pulses -quicken to the bidding of my touch. I felt crushed, out of reach of -comfort, and resolved no more to tread that haunting pathway from the -little rocky plateau to this sombre valley, but to go out with my -immeasurable pain into the soothing limitlessness of earth and sea and -air upon the moors. Yet there was the misery of it--I could not command -my will. I felt the folly of it; I apprehended the misery of a rivalry -between Trueberry and me,--self at odds with the finest friendship that -ever knitted men together. But I as well knew that my hunger to-morrow -for Brases would be greater even than to-day, and a starving man will -gnaw at straw when you refuse him bread. - -I found Trueberry half raised upon his pillow, a pink flush like the -reflection of a flame upon his pallid cheek, and the blue of his eyes -burning darkly. - -‘Have you seen her?’ he asked, meeting my hand affectionately. - -‘Yes.’ - -The dull, brief tone must have struck him as implied negation of his -visible enthusiasm, for he scanned my face quickly, and asked in a -surprised voice-- - -‘Don’t you find her beautiful, Gontran?’ - -‘Most beautiful,’ I replied, with grim emphasis. - -I sat down, and took up a volume of _The Ring and the Book_, which lay -on a little table close to an arm-chair at the foot of the bed. - -‘No, no, Gontran. Not that, pray. She has been reading it to me,’ he -shouted, as if a wound were pressed. - -I looked at him queerly, I felt; how far he had travelled already, -when it was ‘she’ with him, and he could voice so candidly the trouble -of blood and being. Or else my passion was the deeper, and ran in -a mysterious channel, where speech is desecration, thought hardly -delicate enough to follow its intangible flow. - -‘You remember those lovely lines, beginning-- - - “First infancy pellucid as a pearl”? - -‘They might have been written of her,’ he continued, in his dear, -fresh, expansive way. ‘Pompilia, infant, child, maid, woman, wife, -the ideal of our earth. Why, it was surely of her that Browning was -dreaming.’ - -I continued in silence to finger the book her hand had touched, and my -eye fell on that chivalrous passage, clear even to my foreign eye in -spite of antipathy to Browning’s roughness: - - ‘And if they recognised in a critical flash - From the Zenith, each the other, her need of him, - His need of--say a woman to perish for, - The regular way of the world, yet break no vow, - Do no harm, save to himself--?’ - -Sully Prudhomme, I thought, would have expressed the idea more -exquisitely. I preferred the soft musical murmur of that unapproachable -little poem, the breathing soul of a tenderer chivalry: - - ‘Si je pouvais aller lui dire, - Elle est à vous et ne m’inspire, - Plus rien, même plus d’amitié - Je n’en ai plus pour cette ingrate. - Mais elle est pâle, délicate, - Ayez soin d’elle par pitié. - - Écoutez-moi sans jalousie, - Car l’aile de sa fantaisie, - N’a fait, hélas, que m’effleurer. - Je sais comment sa main repousse, - Mais pour ceux qu’elle aime elle est douce, - Ne la faites jamais pleurer. - - Je pourrais vivre avec l’idée - Qu’elle est chérie et possédée - Non par moi mais selon mon cœur. - Méchante enfant qui m’abandonnes, - Vois le chagrin que tu me donnes, - Je ne puis rien pour ton bonheur.’ - -But the virile sweep of the sentiment Browning revealed had something -of ocean’s strength and immensity that aroused the sea-born Breton -under the extraneous veneer of culture. A Parisian cannot escape the -charm of classic polish, but now and then with us the Celt runs riot, -and sentiment rebels against the leash of form. - -Under the cynicism of the analytical novelist’s sacrifice, -renunciation, the conquering strife of passion over duty, noble -failure, the greatly borne martyrdom of humanity, are the things that -have ever appealed to me. I have always desired to love and be loved in -the cleansing fire of pain rather than in the facile yielding to the -senses. So that there really was no logical reason why I should whimper -and mope because Brases had not dropped into my arms by some magnetic -influence. And even if she chose elsewhere! So long as her choice was -justified by happiness, what need had I to complain? I murmured Sully -Prudhomme’s lines, of a more subtle beauty of feeling than Browning’s, -and Trueberry cocked a wistful brow. - -‘Repeat them louder, they sound so beautiful,’ he urged, and I repeated -them. - - ‘“Car l’aile de sa fantaisie, - N’a fait, hélas, que m’effleurer,”’ - -he cried, with water in his eyes. ‘Could you picture yourself, Gontran, -saying that of the woman you loved to the man who had gained her!’ - -‘I hope so,’ I replied, smiling. ‘The bitter would be so sweet. And -then the magnificent retort upon broken hopes: - - “Méchante enfant qui m’abandonnes, - Vois le chagrin que tu me donnes? - _Je ne puis rien pour ton bonheur._”’ - -I spoke lightly, like the cynical boulevardier, while inwardly I was -bleeding. But Trueberry, bereft, by weakness and love, of all power of -scrutiny or penetration, saw nothing of my suffering. He was in the -absorbing paradise of a new-born claim, in the unconscious premonition -of response, and smiled vaguely at me, dear fellow, as if a strong but -agreeable opiate had drugged him. - -Trueberry was so improved next morning that I found the children -playing in his room. They were a little lad and girl in the toddling -age, prettily named Brendan and Mave. I have never seen children so -well-bred, so charming to look at and to talk to. The boy had thick -brown curls, with a reddish gleam in them, and his mother’s eyes, while -the girl had her gold hair, with big eyes, like the leaf of a purple -pansy. They lisped, as only angels ought to lisp, and fetched your -heart between your eyelashes from very delight and sympathy. - -While we played and chattered, and those pretty creatures rolled over -Trueberry, the waves of their embroidered skirts entangled in his beard -and neck, they like white balls, taking their falls so good-humouredly, -and then on the ground, standing like birds to shake out their snowy -plumage, the door opened, and Brases smiled upon the threshold. - -Trueberry’s pinched expressive face waved pink, and gazing blue -went instantly to black. I stood grasping the back of my chair, and -saw Brases for the first time not icily aloof, not throned on dead -dreams. There was a human flame under her pallor, and her smile had -an approachable womanly sweetness. It deepened the grey of her eyes, -and lent an ineffable softness to her sad mouth. The curves of the -lips pleaded like a child’s for tenderness and unexacting devotion. -I could have bent a knee to her in a rush of feeling less lofty than -homage, and said: ‘Bid me suffer, dear one, so that you are happy.’ -To my surprise, she shook hands with me, in cordial frankness, hoped -I was pleased with the condition of my friend, and then bent and took -Trueberry’s hand with a very different air. Of course, he was her -invalid, and no woman worth the name is ever the same to the sick -and the strong. For Brases to look at me like that, and hold my hand -with that gentle imperiousness, I, too, should have to be wounded and -stretched under her roof on my back. - -She had no Irish fluency, and her speech was curiously strained and -elaborated, without, however, any obvious affectation. The words came -deliberately, and yet with a fearless reticence. It was repression, -not secrecy. Life with her was a tale of baffled personal hopes, -of unmeasured pain, of nature overcome, of lower impulses proudly -unrecognised, of cold allegiance to duty, and the unfathomable -tenderness of maternity. Her children, as she told us, with their -little arms about her neck, were her one joy. - -‘I fear I spoil them,’ she added; ‘but I strive to make them think of -others, while they, alas! so well know that I only think of them.’ - -Mave, I was glad to see, was the mother’s favourite. At all times I -like a woman to love her girls best; the preference breathes in my -esteem, so essentially of distinction and lovableness. But æsthetic -gratification here was sharpened by the fact that Mave’s father had -never seen her. To me Mave was all her mother’s child, for which -reason, during my visits, I never failed to coax her on my knee, where -she would sit at first in a stiffened attitude of good behaviour, until -she got used to my dark, foreign face, and gleefully ran to greet me. -While she nestled and gurgled in my arms, lisping her excited speech, -Trueberry and Brendan chanted nursery rhymes, taught each other -surprising verses, and told one another fairy tales. - -It was the day Trueberry first got up that conjecture stabbed me with -the jealous knife of certainty. Despair closed round me like a physical -grasp, and I toppled rudely over my airy ideal of renunciation and -self-effacement. I had dwelt with such soothing vanity of spirit on my -gracious bending to the happiness of my sovereign lady and my friend, -and when I saw them then exchange a long, grave, shining gaze of full -confession, and noted the enchanting air of command with which she -waved him back to his chair, when he stood to greet her, the deeps of -nature burst their barriers. - -Unstrung and irritable from the strain of my false position, I walked -rapidly up to the cottage, asking myself whether I should go or stay, -and unable to decide which would cost me more. My host was smoking -a pipe outside, in placid contemplation of a patch of potatoes. He -directed secretive eyeshot sideways on me in sharp inquiry, then bent -his glance again upon the green leaves, and meditatively kicked away a -stone. - -‘’Tisn’t good for a young man of your years, sir, to lead this sort of -life,’ he said. ‘Foreign cities are gay places, I’ve heard tell. ’Tis -among them you ought to be. The moors, and the rocks, and the sea, the -praties I plant and eat, and the salmon I catch, satisfy the likes of -me, but I’m thinking, sir, ’tis poor work for you, counting the stars -be night, and crying for the moon be day.’ - -‘A man might be worse employed than watching the stars,’ I replied, -ignoring his rebuke. - -‘To be sure, sir. ’Tis a candle-light that teaches us a wonderful power -of patience. When you look at them, the wear and tear of life seems a -useless sort of thing.’ - -‘So it seems, viewed in any light--rush, or gas, or sun,’ I assented -drearily. ‘But why do you want to get rid of me, if I am content to -stay?’ - -‘I’d be grieved to think you imagined me anything but proud of your -company, sir; but I’m thinking it ’ud be best for yourself to go away. -You look down a bit lately, and ’tis me own heart bleeds for you. -But you’re young, agra, and them sort of troubles soon pass. ’Tis -surprising how wonderful quick the heart is to mend any time.’ - -His intention and sympathy sprang tears to my eyes. He saw this, and -touched my shoulder gently, nodding a sapient head. - -‘I make bold to tell you, sir, that a fine pleasant boy like yourself -has no business to go hankering after one as has known deception and -wept misfortune, an’ whose husband lives. Them’s foreign ways, I know. -Haven’t I read a power of books? Take my word for it, ’tis better to -run after the girls. There it’s all fair and square, above board, and -’tis natural. ’Tis your duty to her and yourself to turn your back on -us.’ - -‘It always is our duty to be most miserable, I fear,’ I said -dejectedly. ‘But why should a woman wear weeds because a scoundrel -lives? in the bloom of youth, beautiful, with a maiden heart for the -winning? and what law is broken by honourable devotion?’ - -I forgot I was talking to a peasant, and stood there in the sunlight, -pleading Trueberry’s cause. For what now had I to do with her heart, -or she with my love? My hour of ordeal had come, and I confess I -was surprised by my own frailty. I had expected to bear it so much -better, to act so much more gallant a part. Instead, I was broken with -jealousy, and my eyes were blinded with tears. I had not conquered -nature, did not swim triumphantly in the upper sphere of impersonal -feeling, submissive to an ideal sway, glorying in the supreme servitude -of unacknowledged, unexacting devotion. I was a poor exasperated human -wretch, unjustly angry with my friend for his selfish blindness, wrath -with the woman’s serenity, which could not interpret my feeling, vexed -that neither, in their bliss, should care whether I lived or died of -it. I had craved so little,--the pale ray of hope, insubstantial as a -dream, but cherished with frenzy. And now how was I to still the fierce -ache of regret in the years ahead? Bereavement fronted me, a silent -spectre, my mate for evermore. The precious hours had gone, sleepless -nights and sullen days, in a hinted persistence of prayer in her -presence, of longing out of it, and nothing to come of all the anguish, -of revolving transport and agony, but this sense of miserable failure. - -Looking down from the plateau to the glen, it seemed to me that I had -been accomplishing this backward and forward march from cottage to -manor by an unreal measurement of time. The years before sank into -insignificance beside these two weeks of frustrated yearning. I went -into the house to shut my grief away from the friendly scrutiny of my -peasant friend, and battled with the monster that wrecks our dignity -and our intelligence. - - - III - -Next morning, with seared eyelids, and heart a red raw wound, -conscious of the peasant’s disapproving inspection, my feet carried -me unreluctantly toward torture. It was part of my implacable fate -that I should diagnose my own misery through the happiness of the two -beings who bounded the limits of sensation for me. Trueberry was alone, -and greeted me with a vagueness of glance that denoted retrospective -bliss. He was glad to see me in a quiet way, as a feature in enchanting -environment. - -We smoked in silence until our incommunicative companionship was -abruptly disturbed by the arrival of a couple of officers from -a neighbouring garrison town. Pleasant fellows both, carrying a -rollicking breath of Lever into the surcharged atmosphere. They spoke -at the top of their voices, hailed us with obvious delight, joked, -quizzed, and gallantly misconducted themselves from the point of -view of lucky and unlucky lover. I was reminded that I was French, -and made an effort to do honour to my land. While they stayed, I -shook off melancholy, and matched their breezy recklessness with -the intoxication of despair. Heaven knows what we laughed at, but -everybody except Trueberry shouted hearty guffaws, and seemed to regard -life as the most entertaining of jokes. They chaffed Trueberry on his -captivity to isolated beauty, and hinted in their broad barrack way -at the perils of bewitchment. Trueberry went white with repressed -anger, and I dusky as a savage. I wanted to fell the harmless fool for -a pleasantry common enough in affairs of gallantry between men, but -Trueberry passed it off with his superlative breeding, and the officer -adroitly changed the conversation. - -When Brases joined us before lunch, the younger of the two again -provoked me by approaching her with a slight military swagger, his air, -as he took her beautiful hand, so clearly saying: ‘Madame, allow me to -observe that you are a remarkably handsome woman, and I shouldn’t mind -being your captive myself.’ Not that he was impertinent or fatuous, but -his admiration was of a crude and youthful and self-assured flavour. -Trueberry lifted a dolorous lid upon me, as if seeking sympathy in me -for the exquisite torment of this outer desecrating breath upon the -divine and hidden. - -They left us as cheerily as they had come, bidding me persuade Lady -Fitzowen to come to their garrison ball next week. The major begged -to know what sins the county had committed, to be so punished by its -fairest woman. I saw Trueberry’s fingers clench ominously, and my own -lips shut upon a grim twist for all response. Brases stared at them -softly, as if they were a long way off, and then a little puzzled smile -stirred her eyes as she sought Trueberry’s glance. - -‘I wish you could persuade Monsieur d’Harcourt to go,’ was her -acknowledgment of their invitation. ‘He does not look nearly so well as -when he first came.’ - -I grasped this notice as a famished dog pounces on a stale crust. I -flung her an enchanted beam of gratitude, and red ran momently through -the grey universe. She came out, and stood beside me on the broad -gravel, when the officers had driven away, and I found courage to urge -her to come with me to the ball at Kilstern. It was no baseness to my -friend, surely, that I should hunger and thirst and pray for one little -moment of her life unshared with him! - -‘Had I any such foolish desire, Monsieur, my obligations as hostess -would still prevent me. It is so little I can do for your friend, so -much I would gladly do. But it is no privation for me to dispense -with society. I never liked it, and have only bitter recollections -of it. I ask nothing now from life but peace,--and strength to live -my days for my children’s sake, striving not to wish them shortened, -and remembering that there is much else besides personal hope and -happiness. One despairs so quickly in youth, and then the children -come, with their sweet faces made up of morning light, soft as flowers, -with the smile of paradise in their clear eyes. And youth for me lies -so far away,’ she added, with a scarce perceptible change of voice, and -a ray lighting up her delicate face, showed a smile so wan and faint as -rather to resemble the memory of a smile, reminiscent as the spectre of -that youth she greeted as an alien, and I listening, wished I had died -before hearing words so sad from her lips. - -Her gesture in one less superlatively sincere might have been taxed -with coquetry, so exquisite was its expression; her white hands fell -in a gentle depression with the finger-tips curved inward. - -‘Even music no longer pleases me,’ she continued, sweeping the -circumscribed scene with a flame of revolt under the drawn arch of the -lovely brows. ‘It is not sad enough. That is why I am so fond of the -ravening melancholy of ocean’s song down upon the desolate beach. I -listen for it at night as I lie awake, and it is the eternal funeral -march of my dead youth.’ - -It was hardly by an effort of will that she ceased speaking: speech -dropped from her as sound drops from the receding wave, and I could -have cried aloud in passionate protest as I saw the veil drawn over -this transient revelation of herself. Never had she spoken to me so -before. Never had she referred to her past. And the hint that all joy -for her lay in her children fired my brain with hope’s delirium. Surely -I had been mistaken in my haunting dread, and stupidly interpreted the -looks between her and Trueberry. He might love her, as I loved her, -but her feeling was only the soft interest of compassion. And yet--and -yet----! - -Leaving her, I walked slowly down the path. At the gate I looked back. -She was still standing there, staring across the hills, with the sunset -hues upon the amber of her head, and revealing the matchless purity -of line and tint of face and throat. Not surrender, not love, did -that dejection of air denote. The thought went with me, rooted in my -heart, and kept me awake, tossing on a fever-troubled pillow. I started -up, and stood at the window to watch the stars till dawn sent a grey -glimmer down the dusk, and a white cloud sped like a wing over the sky. -I had a foreboding of rashness, of perilous explosion on the morrow, -unless I had the wisdom to steal out alone into the empty world. If -they loved one another, it was plainly my duty. But, oh! to be able to -look into her eyes, and cry: ‘I love you, yet I leave you. For me death -were easier, but my death would stain your bliss with regret’s shadow.’ - -I questioned the stars in my blind anguish to learn if there were -no resources in nature to wall in this terrible blank of being that -stretched so miserably, so limitlessly before me as a future without -Brases or Trueberry. Old interests, old tastes, old desires had -dropped from me, and I stood beggared of sum and aim of life.’ - -I was abroad upon the moors by sunrise, lessening my feeling of -personal diminution in the earth’s grandeur and the wavering immensity -of the Atlantic as it rolled under the lemon-tinted horizon. I took -my last look of forked mountains against the grey-shot blue of the -heaven, of shattered rocks, and sombre tarn seen through the opening of -a valley, and the distant plain, an inner sea of bracken and heather. -Ever the sound of water, of moaning wave, of mingling rill, of foaming -fall, the shrill cry of eagle and curlew, and the melody of the early -birds. An hour hence should find me trudging to Kilstern, away from the -wild beauty of this place--the home of Brases! On my way back, I met my -host, and mentioned my intention. ‘That’s as it should be,’ was all he -said. - -His curt approval galled me, and to silence discourteous retort, I -flung myself over the stone ledge, and took the manor path like a -chased creature. With what unconscious accuracy of observation I noted -each leaf, each colour and form of a scene memory was destined to -retain for evermore! following with eager eyes the light as it made -its own short road of gold among the dense shadows, and these as they -picked out in blots the sunny spaces. - -The hall door as usual was open, and in passing the portraits, I took -my last look of the boy with curls and ruffles, and beyond of the girl -with the proud fair face that might be a portrait of Brases in younger -days. I inspected it steadily, and traced where resemblance stopped in -the lack of the subtle stamp of the soul, the ennobling seal of grief. -It was a Brases who had never wept, never thought, a creature of mere -bodily beauty. - -I found Trueberry walking up and down in restless expectation. I could -see that sight of me brought an uncontrollable smart of disappointment -to his eyelids, and his expressive mouth twitched like a child’s. - -‘What’s the matter, Gontran?’ he asked, with an affectionate effort, -and placed one hand on my shoulder. ‘You look frightfully battered, my -poor fellow.’ - -‘Last night I meant to go away in silence,’ I said, not able to meet -his kind glance, ‘but to-day I decided I owed my friend a franker -course. Neither of us is responsible for the fact, but we must separate -now.’ - -‘You would desert me, Gontran--now!’ he cried, and the bitter tone of -his reproach fetched a sob to my throat. - -‘I wish to God it should not be, that I had the unselfish courage to -stay and witness your happiness----’ - -‘Happiness!’ he shouted frantically. ‘My poor boy, I am more miserable -than yourself,’ he added, with a dejected movement. - -‘Then you are deceiving yourself,’ I said, shrugging and turning -impatiently on my heel. ‘She loves you. I have seen it in her eyes, -felt it to the inmost fibres of consciousness in her voice.’ - -‘And if it were so!’ Trueberry cried, in a soft, fond tone of -interjection, that brought my fierce look back to his face. He called -himself miserable, but bliss sparkled out of the depths of his frank -eyes. He fronted daylight, the proud and conscious lover, and the -shadow upon his radiance was, after all, but a becoming tone to temper -fatuity to my amazed and acrid scrutiny. Without it, I might have -longed to strike him, in my state of moral degradation. - -‘How much nearer am I to her for that?’ he went on, in reply to my -hateful look. ‘My dear friend, there is nothing for us both but to take -up our staff and knapsack, and trudge wearily out of this enchanted -valley into the busy garish world, carrying with us the remembrance of -an unstable and beautiful dream. We are equals in fortune, Gontran.’ - -‘Equals,’ I roared, goaded by the fiery bar of his speech. ‘What -equality exists between success and unsuccess? between the chosen and -the neglected? between heat and cold, sun and ice, glory and shame, -tears and laughter? The barrier to your happiness may be levelled by -fate at any moment. You have but to wait and watch the newspapers. -While I----’ - -‘Don’t be rough, old man. You would be sorrier than I if you hurt me -now, when I can ill bear more pain. For I am dismissed, sent away. Oh!’ - -He sat down and covered his face with both hands, and I, in awakened -wickedness of spirit, gloated over his convulsive wretchedness. -Suffering had blunted conscience, and the finer feelings, and left -me abjectly enslaved to all the baser sensations that assail weakened -humanity. In such moments, happily brief, the savage is uppermost, -whatever the training of the gentleman. The soul sleeps, and the body, -with all its frenzied needs and desires, stands naked, primitive, -elemental, the mere animal living through the senses. The handsome -sobbing creature had all, and I had nothing. Yet he dared to speak of -equality in misery between us. - -‘Good-bye,’ I said, and moved to the door. - -Trueberry sprang up, and clutched my arm. His dear, simple nature could -understand nothing of the vileness that the finer and more complex -order of being may contain. To him I was not an embittered rival, but a -cherished friend to whom he boyishly clung in his unbearable sorrow. - -‘Must we separate, Gontran?’ he entreated. ‘Why, since we both go -to-day?’ - -The inalterable sweetness of his temper shook me on a crest of remorse, -and conquered assaulting vindictiveness. I felt so mean beside him that -I could have begged his pardon for unuttered insult. His superiority -more than justified Brases’ choice, though the dear fellow lacked my -brains, and my name commanded considerable stir. - -I consented to go with him, and hurried back to the cottage, where -I found my host busy over my portmanteau. I told him my friend was -coming with me too, upon which he scrutinised my face mildly, and, I -thought, with satisfaction. He strapped the portmanteau, and remarked -in a dry tone: ‘That, too, is as it should be, and I am glad there -is no quarrel.’ Taking no note of my astonishment at his incredible -discernment, he added: ‘You’ll drink a last drop of the mountain dew to -your success and happiness in another spot, sir, where the girls, God -bless them! are fresh and pretty and plentiful as the flowers in May.’ - -He went into the kitchen, and I stood at the window watching light -chase shadow over the bold visage of a reek, and assured myself -gloomily that there were a thousand ways, after all, of threading a -path through despair. Whose life is crowned with happiness?--and hope -of it must come to an end sooner or later. Pleasure still remains when -we have shed the last tear, and whatever may be said to the contrary -in pessimistic moments, pleasure to the last peeps out at us through -the thorniest brambles, with its varied allurements. This I told -myself, and though I could think of no possible pleasure at the time, -or compensation for the miserable duty of facing life, I drearily -supposed I would come, like another, to find my round of petty joys and -mean delights. There was something to be done even by a fellow so sick -at heart as I: books to be written, books to be read, people to see, -and people to avoid, countries to travel in, and women to criticise. -My host stood at the top of the path, bareheaded, cheering me on with -his gracious ‘God speed ye, sir!’ until the bend of the hill hid his -honest friendly face from me. I sought Trueberry in his room, and saw -his gloves, and hat, and portmanteau on the table. I wandered about -the house, through unfamiliar chambers, till, on lifting a curtain, a -picture arrested me with a curdling thrill. The blood flowed from heart -to brain on a dizzy wave, where it surged, so that I had some knowledge -of the sensation of insanity. This explains my sin against honour in -standing there. I could not have left the spot by any imperative order -of conscience. I stood as immovable as a hypnotised figure. Like a -spectator of the drama, with feelings unconcerned, I was quick to note -the searching pathos and beauty of the picture. - -They two stood together in the middle of the room, she with her hands -on his shoulders, he with an arm round her waist, holding one of her -little hands clasped above. The passionate gaze of both was matchless -in its eloquence. Both faces were white and luminous, as if touched -with a ray from heaven, anguish adequately mixed with transport. Such a -look from a woman’s eyes was surely worth dying for. - -‘Brases, must I go away?’ Trueberry asked brokenly. - -She moved a little in his embrace, and pressed her face against his -breast, then recovered herself, and said firmly-- - -‘You must, dear friend.’ - -‘Think of it, beloved,’ he cried, holding her closer to him. ‘Such -links as chain us. We two as one, is it not madness to dream of living -apart? Every beat of life within you, Brases, must cry out against this -parting. It is murder of our souls. Go, I may, but with you, Brases.’ - -‘Don’t make me go over it again,’ she pleaded, in a tired voice, ‘it -was so hard before. While a man lives who calls me wife, can I come to -you with a tarnished name?’ - -‘Tarnished!’ The smile he shed upon her was convincing enough to redeem -a fallen angel, it was so warm, and soft, and indulgent, with all -love’s sweetness and shelter. ‘The stain is on his name, and that you -would drop. The law will release you. Come, come. You cannot live alone -now, any more than I can. Think of what it means--craving light and -love and happiness, all within reach, and we dying apart on the brink.’ - -‘No, no, don’t tempt me. Your desire is my weakness. Your voice draws -my being from its roots, and my pulses beat to the rhythm of yours. See -how much I confess, and then be merciful, and go.’ - -‘Is it always right to follow our ideal of duty, when nature points -so clearly another way?’ he still urged. ‘What reason have we always -to regard our judgment as better than hers, since she is so big and -mighty, and we so small and helpless.’ He held her hand pressed against -his lips, and I could hear his murmuring speech through the trembling -fingers. ‘What is the past with such a present as ours, such a future -as we might have? My love would soon blot it from your memory. Trust -me, Brases, I too have my past with its burden of regrets I would fain -forget.’ - -‘Ah, had I met you before fatality crossed my path,’ she said, upon a -quick sob, ‘when my palm was as clean as a child’s, how my spirit would -have bounded to the wedding of yours! But that may never be now.’ - -Her arms dropped renouncingly, and the smile that travelled slowly over -her blanched face shed a rapturous light upon his. His eyes held hers -in willing bondage. Though this was her farewell I could divine the -supreme effort that kept her from his arms, by the fingers fluttering -like the wings of a bird against her dress, while it were hard to say -which her half-lifted, gently averted face, with the eyes straining -back to his, most eloquently expressed: surrender or renouncement. - -Trueberry sprang to her and caught her to him, and their lips met in a -kiss that had the solemnity of a sacrament. I staggered back, clapping -my hand over my mouth to prevent a shout of white-hot anguish, and -could see the darkness sweep down upon me like a big comforting wing. -I hoped it was death come to gather me like a suffering, inarticulate -child, into its soft mother’s arms. - -But I struggled back into life, and had again to front the road of care -and blind endeavour. How long later I cannot say, but I saw Brases -standing over me, looking at me in pitying wonder. She took my hand -in both of hers, and bending, softly kissed my cheek. This was the -mother’s kiss I hoped death had given me. I stared at her, too broken -for wonder or emotion, and sitting down beside me, with my hand still -in hers, she said-- - -‘We were very much frightened, you were so long unconscious. Mr. -Trueberry told me you have not slept of late, and that you are very -unhappy. I, too, am unhappy, and that is why I kissed you. But you are -better now, and you will try to forget your pain, or, at least, to -bear it well. It is the best any of us can do. They will drive you to -Kilstern, and you will return to France alone, carrying my best wishes -for your welfare. Mr. Trueberry has gone already.’ - -I struggled to my feet, swallowed the wine she poured out for me, and -then, in a dull, uneager voice, asked, ‘Did Trueberry leave no message -for me, Madame?’ - -‘He was very much concerned, and full of sympathy, but he has his own -trouble to bear, and thinks he will bear it best alone. He will write -to you to Paris in a few days.’ - -A trap was at the door, and she came out with me, and when we had -shaken hands in silence, stood looking after me, as I was indeed -forcibly carried away. She was dim to my sight, a mere blurred grey -figure, with light about her head, and the landscape looked watery and -broken, as if seen through bits of bobbing glass. - - - - - A PAGE OF PHILOSOPHY - - _À M. Gaston, Paris - de l’Institut de France_ - - - - - A PAGE OF PHILOSOPHY - - -THERE was a break in the soft stream of Rameau’s eloquence when -somebody spoke of Krowtosky. The interruption came from Louis Gaston, a -brilliant young journalist, whose air of sanctified rake and residence -in the Rue du Bac, in front of a well-known shop, earned him the -nickname of _Le Petit Saint Thomas_. - -Krowtosky’s name diverted the channel of the murmurous, half-abstracted -discourse to which we had lent an attentive ear, physically lulled, -and though charmed, not boisterously amused by Rameau’s sly anecdotal -humour and complaisant lightness of tone. Rameau always talked -delightfully, without any apparent consciousness of the fact; -above all, without any apparent effort. He never raised his voice, -gesticulated slightly, accentuated no point, and left much to his -listener’s discretion; and his calm drollery was all the more delicious -because of the sedate and equable expression of his handsome face. - -‘Krowtosky,’ he repeated, as he turned his picturesque grey head in -Gaston’s direction; with a deliberate air he removed his glasses, -slowly polished them, and interjected, ‘Ah!’ - -‘You must remember that queer Russian who used to hold forth here some -years ago,’ Louis Gaston continued, in an explanatory tone; ‘a heavy, -unemotional fellow, with desperate views. He began by amusing us, and -ended by nearly driving us mad with his eternal _Nirvana_.’ - -‘Oh, yes,’ somebody else cried, suddenly spurred to furnish further -reminiscences. ‘His trousers were preternaturally wide, and his -coat-sleeves preternaturally short. You always imagined that he -carried dynamite in his pockets, and apprehended an explosion if you -accidentally threw a lighted match or a half-smoked cigarette in his -neighbourhood.’ - -‘He had small eyes, and a big nose, the head of an early Gaul, and a -hollow voice,’ I remarked. - -‘A monster to convince the Tartars themselves of their superior -ugliness, if they entertained any doubt of it,’ half lisped a -Frenchman recently crowned by the Academy, and as unconscious of his -own ill-looks as only a man, and above all a Frenchman, can be. - -‘The good-nature of your remarks and your keen remembrance of Krowtosky -prove that he must be a personage in his way,’ said Rameau mockingly. - -‘What became of him?’ asked Le Petit Saint Thomas, between slow puffs -of his cigarette. - -‘Poor fellow! He has fallen upon grief.’ - -‘Naturally; it is the great result of birth. A love affair?’ - -‘Worse.’ - -‘Blasphemy, Professor! ’Tis the sole sorrow of life. The rest are but -the trifling ills of humanity.’ Gaston spoke with all the authority of -a young man who is perpetually in and out of love, is backed upon the -thorny path of literature by rich and devoted relatives, and has never -known a day’s illness upon his road. - -‘It can’t be marriage, for that violent resource would merely drift -him into deeper depths of Pessimism, which would be a gratifying -confirmation of his theories.’ - -‘It can’t be love either,’ I suggested. ‘Pessimism and love don’t -mate. Marriage it might be; for even a pessimist may be conceded the -weakness of objecting to a demonstration of the nothingness of marriage -in the person of his own wife.’ - -‘It might be debt, if that were not a modified trouble since the -inhuman law of imprisonment was abolished.’ - -‘Behold the force of imagination, Professor,’ exclaimed Gaston, -pointing to a visionary perspective with his cigarette, in answer to -Rameau’s glance of contemplative irony. ‘I see our monster married to -an unvirtuous _grisette_, or an amiable young laundress, who discovers -the superior attractiveness of an optimist poet on the opposite side -of the way. She can hardly be blamed for the discovery; for though we -may applaud the courage of a woman who marries a monster, it would be -both rash and cruel to expect her to add fidelity to her courage. Where -women are concerned, it is a wise precaution to count upon a single -virtue.’ - -‘Your wit, the outcome of natural perversity, flies beyond the mark,’ -said Rameau, shrugging his shoulders. ‘The real sorrows of life are -very simple, and command respect by their simplicity. The others are -the complications, the depravities of civilisation at which we cavil -and laugh. Krowtosky has not stumbled in double life, but he has just -lost a baby girl.’ - -There was dead silence. A perceptible start of emotion found expression -in an interjectionary arch of brow, a sigh blown on the puff of a -cigarette, and an uneasy shifting of attitudes. A baby girl! What a -slight thing in the hurry of life, what a simple thing in its crowding -perplexities! The tragic end of men and women whom the years have worn -and fretted; the sudden death of happy youth in the midst of its bright -promises; the peaceful sadness that accompanies the departure of the -old, who have honourably lived their lives and accomplished all natural -laws:--but the closed eyes of a little baby girl! What is it more than -tumble of a new-born bird from its nest, leaving no empty space? Upon a -boy paternal pride might have feasted, and the sting might remain that -new avenues to fame and fortune were closed by his sharp withdrawal. - -Yet despite the insignificance of the loss, none of the faces round -Rameau wore a look of indifference or surprise. For a moment each -man was serious, touched, and uninclined for wit at poor Krowtosky’s -expense. Upon dropped lids I seemed to see the big grotesque head, so -full of honesty and strife, bent in grief over an empty cradle; and I -was wrung by a smart of anger when Gaston lightly asked, ‘Is there then -a legitimate Madame Krowtosky?’ - -‘All that is most legitimate,’ replied Rameau gravely. - -‘You have followed the story?’ - -‘Since I played the part of confidential friend--why, I know as little -as you.’ - -‘And the lady?’ - -‘Ah, the lady! Her I only know on report that cannot exactly be -described as impartial.’ - -‘Is it a story worth telling?’ - -‘In its way it is curious enough, especially unfolded in the -illumination of Krowtosky’s jumble of crude philosophy and speculative -theories, and, above all, told in his queer French. He has honoured -me with a correspondence in the form of a journal. It is extremely -interesting, and I have preserved it. Some day I will publish -it,--when the philosopher is dead, of course.’ - -‘Then begin now, my dear Professor,’ I urged. ‘Try its effect _en -petit comité_.’ We read assent in the Professor’s way of crossing -his legs, while he drew one hand slowly round the back of his head. -When he had carefully polished and adjusted his glasses, each of us -chose a commodious attitude, and looked expectantly at him. After a -pause, Rameau began in his soft conversational tone, subdued like the -indefinite shade of the lamp-screen that cast its glimmer over heads -and profiles, showing vaguely upon a background of dull tapestries. - -‘Krowtosky looked much older than his age. He was, in fact, very young, -Pessimism being one of the most pronounced symptoms of the malady of -youth. He is still young, and the malady has yet some years to run. He -came here with a letter to me from an old friend in Moscow, and a very -big bundle of hopes. - -‘I hardly know what he expected to make of Paris, but Paris, I imagine, -made nothing of him. I did what I could for him, which was not much, -and from the first I had no illusions whatever upon the nature of his -probable success. I found a lady ambitious to read Turgenieff and -Tolstoï in Russian. I sent Krowtosky to her; but after the second -lesson she dismissed him on the plea of his unearthly ugliness; his -heavy Calmuck face diverted her attention from Turgenieff’s charming -women and Tolstoï’s philosophy, and gave her nightmares. I encouraged -the poor fellow to come here, which he did, and most of you met -him frequently. He was interesting in his way, very, but crude and -boundlessly innocent. He had the queerest notions upon all things, -and having sounded the _Décadents_, he professed to find them hollow. -I think he suspected those gentlemen of an unreasonable sanity and -an underhand enjoyment of life. The French Realists he dismissed as -caricaturists; he said they were reading for the devil when he was -drunk and in a merry mood. I daresay he meant the Czar. - -‘He railed at the mock decay of modern civilised life, and imagined -that a glimpse of Pessimism beyond the Pyrenees would prove -instructive. He was convinced that he would find it there of less -noxious quality, exhibiting the sombre melancholy and dignity of a -great race fallen into poetic decay and unvexed by the wearisome -febrile conditions of its development here. “You understand nothing of -the spirit of calm fatality,” he would say, apostrophising the nation -in my humble person for lack of a more enlightened audience. “You are -everlastingly in strife with your own emotions and despairs; and these -you decorate, as you idly decorate your persons, with persistent vanity -and with wasteful care.” I deprecated the charge upon my own account, -and assured him that it took me exactly four minutes to decorate my -person each morning. Four minutes, I claimed, cannot be described -as an exorbitant charge upon Time for the placing and adjusting of -eighteen articles, and as he seemed to doubt the number, I told them -off, including my hat and _pince-nez_. I mentioned a few Frenchmen who -I thought accepted the luxury of unemotional despair calmly enough, and -were as incapable of strife as a tortoise. He shook his head; he was -not easily to be convinced. His Pessimism was so black that our sombre -Maupassant was a captivating Optimist beside him. And provided with -this meagre intellectual baggage, he set out for half-forgotten and -ruined lands, beginning with Spain.’ - -‘He fell in for a fortune, I suppose,’ Gaston interrupted. - -‘He had not a sou, which is the best explanation of an expensive -voyage. Remark, my friends, that a man only becomes really extravagant -and reckless upon an empty purse. An empty purse and an empty stomach -are equally effectual in producing light-headedness, and vest us in the -cloak of illusion. Illusion I opine to be one of the things that look -best in rags. Krowtosky travelled third class, and was prodigiously -uncomfortable, which, after all, is another method of enjoying life -upon his theory. He ate Bologna sausages, and refreshed himself with -grapes upon the wayside. - -‘His first letter was dated from Bayonne. It was a long and a curious -letter, and so interested me that I resolved to follow up the -correspondence with vigorous encouragement, for it was not an occasion -to be missed by a student of mankind. I will read you some extracts -from these letters, which I have here in a drawer of my writing-table.’ - -The packet of letters found, Rameau went on reading, with the -perfect and polished irony and charm of enunciation that could cast -an intellectual glamour over an auctioneer’s inventory. ‘“I have -chosen you as the recipient of the impressions and incidents of my -voyage,--why, I hardly know; I am not inspired by any strong sympathy -for you. My esteem and my liking are very moderate indeed; you have -a face that rather repels than invites confidence, and I ought to be -discouraged by the fact that I have no faith in your sympathy for -me, and have every conviction that you are the last person likely to -understand me. The friend who would understand me, and for whom I -should enjoy writing these impressions and the adventures that may -lie ahead, is at present voyaging in far-off waters; I think he is -somewhere about the Black Sea, but I don’t know his address, or when -or where communication might chance to reach him. So, having cast -about me for a confidant, choice alighted upon you; but you need not -read my letters if they bore you. They are written rather for my -own gratification than for yours. If I possessed literary talent, -the public would be my natural victim....” - -‘This was a flattering beginning, you will admit, but it sharpened my -curiosity. After that I began to look forward to Krowtosky’s post-day, -as some people look forward to the _feuilleton_ of the morning paper. -His queer minute handwriting never found me indifferent or unexpectant -of diversion. - -‘At Toulouse he wrote again: “A young girl got into the carriage with -me. We were alone, and she soon gave me a visible demonstration of -the strange eccentricities oddly explained by the single word _love_. -Why _love_? It is simply a malady more or less innocuous and only -sometimes deadly; but love, no! I was not flattered; I am above that -weakness, because nothing pleases me. I was interested, however, and -investigated the case with scientific calm. So might any physician have -diagnosed a disease. It struck me for the first time as a form of mild -insanity. I asked myself why the poets and romancers amuse themselves -in writing of it rather than of the other fevers and bodily illnesses -that overcome us. For everything about this young girl convinced me -that love is but a sickness. I studied her gestures, her expression, -her tones of voice and her attitudes; all served to prove my theory. -One minute I offered to open the window, and the next I suggested that -perhaps it would be better to close it. She assented. Though curious, -it was rather monotonous, but she assented to everything I proposed. -If I looked at her, she looked at me; if I looked away, she continued -to look at me. After a couple of hours’ study, I felt that I quite -understood love and all its phases. I found it in the main a silly -game, and an excitement only fit for brainless boys and girls in their -first youth. But the most remarkable feature of humanity is its crass -stupidity; it is a monstrously shabby and feeble institution, male and -female. This young girl, now; I daresay you and others would call her -pretty. Bah! I can see but the ugliness of women. Behind their forehead -thought does not work; their eyes only express the meanest and most -personal sentiments. Big black empty eyes and sensual red lips; a round -lazy figure and nerveless hands! I protest there is more intelligence -and matter for study in a dog than in these insipid creatures, all -curves and no muscles. Men, say they, don’t understand them. Are -dolls worth understanding? They are actuated solely by impulse and -personal claims. What is there in this worth understanding? I escaped -from my conquest, now grown irksome, upon the frontier, and I am -resolved never to give evidence of a similar weakness. It is degrading -folly. What, for instance, can women see in us to inspire this most -infelicitously-called tender passion, and, in the name of all that is -eternal, what are we supposed to see in them to justify it?...”’ - -‘A sympathetic dog, to go snarling in that cantankerous way through -life because the Almighty has seen fit to cast a flower or two across -his path,’ growled the indignant Petit Saint Thomas, to whom love was -the main object of existence. - -‘Scenery does not interest him much,’ Rameau went on, with an -acquiescent nod; ‘but he has a good deal to say upon his impressions -of the Spanish race in particular, and of all other races in general. -The subject is not a new one, and Krowtosky is only really entertaining -when he is talking of himself, or of his next-door neighbour in -connection with himself. - -‘“I am on the whole much disappointed in Madrid,” he continues further -on, “not because it is a duller town than I had imagined, but because -local colour and national individuality are almost extinct. It proves -the disastrous tendencies of all races to amalgamation and imitation. -Yet, after all, Rameau, what is the real value of local colour? It -is more often than not a mere matter of imagination, and one of the -illusions we fancy we enjoy. Any one with a lively imagination can -invent a more vivid local colour for all the countries he has never -visited than he is likely to find in any of them. Witness Merimée -and his band. They duped their public like the vulgarest literary -conjurors, and showed us that a trick will serve us instead of what we -are pleased to call Nature. And the deception was but the result of -our stupid hunger for the unusual. As if anything under the monotonous -stars of an unchanging heaven can be unusual; and as if everything in -this old and ugly world is not hideously familiar! The more varied our -travels the more similar our experience. For, Rameau, our real ills -are monotony and stupidity. Man resembles man, as rats resemble rats, -only he is a good deal less interesting and more noxious. You have a -fine head, and I have a misshapen one. Well, the same perplexities, -needs, instincts, appetites, passions, and impulses agitate us, and -explain our different actions, which, _au fond_, have no variety in -them whatever. We change the symbols of our faiths, while these remain -fundamentally the same, and we give our countries different names to -represent the unchangeable miseries of humanity....” - -‘Here you have the malady of youth in its crisis. A _décadent_ poet -could not chant more lugubriously, though perhaps less intelligibly. -The sick youth laments in the same irritable tone the vulgarity of the -_madrileñas_, the exaggerated prowess of the gentlemen of the arena, -exalts the patient and noble bulls, rails at the puny byplay of the -picadors and at the silly enthusiasm of the spectators. He rushes -distractedly from an inexpensive inn, where a band of merry rascals -joined him and over wine sang the praises of the Fair. Praise of the -eternal feminine he cannot stand. Poor wretch! Had he been Adam in -the Garden of Paradise, Eden would have ceased to be Eden upon the -impertinent introduction of Eve. We find him complaining that he -should have left a score of maundering youths in Paris doing dismal -homage to the Sex, to drop upon a sillier band in Madrid hymning the -everlasting subject. He protests the Spanish women, for all their -eyes and arched feet, are untempting and insipid, like the rest. They -are not the dolls of the North; they are the animals of the South. He -confines his curiosity to Spanish literature, and is in pursuit of -its apostle of Pessimism. “I am taking lessons in Spanish,” he writes -from another inn. “I teach Russian to as poor a devil as myself, in -exchange for his help in his own tongue. Between us we are making -creditable progress. He is writing an article on the Russian novelists -for a review that will pay him something like twopence a page. Yet he -preserves his faith in literature! Mighty indeed is man’s capacity for -cherishing illusions. I advised him to break stones for a lucrative -change, but he seems to doubt the value of the advice since I do not -follow it myself. This is one of the things that prove man a rational -being. We read Castrès together. You have doubtless heard of Castrès, -the poet of Spain, and said to be sufficiently sedative as regards -the happy hopes of youth. Such is my Spaniard’s description in reply -to a question of mine upon his tendencies. I have inserted the phrase -as a concession to the perverse taste for local colouring. The phrase -paints the man; he lives upon onions and bread into the bargain, and -dreams with a cigarette between his lips. This morning I went to see -Castrès.... I found the great man writing and smoking at the same time -in a big sparsely furnished bedroom. He is low-sized and heavily built, -with soft black eyes and a forest of hair round and about his sallow -face. He looks as if he dined well and liked women. There is always -something unctuous and fatuous about a man who likes women, which -becomes intolerably accentuated if women should happen to like him too. -The expression suggests a mixture of oil and sugar. We discussed the -_Décadents_ under their new name, and hardly appreciated the advantage -of exchange, symbolism being no whit less empty and vapid; another -demonstration of the worthlessness of novelty, since, however much we -vary things, we end where we start, at the Unchangeable. Castrès agrees -with me that Naturalism is dead; but what the devil, he asked, is -going to take its place? Naturalism under a new name, I replied, which -is only romance upside down. Whether we invent animals or angels, it -matters little. It is romancing all the same, and only proves that one -man likes _eau sucrée_ and another likes _absinthe_. It is a concoction -either way, and about as useful in one form as in the other.... Of -Castrès the man I thought as indifferently as I did of Castrès the -poet. I asked him how Pessimism stood in Spain, and who were its -representatives. He shrugged, spat, and surveyed me dismissingly, and -with his big soft eyes.... ‘_Caramba!_ I can’t say I know much about -it. But I believe it will never flourish here. We have too much sun, -and life is, on the whole, easy enough for us. An hour of sunshine, a -crust of bread, and a bunch of grapes, or the taste of an onion and a -lifted wine-skin upon the roadside, and there you have a Spaniard built -and ready for love-making. What more does he want? And in a land where -women are fair and facile, wherefore should he whine, and see black -where God made blue? I have here a volume of poems just published by a -young girl--Señorita Pilar Villafranca y Nuño. I have glanced through -the volume, and I don’t think you can ask for anything finer in the way -of Pessimism. It is enough to make a sane man cut his throat, if he had -not the good sense to pause beforehand, in distrust of the sincerity of -the writer who could survive the proof-reading of such dismal stuff. It -reminds me of what I have heard of Schopenhauer, who, after wrecking -all our altars, could sit down and enjoy a heavy dinner. He despised -none of the pleasures of life in practice, while decrying them all in -theory. You’ll probably find that this young woman dines heartily, and -employs her evenings over her wedding outfit, if she is not already -married and nursing her first baby. I took the book away and read it -with my poor devil that evening. You will not be surprised to learn -that I found it very much superior to anything of Castrès’ I have read. -He might well sneer at her in self-preservation, that being the weapon -the strong have ever preferred to use against the weak. It is bad -enough to find real talent in a young woman, but absolute unbelief, the -doctrine of complete negation! To find in this land of To-morrow, a -feminine apostle of the _Nirvana_....”’ - -‘Ah,’ interrupted Gaston, ‘I was wondering what had become of the word.’ - -‘“A feminine apostle of the _Nirvana_,”’ continued Rameau, with an -expressive smile. ‘“Judge if masculine opinion in Spain would be -indulgent. Even my poor devil, though no less struck than I with the -poetry, found it much too strong for a woman. ‘But she is doubtless -old, and then it matters less. The discontents and disappointments of -old maidenhood have drifted her into deep learning and irreligion,’ -he added, by way of consolation. ‘Old or young,’ I exclaimed, ‘it is -all one to me. For me she is a thinker, not a woman. And I am going -straight off to her publisher, from whom I’ll wrest her address, if -need be, by reason of a thick stick.’ - -‘“The services of a stick were not required. My request was immediately -complied with. I carried the lady’s book in my hand, and was no doubt -mistaken for a recent purchaser. My poet lives on the fourth floor -in a very shabby house, in a very shabby street at the other end of -Madrid. I deemed it wise to defer my visit until after dinner. It -was half-past eight when I climbed the four flights, and stood on -the landing, anxiously asking myself if I had made up my mind to -ring. Had it not the air of an invasion? While I was yet debating the -door opened, and an untidy-looking maid shot out into the passage. I -captured her before the twilight of the stairs had swallowed her, and -demanded to see the Señorita Pilar Villafranca y Nuño. I understood -that it would not serve me in her eyes to give evidence of uncertainty -or bashfulness. ‘She is inside; knock at the middle door and you’ll -find her,’ screamed the untidy maid, and in another moment she was -whirling down the stairs, and I was left to shut the hall door and -announce myself. - -‘“The house was tidier than the maid. I crossed a scrupulously clean -hall and knocked at the middle door, as I had been directed. A low, -deep voice shouted, _Come in!_ While turning the handle gingerly, I -thought to myself, the poor devil was right; only a woman of massive -proportions and very advanced years could bellow that order. The -scene that met my eyes was prettier than absolute conformity to my -ideas demanded. In a neat little sitting-room, lit by a shaded -lamp, were seated three persons; a stout Spanish woman engaged with -a basket of stockings, a pale, thin young girl with melancholy eyes -of an unusual intensity of gaze, and a small lad sitting at her feet, -and reading aloud from a book they held together. The child had the -girl’s eyes, but while curiosity, belonging to his years, brightened -their sombreness with the promise of surprise and laughter, hers held -an expression of permanent sadness and soft untroubled gloom. It -was superfluous information on the mother’s part, in response to my -mention of the poet’s name, to indicate her daughter majestically, -as if she wished it to be understood that she herself had no part in -the production of matter so suspicious in a woman as poetry. I was on -the brink of assuring her that nobody would ever deem her capable of -such folly, and begging her to return to her stockings as occupation -more appropriate than the entertainment of an admirer of the Muse she -despised, when Pilar quietly said, ‘Be seated, sir.’ From that moment -I took no further heed of the Señora Villafranca than if she had been -the accommodating _dueña_ of Spanish comedy and I the unvirtuous, or -noble but thwarted, lover who had bribed her. In ten minutes Pilar -and I were talking as freely as if we had known one another from -infancy; far more freely, possibly, for in the latter case we should -long ago have talked ourselves to silence. How do these young girls -manage to get hold of books, Rameau, when all the forces of domestic -law are exercised to keep them apart? There is not a living Spanish -or French writer with whom this child, barely out of her teens, is -not acquainted. Her judgment may often be at fault,--whose is not, -if backed by anything like originality? But to hear her discuss -Naturalism! Castrès, puffing his eternal cigarette, walks you through -_les lieux communs_, but this girl takes flights that fairly dazzle -you. And then her Pessimism! The queer thing is that she has found -it for herself, and Schopenhauer has nothing to do with it. For that -matter, nobody living or dead seems to have had anything to do with -the forming of her. She is essentially _primesautière_. You French -do manage to hit upon excellent words; _primesautière_ perfectly -describes this Spanish maid. She is all herself, first of the mould, -fresh, though so burdened with the century’s malady. So young, and she -believes in nothing--but nothing, Rameau! She hopes for nothing, for -nothing! She plays with no emotions, feigns no poetic despairs, utters -no paradoxes, and is simplicity itself in her gestures, expressions, -and ideas. She calmly rejects all the pretty illusions of her sex, -without a pang or regret, because, for her, truth is above personal -happiness. - -‘“We talked, we talked--talked till far into the night, while the -fat mother slumbered noisily in her chair, and the little boy slept -curled up at his sister’s feet. Can you guess what first put it into -my head to go? The smell of the lamp as the wick flickeringly lowered. -‘_Dios mio!_’ cried Pilar, ‘it is close on two o’clock, and we have -been chattering while my mother sleeps comfortlessly in her chair, -and my little brother is dreaming on the carpet instead of in his -bed. Good-night, sir; I must leave you and carry my baby to bed.’ She -stooped and lifted the sleeping boy with her arms. Such bodily strength -in one so frail much astonished me. I would have offered her help, -but the little lad had already found a comfortable spot in the hollow -of her neck, and with a cordial nod to me she disappeared into the -inner room. I had not expected this evidence of womanly tenderness from -her, and the picture haunted me on my way down the dark staircase and -through the dim starlit streets.” - -‘The extracts from the next letters are singularly characteristic,’ -said Rameau, well pleased by our profound attention. ‘Krowtosky, upon -his return to Paris, has taken a third-class ticket from Madrid to -Bayonne. To the poet he has said his last farewell, and probably wears -upon his heart her precious autograph. Not that Krowtosky is ostensibly -sentimental. He rejects the notion of such folly, and if by chance he -dropped into pretty fooling, be sure he would find a philosophical -way out of the disgrace deservedly attached to such weakness. “I am -travelling to Bayonne,” he writes, “and I will reach it to-morrow -afternoon, but I am convinced that once there I shall straightway take -the train back to Madrid. Odd, is it not? Yet I feel that I shall be -compelled to return to that young girl. And this is not love, mark you, -Rameau; not in the least. I know all about that. Did I not study it in -the case of that young girl I met at Toulouse? Well, nothing I feel -for Pilar in any way resembles the foolish sentiment her gestures and -looks expressed. I am quite master of myself, and do not hang on any -one’s lips or glances; but I must see Pilar again. Do you know why I -hesitated outside her door that first evening I called upon her? I had -a presentiment, as I climbed up those stairs, that I should marry her. -We may reject a faith in presentiments, but they shake us nevertheless. -How slowly this train goes! The landscape, across which we speed in the -leisurely movement of Spanish steam, is flat and ugly, an interminable -view of cornfields. There is a wide-hatted priest in front of me with -an open breviary in his hand. Perhaps I shall find myself craving -service of one of his brothers some day. What an odd fellow I am, to be -sure! I intend, oh certainly I intend to take the Paris train to-morrow -night from Bayonne, and as certainly I know I shall find myself on my -way back to Madrid! And it cannot be for the pleasure of passing a -couple of days and nights in a beastly third-class carriage, which is -nothing better here than a cattle-pen....” - -‘Of his reception by the poet, of his sentiments and wooing, he -writes very sparingly. His great terror is that I should detect the -lover where he insists there is only a philosopher. Philosophy took -him from Madrid, and Philosophy brought him back within forty-eight -hours. Philosophy sued, wooed, and won the Muse, and led him to his -wedding-morn. While engaged in its service, he writes in this jocose -strain the very evening of his marriage: “This morning in a dark -little church, in a dark little street of Madrid, we were married. -Though neither of us believes in anything, we agreed to make the usual -concession to conventional feeling and social law, and were married in -the most legal and Christianlike fashion. Nothing was lacking,--neither -rings nor signatures, nor church-bells nor church-fees, nor yet the -excellent and venerable fat priest, a degree uglier than myself, who -obligingly made us one. While this ceremony was being performed, I -could not forget the inconvenient fact that neither of us brought the -other much in the shape of promise of future subsistence, not even -hope, of which there is not a spark between us. This preoccupation -distracted me while the priest mumbled and sermonised, and a wicked -little French couplet kept running through my head: - - Un et un font deux, nombre heureux en galanterie, - Mais quand un et un font trois,--c’est diablerie! - -Meanwhile the fat priest discoursed to my wife, most excellently, upon -the duties and virtues of the true Christian spouse, to which discourse -my wife lent an inattentive ear. Perhaps she also was thinking of the -future,--somewhat tardily. My dear Rameau, have you ever reflected -upon the amazing one-sidedness of religion on these occasions? Wives -are eloquently exhorted to practise all the virtues, and not a word -is flung at the husbands. It is something of course for us to learn, -by the aid of the Church, that all the duty is on the other side, -and that we have nothing to do but command, be worshipped, and fall -foul of infidelity. The beautiful logic of man, and the profound -Pessimism of woman! She never rebels, but accepts all without hope -of remedy. The real Pessimists are women. They admit the fact that -everything is unalterable, evil without amelioration; everything is, -and everything will remain to the end. Man occasionally rises up, and -takes his oppressor by the throat, but woman never. There is a point -at which his patience vanishes, but hers is inexhaustible. She is the -soul and spirit and body of the malady only diagnosed this century. -Conviction that suffering is her only heritage is hers before birth, -and she placidly bends to the law of fate often without a murmur, -always without the faintest instinct of revolt. Is she an idiot or an -angel? The latter rebelled in paradise; then she must be an idiot. Man -is activity, she is inertia; that is why she yields so readily to his -ruling. These are thoughts suitable to the marriage of two Pessimists. -There will be on neither side revolt or stupid demands upon destiny. I -am simply interested in the development of this strange union of the -barbarous North and the barbarous South, and watch this unfamiliar -person, my wife, placed in an enervating proximity by a queer social -institution. I wonder if she will eventually prove explosive; meantime -it is my privilege to kiss her. I have not mentioned it, but she has -very sweet lips.” - -‘After this there is a long lapse of silence. I fear the delights of -poor Krowtosky’s honeymoon were soon enough disturbed by the grim -question of ways and means. As I was only a fair-weather friend in -default of the sympathetic confidant voyaging in distant waters, I -imagine at this period the traveller must have returned, and received -the rest of the journal so wantonly intrusted to me, or Krowtosky must -have confided his troubles to his wife. When next I hear from him, -it is many months later, and he has just obtained a professorship in -a dreary snow-bound place called Thorpfeld. From his description, it -is evidently the very last place God Almighty bethought himself of -making, and by that time all the materials of comfort, pleasure, and -beauty had been exhausted. “As Thorpfeld is not my birthplace,” writes -Krowtosky, “I may befoul it to my liking. It contains about seven -thousand inhabitants, one poorer and more ignorant than another. What -they can want with professors and what the authorities are pleased to -call a college, the wicked government under which we sweat and suffer -and groan alone can tell. Six out of a hundred cannot read, and three -of these can barely write. The less reason have they for a vestige -of belief in man, the more fervent is their faith in their Creator. -Nothing but anticipation of the long-delayed joys of paradise can -keep them from cutting their own and their neighbours’ throats. They -ought to begin with the professors and the rascally magistrates. -As if snow and broken weather were not enough to harass these poor -wretches in pursuit of a precarious livelihood, what little money the -magistrates or the professors leave them is wrung from them by the -popes. Even Pilar is demoralised by her surroundings. She has left -off writing pessimistic poetry, and has betaken herself to Christian -charity. ’Tisn’t much we can do, for we have barely enough to live upon -ourselves, but that little she manages to do somehow or other. These -hearts of foolish women will ever make them traitor to their heads. I -naturally growl when I find our sack of corn diminished in favour of a -neighbour’s hungry children, or return frost-bitten from the college -to find no fire, and learn that my wife has carried a basket of fuel -to a peasant dying up among snow-hills. She does not understand these -people, and they do not understand her, but they divine her wish to -share their wretchedness, her own being hardly less; and then she is a -pretty young woman! Timon himself could hardly have spurned her. But -where’s her Pessimism? Has it vanished with the sun and vines of her -own bright land, or has it found a grave in the half-frozen breast -of a strange Sister of Charity unknown to me and born of the sight of -snow-clad misery such as in Spain is never dreamed of? You see, I am on -the road to poetry instead of my poor changed young wife. - -‘“Last evening when I came home from a farmer’s house, where I had -stopped to warm myself with a couple of glasses of _vodka_, I found her -shivering over the remaining sparks of a miserable fire. She looked so -white and unhappy and alone, so completely the image of a stranger in a -foreign land, to whom I, too, her husband, am a foreigner, that I asked -myself, in serious apprehension, if I might not be destined to lose -her in the coming crisis. ‘Pilar,’ I cried, ‘what ails thee?’ And when -she turned her head I saw that she was crying silently. ‘I want my own -land; I want the sun and vines of Spain, where at least the peasants -have wine and sunshine in abundance whatever else they may lack!’ I -should think so, I grimly muttered, remembering that over there the -mortar that built up the walls of a town was wet with wine instead of -water, and that fields are sometimes moistened with last year’s wine -when the new is ready. Pilar is right, my friend. There is no poverty -so sordid and awful as that of the cold North. But what could I do? I -could not offer her the prospect of change. She was sobbing bitterly -now, and I had no words of comfort for her. If only she had not -forsaken her principles and her poetry! But the baby may rouse her when -it comes. She has not smiled since we left Spain, poor girl. We must -wait meanwhile; but Rameau, it is very cold.”’ - -‘Poor little woman!’ murmured Gaston. ‘I hardly know which is the -worst fortune for her, her transplantation or her marriage with that -maundering owl Krowtosky. Krowtosky married to a pretty Spanish poet! -Ye gods, it is a cruel jest! There would have been some appropriateness -in the laundress or the _grisette_, but a Spanish girl with arched feet -and melancholy eyes! I vow the jade Destiny ought to have her neck -wrung for it. Is there a Perseus among us to free this modern unhappy -Andromeda?’ - -‘Poor Krowtosky! he deserves a word too,’ I modestly ventured to -suggest, touched by that little stroke, _It is very cold_, and his fear -of losing his wife. ‘He is more human than he himself is aware, and we -may be sorry for him too.’ - -‘Ah, yes,’ assented Rameau, and he dropped an easy sigh. ‘If he is a -bear, he is an honest bear. His next letter was just a note to announce -the birth of a little girl and the well-being of the mother, which was -followed by a more philosophical communication later, as soon as the -gracious content of motherhood had fallen upon the young Spaniard. -Relieved of his fears, he plunges once again into high speculation, -and throws out queer suggestions as to the result of such conflicting -elements in parentage as those contributed by Spain and Russia. He -has found an occupation of vivid interest,--that of watching the -development of his child, which he is convinced will turn out something -very curious. Pilar, he adds, has so far recovered her old self as to -have written a delicious little poem, which has just appeared in the -_Revista_. It is over there, if any of you can read Spanish.’ - -‘And the baby is now dead,’ said Gaston. - -‘Dead, yes, poor mite! It had not time to show what the mingling of -Spanish and Russian blood might mean. Krowtosky’s letter was most -pitiful. That I will not read to you; it affected me too deeply. It -was the father there who wrote. Unconsciously the little creature had -forced a way into his heart, and discovered it a very big and human -heart despite his Pessimism and Philosophy. What hurt him most was the -cruel hammering of nails into the baby’s coffin, and the sound keeps -haunting him through the long wakeful nights. Of the bereaved mother he -says little. His mind is fixed on the empty cradle and the small fresh -mound in the churchyard, whither he goes every day. I believe myself -that it is the first time his heart has ever been stirred by passionate -love, and now he speaks of never leaving Thorpfeld,--a place he has -been moving heaven and earth to get away from the past six years.’ - -‘I promise you, Professor, that I’ll never laugh at him again,’ said -Gaston, very gravely. ‘There can be nothing absurd about a man who -mourns a little child like that. Give me his address, and I’ll write to -him at once.’ - -‘It may be a distraction for him, and at any rate it will serve to -show him that he is remembered in Paris,’ said Rameau, eager to comply -with the request. We thanked the Professor for his story, with -some surprise at the lateness of the hour. The door-bell rang, and -the appearance of the servant with the evening letters arrested our -departure. With a hand extended to the sobered St. Thomas, Rameau took -the letters and glanced as he spoke at the top envelope, deeply edged -with black. ‘_Tiens!_ a letter from poor Krowtosky,’ he exclaimed. He -broke the seal and read aloud: ‘My dear friend, I thank you for your -kind words in my bereavement. But I am past consolation; I am alone -now; my wife is dead, and my heart is broken.’ - - - - - ARMAND’S MISTAKE - - _To Demetrius Bikélas_ - - - - - ARMAND’S MISTAKE - - - I - -UNTIL the age of twenty-one, Armand Ulrich submitted to the controlling -influences around him,--somewhat gracelessly, be it admitted. He sat -out his uncle’s long dinners, and solaced himself by sketching on -the cloth between the courses. He showed a discontented face at his -mother’s weekly receptions in a big Parisian hotel, and all the while -his heart was out upon the country roads and among the pleasant fields, -where the children played under poplars and dabbled on the brim of -reedy streams. At twenty-one, however, he regarded himself as a free -man, and threw up a situation worth £50,000 a year or thereabouts. -From this we may infer that he was a lad full of bright hopes and fair -dreams. - -He was the only son of a Frenchwoman of noble birth and of the junior -partner of a wealthy Alsatian banking-house. His taste for strolling -and camping out of doors, sketch-book in hand and pipe in mouth, was -partly an inherited taste, with the difference that transmission had -strengthened instead of having weakened the heritage. In earlier -days Ulrich junior had not shown an undivided spirit of devotion to -commercial interests; he had, on the contrary, permitted himself the -treasonable luxury of gazing abroad upon many objects not connected -with the business of the firm. Amateur theatricals had engaged his -affections in youth; five-act tragedies, in alexandrines as long as the -acts, had proved him fickle, and operatic music had sent him fairly -distraught. He aspired to excel in all the arts, and as a fact was -successful in none. - -When congratulated upon his brother’s versatility, Ulrich senior would -contemptuously retort that the fellow was able to do everything except -attend to his business. As a result, he was held in light esteem at -the bank, and the meanest client would have regarded himself insulted -if passed for consultation to this accomplished but incompetent -representative of the firm. However agreeable his tastes may have -rendered him in society, it cannot be denied that they were of a nature -to diminish his commercial authority. Humanity wisely draws the line -at a sonneteering banker, and looks upon the ill-assorted marriage of -account and sketch-book with a natural distrust. - -This state of things broke the banker’s heart. He had a reverence for -the firm of Ulrich Brothers, and if he considered himself specially -gifted for anything, it was for the judicious management of its -affairs. Thus he lived and died a misappreciated and misunderstood -person. To him it was a grievous injustice that he should be treated as -a man of no account, because of a few irregular and purely decorative -accomplishments. His heart might be led astray, he argued, but his head -was untampered with, and that, after all, is the sole organ essential -to the matter of bonds and shares. A man may be a wise head of a family -and an honest husband, and not for that unacquainted with lighter -loves. Such trifles are but gossiping pauses in the serious commotions -and preoccupations of life. But no amount of argument, however logical, -could blind him or others to the fact that commercially he was a dead -failure, because a few ill-regulated impulses had occasionally led -him into idle converse with two or three of the disreputable Nine; -and mindful of this, he solemnly exhorted his son Armand to fix his -thoughts upon the bank, and not let himself be led astray like his -misguided father by illusive talents and disastrous tastes. - -Armand Ulrich was a merry young fellow, who cared not a button for -all the privileges of wealth, and looked upon an office stool with -loathing. He only wanted the free air, his pencil, and a comfortable -pipe of tobacco,--and there he was, as he described himself, the -happiest animal in France. Before his easel he could be serious enough, -but in his uncle’s office he felt an irresistible inclination to burst -into profane song, and make rash mention of such places of perdition -as the Red Mill and the Shepherd Follies,--follies perfectly the -reverse of pastoral. He was not in the least depraved, but he took -his pleasure where he found it, and made the most of it. A handsome -youngster, whom the traditional felt hat and velvet jacket of art -became a trifle too well. At least he wore this raiment somewhat -ostentatiously, and winked a conscious eye at the maids of earth. With -such solid advantages as a bright audacious glance, a winning smile, -and a well-turned figure, he was not backward in his demands upon their -admiration, and it must be confessed, that men in all times have proved -destructive with less material. - -But he was an amiable rogue, not consciously built for evil, and he -cheated the women not a whit more than they cheated him. He knew he was -playing a game, and was fair enough to remember that there is honour -among thieves. For the rest, he was fond of every sort of wayside -stoppages, paid his bill ungrudgingly, in whatever coin demanded, like -a gentleman, and clinked glasses cordially with artists, strollers, and -such like vagabonds. The frock-coated individual alone inspired him -with repugnance, and he held the trammels of respectability in horror. -Whether nature or his art were responsible for a certain loose and -merry generosity of spirit, I cannot say; but I am of opinion that, had -his mind run to bank-books instead of paints, though his work might be -of indifferent quality, he might have proved himself of sounder and -more sordid disposition. - -Even the brightest nature finds a shadow somewhere upon the shine, -and the shade that dimmed the sun for Armand was his mother’s want of -faith in his artistic capacities. He loved his mother fondly, and took -refuge from her wounding scepticism in his conviction that women, by -nature and training, are unfitted to comprehend or pronounce upon the -niceties of art. They may be perfect in all things else, but they have -not the artistic sense, and cannot descry true talent until they have -been taught to do so. It has ever been the destiny of great men to be -undervalued upon the domestic hearth, and ’tis a wise law of Nature -to keep them evenly balanced, and set a limit to their inclination to -assume airs. Thinking thus, he shook off the chill of unappreciated -talent, and warmed himself back into the pleasant confidence that -was the lad’s best baggage upon the road of life. For a moment an -upbraiding word, a cold comment upon dear lips, might check his -enthusiasm and cloud his mirthful glance, but a whistled bar of song, -a smart stroke of pencil or brush, a glimpse of his becoming velvet -jacket in a mirror, were enough to send hope blithely through his -veins, and speed him carolling on the way to fame. - -It chanced one morning that he was interrupted at his easel by a -letter from that domestic unbeliever who cast the sole blot upon his -artist’s sunshine. There was a certain haziness in Armand’s relations -with art. He worked briskly enough at intervals, but he was naturally -an idler. The attitude he preferred was that of uneager waiter upon -inspiration, and he had a notion that the longer he waited, provided -the intervals of rest were comfortably subject to distraction, the -better the inspiration was likely to be. He had neither philosophy nor -moral qualifications to fit him for the jog-trot of daily work. So -that no interruption ever put him out, and no intruder ever found him -other than unaffectedly glad to be intruded upon. Such a youth would of -course attack his letters in the same spirit of hearty welcome that he -fell upon his friends. - -But as he sat and read, his bright face clouded, and his lips screwed -and twisted themselves into a variety of grimaces. He had a thousand -gestures and expressions at the service of his flying moods, and before -he had come to the end of his mother’s letter, not one but had been -summoned upon duty. The letter ran thus:-- - - MY DEAR SON,--It will, I hope, inspire you with a little common sense - to learn that your cousin Bernard Francillon has just arrived from - Vienna to take your place at the bank. I have had a long interview - with your uncle, who makes no secret of his intentions, should you - persist in wasting your youth and prospects in this extravagant - fashion. And I cannot blame him, for his indulgence and patience - have much exceeded my expectations. This absurd caprice of yours - has lasted too long. You are no longer a boy, Armand, but a young - man of twenty-three, and you have no right to behave like a silly - child, who aspires to fly, instead of contentedly riding along in - the solid family coach provided for him. If I had any confidence in - your talent I might, as you do, build my hopes upon your future fame, - and console myself for present disappointment in the faith that your - sacrifice is not in vain. But even a mother cannot be so foolish as - to believe that her son is going to turn out a Raphael because he has - donned a velvet coat and bought a box of paints. Some natural talent - and cultivation will help any young man to become a fair amateur, - perhaps even a tenth-rate artist; but for such it is hardly worth - while to wreck all worldly prospects. Take your father as an example. - He did all things fairly well; he drew, painted, sang, composed, and - wrote. What was the end of it? Failure all round. He had not the - esteem of his commercial colleagues, while the artists, in whose - society he delighted, indulged his tastes as those of an accomplished - banker whose patronage might be useful to them. While he was wrecked - upon versatility, you intend to throw away your life upon a single - illusion. Whose will be the gain? - - Your whim has lasted two years, and you cannot be blind to the little - you have done in that time. You have not had any success to justify - further perseverance. Then take your courage in both hands; assure - yourself that it is wiser to be a good man of business than a bad - artist; lock up your studio and come back to your proper place. If - you do so at once, Bernard will have less chance of walking in your - shoes. He is much too often at Marly, and seems to admire Marguerite; - but I do not think a girl like Marguerite could possibly care for - such a perfumed fop. - - When you feel the itch for vagabondage and sketch-book, you can be - off into the country, and it need never be known that your holidays - are passed in any but the most correct fashion. As for your uncle, he - will not endure paint-boxes or pencils about him. He is still bitter - upon the remembrance of your father’s sins in office hours. I am told - he used to draw caricatures on the blotting pads, and write verses on - the fly-leaves of the account-books. He was much too frivolous for a - banker, and I fear you have inherited his light and unbusinesslike - manners. But be reasonable now, and come at once to your affectionate - mother, - - SOPHIE ULRICH. - -Poor Armand! The mention of Raphael in connection with the velvet coat -and paint-box was a sore wound. It whipped the susceptible blood into -his cheeks, for though sweet-tempered, a sneer was what he could not -equably endure. Surely his mother might have found a tenderer way to -say unpleasant things, if the performance of this duty can ever be -necessary! And bitter to him was the assumption that his choice was -a caprice without future or justification. Having swallowed his pill -with a wry face, he was still in the middle of a subsequent fit of -indigestion, when the door opened, and a young man in a linen blouse -cried gaily: ‘It’s a case of the early bird on his matutinal round.’ - -‘Come in, since the worm is fool enough to be abroad. You may make a -meal of him, my friend, and welcome, but a poor one, for he’s at this -moment the sorriest worm alive.’ - -The young man shot into the room, inelegantly performed a step of the -Red Mill to a couple of bars of unmelodious song of a like diabolical -suggestion, and seated himself on the arm of a chair, twisting both -legs over and round the other arm and back. In this grotesque attitude -he languidly surveyed his friend, and said sentimentally: ‘I have -had a letter from her this morning. She relents, my friend, in long -and flowery phrases, with much eloquence spent upon the harshness -of destiny and the cruelty of parents. Where would happy lovers be, -Armand, if there were no destiny to rail against and no parents to -arrange unhappy marriages?’ - -‘Nowhere, I suppose. Doubtless the parents have the interests of the -future lover in view when they chose the unsympathetic husband, and -everything is for the best. I congratulate you. For the moment, I am -empty-handed, and filled with a sense of the meanness of all things; -so I am in a position to give you my undivided attention,’ said Armand -dejectedly. - -‘What’s this? I come to you, to pour the history of my woes and joys -into a sympathetic bosom, and if you had just buried all your near -relatives you could not look more dismal.’ - -‘I should probably feel less dismal, had I done so. But it is a serious -matter when your art is scoffed at, and you are told that you imagine -yourself a Raphael because you wear a velvet coat and handle a brush.’ - -‘_En effet_, that is a much more serious matter,’ Maurice admitted, and -at once assumed an appropriate air of concern. - -Armand glanced ruefully at his coat sleeve, and began to take off the -garment of obloquy with great deliberateness. - -‘Spare thyself, my poor Armand, even if others spare thee not. Knowest -thou not that the coat is more than half the man? A palette and a -velvet coat have ever been wedded, and why this needless divorce?’ - -‘I will get a blouse like yours, Maurice, and wear it,’ said Armand, -with an air of gloomy resignation befitting the occasion. - -‘And who has reduced you to these moral straits, and to what deity is -the coat a holocaust?’ - -For answer Armand held out his mother’s letter, which the young man -took, and read attentively, with an expression of lugubrious gravity. -He lifted a solemn glance upon Armand, and shook his head like a sage. - -‘Your mother is not a flattering correspondent, I admit. It is clear, -she expected you to justify your immoral choice by an extraordinary -start. She does not define her expectations. ’Tis a way with women. -But I take it for granted that she esteemed it your duty to cut out -Meissonnier, or by a judicious combination of Puvis de Chavannes and -Carolus Duran, show yourself in colours of a capsizing originality, -and finally go to wreck upon a tempest of your own making. For there -is nothing in life more unreasonable than a mother. But go to her -to-morrow, and tell her you have doffed the obnoxious coat, and intend -to live and die in the workman’s modest blouse.’ - -‘I am not going,’ Armand protested sullenly. ‘I have made my choice, -and I can’t be badgered and worried any more about it.’ - -As behoves a poor devil living from hand to mouth upon the -problematical sale of his pictures, Maurice Brodeau had a tremendous -respect for all that wealth implies, and like the rest of the world, -regarded Armand’s renunciation of it as a transient caprice that by -this time ought to be on the wing. He expressed himself with a good -deal of sound sense, and thereby evoked a burst of wrathful indignation. - -‘Money! Money! Ah, how I hate the word, hate still more the look of the -thing! I have watched them at the bank shovelling gold, solid gold -pieces, till my heart went sick. Where’s the good of it? It fills the -prisons, takes all life and brightness out of humanity, builds us iron -safes, and turns us into sordid-minded knaves. Where’s the crime that -can’t be traced to its want? and where’s the single ounce of happiness -it brings? We are dull with it, envious without it, and yet it is only -the uncorrupted poor who really enjoy themselves and who are really -generous. The rich man counts where the poor man spends, and which -of the two is the wiser? In God’s name, let us knock down the brazen -idol, and proclaim, without fear of being laughed at, that there are -worthier and pleasanter objects in life, and that it is better to watch -the fair aspects of earth than to jostle and strive with each other -in its mean pursuit. My very name is distasteful to me, because it -represents money. It is a password across the entire world, at which -all men bow respectfully. And yet, I vow, I would sooner wander through -the squalor and wretchedness of Saint-Ouen, any day, than find myself -in the neighbourhood of the Rue de Grenelle. There may be other houses -in that long street, but for me it simply means the bank. So I feel -upon sight of my mother’s hotel. Her idle and overfed servants irritate -me. Everything about her brings the air of the bank about my nostrils, -and I only escape it here, where, thank God, I have not got a single -expensive object. I smoke cheap cigarettes, which my poorest friends -can buy. I drink beer, and sit on common chairs. Well, these are my -luxuries, and I take pride in the fact that there is very little gold -about me. I can sign a cheque for a friend in need, whenever he asks -me, and that’s all the pleasure I care to extract from the legacy of my -name. For the rest, I would forget that I have sixpence more than is -necessary for independence.’ - -A youth of such moral perversity was not to be driven down the -cotton-spinner’s path, you perceive, and Maurice, with the tact and -discretion of his race, forbore further argument, and contented himself -with a silent shrug. - -But Madame Ulrich was not so discreet. She was a woman of -determination, moreover, and knew something of her son’s temperament. -If in her strife with what Armand gloriously called his mistress she -had been worsted, as was shown by the boy’s sulky silence, she could -enlist in her service a weapon of whose terrible power she had no -doubt. A man may sulk in the presence of his mother, but unless he has -betaken himself to the woods in the mood of a Timon, he cannot sulk in -the presence of a beautiful young woman, who comes to him upon sweet -cousinly intent. - -At least Armand could not, and he had too much sense to make an effort -to do so. On the whole, he was rather proud of his weakness as an -inflammable and soft-hearted youth. He saw the fair vision, behind his -mother’s larger proportions, for the first time in his studio, and made -a capitulating grimace for the benefit of his friend, who was staring -at the biggest heiress of Europe with all his might, amazed to find her -such a simple-looking and inexpensively arrayed young creature. Maurice -had perhaps an indistinct notion that the daughters of millionaires -traversed life somewhat overweighted by the magnificence of their -dress, bonneted as no ordinary girl could be, and habited accordingly. - -‘One sees thousands of women dressed like her,’ he thought to himself, -after a quick appraising glance at her gown and hat. ‘A hundred -francs, I believe, would cover the cost. But there is this about -a lady,’ he added, as an after reflection, while his eyes eagerly -followed her movements and gestures, the flow of her garments and the -lines of her neck and back; ‘simplicity is her crown. There is no use -for the other sort to try it; they can’t succeed, and we know them. If -Armand does not follow that girl to bank or battle, he’s an unmannerly -ass.’ - -It was not in Armand to meet unsmilingly the arch glance of a smiling -girl, even if there were not beauty in her to prick his senses and hold -him thrilled. Forgetful of the unwelcome fact that she was worth more -than her weight in solid gold, he melted at the sound of her voice, and -his foolish heart went out to her upon the touch of her gloved fingers. -Not as a lover certainly, for was she not the desired of all unmarried -Europe? There was not a titled or moneyed bride-hunter upon the face -of the civilised world with whom he had not heard her name coupled, -while he was ignorant of the fact that the great man, her father, had -destined him to complete her, until he bolted in pursuit of fortune on -his own account. - -It flattered him to see that she had captivated his friend, too, not -contemptuous of the prospect of exciting a little envy in the breast -of that individual; and he shot him a look of radiant gratitude when -he saw him bent upon engaging the attention of Madame Ulrich, who was -nothing loth to be so caught. She smiled sadly, as Maurice chattered -on in high praise of her son’s genius, and quoted the opinion of their -common master in evidence of his own discernment. From time to time she -cast a hopeful eye upon the cousins, and mentally thanked Marguerite -for her delicate tact and rare wisdom. - -Not a word of comment or surprise upon the bareness of the studio -or the shabbiness of the single-cushioned chair upon which she sat; -no allusion to his sacrifice, or wonder at it. The charming girl -seemed to take it for granted that a lad of talent should find the -atmosphere of commerce irksome, and gallantly admitted that such a -choice would have been hers, had she been born a boy. To wander about -the world with a knapsack, and eat in dear little cheap inns with rough -peasants; to wear a silk kerchief and no collar, and have plenty of -pockets filled with cord and penknives, and matches, and tobacco, and -pencils, and pocketbooks; to sleep under the stars, and bear a wetting -bravely,--this is the sort of thing she vowed she would have enjoyed, -did petticoats and sex and other contrarieties not form an impediment. - -Such pretty babble might not be intended to play into her elders’ -hands, Madame Ulrich perhaps thought, but it was very wise play for -that susceptible organ, a young man’s heart, whether conscious or not. -And that once gained, one need never despair of the reversal of all his -idols for love. - -When they left the studio, Armand stood looking after them, with his -hands in his pockets, under his linen blouse, plunged in profound -meditation, the nature of which he revealed soon to his friend. - -‘And to think there goes the biggest prey male rascal ever sighed for, -Maurice. What title do you imagine will buy her? Prince or duke, for -marquis is surely below the mark. Think of it, my friend. There is -hardly a wish of hers that money cannot gratify, unless it be a throne -or a cottage. And the throne itself is easier come by for such as -she than the cottage. What an existence! What a dismal future! What -lassitude! What hunger, by and by, for dry bread and cheese and common -pewter! A more nauseous destiny must it be, that of the richest woman -in the world than even that of the richest man. At least a man can -smoke a clay pipe, and take to drink, or the road to the devil in any -other way. But what is there left a woman whose wedding trousseau will -contain pocket-handkerchiefs that cost a hundred pounds apiece! My -aunt Mrs. Francillon’s handkerchiefs cost that. Mighty powers! what an -awful way these charming and futile young creatures are brought up! And -you see for yourself, this girl is no mere fashionable fool. She, too, -would have sacrificed the title and the handkerchiefs, if it were not -for the restrictions with which she has been hedged from birth. Let -us bless our stars, Maurice, that we were not born girls, and equally -bless our stars that girls are born for us.’ - - - II - -Madame Ulrich and her niece came again to the studio. They came very -often. Armand began by counting the days between their visits, and -ended in such a state of lyrical madness that Romeo was sobriety itself -alongside of him. In anticipation of the sequel, Maurice supported the -trial of his morning, midday, and evening confidences with a patience -deserving the envy of angels. And not a thought of commiseration had -the raving young madman for him, and only sometimes remembered, at the -top of his laudatory bent, to break off with courteous regret for the -unoccupied state of his friend’s heart. - -‘I wish to God you were married to her,’ said Maurice one day, and -Armand naturally trusted the prayer would be heard at no distant period. - -It was the hour of Marguerite’s visit. To see the charming girl -seated in the shabby arm-chair he had bought at a sale in the Hôtel -Drouot, so perfectly at home, and so naïvely pleased with little -inexpensive surprises, such as a bunch of flowers in a common jar, -an improvised tea made over their daily spirit-lamp, much the worse -for constant use; to see her so vividly interested in the everyday -life of a couple of Bohemians, the cost of their marketings, their -bargains, and the varieties of their meals, their cheap amusements, -unspoiled by dress-suit or crush hat, and eager over that chapter of -their distractions that may safely be recounted to a well-bred maiden. -Armand had never known any pleasure in his life so full of freshness -and untainted delight. Bitterly then did he regret that there should -be episodes upon which a veil must be dropped. These, I suppose, are -regrets common to most honest young fellows for the first time in -love. He would have liked to be able to tell her everything, not even -omitting his sins; as she sat there, and listened to him with an air so -divinely confiding and credulous. He had a wild notion that he might -be purified from past follies, and not a few dark scenes he dared not -remember in her presence, if he might kneel and drop his humbled head -in her lap, and feel the touch of her white hands as a benediction and -an absolution upon his forehead. He was full of all sorts of romantic -and sentimental ideas about her, little dreaming that the clock of fate -was so close upon the midnight chimes of hope, and that the curtain was -so soon to drop upon this pleasant pastoral played to city sounds. - -One day his mother came alone. One glance took in the blank -disappointment of his expression and all its meaning. She scrutinised -him sharply, and found the ground well prepared for the words of wisdom -she had come to sow. She spoke of Marguerite, and the troubled youth -drank in the sound of her voice with avidity. Did he love his cousin? -How could he tell? He knew nothing but that he lived upon her presence; -that the thought of her filled the studio in her absence; that he dwelt -incessantly upon the memory of her words and looks and gestures. This -he supposed was love, only he wished the word were fresher. It was -applied to the feeling inspired by ordinary girls, whereas she was -above humanity, and he was quite ready to die for one kiss of her lips. - -When the blank verse subsided, Madame Ulrich bespoke the commonplace -adventure of marriage, and made mention of two serious rivals, an -English marquis and his cousin Bernard Francillon. The mention of the -marquis he endured, and sighed; but his cousin’s name stung his blood -like a venomous bite, he could not tell why. His brain was on fire, and -he sat with his head in his hands in great perplexity. - -It was the hour of solemn choice; the renunciation of his liberty -and pleasant vagabondage, or the hugging in private for evermore of -a sweet dream that would make a symphonious accompaniment to his -march upon the road of life. Could the flavour of his love survive -the vulgarity of wealth, of newspaper-paragraphs, wedding-presents, -insincere congratulations, a honeymoon enjoyed under the stare of the -gazing multitude, the dust of social receptions, dinners, and all the -ugly routine he had flown from? On the other hand, could he ask a -daintily reared girl, like his cousin, to tramp the country roads and -fields with him, to wander comfortless from wayside inn to hamlet, -and back to an ill-furnished studio, at the mercy of the seasons, and -with no other luxuries than kisses, which for him, he imagined, would -ever hold the rapture and forgetfulness of the first one? The choice -meant the clipping of his own wings, and perhaps moral death; for her, -ultimate misery, or the tempered loveliness of a dream preserved, and -substantial bliss rejected. - -He could not make up his mind that day, and sent his mother away -without an answer. Maurice Brodeau was not informed of his dilemma. -It was matter too delicate in this stage for discussion. But the night -brought him no nearer to decision, and standing before his easel, -making believe to be engaged upon a sketch he had lately taken at -Fontainebleau, he held serious debate within himself whether he ought -to consult his friend or not. - -In his studio upstairs, Maurice was loitering near the window in an -idle mood, and saw a quiet brougham stop in front of their house in the -Avenue Victor Hugo. He watched the slow descent of an old man dressed -in a shabby frock-coat, untidily cravated, who leaned heavily upon a -thick-headed cane. The old gentleman surveyed the green gate on which -were nailed the visiting-cards of the two artists, and jerked up a -sharp pugnacious chin. - -‘Our ancient uncle, the respectable and mighty banker, of a surety,’ -laughed Maurice, on fire for the explanation of the riddle. - -The head of the firm of Ulrich pushed open the gate, sniffed the air of -the damp courtyard, and solemnly mounted the wooden stairs, making a -kind of judicial thud with his heavy stick. - -‘The jackanapes!’ he muttered, for the benefit of a tame cat. ‘It is -a miracle how these young fools escape typhoid fever, living in such -places.’ - -Maurice cautiously peeped over the banisters, and saw the old gentleman -turn the handle of Armand’s door without troubling to knock. ‘Good -Lord!’ thought the watcher, ‘it is fortunate friend Armand has broken -with that little devil Yvette, or the old bear might have had the -chance of putting a fine spoke in his wheel with cousin Marguerite.’ - -Armand in his linen blouse was standing in front of his easel, with -his back to the door. He was certainly working, but his mind was not -so fixed upon his labour but that he had more than an odd thought for -his cousin. Pretty phrases, gestures, and expressions of hers kept -running through his thoughts, as an under-melody sometimes runs through -a piece of music, unaggressively but soothingly claiming the ear. They -brought her presence about him, to cheer him in the midst of his solemn -preoccupations upon their mutual destiny. While his reason said no, and -he regarded himself as a fine fellow for listening to reason at such -a moment, her lips curved and smiled and bent to his in imagination’s -first spontaneous kiss. And then he told himself pretty emphatically -that he was growing too sentimental, and that it behoves a man to take -his pleasure and his pains heartily and bravely, and not go abroad -whimpering for the moon. Just when he had made up his mind to shoulder -his moral baggage and, whistling merrily, face the solitary roads, he -was made to jump and fall back into perplexity by a crusty, well-known -voice. - -‘Well, young man! So this is where you waste your time?’ - -Armand swung round in great alarm, and reddened painfully. - -‘You look astounded, and no wonder. ’Tis an honour I don’t often pay -young idiots like you. Ouf, man! Look at his dirty jacket. Your father -was a rock of sense in comparison. At least, he did not get himself -up like a baker’s boy, and go roystering in company with a band of -worthless rascals.’ - -‘I presume, uncle, you have come here for something else besides the -pleasure of abusing my father to me.’ - -‘There he is now, off in a rage. Can’t you keep cool for five minutes, -you hot-headed young knave? What concern is it of mine if you choose -to die in the workhouse? But there’s your mother. It frets her, and I -esteem your mother, young sir.’ - -Armand lifted his brows discontentedly. He held his tongue, for there -was nothing to be said, as he had long ago beaten the weary ground of -protest and explanation. - -‘The rascal says nothing, thinks himself a great fellow, I’ve no doubt. -The Almighty made nothing more contrary and mischievous than boys. They -have you by the ears when you want to sit comfortably by your fireside. -Finds he’s got a heart too, I hear. Mayhap that will sober him, though -I’m doubtful.’ - -Armand stared, and changed colour like a girl. He eyed his uncle -apprehensively, and began to fiddle with his brushes. ‘I--I don’t -understand you, sir,’ he said tentatively. - -‘Yes, you do, but you think it well to play discretion with me. I’m the -girl’s father, and there’s no knowing how I may take it, eh, you young -villain?’ - -The old man pulled his nephew’s ear, and laughed in a low chuckling -way peculiar to crusty old gentlemen. - -‘Has my mother spoken to you about,--about----?’ - -‘Suppose she hasn’t, eh? What then?’ - -‘I am completely in the dark,’ Armand gasped. ‘How could you guess such -a thing, uncle?’ - -‘Suppose I haven’t guessed it either, eh? What then?’ - -Armand’s look was clearly an interrogation, almost a prayer. He -blinked his lids at the vivid flash of conjecture, and shook his head -dejectedly against it. ‘You can’t mean--no, it cannot be that----’ - -The old man waggled a very sagacious head. - -‘Marguerite!’ shouted the astounded youth, and there was a feeling of -suffocation about his throat. - -‘Suppose one foolish young person liked to believe she had a partner in -her folly, eh, young man? What then?’ - -‘My cousin, too!’ - -‘And if it were so, eh? What then?’ - -‘Good God! uncle, why do you come and tell me this?’ The dazed lad -began to walk about distractedly, and was not quite sure that it was -not the room that was walking about instead of his own legs. - -‘I think we may burn the sticks and daubs and brushes now, eh, young -man?’ laughed the old man, waggling his stick instead of his head in -the direction of Armand’s easel, and giving a contented vent to his -peculiar chuckle. ‘Burn the baker’s blouse, and dress yourself like -a Christian. When you are used to the novelty of a coat and a decent -dinner, you may come down to Marly and see that giddy-pated girl -of mine. But a week of steady work at the bank first, and mind, no -paint-boxes or dirty daubers about the place. If I catch sight of any -long-haired fellow smelling of paint, I’ll call the police.’ - -Armand gazed regretfully round his little studio. He picked out each -familiar object with a sudden sense of separation and a wish to bear -them ever with him in that long farewell glance. But the sadness was -a pleasant sadness, for was not happy love the beacon that lured him -forth, and when the heart is young what lamp shines so radiantly and -invites so winningly? Still, it was a sacrifice, though beyond lay the -prospect of a lover’s meeting, in which the thought of stuff so common -as gold would lie buried in the first pressure of a girl’s lips. - -‘You are not decided, I daresay?’ sneered his uncle. - -Armand met his eyes unflinchingly, and held out his hand. ‘A man who is -worth the name can’t regret love and happiness. For Marguerite’s sake I -will do my best in the new life you offer, and I thank you, uncle, for -the gift.’ - -‘That young fop from Vienna will feel mighty crestfallen,’ was the -reflection of the head of the Ulrich Bank, as he hobbled downstairs. -He disliked the elegant Bernard, and was himself glad to have back -his favourite nephew, though the means he had employed to secure that -result might not be of unimpeachable honesty. - -The banker’s departure was the signal for Maurice, on the look-out -upstairs. He bounded down the stairs, three steps at a time, and shot -in upon the meditative youth. Armand glanced up, and smiled luminously. -‘The besieged has capitulated, Maurice.’ - -‘So I should think. For some time back you have worn the air of a man -on the road to bondage.’ - -Brodeau had never for an instant doubted that this would be the end of -it. He mildly approved the conventional conclusion, though not without -private regrets of his own. - -‘A girl’s eyes have done it,’ sighed Armand sentimentally. - -‘Of course, of course, the old temptation. But she would have inveigled -Anthony out of his hermitage. A sorry time you’ll have of it, I -foresee, though I honestly congratulate you. It is a thing we must -come to sooner or later, and the escapades of youth have their natural -end, like all things else. Only lovers believe in eternity, until they -have realised the fragility of love itself. It was absurd to imagine -you could go on flouting fortune for ever, and living in a shanty like -this, with a palace ready for you on the other side of the river. But -there is consolation for me in the thought that you will give me a big -order in commemoration of your marriage--eh, old man?’ - -When it came to parting the young men wrung hands with a sense of more -than ordinary separation. For two years had they shared fair and -foul weather, and camped together out of doors and under this shabby -roof, upon which one was now about to turn his back. The days of merry -vagabondage were at an end for Armand, and his face was now towards -civilisation and respectable responsibilities. He might revisit this -scene of pleasant Bohemia, and find things unchanged, but the old -spirit would not be with him, and the zest of old enjoyments would be -his no more. - -‘Many a merry tramp we’ve had together, Armand,’ said Maurice, and -he felt an odd sensation about his throat, while his eyelids pricked -queerly. ‘We’ve got drunk together on devilish bad wine, and pledged -ourselves eternally to many a worthless jade. We’ve smoked a pipe we -neither of us shall forget, and walked beneath the midnight stars in -many a curious place. And now we part, you for gilded halls and wedding -chimes, I to seek a new comrade, and make a fresh start across the -beaten track of Bohemia.’ - -Maurice crammed his knuckles furiously into his eyes. His eloquence had -mounted to his head, and flung him impetuously into his friend’s arms -with tears streaming down his cheeks. ‘You’ll come back again, won’t -you, Armand?’ - -‘Come back? Yes,’ Armand replied sadly; ‘but I shall feel something -like Marius among the ruins of Carthage.’ - -‘I’ll keep your velvet jacket, and when you are tired of grandeur -and lords and dukes, you can drop in here and put it on, and smoke a -comfortable pipe in your old arm-chair.’ - -Maurice went straightway to the nearest café, and spent a dismal -evening, consuming bock after bock, until he felt sufficiently -stupefied to face his solitary studio, where he shed furtive tears -in contemplation of all his friend’s property made over to him as an -artist’s legacy. - -Though brimming over with happiness and excitement, Armand himself was -not quite free of regret for the relinquished velvet jacket and brushes -and boxes, as he made his farewell to wandering by a journey on the -top of an omnibus from the Étoile to the Rue de Grenelle, and solaced -himself with a cheap cigarette. - -For one long week did he work dutifully at the bank, inspected books -with his uncle, and repressed an inclination to yawn over the dreary -discussion of shares and bonds and funds, of vast European projects -and policies in jeopardy, and he felt the while a smart of homesickness -for the little studio in the Avenue Victor Hugo. In the evening he -dined with his mother, and found consolation for the irksomeness of -etiquette in the excellence of the fare. He thought of Marguerite -incessantly, and spoke of her whenever he could, but he did not forget -Maurice or the cooking-stove, on which their dinners in the olden days -had so often come to grief. He might sip Burgundy now, yet he relished -not the less the memory of the big draughts of beer which he and -Maurice had found so delicious. - - - III - -But all these pinings and idle regrets were silenced, and gave place to -rapturous content the first afternoon on which he walked up the long -avenue of his uncle’s country house at Marly. The week of trial was at -an end, and he was now to claim his reward from dear lips. Everything -under the sun seemed to him perfect, and even banks had their own -charm, discernible to the happy eye. There was a beauty in gold he -had hitherto failed to perceive, and crusty old gentlemen were the -appropriate guardians of lovely nymphs. In such a mood, there is melody -in all things, and warmth lies even in frosted starlight. Nothing -but the sweetness of life is felt: its turbidness and accidents, its -disappointments, pains, and stumbles, lie peacefully forgotten in the -well of memory; and we wish somebody could have told us in some past -trouble that the future contained for us a moment so good as this. - -‘Mademoiselle is in the garden,’ a servant informed him, and led the -way through halls and salons, down steps running from the long window -into a shaded green paradise. And then he heard a fresh voice that -he seemed not to have heard for so long, and on hearing it only was -his heart made aware how much he had missed it during the past age of -privation. - -‘Ah, my cousin Armand!’ - -There was a young man dawdling at her feet in an attitude that sent -the red blood to Armand’s forehead. This was Bernard Francillon, -his other and less sympathetic cousin. The young man jumped up, and -measured him in a stare of insolent interrogation, and Marguerite, -with a look of divine self-consciousness and a lovely blush, said, -very softly: ‘So, Armand, you have let yourself be tamed, and you -have actually forsaken your delightful den, I hear. How could you, my -cousin? The cooking-stove, the fishing-rod, the easel, blouse, and -velvet jacket,--all abandoned for the less interesting resources of our -everyday existence!’ - -Her eyes and voice were full of arch protest, and her smile went to the -troubled lad’s head, more captivating than wine. ‘It was for your sake, -Marguerite,’ he answered timidly, in tones dropped to an unquiet murmur. - -‘Permit me, cousin, to retire for the moment,’ said Bernard, turning -his back deliberately upon his disconcerted relative. - -What was it in their exchanged looks, in their clasped hands, in -Bernard’s unconscious air of fond proprietorship, in Marguerite’s -half droop towards him of shy surrender, that carried to Armand the -conviction of fatal error? He watched his rival departing, and turned -a blank face upon the radiant girl, whose delicious smile had all the -eloquence and trouble of maiden’s relinquished freedom. She met his -white empty gaze with a glance more full and frank than the one she -had just lifted so tenderly to Bernard Francillon. ‘I don’t understand -you, Armand. Why for my sake?’ - -‘It was your father’s error. He thought you loved me, and I, heaven -help me! till now I thought so too,’ he breathed in a despairing -undertone, not able to remove his eyes from her surprised and -delicately concerned face. - -‘Poor Armand! I am very sorry,’ was all she said, but the way in which -she held her hand out to him was a mute admission of his miserable -error. He lifted the little hand to his lips, and turned from her in -silence. - -The sun that had shone so brightly a moment ago was blotted from the -earth, and the music of the birds was harsh discordance, as he wandered -among the evening shadows of the woods. All things jarred upon his -nerves, until night dropped a veil upon the horrible nakedness of his -sorrow. He felt he wore it upon his face for all eyes to see, and -he thanked the darkness, as it sped over the starry heavens. Beyond -the beautiful valley, where the river flowed, the spires and domes -and bridges of Paris showed through the reddish glimmer of sunset as -through a dusty light. Soon there would be noise and laughter upon the -crowded boulevards, and a flow of carriages making for the theatres -through the flaunting gas-flames; and happy lovers in defiant file -would be driving towards the Bois. How often had he and Maurice watched -them on foot, as they smoked their evening cigarette, and sighed or -laughed as might be their mood. Would he ever have the heart to laugh -at lovers again, or laugh at anything, he wondered drearily! And there -was no one here to remind him that sorrow, like joy, is evanescent, and -that all wounds are healed. _Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe,_--even -pain and broken hearts. - -Here silence was almost palpable to the touch, like the darkness of -Nature dropping into sleep. He turned his back upon Paris, and faced -the dim country. - - - - - MR. MALCOLM FITZROY - - _A Don José Maria de Pereda - de la Academía Real_ - - - - - MR. MALCOLM FITZROY - - - I - -IT is all very well and worthy to devote a lifetime, or part of it, to -the study of foreign architecture. But a friend reproachfully reminded -Fred Luffington that English minsters are worth a glance. Fred did not -dispute it. There was a certain charm in the novelty of the idea. So he -packed his portmanteau, and took the boat to Dover, to assure himself a -pleasant surprise. - -At York he bethought himself of an amiable old Flemish priest, in -whose company he had studied a good deal of Antwerp at a time when -Antwerp wore for him the colours and glory and other attendant joys -of paradise. The priest, he remembered, was settled hard by, as the -chaplain of a Catholic earl. He would take the opportunity of studying -village life as well as the minsters of England; and smoke a pipe of -memory, and drink big draughts of the beer of other days, with his -friend, the Flemish priest. - -Fendon was as comfortable a little village as any to be dreamed of out -of Arcadia. Its warm red roofs made a cosy circle under the queerest of -rural walls, round a delightful green. A real green, a goose common, -with an umbrella tree in the middle, and a village pump under an odd -grey dome of stone supported by rough pillars. All the houses were -buried in trees, and all the palings overgrown with honeysuckles. - -Fred Luffington sniffed delightedly. Though it was June, there was -plenty of damp in the air, and lovely moist smells came from the hedges -and fields. Yes; this was enchantment, a whiff of pure sixteenth -century, the very thing described by old-fashioned writers as ‘Merrie -England.’ It did not look very merry, to be sure; rather sleepy and -still. But it was not difficult to swing back upon imagination into the -days of Good Queen Bess. - -Fred’s glance grew vague, and the lyrical mood was upon him. He mused -upon may-poles, foaming tankards, and the rosy maids and swains of -the centuries when there was ‘love in a village.’ There were no rosy -maids or sighing swains about, but he imagined them along with the rest -of Elizabethan decorations, evoked confusedly by remembrance of past -readings. - -Everything combined to keep him in good humour. The name of his inn, -the only inn, was ‘St. George and the Dragon.’ Who but a scoffer or -a heathen could fail to sleep well at an inn so gloriously named? As -an archæologist, Fred was neither, so naturally he slept the sound -sleep of the believer, somebody infinitely superior to the merely -just man. Anybody may be just, but it takes a special constitution to -believe, in the proper manner. Fred Luffington was all that is most -special in the way of constitutions, so after a charmed inspection -of the sign-board--a rude picture of the saint in faded colours on a -semi-effaced horse with a remarkable dragon at his feet--he sauntered -in through the porch to be confronted with a perfectly ideal buxom -landlady. This was more than heaven, he devoutly felt, and said his -prayers on the spot to the god of chance, who so benevolently watches -over the humours of romantic young men. - -Mrs. Matcham, spick and span and respectable, beamed him welcome of a -mediæval cordiality. He felt at once it was good to be with her, and -took shame to himself for having been so long enamoured of foreign -parts, and unacquainted with the pleasant aspects of English country -life. She deposited his bag on a table at the bottom of a red-curtained -four-poster, and remarked that she was granting him the privilege -of occupying the room of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy. There was such a full -accompaniment of condescension and favour in her smile, and so complete -a signification of the importance and fame of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, that -Luffington felt abashed by his own ignorance of the personality of the -local great man, and kept a discreet silence. - -When he descended to the dining-room, his delightful landlady, entering -with the tray, paused in critical survey of the table. - -‘I have placed your seat before the fireplace, sir. Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -always prefers it so. But perhaps you would like to sit in front of the -window.’ - -Luffington seized the fact that any taste but that of the mysterious -great man’s would be evidence of inferiority. But it was necessary to -make a stand for originality. The expected docility fired revolt in -his veins. At the price of consideration, he decided for the window in -front, instead of the fireplace behind. The pleasures and pangs of our -life depend upon little things, and the little thing in question gave -a silly satisfaction to Luffington, and disproportionately pained the -good landlady. - -After his late lunch, Luffington strolled forth to pick up rural -sensations on his way to the Flemish priest’s. He encountered glances -of dull interest, but nowhere the rosy village maid and her pursuant -swain that his studies in pastoral literature had taught him to expect -as the obvious decoration of a quiet rustic scene. - -‘There is nothing so misleading as literature, unless, perhaps, -history,’ he observed, in a fond retrospect of the centuries. ‘The -disappointments of the present build for us the illusions of the -future,’ he added incoherently. - -The Flemish priest was tending his bees, with a thick blue veil tied -over his felt hat, when he heard the garden gate swing upon its hinges. -He looked up and saw an elegant young man pointing, as he came along, -a meditative cane in the neighbourhood of his dearest treasures, a row -of white and blue irises. - -‘_Santa Purissima!_ Can these sons of perdition not learn to keep their -shticks and their long limbs from ze borders if they must invade our -gardens?’ - -He slipped off his veil and showed a fat yellow face streaked with the -red of anger. Luffington held out his hand, laughing. - -‘By all that’s holy! My young friend of Antwerp. Welcome, welcome! -Ah, my boy! how many, six, eight years ago! What a lad you were then -with your dreams of love and fame! And how have they fared, those -dreams--eh? Gone ahead, or dropped behind, as ’tis the way with young -dreams? _Hein!_’ - -Luffington nodded sentimentally, like one rocked upon sudden waves of -regret. The dreams had dropped behind with the years, and it was an -effort to recall them to vivider shape than a cloud with a sunny ray -upon it. - -‘Have you any of the old tobacco?’ he asked. ‘A pipe might lead us over -the forgotten ground again, and revive the dead persons of that little -Antwerp drama. You’ve added bees to botany, I see. Could you get up -a massacre of the drones while I am here? I’ve never been able to put -full faith in all the astounding stories we have of the bees, and might -be converted by a practical demonstration.’ - -‘Come along inside, and leave my bees alone, you insolent sceptic of -the world. That’s your French air--the very worst to breathe. I suppose -you take brandy and mud in your literature, too. I heard you talk of -Dumas once, and thought it bad, but now, of course, you’re down with -the naturalists, the symbolists, and the philosophers of insanity.’ - -‘Not a bit. I haven’t got beyond dear old Dumas, where you left me. -And here I am, anchored momentarily in Arcadia, among the bees and the -flowers, under the protection of St. George, with a mighty minster near -at hand.’ - -Under the congenial influences of Pilsener and a certain French tobacco -affected by the pair, they sat in a book-lined study and talked of many -things. It was only at table, later, that Luffington, over his soup, -remembered to mention the name of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy. - -‘An old friend of the family,’ the priest explained, meaning the earl -and his wife. Upon the Harborough estates there could, of course, be -only one family in all conversation. - -The priest walked back to the inn with Luffington, and accepted a glass -of rum punch from the hand of Mrs. Matcham. - -‘Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy always says that nobody can make rum punch like -me,’ she remarked, not without the hue of modesty upon her cheek at -sounding her own praises; and her glance sparkled to Luffington’s upon -his acknowledgment of the truth. - -‘There are drawbacks to a sojourn upon the vacant hearth of a god,’ -he said, when the door closed upon her exit. ‘His worshippers are -invidiously reminiscent, and you court unfavourable comparison whether -you sit, sleep, eat, or drink.’ - -But the punch was good, the bed excellent, the quiet conducive to -dreamless sleep. Luffington was abroad early next morning, indifferent -to the thought of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, as he sipped the dew with a -shower of song in his face, and the light at his feet ran along the -grass and through the trees in dimpled rivers of gold. The priest had -told him that the earl loved his trees like children. Fred did not -wonder, as he hailed them ‘magnificent,’ and went his way among them in -full-eyed admiration. - -It was a placid, even scene, such as one dwells on in loving memory -when homesick in far-off lands. Lordly oaks and beeches and sentimental -firs beshadowed the well-trimmed lawny spaces. The air played freely -round and about them, and the light was broad and soft. If you stepped -aside from the lawn and level avenues, you might lose yourself in -the pleasant woods, alive with the chatter of birds, in the midst of -fragrance and gloom. Water was not absent, and if you crossed the -deer-park, you could follow its lazy way to Fort Mary, where the earl -had a summer residence, aptly named by the French governess, ‘Le Petit -Trianon.’ Luffington liked the notion. It was all so artificial, so -costly, so preposterously pastoral, that his mind willingly went back -to Versailles, and the musked and scarlet-heeled century. The ground -was green velvet, unrelieved by as much as a daisy. It demanded Watteau -robes, and periwigged phrases and piping strains of Lulli and Rameau. -The boats were toys upon an artificial lake, and it was like hearing -of children’s games to learn of regattas held here every summer. The -idea of a Venetian fête was more appropriate to celebrate the birth of -the heir, and lords and ladies in rich Elizabethan disguises grouped -upon the velvet sward, upon the balcony of the ‘Trianon,’ or making -pictures of glitter and sharp shadow upon the breast of dark water in -the gleam of variously coloured lamps. - -Luffington stopped to chat with a loutish fellow who was rolling the -ground down to the minute pier, and chopping off the heads of the -innocent daisies, along his path. - -‘The notion of improvement is inseparably wedded to that of -destruction,’ Fred mused, as he placidly surveyed the process, and -dived his stick among the layers of massacred innocents. The thought -opened his lips, but the lout lent an uncomprehending ear to his -speech, shook his head as at obvious eccentricity of reflection, -and rolled on with his look of gross stupidity. This proceeding -disconcerted the traveller, who wanted to talk, and imbibe at the -founts of rustic wit. He glanced around, and spied a little boat -swaying among the rushes. Could he use it? The lout looked up -sideways, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and offered his -daughter as ferryman. At that moment Fred heard a thin unmusical sound, -like that of a string drawn flat: - - ‘Friends, I’ve lost my own true lover, - Tra la la la la la la.’ - -Through a clump of noble trees a little maid approached, not more -beautiful to the eye than was her flat, tuneless voice to the ear. She -assented without any eagerness to row him across the lake, and had -nothing more interesting to communicate than that Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -was very fond of Fort Mary. - -‘Decidedly I must see this fellow if I have to wait a month,’ thought -Fred, with a pardonable feeling of irritation. - -On his way back, he hailed his friend among the flowers and bees, and -stood leaning over the gate to acquaint him with his intention to start -at once upon exploration of the neighbourhood. The Flemish priest stood -in the blaze of sunshine, and mopped his forehead repeatedly before -urging him to wait another day, when he would be able to offer the -advantage of his own trap and himself as guide. - -‘I can’t go to-day,’ he said, with an air of importance. ‘Her ladyship -has appointed this afternoon to come and consult with me about the -schools.’ - -It was evident to Mr. Luffington, as he went off in search of lunch, -that after Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, the Countess of Harborough was the -figure of importance. The defection of his friend and the absence of -romance among the villagers turned him to misanthropy, and as, late in -the afternoon, fatigued after a long walk through the woods, he entered -the inn porch, he told himself emphatically that he would leave Fendon -on his way to the cathedral, and thence return to London. - -He found the inn in a state of unwonted flurry, which was explained to -him by a telegram announcing the arrival of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy upon -the last train. - -‘And I’ve the great man’s room,’ said Fred to himself, laughing, as he -set out for the priest’s cottage. - -The dinner was good, the wine not execrable, the tobacco best of all; -and in excellent spirits, quite restored to his belief in men and -women, Fred started off alone for ‘St. George and the Dragon,’ under a -suspicion of moonlight just enough to send a quiver of silver through -the trees, and show the darkness of the road, but not enough to send -reason distraught down sentimental byways and insistently urge the -advantages of open air meditation. He reached his inn sane and safe, -and bethought himself of unanswered letters. Suddenly he was disturbed -in the glow of composition by the sound of swift steps on the stairs -and the ring of violent, angry speech. - -‘A stranger in my room, Mrs. Matcham! Tut, tut. This is what I cannot -permit. Instantly order him to clear out.’ - -Luffington looked up inquiringly as the door opened with an aggressive -bang, and a queer attractive-looking fellow stood eyeing him -imperiously upon the threshold. He had imagined Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -a respectable English gentleman, florid, prosperous, eminently -aristocratic. He was confronted with the reverse. Before him stood in -a threatening attitude, and frowning hideously, a man almost too dark -for English blood, too small and too vengefully passionate of feature -and expression. His hair, which curled, was of a dusty black, as if it -had lain in ashes. His lips were full and red, covered with the same -dust-hued shadow, and teeth so white, nostrils so fine and sharp, brows -so low and oddly beautiful, surely never belonged to the respectable -English race. His eyes were long, of a liquid blackness, through which -red and yellow flames leaped as in those of an untamed animal, and his -hands were brown and small, like the hands of a slender girl. - -‘Do you hear, sir? This is my room,’ he cried. - -There was a foreign richness in his voice that matched the quaint -exterior, and was equally in puzzling contrast with his pretensions -as an Englishman.... Luffington was convinced he had to do with some -adventurer over seas, and he curtly replied that for the present the -room was his. Mrs. Matcham, scared and anxious, shot him a glance of -prayer over the shoulder of her domineering customer. - -But Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy was not to be silenced or turned out by the -superior airs of a strolling jackanapes. He paced the room in his -quick, light way, opened familiar drawers and presses, inquired after -missing objects, and never stopped in a running murmur upon the -impudence of travellers and the insolence of intruders. - -‘May I point out that you are condemning yourself?’ Luffington dryly -remarked, as he watched him in wonder. ‘Intrusion can never be other -than insolent.’ - -‘Then why the devil are you sitting here, sir?’ - -‘For the simple reason that I slept here last night, and the room is -mine as long as I stay at this inn.’ - -‘Mrs. Matcham, you had no business to let this chamber when there are -others unoccupied in the house. You know I am liable to turn up at any -moment, and that I cannot sleep in any room but this.’ - -There was something so boyish in the tone of complaint, that Luffington -insensibly softened to the odd and ill-mannered creature, and smiled -broadly. - -Mrs. Matcham was affirming the comforts of a back room, when he stopped -her shortly with a protest that this was information for Mr. Fitzroy, -whom the matter concerned. - -‘I tell you, sir, I will not give up my room,’ shouted Mr. Malcolm -Fitzroy. - -Luffington shrugged, and made a feint of resuming his writing, upon -which Mr. Fitzroy plumped down into an arm-chair, crossed his slim -legs savagely, and ordered the landlady to bring in his carpet bag, -and produce glasses and two bottles of his special port. Luffington -said nothing, but smiled as he continued to write, and took a sidelong -view of his strange enemy. The more he looked, the more he wondered at -the singular prestige of such a person in a place like Fendon. He had -not the appearance of a gentleman, was the reverse of imposing, and -according to the Flemish priest, was ‘just one of the poorest dogs in -Christendom.’ - -‘He pays Mrs. Matcham thirty shillings a week, and nobody else -anything, and he travels third class like myself,’ the priest added, -but Luffington thought that his air was that of a man who holds back -something. - -‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, as if he were pointing a cocked -pistol at an antagonist, ‘you have an opportunity of assuring yourself -that there is good port to be had in at least one inn in Great Britain.’ - -‘I am ready to accept the fact upon your statement, but I am no judge -of port. It’s a wine I never drink.’ - -‘Claret, I suppose? Abominable trash, but there’s good stuff of -that sort too, eh, Mrs. Matcham? Two bottles of one of their -castles--Lafitte, La rose--something in that way.’ - -He yapped out his words like the spoken barks of an angry terrier, -and poured himself out a glass of Harborough port, which he fondly -surveyed, then tasted with a beatific nod. - -‘Nowhere to be had out of England. Bloodless foreigners go to the deuce -on their clarets. They’d be content to sit at home, and let their -neighbours’ wives alone if they drank port. But then you have to go to -an earl’s cellar for anything like this.’ - -‘Exactly,’ said Fred Luffington, now restored to good humour, and very -much amused by his extraordinary companion. ‘But as we all haven’t a -key to such cellars, it is safer to stick to the harmless grape-juice -than court gout with doctored port. I’m for the foreigners myself, -whatever their domestic sins may be. Port is as heavy as your climate, -your women, your literature.’ - -Mrs. Matcham, partly reassured, entered with two bottles and one of -those hideous green glasses described as claret glasses. This she -placed in front of Mr. Luffington, and taking a bottle from her hand, -Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy filled the unsightly chalice. Luffington drank his -wine appreciatively, pronounced it rare, and wandered off upon the -exciting topic of vintages. He no longer wondered at the prestige of a -man who could command such claret. - -‘You’re a Londoner, I suppose--an impudent Cockney?’ said Mr. Fitzroy, -observing him as he put aside the green glass and stretched behind -for his toilet tumbler. ‘Right you are there, my friend. One of the -pleasures of good wine is to watch the play of light in its depths of -colour. It passes my imagination how such complacent ugliness as this -came to be manufactured.’ He took the glass in his fingers, stared at -it, shook his head and flung it into the grate. - -‘Mrs. Matcham may object to such summary justice,’ laughed Luffington. - -‘Mrs. Matcham object to any act of mine, sir? That would be a -revolution. I’ve only to say the word, and both Mrs. Matcham and John -Graham are ready to take you by the scruff of the neck and plant you -in the middle of the common.’ - -‘Instead, we sit pledging each other in the best of wines, and your -antecedent ill-humour is, I hope, carried off, once you have named a -continental Englishman, ‘Impudent Cockney’.’ - -Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy’s sombre eyes were instantly shot with mirth. -He smiled delightfully, and as he did so, looked less and less of -a Briton. It was the lovely roguish smile of a child that flashed -from wreathed lips and ran up like light to the broad brows arched -expressively. You would have forgiven him murder on the spot, much less -a rude speech. He dipped into his glass, and sipped vigour therefrom -for a fresh onslaught. - -‘Ah, the continent! Generally means France, and France, of course, -means Paris, and Paris, by God, means every devilry under the sun. -Barricades, Bastilles, Julys, Septembers, baggy red breeches, Cockades, -Marseillaises, Communism, Atheism, in a word, hell’s own mischief.’ - -‘I commend your mental repertory, sir. It is a neat historical survey -extending over the past hundred years. We will say nothing of its -justice. When our aim is the saying of much in little, we must be -content to dispense with justice. But at least permit me to remark that -Paris does not mean the continent for me--very much the reverse.’ - -‘Then you ought to have sense enough to be drinking port instead of one -of your washy French castles,’ roared Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, attacking -his second bottle after he had thrust Fred’s second under his nose. - -The night wore on, and the two men gradually grew to view one another -through the rosiest glamour. Luffington was ready to swear that his -companion was the most entertaining he had ever encountered, and Mr. -Malcolm Fitzroy, as he subsided into sleep upon his friend’s sofa, knew -not whether he was most satisfied in having gained his point about -the room--albeit Luffington enjoyed the bed--or in having made the -acquaintance of such a remarkably agreeable young fellow--no nonsense, -no cockloftiness, no French Atheism, or any other perverse ’isms for -that matter, he murmured as he wandered into the devious country of -dreams. - -Early next morning Luffington walked down to the priest’s cottage, -to describe the night’s adventures to his friend. They paced the -garden pathway, Fred puffing a cigar, and both were enjoying a hearty -laugh over the story, when two figures stood upon the bright edge -of meadow that led into the deer-park. Clear and unshadowed in the -morning sunshine, it was as pleasant a picture as the eye of man could -desire, and to Fred, after his travels, all the pleasanter for being -so distinctly English. A fair, handsome lady, in a light tweed dress, -a broad-brimmed hat tied under her chin with long blue ribbons; from -her arm swung a long-legged child, short-skirted, with an Irish red -cloak blown out from her shoulders, upon the swell of which her long -bright hair flowed like a sunny streamer. The child was looking up with -an urgent charming expression, and talking with extreme vivacity. The -lady smiled down upon her, tapped her cheek, and carried her along at a -quick pace toward the cottage. - -‘Her ladyship and her stepdaughter,’ said the priest. ‘It’s beautiful -to see how they love one another. If all mothers were like that -stepmother! But the wisest of us talk a deal of nonsense about women. -Isn’t she handsome?’ - -Luffington admitted that she was, in the strictly English way--somewhat -empty and expressionless, and feared that forty would find her fat. - -The countess stopped at the gate, and chatted most affably. She gave -the priest a commission that postponed their projected excursion -till mid-day, and kindly invited Luffington to look over the Hall at -his leisure. The little girl offered to show him her collection of -butterflies, and then skipped away, with her blonde hair and red cloak -blown out sideway like a sail. - -‘Has the Countess of Harborough no children of her own?’ asked -Luffington. - -‘No; Lady Alice is the earl’s only child, and both he and the countess -adore her.’ - -The postponement of their excursion drove Luffington alone into the -solitary woods. But solitude among trees had no terrors for him; -enchantment sat upon his errant mind as fancy led him over dappled -sward and under the foliaged arches of mossy aisles. He came upon a -bridge, under which a slant of water chattered its foamy way over large -stones, and fell into sedate and scarce audible ripples between green -banks and a thick line of shrubs. The outer bank he followed in a -pastoral dream, to the accompaniment of a pretty consort of bird-song -and babbling stream. He discovered that it led straight to Fort Mary, -and here he sat on the edge of the pier, dangling his legs over the -lake, as he smoked and forgot the hours. - -The ‘Trianon’ lay behind, and as he lifted a leg, and sprang upon the -gravel, he was conscious of the sound of a stifled sob carried, he -believed, from the trees edging the sward, which the lout had rolled -the day before. He stepped upon it, and he might have been walking on -plush. As he went, the sound of sobs grew heavier, and he could count -the checked breaths. He heard a man’s voice say softly: ‘My poor girl! -Mary, Mary, courage.’ There was no mistaking that gentle and soothing -voice, though he had heard it rasping and angry the night before. A -break in the column of trees showed him a picture, the very reverse of -the sweet domestic English picture that had charmed him a few hours ago. - -The Countess of Harborough was weeping bitterly in Mr. Malcolm -Fitzroy’s arms. - - - II - -Fred Luffington had once had the misfortune to see ‘an impossible -brute’ preferred to his elegant self by an old love of Antwerp, hence -he had long given up pondering the oddnesses of women’s love-fancies. -He was a gentleman as well, and kept that sharply incorrect picture to -himself. He met the countess again, and dropped his eyes, ashamed of -his knowledge. Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy he eyed with a droll smile, and the -more he looked at him, the more incomprehensible the matter appeared. - -But he was good company, that Fred admitted heartily, and shook -his hand with a cordial hope of meeting him again, now that their -little difference was settled, and had led to such cheery results. He -counselled him to take to claret, and to himself remarked that his -domestic ethics seemed none the better for the drinking of port, which -evidently had not taught him to let his neighbour’s wife alone. He had -met Lord Harborough once crossing the Park, and perfectly understood -the countess’s sobs. That was all he did understand. He could fancy -himself sobbing if he were a woman condemned to live his days with that -hard-featured, red-haired little man, bearing himself so primly and so -distractingly respectable. - -‘Yes, that explains her odd choice,’ said Luffington, turning his back -upon Fendon, after a last grasp of the Flemish priest’s hand. ‘There’s -a taint of disreputableness about the local hero, who looks as if he -had rolled so much in the dust in infancy, that neither soap nor brush -has been able to give him a respectable head ever since.’ - -Fred Luffington went abroad again, and forgot all about the Flemish -priest and the half revealed drama of Fendon. A couple of years later -he had engaged to meet some friends at Lugano and, travelling from -Basle, decided to leave the train at the entrance to the St. Gothard -tunnel, and walk over the mountain. The weather was glorious, and such -scenery is enough to make a saint of the biggest sinner. The flush of -roseate snows, whose white from very purity is driven to flame; the -crystal splendours above, the shadows of the valleys revealed in the -twisted gaps like flakes of blue cloud softening the sunny whiteness, -wooded depths and sparkling water, with the ineffable beauty of the -turquoise stillness of the grand lake below: combined to make even -the breathing of a worldly young man a prayer of thanksgiving. Fred -Luffington never could gaze on the Alps without feeling his sins drop -from him like a garment, and his soul stand out, naked and innocent -before the majesty of creation. - -He had been walking since mid-day, with rests in craggy nooks, and now -at sundown it behoved him to look out for shelter. He waited until he -had seen the last effects of an Alpine sunset before branching into a -narrow wooded path, which he was informed led to a little village. At -the first châlet, he knocked for admittance, and a fat woman came to -the door, in a state of evident perturbation. Her face cleared when she -discovered that he spoke Italian. - -‘There is a sick man here. We think he must be an Englishman, but we -do not understand him, and he neither knows French nor Italian. If the -gentleman would but look at him. The doctor says he will not recover,’ -she burst out, without stopping for breath. - -Luffington followed her upstairs, and entered a tolerably clean little -room, where the sick man lay, either asleep or unconscious. Luffington -stood, and looked at him long and musingly. Where ever had he seen that -thin, sharp, foreign face, the curls of dust-hued black, the oddly -beautiful brow and full lips? A small brown hand lay upon the coverlet, -and it sprang a gush of sympathy to his eyes. Suddenly the closed lids -opened and revealed eyes of the sombre dead blackness of the sloe, -without the red and yellow flames he now so vividly remembered. So -this was the end of that sorry drama of Fendon! Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -was dying in a far-off Swiss village on the top of St. Gothard. And -the countess? Fred bent, and whispered his name, and begged to be used -as a friend. A gleam of recognition broke the dark blankness of the -dying man’s glance, and he made a feeble movement of his hand, which -Luffington caught and held in a gentle clasp. The sick man’s eyes -filled gratefully. He knew he was dying, and he was comforted by the -presence of Luffington. - -All through the night Fred sat and nursed him. He was melted in -kindness and gratitude that this chance of redeeming some unworthy -hours had fallen to him. He held the dying man’s hand, listened to -his babble, and promised to destroy a packet of letters in a certain -ebony box, into which he was to place poor Fitzroy’s watch and pocket -book, and a copy of the _Spanish Gypsy_, the only book he possessed, -and deliver it into the hands of the Countess of Harborough. In the -presence of death, Fred could hear her name without any squeamishness. - -‘Take from under my pillow a locket, and open it for me. I want to see -her face again.’ - -Fred did so, and could not help recognising the features of the -countess. He asked if Mr. Fitzroy had any other friends to whom he -could carry messages. - -‘Friends? I have none,’ he said, in a toneless way, empty of all -bitterness or pain. ‘I neither sought friendship nor offered it. I have -loved but one being on this earth, and it has been my duty to stand -by and see her suffer, and now I must go, while she remains behind -unhappy, with none to comfort her. There is no comfort on earth for -miserable wives. When I think of them, I am wroth to hear men complain. -What do we know about pain compared with them? And yet they bear it. -The God that made them alone can explain how. But this last blow! How -will she bear that? Mary, Mary, my poor unhappy girl!’ - -He closed his eyes, and seemed to dose, then opened them, and clutched -Luffington’s fingers, like a startled child. - -‘Don’t leave me,’ he breathed, through shut teeth. ‘It is so lonely -among strangers. Ah, if I were only back in my room in the ‘St. George -and the Dragon,’ with good Mrs. Matcham! Poor Mary! The worst of it -is, I have never been able to punch that rascal’s head. Never. For her -sake, I have had to “my Lord” him, when I wanted to be at his throat. -Well, I played the game gallantly. Nobody can deny that. It’s for her -now to continue it alone. The locket! Where’s the locket? Let it go -with me. It contains all I have loved on earth, and I’ll lie all the -quieter underground for having it with me.’ - -The dawn found him lifeless, and Luffington sitting with his stiff cold -hand clasped in his own. The locket, containing the likeness of the -Countess of Harborough and a thick twist of blonde hair, was buried, -along with the remains of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, in a little Alpine -churchyard. - - * * * * * - -One summer evening, the Flemish priest of Fendon was reading his -breviary in the garden, not so intent upon prayer that he had no eye -for his flower-beds, which he had just watered. He turned hastily -as the garden gate swung back, and recognised Fred Luffington, who -approached with an air of unwonted gravity. He carried a square parcel -under his arm. - -‘My dear young friend,’ cried the enchanted priest, keeping, while he -spoke, a finger between the leaves of his breviary. - -‘I have a painful commission for you. You must take this box at once -to the Countess of Harborough, and acquaint her with the news that Mr. -Malcolm Fitzroy is dead. I buried him in Switzerland a month ago.’ - -The priest shook his head sadly. He scrutinised Luffington’s features -sharply, and said-- - -‘Thank God, she knows that already--that is, the death. But I suspect -this box will open old wounds.’ - -‘Poor woman! Tell her Mr. Fitzroy sent this by a trusted friend. I -destroyed her letters. For her sake, I wish I were not in the secret, -but unhappily, by accident, I learnt it long before I found the poor -fellow dying in a Swiss châlet.’ - -‘Ah,’ muttered the priest, and felt for his pipe. ‘It’s unfortunate. -Not a soul but myself has known it for years--not even the earl, and -such a secret has cost me many an uncomfortable moment.’ - -Luffington cast a strange glance upon him. His words were inexplicable. -Known it for years! Secret unshared by the earl! Was the ground solid -beneath his feet, that a virtuous priest should contemplate the -likelihood of such a secret being shared with the earl? - -‘It’s not to be feared I should betray a lady. God knows, I am no saint -myself, to blame anybody.’ - -‘I don’t blame her much myself. I deplore the need for duplicity, but -it was not her doing. They placed her in a false position. But while I -cannot but admire the tenacity of her affections and her loyalty to a -natural claim, I have ever been urging her to make a clean breast of -it to her husband. It was not her business to expiate the wrong of -others, but confession would have placed her and the unfortunate man -now in his grave upon a proper footing, and lent the dignity of candour -to their relations.’ - -Luffington felt mercilessly mystified. Even suppose the lovers not -altogether criminal, how could the earl’s recognition of their -irregular situation lend dignity to it? He spoke his perplexity, and -cast the good priest into a panic. - -‘What did you mean by telling me you knew everything?’ he cried, -wrathfully. ‘Malcolm Fitzroy her ladyship’s lover! Poor woman, poor -woman! I thought you knew, and now I must break confidence, to clear -her, and tell you the wretched story.’ - -He drew Fred into his study, carefully closed the door, and there laid -bare a situation as odd as the personality of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy. A -titled lady in Northumberland lost a new-born infant, and was herself -pronounced in danger unless a child could be found to take its place. -A gypsy outcast was discovered to have given birth to twins on the -same day, and was glad enough to resign the baby girl to the bereaved -aristocrat. The twins were the result of an intrigue between an English -gentleman and a handsome gypsy. The little girl blossomed into youth, -as English and refined as could be, and her foster-mother, whose -life she had saved, could not bring herself to part with her. As no -other children came, she grew up the daughter of the house, adored by -her self-made parents. The boy was his mother’s son, an intractable -vagrant, incapable of control, with the saving grace of a passionate -attachment to his sister. - -When the Earl of Harborough came forward as a suitor, the old lord -and his wife debated long upon their duty to him and to his house, -and their desire for their darling’s advancement. The latter instinct -prevailed, and the earl believed himself the husband of a well-born -English maiden. The adopted parents were both dead, and the countess, -unhappy in her marriage, had nobody to turn to in her troubles but her -gypsy brother. To make good his dubious footing at the Hall, Fitzroy -had cast himself in the way of the earl, and secured an extraordinary -popularity in the village and upon the estate. The earl thought him a -droll fellow, unbent patronisingly to him, and enjoyed his odd vagabond -habits. - -This was the secret of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy and the Countess of -Harborough. - - - - - THE LITTLE MARQUIS - - _To Alice Cockran_ - - - - - THE LITTLE MARQUIS - - -HERVÉ DE VERVAINVILLE, Marquis de Saint-Laurent, was at once the -biggest and smallest landlord of Calvados, the most important personage -of that department and the most insignificant and powerless. Into his -cradle the fairies had dropped all the gifts of fortune but those two, -without which the others taste as ashes--love and happiness. His life -was uncoloured by the affections of home, and his days, like his ragged -little visage and his dull personality, were vague, with the vagueness -of negative misery. Of his nurse he was meekly afraid, and his -relations with the other servants were of the most distantly polite and -official nature. He understood that they were there to do his bidding -nominally, and compel him actually to do theirs, pending his hour of -authority. With a little broken sigh, he envied the happiness that he -rootedly believed to accompany the more cheerful proportions of the -cottager’s experience, of which he occasionally caught glimpses in his -daily walks, remembering the chill solitude of his own big empty castle -and the immense park that seemed an expansion of his imprisonment, -including, as part of his uninterrupted gloom, the kindly meadows and -woods, the babbling streams and leafy avenues, where the birds sang of -joys uncomprehended by him. - -Play was as foreign to him as hope. Every morning he gravely saluted -the picture of his pretty mother, which hung in his bedroom, a lovely -picture, hardly real in its dainty Greuze-like charm, arch and frail -and innocent, the bloom of whose eighteen years had been sacrificed -upon his own coming, leaving a copy washed of all beauty, its delicacy -blurred in a half-effaced boyish visage without character or colouring. -Of his father Hervé never spoke,--shrinking, with the unconscious pride -of race, from the male interloper who had been glad enough to drop -an inferior name, and was considered by his friends to have waltzed -himself and his handsome eyes into an enviable bondage. And the only -return he could make to the house that had so benefited him was a -flying visit from Paris to inspect the heir and confer with his son’s -steward (whose guardian he had been appointed by the old marquis at -his death), and then return to his city pleasures, which he found more -entertaining than his Norman neighbours. - -On Sunday morning little Hervé was conducted to High Mass in the church -of Saint-Laurent, upon the broad highroad leading to the town of -Falaise. Duly escorted up the aisle by an obsequious Swiss in military -hat and clanking sword, with a long blonde moustache that excited the -boy’s admiration, Hervé and his nurse were bowed into the colossal -family pew, as large as a moderate-sized chamber, roughly carven and -running along the flat wide tombs of his ancestors, on which marble -statues of knights and mediæval ladies lay lengthways. The child’s air -of melancholy and solitary state was enough to make any honest heart -ache, and his presence never failed to waken the intense interest of -the simple congregation, and supply them with food for speculation as -to his future over their mid-day soup and cider. Hard indeed would it -have been to define the future of the little man sitting so decorously -in his huge pew, and following the long services in a spirit of almost -pathetic conventionality and resignation, only very occasionally -relieved by his queer broken sigh, that had settled into a trick, or a -furtive wandering of his eyes, that sought distraction among ancestral -epitaphs. - -He was not, it must be owned, an engaging child, though soft-hearted -and timidly attracted by animals, whose susceptibilities he would have -feared to offend by any uninvited demonstration of affection. He had -heard himself described as plain and dull, and thought it his duty to -refrain as much as possible from inflicting his presence upon others, -preferring loneliness to adverse criticism. But he had one friend who -had found him out, and taken him to her equally unhappy and tender -heart. The Comtesse de Fresney, a lady of thirty, was, like himself, -miserable and misunderstood. Hervé thought she must be very beautiful -for him to love her so devotedly, and he looked forward with much -eagerness to the time of her widowhood, when he should be free to marry -her. - -There was something inexpressibly sad in the drollery of their -relations. Neither was aware of the comic element, while both were -profoundly impressed with the sadness. Whenever a fair, a race, or -a company of strolling players took the tyrannical count away from -Fresney, a messenger was at once despatched to Saint-Laurent, and -gladly the little marquis trotted off to console his friend. - -One day Hervé gave expression to his matrimonial intentions. The -countess, sitting with her hands in her lap, was gazing gloomily out of -the window, when she turned, and said, sighing: ‘Do you know, Hervé, -that I have never even been to Paris?’ - -Hervé did not know, and was not of an age to measure the frightful -depth of privation confessed. But the countess spoke in a sadder voice -than usual, and, in response to her sigh, his childish lips parted in -his own vague little sigh. - -‘When I am grown up, I’ll take you to Paris, Countess,’ he said, coming -near, and timidly fondling her hand. - -‘Yes, Hervé,’ said the countess, and she stooped to kiss him. - -‘M. le Comte is so old that he will probably be dead by that time, -and then I can marry you, Countess, and you will live always at -Saint-Laurent. You know it is bigger than Fresney.’ - -‘Yes, Hervé,’ said the countess musingly, thinking of her lost years -and dead dreams, as she stared across the pleasant landscape. - -Hervé regarded himself as an engaged gentleman from that day. The -following Sunday he studied the epitaph on the tomb of the last -Marquis, his grandfather, who had vanished into the darkness of an -unexplored continent, with notebook and scientific intent, to leave his -bones to whiten in the desert and the name of a brave man to adorn his -country’s annals. Hervé was all excitement to learn from the countess -the precise meaning of the words _distinguished_ and _explorer_. - -‘Countess,’ he hurried to ask, ‘what is it to be distinguished?’ - -‘It is greatly to do great things, Hervé.’ - -‘And what does _explorer_ mean?’ - -‘To go far away into the unknown; to find out unvisited places, and -teach others how much larger the world is than they imagine.’ - -This explanation thrilled new thoughts and ambition in the breast -of the little marquis. Why should not he begin at once to explore -the world, and see for himself what lay beyond the dull precincts of -Saint-Laurent? He then would become distinguished like his grandfather, -and the countess would be proud of him. The scheme hurried his pulses, -and gave him his first taste of excitement, which stood him in place -of a very small appetite. He watched his moment in the artful instinct -of childhood with a scheme in its head. It was not difficult to elude -a careless nurse and gossiping servants, and he knew an alley by which -the broad straight road, leading from the castle to the town, might -be reached over a friendly stile that involved no pledge of secrecy -from an untrustworthy lodge-keeper. And away he was scampering along -the hedge, drunk with excitement and the glory of his own unprotected -state, drunk with the spring sunshine and the smell of violets that -made breathing a bliss. - -Picture a tumble-down town, with a quantity of little streets breaking -unexpectedly into glimpses of green meadow and foliage; rickety -omnibuses, jerking and rumbling upon uncouth wheels, mysteriously held -by their drivers from laying their contents upon the jagged pavements; -little old-fashioned squares, washed by runlets for paving divisions, -with the big names of _La Trinité_, _Saint-Gervais_, _Guillaume le -Conquérant_, and the _Grand Turc_,--the latter the most unlikely form -of heretic ever to have shaken the equilibrium of the quaint town; -a public fountain, a market-place, many-aisled churches, smelling -of damp and decay, their fretted arches worn with age, and their -pictures bleached of all colour by the moist stone; primitive shops, -latticed windows, asthmatical old men in blouses and night-caps, in -which they seem to have been born and in which they promise to die; -girls in linen towers and starched side-flaps concealing every curl -and wave of their hair, their _sabots_ beating the flags with the -click of castanets; groups of idle huzzars, moustached and menacing, -strutting the dilapidated public gardens like walking arsenals, the -eternal cigarette between their lips, and the everlasting _sapristi_ -and _sacré_ upon them. Throw in a _curé_ or two, wide-hatted, of -leisured and benevolent aspect, with a smile addressed to the world as -a general _mon enfant_; an _abbé_, less leisured and less assured of -public indulgence; a discreet _frère_, whose hurrying movements shake -his robes to the dimensions of a balloon; an elegant _sous-préfet_, -conscious of Parisian tailoring, and much in request in provincial -salons; a wooden-legged colonel, devoted to the memory of the first -Napoleon, and wrathful at that of him of Sedan; a few civilians of -professional calling, deferential to the military and in awe of the -colonel; the local gossip and shopkeeper on Trinity Square, Mère -Lescaut, who knows everything about everybody, and the usual group of -antagonistic politicians. For the outskirts, five broad roads diverging -star-wise from a common centre, with an inviting simplicity of aspect -that might tempt the least adventurous spirit of childhood to make, -by one of those pleasant, straight, and leafy paths, for the alluring -horizon. Add the local lion, Great William’s Tower, a very respectable -Norman ruin, where a more mythical personage than William might easily -have been born, and which might very well hallow more ancient loves -than those of Robert and the washerwoman Arletta; a splendid equestrian -statue of the Conqueror, and a quantity of threads of silver water -running between mossy banks, where women in mountainous caps of linen -wash clothes, and the violets in spring and autumn grow so thickly, -that the air is faint with their sweet scent. Afar, green field upon -green field, stretching on all sides, till the atmospheric blue blots -out their colour and melts them into the sky; sudden spaces of wood -making shadows upon the bright plains and dusty roads, fringed with -poplars, cutting uninterrupted paths to the horizon. - -The weekly fair was being held on the Place de la Trinité, when Hervé -made his way so far. The noise and jollity stunned him. Long tables -were spread round, highly coloured and decorated with a variety of -objects, and good-humoured cleanly Norman women in caps, and men in -blue blouses, were shouting exchanged speech, or wrangling decorously. -Hervé thrust his hands into his pockets in a pretence of security, -like that assumed by his elders upon novel occasions, though his -pulses shook with unaccustomed force and velocity; and he walked round -the tables with uneasy impulses towards the toys and sweetmeats, and -thought a ride on the merry-go-round would be an enviable sensation. -But these temptations he gallantly resisted, as unbecoming his serious -business. Women smiled upon him, and called him, _Ce joli petit -monsieur_, a fact which caused him more surprise than anything else, -having heard his father describe him as ugly. He bowed to them, when -he rejected their offers of toys and penknives, but could not resist -the invitation of a fresh cake, and held his hat in one hand, while he -searched in his pocket to pay for it. Hervé made up for his dulness by -a correctness of demeanour that was rather depressing than captivating. - -Munching his cake with a secret pleasure in this slight infringement of -social law, he wandered upon the skirt of the noisy and good-natured -crowd, which, in the settlement of its affairs, was lavish in smiles -and jokes. What should he do with his liberty and leisure when his -senses had tired of this particular form of intoxication? He bethought -himself of the famous tower which Pierrot, the valet, had assured him -was the largest castle in the world. Glancing up the square, he saw -the old wooden-legged colonel limping towards him, and Hervé promptly -decided that so warlike a personage could not fail to be aware of the -direction in which the tower lay. He barred the colonel’s way with his -hat in his hand, and said: ‘Please, Monsieur, will you be so good as to -direct me to the castle of William the Conqueror?’ - -The colonel heard the soft tremulous pipe, and brought his fierce glare -down upon the urchin with hawklike penetration. Fearful menace seemed -to lie in the final tap of his wooden leg upon the pavement, as he -came to a standstill in front of Hervé, and he cleared his chest with -a loud military sound like _boom_. Hervé stood the sound, but winced -and repeated his request more timidly. Now this desperate-looking -soldier had a kindly heart, and loved children. He had not the least -idea that his loud _boom_, and his shaggy eyebrows, and his great -scowling red face frightened the life out of them. A request from a -child so small and feeble to be directed to anybody’s castle, much less -the Conqueror’s, when so many strong and idle arms in the world must -be willing to carry him, afflicted him with an almost maternal throb -of tenderness. By his smile he dispersed the unpleasant impressions -of his _boom_ and the click of his artificial limb, and completely -won Hervé’s confidence, who was quite pleased to find his thin little -fingers lost in the grasp of his new companion’s large hand, when the -giant in uniform turned and volunteered to conduct him to the tower. -Crossing the Square of Guillaume le Conquérant, Hervé even became -expansive. - -‘Look, Monsieur,’ he cried, pointing to the beautiful bronze statue, -‘one would say that the horse was about to jump, and throw the knight.’ - -The colonel slapped his chest like a man insulted in the person of a -glorious ancestor, and emitted an unusually gruff _boom_, that nearly -blew little Hervé to the other side of the square, and made his lips -tremble. - -‘I’d like, young sir, to see the horse that could have thrown that -man,’ said the Norman. - -‘There was a Baron of Vervainville when Robert was Duke of Normandy. -He went with Robert to the Crusades. The countess has told me that -only very distinguished and brave people went to the Crusades in those -days. They were wars, Monsieur, a great way off. I often try to make -out what is written on his tomb in Saint-Laurent, but I can never get -further than Geoffroi,’ Hervé concluded, with his queer short sigh, -while in front of them rose the mighty Norman ruin upon the landscape, -like the past glancing poignantly through an ever youthful smile. - -The colonel, enlightened by this communication upon the lad’s identity, -stared at him in alarmed surprise. - -‘Is there nobody in attendance upon M. le Marquis?’ he asked. - -‘I am trying to be an explorer like my grandpapa; that is why I -have run away at once. I am obliged to you, Monsieur, but it is not -necessary that you should give yourself the trouble to come further -with me. I shall be able to find the way back to the Place de la -Trinité.’ - -The colonel was dubious as to his right to accept dismissal. The sky -looked threatening, and he hardly believed that he could in honour -forsake the child. But, _sapristi!_ there were the unread papers down -from Paris waiting for him at his favourite haunt, the Café du Grand -Turc, to be discussed between generous draughts of cider. He tugged -his grey moustache in divided feelings, and at last came to a decision -with the aid of his terrible _boom_. He would deliver the little -marquis into the hands of the _concierge_ of the tower, and after a -look in upon his cronies at the Grand Turc and a glass of cider, hasten -to Saint-Laurent in search of proper authority. - -Hervé was a decorous sightseer, who left others much in the dark as to -his private impressions of what he saw. The tower, he admitted, was -very big and cold. He did not think it would give him much satisfaction -to have been born in the chill cavernous chamber wherein William had -first seen the light, while the bombastic lines upon the conquest of -the Saxons, read to him in a strong Norman accent, gave him the reverse -of a desire to explore that benighted land. With his hands in his -pockets, he stood and peeped through the slit in the stone wall, nearly -as high as the clouds, whence Robert is supposed to have detected the -charming visage of Arletta, washing linen below, with a keenness of -sight nothing less diabolical than his sobriquet, _le diable_. - -‘I couldn’t see anybody down so far, could you?’ he asked; and then -his attention was caught by the big rain-drops that were beginning to -fall in black circles upon the unroofed stone stairs. The _concierge_ -watched the sky a moment, then lifted Hervé into his arms, and hurried -down the innumerable steps to the shelter of his own cosy parlour. -Excitement and fatigue were telling upon the child, who looked nervous -and scared. The rain-drops had gathered the force and noise of several -waterfalls, pouring from the heavens with diluvian promise. Already -the landscape was drenched and blotted out of view. An affrighted -peasant, in _sabots_ large enough to shelter the woman and her family -of nursery rhyme, darted down the road, holding a coloured umbrella -as big as a tent. The roar of thunder came from afar, and a flash of -lightning broke through the vapoury veil, making Hervé blink like a -distracted owl caught by the dawn. Oh, if he were only back safely -at Saint-Laurent, or could hold the hand of his dear countess! No, -he would not explore any more until he was a grown-up man. A howl of -thunder and a child’s feeble cry---- - -Meanwhile confusion reigned in the castle. Men and women flew -hither and thither, screaming blame upon each other. In an agony of -apprehension, the butler ordered the family coach, and was driven into -town, wondering how M. le Vervainville would take the news if anything -were to happen to remove the source of his wealth and local importance. -_Parbleu!_ he would not be the man to tell him. Crossing the Place de -la Trinité, he caught sight of Mère Lescaut gazing out upon the deluged -square. In a happy inspiration, he determined to consult her, and while -he was endeavouring to make his knock heard above the tempest and to -shield his eyes from the glare of the lightning flashes, Mère Lescaut -thrust her white cap out through the upper half of the shop door, and -screamed, ‘You are looking for M. le Marquis de Saint-Laurent, and I -saw him cross the square with Colonel Larousse this afternoon.’ - -‘_Diable! Diable!_’ roared the distracted butler. ‘I passed the colonel -on the road an hour ago.’ - -The endless moments lost in adjuring the gods, in voluble faith in -calamity, in imprecations at the storm, and shivering assertions of -discomfort which never mend matters, and at last the dripping colonel -and swearing butler meet. M. le Marquis de Saint-Laurent and Baron de -Vervainville was found asleep amid the historic memories of Robert and -Arletta. - -This escapade brought M. de Vervainville down from Paris, with a new -tutor. The tutor was very young, very modern, and very cynical. He was -not in the least interested in Hervé, though rather amused when, on the -second day of their acquaintance, the boy asked--‘Monsieur, are you -engaged to be married?’ The tutor was happy to say that he had not that -misfortune. - -‘Is it then a misfortune? I am very glad that I am engaged, though I -have heard my nurse say that married people are not often happy.’ - -The tutor thought it not improbable such an important personage as -the Marquis de Saint-Laurent had been officially betrothed to some -desirable _parti_ of infant years, and asked her age and name. - -‘The Countess de Fresney. She is not a little girl, and at present -her husband is alive, but I daresay he will be dead soon. You know, -Monsieur, she is a great deal older than I am, but I shall like that -much better. It will not be necessary for me to learn much, for she -will know everything for me, and I can amuse myself. I will take you -to see her to-morrow. She is very beautiful,--but not so beautiful as -my mamma--and I love her very dearly.’ - -It occurred to the cynical tutor that the countess might be bored -enough in this uncheerful place to take an interest in so captivating a -person as himself. But when they arrived at Fresney, they learnt that -the countess was seriously ill. Hervé began to cry when he was refused -permission to see his friend, and at that moment M. le Comte, an -erratic, middle-aged tyrant, held in mortal terror by his dependants, -burst in upon him, with a vigorous--‘Ho, ho! the little marquis, my -rival! Come hither, sirrah, and let me run the sword of vengeance -through your body.’ - -And the merry old rascal began to roll his eyes, and mutter strange -guttural sounds for his own amusement and Hervé’s fright. - -‘I do not care if you do kill me, M. le Comte,’ the boy sobbed. ‘You -are a wicked man, and it is because you make dear Madame unhappy that -she is so ill. You are as wicked and ugly as the ogre in the story she -gave me last Christmas. But she will get well, and you will die, and -then I will marry her, and she will never be unhappy any more.’ - -‘Take him away before I kill him--the insolent little jackanapes! In -love with a married woman, and telling it to her husband! Ho, ho! so -I am an ogre! Very well, let me make a meal of you.’ With that he -produced an orange and offered it to Hervé, who turned on his heel, and -stumbled out of the room, blinded with tears. - -But the countess did not get well. She sent for Hervé one day, and -kissed him tenderly. - -‘My little boy, my little Hervé, you will soon be alone again. But you -will find another friend, and by and by you will be happy.’ - -‘Never, never, if you die, Countess. I shall not care for anything, not -even for my new pony, though it has such a pretty white star on its -forehead. I do not want to grow up, and I shall never be married now, -nor--nothing,’ he cried, with quivering lips. - -That evening his friend died, and the news was brought to Hervé, as he -and the tutor sat over their supper. Hervé pushed away his plate, and -took his scared and desolated little heart to the solitude of his own -room. During the night, the tutor was awakened by his call. - -‘Monsieur, please to tell me what happens when people die.’ - -‘_Ma foi_, there is nothing more about them,’ cried the tutor. - -‘And what are those who do not die supposed to do?’ - -‘To moderate their feelings,--and go to sleep.’ - -‘But I cannot sleep, Monsieur. I am very unhappy. Oh, I wish it had -been the count. Why doesn’t God kill wicked persons? Is it wicked to -wish the count to be dead, Monsieur?’ - -‘Very.’ - -‘Then I must be dreadfully wicked, for I would like to kill him myself, -if I were big and strong.’ - -At breakfast next day, he asked if people did not wear very black -clothes when their friends died, and indited a curious epistle to his -father, begging permission to wear the deepest mourning for the lady -he was to have married. Vested in black, his little mouse-coloured -head looked more pitiful and vague than ever, as he sat out the long -funeral service in the church of Saint-Gervais, and lost himself in -endless efforts to count the candles, and understand what the strange -catafalque and velvet pall in the middle of the church meant, and what -had become of the countess. - -After the burial his tutor took him to the cemetery. The bereaved child -carried a big wreath to lay upon the grave of his departed lady-love. -Kneeling there, upon the same mission, was M. le Comte, shedding -copious tears, and apostrophising the dead he had made it a point to -wound in life. Hervé knelt opposite him, and stared at him indignantly. -Why should he cry? The countess had not loved him, nor had he loved the -countess. The boy flung himself down on the soft earth, and began to -sob bitterly. The thought that he would never again see his lost friend -took full possession of him for the first time, and he wanted to die -himself. Disturbed by this passionate outbreak, the count rose, brushed -the earth from his new trousers with a mourning pocket-handkerchief -already drenched with his tears, and proceeded to lift Hervé. - -‘The dear defunct was much attached to you, little marquis,’ he said, -and began to wipe away Hervé’s tears with the handkerchief made sacred -by his own. ‘You were like a son to her.’ - -‘I don’t want you to dry my eyes, Monsieur,’ Hervé exploded, bursting -from his enemy’s arms. ‘I do not like you, and I always thought you -would die soon, and not Madame. It isn’t just, and I will not be -friends with you. I shall hate you always, for you are a wicked man, -and you were cruel to Madame.’ - -The count, who was not himself accounted sane by his neighbours, looked -at the amused and impassable tutor, and significantly touched his -forehead. - -‘Hereditary,’ he muttered, and stood to make way for Hervé. - -The birds were singing deliciously, the late afternoon sunshine -gathered above the quiet trees (made quieter by here and there an -unmovable cypress and a melancholy yew, fit symbols of the rest of -death) into a pale golden mist shot with slanting rays of light, and -the violets’ was the only scent to shake by suggestion the sense of -soothing negation of all emotion or remembrance. Out upon the road, -running like a broad ribbon to the town, unanimated in the gentle -illumination of the afternoon, the tutor and Hervé met the colonel -limping along one might imagine, upon the sound of a prolonged _boom_. -Hervé’s tears were dried, but his face looked sorrowful and stained -enough to spring tears of sympathy to any kind eyes. The colonel drew -up, touched his cap, and uttered his customary signal with more than -his customary gruffness. Hervé stood his ground firmly, though he -winced, for he was a delicate child unused to rough sounds. - -‘How goes it, M. le Marquis? How goes it?’ shouted the colonel. - -‘M. le colonel, it goes very badly with me, but I try to bear it. My -tutor tells me that men do not fret; I wish I knew how they manage not -to do so when they are sad. I did want to grow up soon, and explore the -world like my grandpapa, and then I should have married the Countess of -Fresney, if her husband were dead. But now everything is different, and -I don’t even want to see the tower of William the Conqueror again. I -don’t want to grow up. I don’t want anything now.’ - -‘Poor little man!’ said the colonel, patting his shoulder. ‘You’ve -lost a friend, but you will gain others, and perhaps you’ll be a great -soldier one of these days, like the little Corporal.’ - -Hervé shook his head dolorously. He saw nothing ahead but unpleasant -lessons varied by sad excursions to the countess’s grave. - -The unhappy little marquis was moping and fading visibly. He could -not be got to take an interest in his lessons, and he proudly strove -to conceal the fact that he was afraid of his tutor’s mocking smile. -The news of his ill-health reached M. de Vervainville in Paris, and at -once brought that alarmed gentleman down to Falaise. On Hervé’s life -depended his town luxuries and his importance as a landed proprietor. -Was there anything his son wished for? Hervé reflected a while, then -raised his mouse-coloured head, and sighed his own little sigh. He -thought he should like to see Colonel Larousse. And so it came that one -morning, staring out of the window, the boy saw a familiar military -figure limping up the avenue. Hervé’s worried small countenance almost -glowed with expectation, as he rushed to welcome his visitor, the sound -of whose _boom_ and the tap of his wooden leg upon the parquet, as well -as his dreadful shaggy eyebrows, seemed even cheerful. - -‘Do you think, Monsieur,’ Hervé asked gravely ‘that you would mind -having for a friend such a very little boy as I?’ - -The colonel cleared his throat and felt his eyes required the same -operation, though he concealed that fact from Hervé. - -‘Boom! Touchez là, mon brave.’ - -Never yet had Hervé heard speech so hearty and so republican. It -astonished him, and filled him with a sense of perfect ease and -trust. It was like a free breath in oppressive etiquette,--the -child-prince’s first mud-pie upon the common road of humanity. Hervé -became excited, and confided to the colonel that his father had ordered -a toy sailing-boat for him, and that there was going to be a ball at -Saint-Laurent in honour of his birthday, though he was not quite sure -that he would enjoy that so much as the boat, for he had never danced, -and could not play any games like other children. Still if Colonel -Larousse would come, they could talk about soldiers. Come? Of course -the colonel came, looking in his brushed uniform as one of the heroes -home from Troy, and Hervé admired him prodigiously. - -The birthday ball was a great affair. Guests came all the way from -Caen and Lisieux, and Hervé, more bewildered than elated, stood beside -his splendid father to receive them. Ladies in lovely robes, shedding -every delicate scent, like flowers, petted him, and full-grown men, -looking at these ladies, made much of him. They told him that he was -charming, but he did not believe them. One cannot be both ugly and -charming, little Hervé thought, with much bitterness and an inclination -to cry. Their compliments gave him the same singular sensations evoked -by the tutor’s smile. - -‘I do not know any of these people,’ he said sadly to Colonel Larousse. -‘I don’t think a ball very cheerful, do you? It makes my head ache to -hear so many strange voices, and feel so much smaller than anybody -else. My papa amuses himself, but I would like to run away to my boat.’ - -‘_Boom! Mon camarade_, a soldier sticks to his post.’ - -Hervé sighed, and thought if the countess had been here that he would -have sat beside her all the evening, and have held her hand. And the -knowledge that he would never again hold her hand, and that so many -long weeks had passed since fond lips had kissed his face, and a -sweet voice had called him ‘Little Hervé, little boy,’ brought tears -of desperate self-pitying pain to his eyes. In these large illuminated -salons, vexed with the mingled odours of flowers and scented skirts, -by the scraping of fiddles and the flying feet of laughing dancers, -unmindful of him as other than a queer quiet boy in velvet and Alençon -lace, with a plain grey little face and owlish eyes that never smiled, -Hervé felt more alone than ever he had felt since the countess’s death. - -Stealthily he made his escape through the long open window, and ran -down the dewy lawn. How gratefully the cool air tasted and the lovely -stillness of the night after the aching brilliancy within! Hervé -assured himself that it was a pleasant relief, and hoped there would -not be many more balls at the castle. - -The lake fringed the lawn, and moored against the branches of a weeping -willow was his toy-boat, just as he had left it in the afternoon. It -would look so pretty, he believed, sailing under the rising moon that -touched the water silver and the blue stars that showed so peacefully -upon it. He unknotted the string, and gaily the little boat swam out -upon his impulsion. If only the countess could come back to him, he -thought, with his boat he would be perfectly happy. ‘But I am so alone -among them all,’ he said to himself, with his broken sigh. ‘I wished -somebody loved me as little children are loved by their mammas.’ - -The boat had carried away the string from his loose grasp, and he -reached out his arm upon the water to recover it. A soft, moist bank, -a small eager foot upon it, a frame easily tilted by an unsteady -movement, the dark water broken into circling bubbles upon a child’s -shrill cry of terror, and closing impassably over the body of poor -forlorn little Hervé and his pretty velvet suit and Alençon lace,--this -is what the stars and the pale calm moon saw; and over there upon -the further shore of the lake floated the toy-boat as placidly as if -it had worked no treachery, and had not led to the extinction of an -illustrious name and race. - -‘Where is M. le Marquis?’ demanded M. de Vervainville, interrupting an -enchanting moment upon discovery of his son’s absence from the salon. - -A search, a hurry, a scare,--music stopped, wine-glasses at the -buffet laid down untouched, ices rejected, fear and anxiety upon -every face. M. le Marquis is not in the salons, nor in the tutor’s -apartment, nor in his own. The grounds are searched, ‘Hervé’ and ‘M. -le Marquis’ ringing through the silence unanswered. His boat was found -and the impress of small footsteps upon the wet bank. M. le Marquis de -Saint-Laurent and Baron de Vervainville was drowned. - - - Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty at the - Edinburgh University Press - - - - -TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - -Some minor inconsistencies and obvious typographical and punctuation -errors have been corrected silently. - -On page 184, ‘He will write to you to Paris’ has been changed ‘He will -write to you in Paris’ - -On page 217: A duplicate ‘for’ has been removed in ‘The less reason -have they for for a vestige of belief in man’ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Dr. Vermont's fantasy and other stories</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Hannah Lynch</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: November 15, 2022 [eBook #69361]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: Emmanuel Ackerman, Benoit Verduyn and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. VERMONT'S FANTASY AND OTHER STORIES ***</div> - - -<div class="figcenter" style="width: 35%"> -<img alt="Cover" src="images/cover.jpg" id="id-4982478022332510350"> -</div> - - -<div class="newpage"> -<h1 class="vcenter"> -DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY<br> -<small>AND OTHER STORIES</small></h1> -</div> - - - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center vcenter"><i>All rights reserved</i></p> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > -</div> - - -<div class="newpage"> -<p class="half-title">DR. VERMONT’S<br> -FANTASY</p> -<p class="center small">BY</p> -<p class="center">HANNAH LYNCH</p> -<div class="figcenter"> - <img src="images/imgp3.jpg" alt="" style="max-width: 15%; width: 15%;" > -</div> -<p class="center">LONDON<br> -J. M. DENT AND COMPANY<br> -BOSTON: LAMSON WOLFFE & CO.<br> -</p> -<p class="center small">MDCCCXCVI</p> -</div> - - -<div class="newpage"> -<div class="center">Edinburgh: T. and A. <span class="smcap">C<b>ONSTABLE</b></span>, Printers to Her Majesty</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="newpage"> -<div class="center"><span class="smcap">T<b>HREE</b></span> of these stories—‘Armand’s Mistake,’<br> -‘A Page of Philosophy,’ and ‘The<br> -Little Marquis’ have already appeared in<br> -<i>Macmillan’s Magazine</i>, and I am indebted<br> -to Messrs. Macmillan for the kind<br> -permission to republish them. -</div> - -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > -<div class="newpage"> - -<table class="toc"> -<caption class="half-title">CONTENTS</caption> -<tr> - <td class="ttl" colspan="3">DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY—</td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td></td> - <td><span class="smcap">P<b>ART</b> F<b>IRST</b>—M<b>ADEMOISELLE</b> L<b>ENORMANT</b></span></td> - <td class="tdr"><span class="allsmcap ralign">PAGE</span></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdt">The Island,</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#PART_FIRST">3</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdt">A Midnight Vision,</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#A_MIDNIGHT_VISION">19</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdt">The Story of Mademoiselle Lenormant,</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#THE_STORY_OF_MADEMOISELLE">36</a></td> -</tr> -<tr > - <td></td> - <td class="ttl"><span class="smcap">A<b>N</b> I<b>NTERLUDE</b>,</span></td> - <td class="ttl tdr"><a href="#AN_INTERLUDE">55</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td colspan="2" class="ttl" ><span class="smcap">P<b>ART</b> S<b>ECOND</b>—D<b>R</b>. V<b>ERMONT</b></span></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdt">Dr. Vermont and his Guests upon the Island,</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#PART_SECOND">74</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td class="tdt">New Year’s Eve,</td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#NEW_YEARS_EVE">90</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td></td> - <td class="ttl" ><span class="smcap">E<b>PILOGUE</b>,</span></td> - <td class="ttl tdr"><a href="#EPILOGUE">118</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="ttl" colspan="3">BRASES—</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">I.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#BRASES">131</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">II.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#BRASES_II">152</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">III.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#BRASES_III">167</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="ttl" colspan="2">A PAGE OF PHILOSOPHY,</td> -<td class="ttl tdr"><a href="#A_PAGE_OF_PHILOSOPHY">187</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="ttl" colspan="3">ARMAND’S MISTAKE—</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">I.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ARMANDS_MISTAKE">227</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">II.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ARMANDS_MISTAKE_II">246</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">III.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#ARMANDS_MISTAKE_III">261</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="ttl" colspan="3">MR. MALCOLM FITZROY—</td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">I.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#MR_MALCOLM_FITZROY_I">269</a></td> -</tr> -<tr> - <td class="tdr">II.,</td> - <td></td> - <td class="tdr"><a href="#MR_MALCOLM_FITZROY_II">292</a></td> -</tr> - -<tr> - <td class="ttl" colspan="2">THE LITTLE MARQUIS,</td> -<td class="ttl tdr"><a href="#THE_LITTLE_MARQUIS">305</a></td> -</tr> - - -</table> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - - -<div class="chapter vcenter"> - <h2 id="DR_VERMONTS_FANTASY">DR. VERMONT’S FANTASY</h2> - - - <div class="right"> - <i>To Frederick Greenwood</i> - </div> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - - -<div class="chapter"> - <h3 class="nobreak" id="PART_FIRST"><i>PART FIRST</i><br> - MADEMOISELLE LENORMANT</h3> - - <div class="center">(<i>Told by the traveller</i>)</div> - - <h4 class="nobreak" id="THE_ISLAND">THE ISLAND</h4> - -<p><span class="smcap">I<b>T</b></span> was a warm autumn that year—a luminous -exception upon which the last summer of the -century was borne somewhat oppressively to -the very verge of winter. The middle hours -of the afternoon could be intolerable enough in -a big, busy city well upon the confines of the -South. The rush and whirr of looms was -carried far upon the air, and even into the -quietest streets wandered the noisy echoes of -the boulevards.</p> - -<p>Yet it was dull and flat for the solitary -stranger, without interest in factories, or provincial -entertainment in friendship. It was -doubly dull for a woman past youth and all -its personal excitements to be extracted from -fleeting curiosity and thrills of anticipation; -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> -denied by reason of sex the stale delights of -café lounges, and by reason of station the -healthier and livelier hospitalities of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cabaret</i> and -peasant reunions.</p> - -<p>Travelling-bag and portmanteau lay strapped -in the hotel hall. The train for Paris would -not leave until late that night, and to while -away the intervening hours I went forth beyond -the town. I chose the farther end of the -long boulevard, the middle of which I had not -yet passed. Down there the brilliant air lost -its clearness in a yellow mist, as if flung from -the sky in a fine dust of powdered gold. Upon -its edge hung the last visible arms of the trees -on either side, lucidly, of unwonted greenness, -the green we note in painted French landscapes, -brightly touched with yellow. I felt that something -fresh, cool, and soft must lie behind that -golden veil. It led my imagination as a child -is led out of the real, by the illusive promises -of fairyland.</p> - -<p>Here sound was deadened, and city movements -seemed to faint away upon the weariness -of the long hot day. I glanced back at the -town. Behind me stretched the dusty boulevard, -and sharpened above it, against the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> -tremulous pellucid blue of the heaven, the profile -of quaint church-spires and heavy masses -of buildings. Ahead, my way was blocked -by the wide grey river, black where the shadows -touched it, silver where the full light shone -upon it. A bridge of grey stone spanned it -from the end of the boulevard to the other side, -the unexplored:—a bridge so old, so worn, so -silent and empty, that it might appropriately -be the path to the city cemetery.</p> - -<p>This bridge I crossed in all its glamour -of sad enchantment. One of its arches was -broken, and made a dangerous gap above the -broad, quiet waters. There were no lamps, no -visible indication of life about. I saw that it -led to an island encircled by a battered and -decayed dark wall, with little castellated ornaments -that gave it the look of a feudal fortress -of unusual extent and dimensions. Midway -I stood upon the bridge, and wondered what -sort of land might be before me. At first I -believed it to be uninhabited, until much gazing -discovered a thin curl of blue smoke far away, -beyond a square tower. It was nearing sunset -now, and the island lying west, showed out -more darkly from a broad band of reddish -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span> -glory. It wore all the more dead and desolate -air because of the floating and quickened light -above it.</p> - -<p>Have you ever, in some quaint French town -washed by a wide river, watched these lovely -sunset contrasts on the blackened greyness of -stone masses and on the sombre placidity of -water? The best effects you will find upon the -Loire, and if you can recall them, you will see, -better than words of mine can paint, the salient -features of that river-view set with towers and -a decayed, old grey wall.</p> - -<p>I was saturated with the sadness of it, and -my glance was still wedded to its dead charm, -when a bloused peasant came out of the under -shadows and luminous red upper sphere, like -a cheerful commonplace note in the picturesque -mystery of the imagination. Very real he -looked, and not in the least like a ghost from -other centuries. Prosperous, too, as befits -a peasant who has earned his right to nod -to his betters, and mayhap clink free and -fraternal glasses with them through an ocean -of blood. He came along, whistling a patriotic -tune, with his hands in his pockets, and his -hat in villainous emphasis cocked over one ear. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p> - -<p>‘Can it be,’ I asked myself, in a pang of -disappointment, ‘that this enchanted island -contains the ubiquitous <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cabaret</i>, and that the -impossible legend of liberty, equality, and -fraternity has penetrated, with its attendant -train of horrid evils, into this home of silence -and poetic decay?’</p> - -<p>I interrupted my gloomy moralising, for -which, like all persons naturally gay, I flatter -myself I have a decided turn, and hat, metaphorically, -in hand, sued this roadside rascal -for information.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, people lived upon the island, not -many—mostly women: laundresses upon -the side that ran unprotected down to the -water edge. I might see their sheds if I -made the round of the wall. There was a -large Benedictine convent at one end, and a -cemetery eastward—but no hotel accommodation, -no shops, no vehicles of any sort, -and but one miserable little wine-shop, -where they sold the worst brandy in all -France.’</p> - -<p>Of this liquid I concluded the fellow had -been drinking somewhat copiously, and left -him to push inquiries for myself. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span></p> - -<p>I know not why, but the moment I set foot -upon the island, and heard the slow swish of -the eddying river against its projecting base, -thought was checked upon mild and pleasurable -suspense. Something unexpected must -surely happen, I believed, and step by step -destiny seemed to impel me forward in its -pursuit. My footfall rang sharply upon the -empty path, and I felt it would be ignominy -to leave this strange spot until fate had spoken, -and its voice been interpreted adequately for -me by circumstance.</p> - -<p>How still everything was, and how softly -the day’s heat was stealing out of the atmosphere! -One bright star shone like a lamp -over a noble ruin, and for this I made. No -sound of living voice, no clang of wooden shoe -or beat of hoofs broke the heavy silence, and -by this fact I knew that I must still be remote -from the washerwomen’s quarter. There was -a fearful look about the low rocks that reached -behind the ruins down to the black water, -whose perilous stillness was unwholesomely -revealed by the margin of quivering light shed -from the rosy sky.</p> - -<p>A few yards farther brought me to the open -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> -cemetery gate. Here I entered with a shuddering -sense of the romantic appropriateness -of its aspect. Did ever churchyard wear so -solemn, so forsaken an air of death? Death -was breathed in the profuseness and dankness -of the weeds that sprawled over and almost -enveloped the tombstones; in the grassy walks -unworn by tread of foot; in the graves that -showed no sacred care of hand, no symbol -of fond remembrance or bereaved heart. Who -were these dead so forgotten and so alone? -So near a busy city, and so remote from living -man?</p> - -<p>Suddenly my wondering fancy was visibly -answered by sight of a slim old woman in -black, who slowly came toward me by a -narrow side-path. I stopped her with an -elaborate apology, and we speedily fell into -talk. She had been born on this island sixty -years before, when the century was entering -into middle life, and now at its close these -had been the permanent limits of her vision. -About a dozen times she may have crossed -the bridge, or walked the streets of the city -yonder, and only once had she gone down the -river in a barge to have a peep at the real -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> -South—the ardent, rose and lavender-smelling -South!</p> - -<p>‘I pray you, Madame, tell me, who am a -restless vagabond, never three months happy -in the same place, how life looks to one like -you, who have never left the boundary marks -of birth, who have grown and lived amid unchanged -scenes, and have been satisfied to look -for sixty years upon these low grey walls and -the spires and chimneys of that distant city?’ -I asked, profoundly astonished.</p> - -<p>In the old dame’s wrinkled parchment face -gleamed a pair of singularly vivid brown eyes -that held, I suspect, more wisdom than my -dissatisfied and travelled glance. She eyed me -curiously one long eloquent moment, and then -remarked, with some astuteness and much -benevolence, that change brought idle misery, -and monotony its own reward of ignorance and -content. Further questions about the island -led to an offer from her to show me where she -lived—an offer I accepted eagerly, and together -we left the cemetery, now revealing all -its melancholy charm in the last flushed smile -of a lovely autumn sunset.</p> - -<p>Save for the glimmer of gold upon an upper -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> -casement, the grey street was already cast into -twilit gloom, and a faint ray here and there -seemed to make its own pathway through the -dim troubled blue of the atmosphere. Unmistakably -evening was upon us, and the -ghosts of the imagination would surely soon be -abroad among these haunted scenes.</p> - -<p>But nobody could be less spectral than my -companion, both in speech and in looks. She -was communicative to rashness, and when I -asked where I could obtain lodging upon the -island, for a week or a month, as long as the -caprice pleased me—she fixed me in a mild -interrogative way, and paused, as if equally in -doubt of my discretion and of her own.</p> - -<p>There was no hotel, no lodgings that she -knew of, but if Madame really desired it—if, -in fact, she could trust Madame to be discreet -and reserved, she did not know that it might -not be managed somehow. But she would not -engage herself.</p> - -<p>I pressed for an explanation, and so aflame -was I with sharp interest and curiosity, that I -know not what wild pledges of reserve and -discretion and prudent behaviour I proffered. -Willingly at that moment would I have undertaken -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> -to deny my whole past, and give the lie -direct to nature. What more potent than passionate -sympathy? and the old woman, I think, -must have felt some desperate need for a willing -ear in which to pour her pent-up confidences. -The cup of silence to which experience had -condemned her was full to overflowing, and my -voice it seems shook the brim.</p> - -<p>She told me then that she was the confidential -servant and sole companion of a -maiden lady who lived alone with a little niece -in a big barrack of a house below the Benedictine -monastery. There was a story, of course, -which perhaps one day I should hear, if matters -could be so arranged that I might sojourn -a while beneath their roof. But this also was -a promise withheld. Nothing depended on -her, though she had influence—naturally, she -added, with a look of meaning that set my -heart in a flutter. I declare it made me feel -young again, and full of thrilling alarm, on the -heels of romance, in the quest of breathless adventure. -I cannot explain how this old peasant -had the knack of accentuating commonplace -words, and of lending them a significance far -beyond that with which we are accustomed to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> -associate them. But she did so, and there was -a nameless charm and tremor conveyed in her -added ‘naturally,’ with its accompanying suppressed -intimation of glance.</p> - -<p>The Benedictine monastery lay in massive -gloom below, reaching an aerial coldness of -sharp point and spire along its jagged tops. -Feudal gashes in the arches let in large slips of -green sky and glimmering stars, and its rough -stone wall along one side was the division -between the convent and the garden of my -companion’s mistress. No, not even the cemetery -I had left could, in the dreariest hour, look -more inexpressibly dark, and lifeless, and forsaken -than that old garden. Its beauty was -the beauty of death and sadness and neglect. -There were rotten arbours and stone seats, and -mossy, weed-grown paths. The underwood -was impenetrably thick, and only the fine old -trees lifted a calm front, indifferent to man’s -unkindness. They needed no human hand to -care them, and so they throve, and willingly -gave grateful shade, and the splendour of their -foliage, and the majesty of their form to the -dead scene. But of flowers there were none. -A coating of moss, bleached and faded, had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> -grown over the old sun-dial, which now was -hidden under the branching trees. Not a bird -sang, nor did any live thing skurry into hiding -upon sound of my footstep, as I wandered -through the dusky alleys, while my guide went -inside to consult her mistress.</p> - -<p>The quiet of an empty garden, showing no -sign of care or an active presence about it, -while within view of smoke and fierce city -activities, is surely not comparable with any -other quiet in nature. Restriction adds to its -intensity. The silence becomes almost palpable -from the hum of existence afar, and the spirit -of the place seems more vividly personal by -reason of the narrowness of vision. You may -walk along the loneliest beach man ever trod, -and feel less alone than I did in that garden. -The dimness of the biggest forest would be -comforting after the intolerable motionlessness -of its leaves and plumy weeds.</p> - -<p>I was beginning to wonder if it would be -possible for me to fulfil my contract should -the lady of the house consent to share her roof -with me, when I heard a child’s clear, joyous -laugh. It was a sound of heavenly music to -me just then, and effectually dispersed the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> -gruesome mist which was fast enveloping my -reason. The desolation of the place, and the -ghastly images which threatened nightmare, -could only be accidental, I wisely concluded, -if such laughter—fresh, untroubled, and sweet—might -be heard unrebuked. When the old -woman reappeared, alarm was already soothed, -and I was back in the grip of fascinating excitement.</p> - -<p>‘Mademoiselle gives me permission to dispose -of the lower <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">appartement</i>, which we never -occupy now,’ she said, with a smile so human -and inviting that I could have embraced her on -the spot.</p> - -<p>We walked toward the house, which, though -gloomy enough, showed nothing to match the -mystery of the dark garden. Three broad discoloured -steps led to the hall of the lower -story, which was offered for my occupation, and -inside the large stone hall I noted a little carriage -and two wooden horses worked by springs.</p> - -<p>‘The sound of Gabrielle’s carriage will not, I -hope, disturb Madame? She generally plays -here, as there is not space enough upstairs.’</p> - -<p>I expressed myself delighted to be in close -neighbourhood with the child’s playground. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span></p> - -<p>‘These used to be poor Madame’s rooms,’ -she added, with a big sigh, as she opened the -door of a fine, chill salon.</p> - -<p>‘The mother of Mademoiselle,’ I conjectured.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no; Mademoiselle’s mother always preferred -the rooms upstairs—those which Mademoiselle -now lives in. These were her sister’s—young -Madame, Gabrielle’s mother.’</p> - -<p>‘She is dead?’</p> - -<p>‘Alas! yes. It is unlucky to be too much -loved—unlucky for loved one and for lovers. -Dr. Vermont has never been here since his -wife’s death—has never even seen little Gabrielle -since she was born, and Mademoiselle has -never once smiled.’</p> - -<p>I was content to reserve my curiosity for -another moment, and applied my attention -exclusively to the question of my installation. -My vanity, I will own, was something flattered -by its magnificence. There were two handsome -salons, a bed- and dressing-room, and a dining-room, -all richly furnished in Empire style. The -best taste may not have prevailed, but there could -be no question of substantial effectiveness, and -already an air of other days hung round it, and -made a pathetic appeal to the judgment. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p> - -<p>As my companion showed me over the -kitchen and pantries and other domestic offices, -I noted on the farther side of the narrow -passage, beyond my bedroom, a closed door -which she did not offer to open. My sympathy -with Bluebeard’s wife was instantly -awakened, and that door became an object of -burning interest to me.</p> - -<p>From the kitchen she conducted me through -the dining-room window into a long glass-roofed -gallery, jutting out beyond the house -and seeming to hang over the river, so completely -hidden were the rocks below. The -city lights along the opposite bank were -visible, and the heavy masses of boats and -barges made moving shadows through the dusk.</p> - -<p>‘How lovely!’ I exclaimed, sniffing the soft -air delightedly. ‘Here will I sit and walk and -read and muse. A month, did I say! I could -cheerfully end my days here.’</p> - -<p>‘We have no servant at your disposal, -Madame,’ the old woman said, phlegmatically -checking my enthusiasm by a reminder of the -trials of existence. ‘But until you have procured -one, I shall be glad to give you any -assistance in my power.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span></p> - -<p>I thanked her heartily, and inquired if I could -find a fiacre to drive at once for my luggage to -town. There was no such thing on the island, -she calmly informed me. Nothing in the shape -of a wheeled object ever crossed the bridge -from the city except the morning vans and the -weekly butcher’s cart. Once a week the laundresses -wheeled their barrows of linen into -town and returned on the same day with the -supply for the week’s washing. She could -recommend a little maid, whose mother would, -no doubt, be glad to undertake to market for -me for a consideration, and her I could engage -on my way to the hotel.</p> - -<p>I left the amiable old dame to prepare for -my reception that night, and set forth in the -dropping twilight in search of the maid and my -portmanteau. I had the wisdom, however, to -dine at the hotel before returning to the -gloomy island. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span></p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="newpage"> -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 class="nobreak" id="A_MIDNIGHT_VISION">A MIDNIGHT VISION</h4> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I<b>T</b></span> was late when I drove across the bridge -from the town. The noise of rumbling wheels -upon the pavement, as the cab clattered past -the arches, was of such unearthly volume as to -arouse the soundest sleeper. In one or two -casements lights and alarmed faces showed; -but for the rest, the islanders turned upon their -pillows, scarcely vexed by idle speculation upon -the disturbance.</p> - -<p>The darkness of the house chilled my heart, -as the cab drove up the grassy pathway, and -when the door opened, and the old dame stood -in the hall in the uncertain illumination of a -single candle, the solitude of the place looked -so insufferably strange, that I rubbed my eyes -to ascertain if I were really awake and not -dreaming. But a substantial cabman was -waiting for his fare, and the woman’s thin -yellow hand was holding mine in a cordial -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> -clasp. I believe the honest creature had -already begun to miss me, and had been counting -the minutes until my reappearance.</p> - -<p>She led me into the dining-room, where a -supper of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pâté</i>, fruit, and burgundy was prepared -for me, and though I protested that I was not -hungry, she compelled me to make a pretence -of eating, for the excuse of lingering to talk to -me. Mademoiselle had long since retired. She -herself had slept a little in order to be fresh for -the excitement of my return.</p> - -<p>We sat till far into the night, chatting about -the great world, about Paris, which to her -meant all the sin and misery and gaiety of the -entire universe; and about the big town of -Beaufort across the river. This impelled me to -stand up and draw the curtain, that I might -have a peep at it from the gallery. The old -woman followed me, and stood leaning beside -me against the flat stone balustrade. The -lights now along the water were few and -widely spread—but in the heaven they had -multiplied and twinkled, variously-hued, upon -their dark ground.</p> - -<p>‘Down there lies the road to Beaufort—the -road to Paris,’ my companion murmured wistfully. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> -‘It is now ten years since Mademoiselle -has been watching it, but never a soul comes by -it—never a soul.’</p> - -<p>‘Whom is she watching for?’ I asked, in a -tone insensibly lowered by her whisper.</p> - -<p>‘For Dr. Vermont—little Gabrielle’s father.’</p> - -<p>‘Is he the only relative she has?’</p> - -<p>‘The only one. It is a sad story. The poor -lady is eating her heart out with sorrow for the -dead, and idle sorrowing for the living. The -dead at least loved her—but the living! Ah, -there is nothing harder in nature than the heart -of a man turned from a loving woman.’</p> - -<p>‘Does Dr. Vermont know that Mademoiselle -loves him?’</p> - -<p>‘Know!’ she cried indignantly. ‘Mademoiselle -is a proud woman. <i>I</i> know because I -divine it. He too might divine it, if feeling -could touch him. But he was always a hard -man. He stays away, and he does not write. -He cares no more for his child than he does for -Mademoiselle.’</p> - -<p>She dropped into silence, and I did not want -to scare her by appearing in any way to force -her confidence. I was poignantly wakeful from -interest and the atmosphere of mystery I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> -breathed; nevertheless, I yielded at once to -suggestion that the hours were lengthening towards -morning, and was glad enough to find -myself shuddering among the cold sheets that -had lain long in lavender presses, while I -listened to the echo of the old woman’s footsteps -upon the stairs and the sound of key in -lock and bolt drawn.</p> - -<hr class="tb" > - -<p>I was sleeping soundly when Joséphine -brought me my morning chocolate and drew -up the blind. She informed me that Mademoiselle -hoped I had slept well, and would do -me the honour of calling on me in the afternoon. -This courtesy both astonished and gratified me. -I had understood that Joséphine had half -smuggled me into the house, and that her -mistress had only given a grudging consent to -my admittance.</p> - -<p>The morning I devoted to examination of -my quarters. I found the door of the mysterious -chamber locked, but as the key was on the -outside, I had the indiscretion to turn it and -look in. It was a luxurious bedroom, and -was as blue as one of Lesueur’s paintings. -Young Madame Vermont must indeed have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> -adored the colour to suffer it in such monotonous -excess. The bed, of black polished wood, was -hung with blue silk curtains; the carpet was -of blue cloth, and blue prevailed in the handsome -rugs that relieved it. The couches, the -chairs, were covered with blue silk, and blue -muslin even draped the long looking-glass. -The bed looked ready for use; the blue embroidered -coverlet was turned down, and across -the lace-edged sheet was flung an unrolled -night-dress, as if somebody were momently -expected to lift it. On the dressing-table -several dainty objects of feminine toilette lay -ready to hand—even a little crushed lace handkerchief -was thrown hastily against a silver -hand-mirror. Beside the bed was a pair of -black velvet slippers, and across a chair a -frilled and expensive wrapper. Even the water -in the carafe on the table was fresh, and there -were matches beside the silver-wrought candle-stick. -A beautiful jar on an inlaid table in the -window recess contained hot-house flowers that -were only beginning to fade, but their untainted -perfume told of water daily renewed.</p> - -<p>It was easy to divine the secret story of that -woman’s chamber. Mademoiselle cherished -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> -the delusion, as unsubstantial food for her -hungry heart, that its occupant was merely -absent, and might be expected any day—any -hour. She refused to accept the irrevocableness -of death, and kept the chamber ready for -the wandering spirit when the ties of earth -should recall it. This was the meaning of the -turned-down bed and unfolded night-dress; of -the flowers in the jar sent from the city and -carefully watered each evening; of the little -handkerchief eloquently wisped against the -silver mirror. I retreated softly, and closed -the door as if of some sacred place.</p> - -<p>After an interview with the maid who came -to wait upon me, I lounged in the gallery until -the midday breakfast. The aspects and surroundings -enchanted me still more by day than -they had done the night before. I felt alone—solemnly -alone between large spaces of sky and -water. Underneath, the river flowed broadly, -and upon its bosom the big barges travelled -southward, and lighter vessels glided swiftly -by to drop behind the bridge, whence the eye -could follow their path no more. Below the -broken arches and towered points of the bridge -went the road to Beaufort and the wide world, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> -a white dust-blown band along the grey -horizon. Under a blazing sun showed the -outlines of the city, and the strained ear might -detect the far-off murmur of looms by help of -the factory chimneys. But this needed an -effort of imagination in so heavy and dense a -silence.</p> - -<p>After breakfast I bethought myself of a visit -to the melancholy garden by way of change. -On the stairs I caught the pleasant patter of -small feet and the shrill, sweet notes of a child’s -voice. I stepped into the hall, where Gabrielle -was at play. She was not pretty, but so lively -and spirited and quaint, that she gave a fuller -notion of the charm of childhood than any -pretty child I have known. She knew neither -shyness nor fear. When she saw me, she -stopped her play, and approached me boldly.</p> - -<p>‘You are the strange lady Joséphine says I -am not to bore,’ she said gravely, without any -resentment or surprise that she should be asked -to consider me.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you will bore me a good deal, little -one,’ I replied. ‘I love children, and am delighted -when they take notice of me and -chatter to me.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> - -<p>‘I like chattering, too, but my aunt is very -silent. She is always learning lessons and -reading books. Do you learn lessons still?’</p> - -<p>‘Sometimes, when I am not too lazy. But I -am like you, I don’t like lessons and work,—I -prefer play.’</p> - -<p>‘If you like, I will play with you,’ she offered, -with a serious condescension that was captivating. -‘I have no one to play with except -Minette and Monsieur Con. Wouldn’t you -like to see Minette? She is a little fluffy, -white kitten. Monsieur Con is my rabbit. -Come and I will show them to you.’</p> - -<p>This was the start of a friendship delightful -enough to have moored my barque to those -island shores for an indefinite period, if even -there had been no irresistible interest of environment -and personality to enthral me. But -Mademoiselle Lenormant’s character was a -character of unusual fascination—not in the -sense of sexual attraction but from the point -of view of study. She came and sat with me -for half an hour late that afternoon. I could -not fitly describe her as formal, for she breathed -of austere sadness and study. Her pretensions -to beauty, in the accepted form, can never have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> -been great, but defective features found an -abundant apology in the extreme delicacy of -the pallid face and a certain wistful eagerness -and suppressed tenderness of expression. It -was a face to haunt you into the silent watches -of the night, in its mute eloquence of suggestion—like -a spirit or a picture. Having looked once -upon it, it dwelt for ever apart in the memory, -constantly provoking thought, conjecture, and -raking the fanciful waters of romance by -gliding dreams of sorrow and solitude, and -the tragedy that finds no voice or fraternal -sympathy upon the noisy surface of life.</p> - -<p>Silence I should say had been the great -feature of her existence. Even upon the odd -impersonal subjects that sprang up for discussion -in our conversations, her talk was scant -and weighted with an unusual intonation, as if -speech came to her amiss. She pondered each -commonplace I uttered, and gazed steadfastly -into space or down upon the river before replying, -which she did very seriously after a long pause. -At first this eccentricity of hers much disconcerted -me. To exclaim in soft rapture, ‘How -lovely the stillness here is!’ and a few minutes -later, when you had quite lost sight of the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> -trite observation, to have it cast back upon -the wavering plain of dialogue in some such -manner, and in tones of musing gravity:</p> - -<p>‘You think such stillness as this lovely? It -is perhaps the novelty of it alone that enchants -you’—</p> - -<p>Or, in response to a previous half-forgotten -remark received in absolute silence, that the -way the boats and barges dropped suddenly -out of view as they passed under the bridge -was strangely attractive, to find the idea caught -by the heels, and gently forced into earnest -discussion by a word of imperious invitation. -For there was an air of extremely winning -command about her, that from the first I found -impossible to resist. Her neck was long, and -the head upon it beautifully set, and her movements, -her gestures and looks, were those of -a princess in disguise. An over-wrought -imagination might of course—possibly did—exaggerate -this air of command and these -sovereign attitudes, but I came afterwards to -see that I was not alone in my delusion, and -that upon ardent youth of the other sex, her -quiescent influence could be potential to salvation. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p> - -<p>Of the nature of her occupations and ideas I -remained quite in the dark for some days to -come. Regularly, of an afternoon, she would -visit me in the gallery, where we sat and discussed -the ‘eternal verities’ in an abrupt, -unenthusiastic way. I could see that she purposely -withheld herself, her real self, from -intrusion or impertinent survey. Seclusion -had taught her prudence, and reticence was a -natural gift. But how in the name of the -marvellous, upon an empty island, where social -intercourse is undreamed of, had she come by -knowledge of the hollowness of casual expansion -and the nothingness of ready sympathy?</p> - -<p>This is a lesson the cynical society deity -teaches us after harsh and prolonged experiences -of considerable variety, and except to its -votaries, could only be known to those hermits -who went into the desert to rest from the vanity -of experiment and pleasure.</p> - -<p>Joséphine’s garrulity, however, made instructive -Mademoiselle’s reserve. From her I -learnt, by meagre instalments, this enigmatic -lady’s story. But not much until a little scene -had pushed me upon the other side of discretion, -and driven me to sue for enlightenment. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> - -<p>It happened thus. In the grip of wakefulness -I had gone out to walk about the gallery. -There was no moon, and upon the turn of the -season, the night was chill and starless. Across -the smoke-coloured heaven odd masses wandered, -pursued by the wind that blew down -from the North. The river below made a stain -of exceeding blackness in the dark picture, and -beat the rocks in angry protest against the -whining uneasiness of the air. For it whined -dismally round the island, and blew among the -trees of the garden like an army of dreary -banshees. A sense of horror of the place grew -upon me, and I began to hunger for the big -bright world beyond; for gas-lit streets and -the sordid aspects of city life. I yearned to -jostle my fellows along the highways once -more, and listen to the sound of vocal dispute -upon the public place. I saw in vision streams -of people emerging from illuminated theatres, -heard the cheerful roll of carriages, and the -noisy murmur of laughter and speech. I -longed for it all again—all that I had despised, -and told myself in the midst of its enjoyment -that I hated. After all, I was but a poor -mountebank of a hermit. Town born, I could -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> -never hope to free myself permanently from the -influences of birth, and I knew that sooner or -later nostalgia for city sounds and sights—for -the multitudinous accompaniments of its existence, -must find me and pursue me into the -heart of the most congenial solitude, into the -most heavenly of rural retreats.</p> - -<p>The gallery ran round the angles of the house, -and on the other side looked down into the -garden and in upon the window of Madame -Vermont’s blue room. I went round it in a -thirst for movement, but, fearful of disturbing -the sleep of others, I walked very softly. To -my complete surprise, and I will not aver without -a momentary qualm of terror, I saw the -reflection of a stream of light upon the near -window of the blue chamber. I hardly believe -in ghosts; but it would indeed be rash to hint -that it was no vague dread of the supernatural -that started my unequal heart-beats just then. -I felt the blood gush and swell to bursting the -arteries about my temples and throat, and at -the back of my ears. Fright was not a check -upon curiosity, but rather a strong impetus. -Though I might approach in a conflict of -emotions, I did not hesitate for one moment -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span> -to approach, and was confronted with sharp -disappointment when I saw that the stream of -light upon the floor fell from an earthly candle-stick, -and that Mademoiselle was leaning over -the polished foot of the bed and gazing steadfastly -at the empty pillow.</p> - -<p>It did not take me an instant to recover my -balance and watch the scene with revived interest. -This was my second glimpse of the blue -chamber, and a poignant note was now added -to its fascination. There was a more speaking -look about the turned-down sheet, the unrolled -night-dress across it, and the hastily flung -wrapper. Not of death—but of an unwonted -disparition and a watched-for return it spoke. -Not of anguish and bereavement was it eloquent, -but of the fruitless and undying hunger of expectation. -At such an hour, so sanctified by -pervading sorrow and silence, the blue of the -room was no longer garish, but an appropriate -setting for imprisoned regret. Its very uniformity -and depth of colour suggested the -solemnity, the profundity of a rich sky unstained -by cloud, and, enveloped in this mystic hue, -Mademoiselle seemed to be the spirit of sorrow -resting upon the grave of all joy—mute, placidly -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> -unhopeful, visibly unafraid. For surely such -solitude as hers was calculated to bend the -proudest head and break the strongest heart, -and in presence of her indomitable courage I -felt abashed and mean by confrontation with -my recent idle terror.</p> - -<p>I knew well that it was my duty to turn -away my eyes and leave so sacred a vigil unwatched, -but when duty and curiosity, strongly -roused, come into mortal conflict, it is not often -that the former conquers. I waited to see how -long Mademoiselle would linger in that room, -what her movements might be, and how she -would depart for the upper house. And as I -waited, I saw her come round by the side of -the bed with a quick, sudden step, and gently -smooth the pillow. In doing so, her hand -rested heavily in the middle, and made a distinct -impression. She started back, and I could -see that desperate emotion stiffened her thin -white face, and the large grey eyes she lifted, -in the full light of the candle upon the table -beside her, were full of pain. By a gesture so -slight, it appeared she had startled memory -into wakeful protest, and now she hastened to -quiet it, and trod feverishly upon the living -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span> -embers to still their fires by giving to the bed -its proper aspect of emptiness. She turned the -pillow, gathered up the ruffled sheet, crushed -the night-dress into careless folds, and thrust -it beneath the blue coverlet. As white was -hidden under the blue, resignation seemed to -have banished expectation angrily, and brought -the curtain down ruthlessly upon the poor -pathetic comedy weakness played for its own -diversion.</p> - -<p>She took the candle up, stood near the door, -and gazed slowly around her. The little handkerchief -wisped against the silver mirror caught -her eye. She jerked forward and grasped it -eagerly; so flimsy was it that it almost melted -in her slight palm. I remembered there was a -faint, subtle odour of violets about the room, -which seemed to emanate from that handkerchief. -I can imagine how it must have risen -and tyrannised her senses, can measure the -strength of its appeal and its delicate charm. -No women are so astute and penetrative in -their use of scent as Frenchwomen. It is their -study to spread their essence with refined -cruelty, and leave an imperishably perfumed -trace to check the wandering imagination, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> -and keep tenanted by a personal odour the -sanctuaries of the heart they have forsaken.</p> - -<p>The effect of the faded sweetness of the -handkerchief was to irritate her to what I concluded -to be a resolution to have done with this -miserable comedy of expectation. She held it -from her fiercely, and threw back her head to -get further away from its insidious appeal, and -then approached it to the flame of the candle. -It needed but a flutter of light against it, and -the flimsy thing was a brief yellow flare. She -watched until the flame had burnt itself out, -and then threw the charred rag upon the marble -top of the night-table, and swayed unsteadily -towards the door. By the way she grasped -her throat with one frail, nervous hand, I could -divine how the thick sobs shook her, and I -wondered more and more upon the mystery -of her life, and what elements combined to form -the mimic tragedy of that midnight solitude.</p> - -<p>Outside the breath of winter was upon us, -and the wind bit and stung with the sharpness -of ice. It was December now, and vigils upon -the terrace, once the sun was gone down and -the stars were out, were a forbidden pleasure -in careful middle-age. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 class="nobreak" id="THE_STORY_OF_MADEMOISELLE">THE STORY OF MADEMOISELLE -LENORMANT</h4> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">T<b>HE</b></span> month of December ran itself out with a -more ruffled mildness than November had done. -For one thing, it was cold, blustering weather, -and for days together ice sheeted the broad -river. The boats and barges plied less frequently, -and foot-passengers now rarely threaded -the long boulevard from the city to the island -bridge. Only the morning vans relieved us -of a complete sense of separation from our -fellows, and at odd intervals, the postman came, -and carried a whiff of the outer world into our -retreat. On Saturday we had the excitement -of watching the laundresses wheel their barrows -of linen across the bridge, and diminish with the -distance upon the chill, bleak road, sometimes -brightened by rays of winter sunshine. But for -the rest we shared such desert stillness as might -be found in the heart of an empty forest, instead -of upon the edge of a busy and populous town.</p> - -<p>Within the walls, life went pleasantly enough. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> -My presence downstairs had served to tame -Mademoiselle somewhat. She stood less impenetrably -apart, and her discourse grew daily -less impersonal. When walks upon the terrace -and musing under the roof of the gallery meant -perilous exposure, she would invite me upstairs -to her own <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">appartement</i>. This I enjoyed. It -gave me a sense of fraternity in silence as well -as companionable speech at discretion.</p> - -<p>Her rooms were less spacious than those I -occupied, but more comfortable, and not without -a surprising effort at cosiness. In her salon -a wood fire burned brightly, and the deep worn -arm-chairs had an inviting aspect. Everything -was faded, often frayed and rent, but the -pictures were old and of some value, and books -bulged out beyond their natural shelves, and -overflowed upon the floor, and crowded the -tables. Books, books everywhere,—old books, -tattered books, dog-eared, dusty, and moth-eaten; -wearing all a heavy, learned look, and suggestive -of historical research. I laughingly remarked -this to her one day, as I removed a big tome -from the low chair I wished to sit upon. She -blushed that soft pink flush belonging to faces -habitually pallid. It made her look delightfully -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> -young and interesting, and conveyed the hope -to me that the last barrier of her glacial reserve -was about to break down.</p> - -<p>‘I have been for many years engaged upon -research among these volumes,’ she admitted -slowly, after a pause; ‘I am writing an important -book.’</p> - -<p>‘An important book?’ I cried interrogatively.</p> - -<p>‘Yes: the life of the Emperor Julian. I regard -him as the great Misunderstood of the Christian -world, and I wish to rehabilitate him,’ she said; -and there was such a touching and simple prayer -for sympathy and encouragement in the glance -she fixed on mine, that I had not the heart to -remember that others had attempted the same -task, and that no amount of learned eloquence -and indignation would teach the Christian world -to regard as desirable a better understanding of -him they call the great Apostate.</p> - -<p>‘Would it be an indiscretion to solicit information -upon your plan of defence?’ I asked -insidiously, with intent to force her into self-exposure. -To me the character of the Emperor -Julian was of comparative insignificance beside -her own, but this fact I naturally kept to myself.</p> - -<p>‘I shall bring him into noble relief by means -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span> -of Frederick the Great as a background—Frederick, -that other famous and less reputable -disciple of Marcus Aurelius. Have you ever -remarked how alike and how unlike they were—one -so sincere and the other so cynically -insincere?’</p> - -<p>Upon a dead island, without new books, or -newspapers, or theatres, and but little out-door -life, because of the ferocity of the weather, the -Emperor Julian and Frederick the Great were -as good subjects of discussion as any others, and -I entered the lists in combative mood, fully -equipped in argument and opinion, and captivated -by the grim earnestness and complete -guilelessness of the Imperial Pagan’s defender. -Of modern literature she was, perhaps not -unwisely, ignorant, and knew not of a man -named Ibsen who, some years earlier, had also -strayed upon this ground. She had been chiefly -inspired by an abominable novel of a French -Jesuit, over which she waxed exceedingly hot. -Her anger was splendid, and I should have -rejoiced to see the Jesuit, Julian’s traducer, -confronted with this thin spiritual-looking lady, -who thrilled from head to foot with generous -hatred of all meanness and unfairness. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span></p> - -<p>‘As a Christian, my defence will have more -weight than if I were imbued with the cold -agnosticism of the day,’ she added naïvely.</p> - -<p>‘Surely,’ I assented, full of admiration, and -more pleased to think of her as a Catholic -eager to make atonement to an ancient enemy -of her faith, than ‘the cold agnostic’ she dismissed -in a tone of implied disapproval.</p> - -<p>‘You wonder, perhaps, at the serious nature -of my studies and labour,’ she observed. And -then, upon a little explanatory nod and arch -of delicate brow, ‘You see my father was a -scholar, and as we lived here quite alone and -rarely received visitors, it was impossible for -him to avoid taking me into his confidence. -And then, when his health began to fail him, -it naturally devolved upon me to help him, -as far as I could, and spare his eyes.’</p> - -<p>Her glance travelled wistfully round the -room, and a ray of mild recognition fell upon -each big volume. It was not difficult to understand -how vividly of the past they spoke to her, -how eloquent of association was their wild disorder. -In the high embrasure of the back -window, which looked down upon the river, and -showed a glimpse of the chimney-tops and tall -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> -spires of Beaufort, there was a dainty, blue-lined -work-table, and near it a revolving book-stand -and a rocking-chair. From where I sat, -I could note that the books were modern—some -of them were bound coquettishly, but the -greater number were paper-covered. I was not -wrong in supposing this to have been the -favourite recess of the late Madame Vermont. -The blue satin of the work-table betrayed her, -and a hurried inspection of the backs of the -books convinced me that her taste in literature -was all that is most correct and elegant. No -ancient tomes these. No bramble-strewn paths -to historic research. Nothing whatever about -the Emperor Julian; still less about Marcus -Aurelius. Bourget, Feuillet, Gyp, Loti, Marcel -Prévost, Anatole France and company: these -were the friends of pretty Madame Vermont’s -solitude, the entertainers of her frugal leisure. -From the start, without description, word, or -hint, I had understood Madame Vermont to -be uncommonly pretty. I pictured her small, -blonde, charmingly coquettish, and self-conscious. -I endowed her with every conventional -fascination, and felt sure that if I had been a -man I should have adored her, like the rest. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> -As a matter of fact, my imagined picture of her -came very near reality. Only instead of fair -hair, she had the loveliest brown that made a -flossy network round a little rosebud of a face; -her eyes were bewitchingly blue, limpid like a -child’s, and her cheek was adorably hued. Just -the conventional angelic being to turn male -heads, and set their hearts in a flutter; just the -sort of home idol to keep nurses and sisters—especially -elder, grave, and sensible sisters—perpetually -on their knees, and the domestic -incensor perpetually filled with the freshest of -perfumed flattery swung by the most abject -adorers.</p> - -<p>Now that the icy winds prevented us from -sitting out in my gallery, Mademoiselle had -grown accustomed to receive me upstairs. For -there was no conquering her repugnance to my -rooms. She found it less hard to walk with -Joséphine to the cemetery than to sit and talk -of other matters with a stranger in her dead -sister’s house. Of me, however, she had grown -fond:—at first in a furtive way, as if not quite -sure that she was right in yielding to the weakness. -Gradually she emerged from this quaint -and insular uncertainty; saw that there was no -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> -shame attached to the discovery that a new -face could delight her, and graciously abandoned -herself to the influence of a full-blown -affection.</p> - -<p>Every morning Joséphine came down with -Mademoiselle’s compliments, and her desire to -be informed if I had slept well. Every afternoon -I mounted to drink a cup of English tea -with her, and listen to her last pages on the -great Misunderstood, and sometimes maliciously -spur her into passion by some sceptical raillery, -which always brought pained reproach to her -sad eyes and a slight flush to her pale face. -She took everything in earnest, even my feeble -jokes, which after a while, when she began to -understand them, she would proceed to discuss -in her own quaint, slow way.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose it must be a matter of temperament, -or perhaps it is an Irish peculiarity,’ she -would say, and inspect me very seriously.</p> - -<p>I assured her that the Irishman was not -born who could not change his opinion at a -moment’s notice for the fun of the thing, and -in the midst of comedy fall foul upon tragedy -for pure diversion’s sake. She shook her -head despondently, and decided at once that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> -there could be found no earnest scholars, no -born leaders of men, in a band of amiable -buffoons.</p> - -<p>My moments of recreation and distraction -were enjoyed with Gabrielle, when we walked -round the desert island in search of adventures, -or with elaborate care, tried to make each other -understand the caprices of our wandering fancies -in the alleys of the sad, mysterious garden. -It was pure joy to feel the little hand clinging -to my arm or lost in my palm like a soft, small -bird, and hear the pretty patter of running steps -alongside of my brisk strides. For, to atone -for its late appearance, the winter was mortally -cold, and there was no dallying with frozen -toes and frost-bitten ears. But to make up for -this foolish superiority of mine in the matter of -steps, Gabrielle was indulgence itself to my -decided inferiority upon imaginative ground. -I certainly could not imagine so many things -out of nothing, and it was clear that I could -not make up so many charming adventures for -Minette and Monsieur Con. But in my gross -grown-up way, I was not an unsympathetic -confidante for the grievances and perplexities of -solitary childhood. Indeed, Gabrielle admitted, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span> -with off-hand majesty of look and deportment, -that I was rather a nice and entertaining -person for a little girl to talk to, not above the -simple pleasures of play, and not beneath the -romantic joys of story-telling. Now she loved -her aunt; oh, yes, she certainly loved her aunt -above and beyond all the world. But her aunt, -you see, was so very solemn, and then she read -so many books, she was quite <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entichée</i> of those -big, hard-looking books. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Entichée</i>, she admitted, -in answer to my amused and not altogether -edified surprise, was an expression she had -caught from my servant Marie. It was Marie, -she repeated imperiously, who said her aunt -was <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">entichée</i> of books, and she was pleased -to find it a very good word. She was the -quaintest and drollest little philosopher and -playmate melancholy middle-age could desire, -and I am not without shrewd suspicion that I -learnt more from her than she from me.</p> - -<p>Of an evening, as I sat alone downstairs over -my coffee, and snoozed comfortably over one of -Mademoiselle’s books, or puffed a meditative -cigarette in front of the bright wood fire, Joséphine -would come down for a chat on her own -account. It amused me to draw her out upon -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> -the subject of Mademoiselle, and bit by bit I -pieced her story together.</p> - -<hr class="tb" > - -<p>Monsieur Lenormant, the father of two girls, -had had a serious political difference with his -family, who were all staunch Bonapartists, while -he stood by the republic, and flung his hat -into the air whenever they played the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marseillaise</i>. -With no desire to parade this difference, -and being a shy and sensitive man, despite his -republican sympathies, he chose evasion by -the road of retreat. He left Beaufort, where -his family were an influence, and bought the -old house on the island. Here few were likely -to disturb him, and political temptation could -not be expected to pursue him.</p> - -<p>His ostensible excuse was the possession of -scholarly tastes and indifference to the present. -The death of his wife upon the birth of a second -girl, Adèle, was seemingly a further inducement -to seek the soothing shade of solitude. -So the widower, accompanied by his wife’s -confidential servant, Joséphine, and an old -gardener, Marcel, drove out of Beaufort, with -his children, his books, and his cats. In a little -while he was settled and hard at work among -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> -the ancients, and the current world of republicans -and Bonapartists alike forgot him.</p> - -<p>There was a difference of five years between -the children, and soon, too soon, little Henriette -was established upon the semi-maternal, wholly -self-sacrificing pedestal of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">la grande sœur</i>. All -she had known of spontaneous childhood -was before her mother’s death. Henceforth -she was ‘mother’ herself, with Adèle for an -adored and adorable small tyrant. While still -in short frocks, her father, too, had got to rely -on her, and cling to her as to a grown-up -woman. He would gravely debate with her -upon matters it was but humane to suppose -she could understand nothing of. This may be -an excellent school for training in abnegation -and patient endurance, but it is a hard one. -Henriette slipped into maturity without any of -the sunshine of childhood across her backward -path. She was an uncomplaining, studious -little girl, and it is not surprising that Monsieur -Lenormant should have gone to the grave -without the remotest suspicion of the wrong he -had done her. Did she not love her father -devotedly? Did she not worship the pretty -Adèle? And what more can any sane and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> -reasonable young woman demand of life than -ample opportunities for the practice of self-abnegation -and the worshipping of others?</p> - -<p>When Henriette was a slip of a girl and -Adèle a child of ten, young Dr. Vermont, the -only son of Monsieur Lenormant’s comrade of -youth, came down to Beaufort from Paris, in -the full blaze of university honours, and not -without promise of future scientific renown, -backed by a substantial income and solid provincial -influence. This young man looked -surprisingly well upon horseback, and found it -good exercise to ride frequently from the town -to the house of his father’s old friend upon the -island. Arrived there, it amused him to notice -Adèle, who was free of anything like bashfulness, -and in return, thought him the nicest -person she had ever seen. Meanwhile, a grave, -tall girl, too thin for her ungraceful age, -looked on with very different eyes. To her -Dr. Vermont was the traditional Phœbus -Apollo of girlhood. She knew nothing of -romance, or novels, or poetry, but she felt the -dawn of womanhood upon sight of him, and -blushed in divine self-consciousness. She was -a plain girl then—unfinished, unformed, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> -painfully reserved; and it was not to be expected -that such an elegant article of semi-Parisian -make, as Dr. Vermont, should have an -eye for material so crude and undeveloped. -Had Dr. Vermont been thirty instead of twenty, -he might have thought differently, but we all -know how grandly exacting and dramatic -twenty is. Whereas his conquest was not in -the least astonishing. He was a fine-looking -lad, with plenty of pluck and grace and worldly -wisdom. He carried himself with a noble self-consciousness, -was sufficiently attentive to his -moustache to convince mankind of its supreme -importance, and already his handsome dark -eyes wore that look of mild scrutiny that never -left them. Altogether a youth with justifiable -pretensions and fascinations of an intellectual -and bodily nature, and one by no means likely -to learn to abate them by experience.</p> - -<p>As the years went by, and the little women -of the dark house by the river grew with them, -the wealth of Monsieur Lenormant declined, -and when Dr. Vermont, now a distinctive <i>somebody</i> -in his profession, came down one summer, -and rode out from Beaufort to see him, matters -were so bad that he found it his duty to come -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> -every day during the rest of his vacation. Adèle -was now sixteen, a lovely flower opening in the -sun of romantic dreams. Can we wonder if -Dr. Vermont’s glance rested on her in amazed -admiration? Dr. Vermont said nothing, but -he looked. He looked constantly, and his -glances were not without eloquence for the -maiden blushing vividly beneath them. All -this Henriette saw, and loved her sister none -the less, wished not the less heartily both her -dear ones happiness and success, though her -own misery came of it. Only Monsieur Lenormant -understood nothing of the situation. His -dream always had been to marry his favourite -Henriette to his young friend Vermont, but death -overtook him before he could accomplish it.</p> - -<p>One evening, as Dr. Vermont sat beside him -with his hand upon his pulse, the poor gentleman -looked up at him anxiously.</p> - -<p>‘I have written for a relative, a lady, to come -and look after my girls, but you, François, I -expect to be their real protector. I like to -think of you as my daughter’s husband. She is -a good girl, François, an excellent girl. She -has been a devoted daughter, and an adoring -sister. She will make the best of wives.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span></p> - -<p>‘I am sure of it,’ said Dr. Vermont musingly, -as he glanced down to where the two girls were -silently embroidering in the deep recess of a -window above the river. He knew perfectly -well which daughter he was expected to marry -and which he intended to marry, but he kept -his counsel, and gazed in soft approbation upon -the charming profile of Adèle.</p> - -<p>When he came next day, Monsieur Lenormant -had departed from this world of marriage -and giving in marriage, and the lady relative -had arrived. A formal engagement with Adèle -was speedily entered upon, and the Doctor -took the train for Paris, a happy prospective -bridegroom, with the advantage of being -in no hurry to jump into domestic responsibilities. -His betrothed was somewhat young, -and meanwhile he would have leisure to pursue -pleasure elsewhere, and nourish her placid love -upon the most expensive boxes of sweets direct -from Boissier, and instalments of light and -elegant literature to teach her what to respect -of life and from mankind.</p> - -<p>The bride was eighteen and the groom -twenty-eight, when they were married one -spring morning in the Mairie and in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> -Cathedral of Beaufort. That marriage still -brought tears to Joséphine’s old eyes, and -tempted her to unhabitual eloquence. How -lovely the bride had looked!—too lovely, too -delicate for health and long life. Eyes limpid -like an angel’s, so sweetly blue and soft, a face -upon which the tenderest breath would bring -a stain of deepened colour, form slim and -curved and dainty in every detail. The groom -was proud, radiantly proud, perhaps not tender -enough and unapprehensive of the rough winds -of life for a creature so fragile and for bloom -so evanescent. But he looked distinguished, -well-bred, and eminently Parisian; and what -more could provincial spectators desire?</p> - -<p>A more interesting figure far was the grave, -sad young lady, who smiled upon her happy -sister through her tears, and could find words -above the pain of a breaking heart to remind -the groom that Adèle had always been petted -and spoiled and cared, and fervently implore -him to do the same by her, and treat her more -like a child than a wife. The scene was clear -before me. Mademoiselle, as she must have -been at twenty-three, not pretty, but captivating -enough for eyes not blinded by mere animal -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> -beauty, as the Doctor’s were. And he, fatuous, -sure of himself, at heart indifferent to others, -and intoxicated with foolish marital satisfaction. -Did he know that tragedy brushed his happiness -that moment—softly, benignantly, with -blessing instead of prayer, with gaze of hope -instead of reproach?</p> - -<p>Joséphine could tell me nothing, and it -pleased me to believe that he understood, and -some day might remember.</p> - -<p>After some months in Paris, the little bride -was brought back to the dark house by the -river by an anxious husband, there to linger in -the warmth of two loves, two devotions, waited -upon, worshipped in vain. The opening of her -baby’s eyes was the signal for the closing of -her own. Not then, not then could Dr. Vermont -be expected to understand. As far as I -could gather from Joséphine’s account, he passionately -loved his young wife. Her death -crushed him for a while, and he walked the -earth like one blind to the changes of seasons, -blind to surrounding faces, and fronting a future -that would remain for ever a blank. Mademoiselle -came, and gently touched his hand to -remind him that he was not alone in his sorrow. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> -He neither felt the fraternity nor the unspoken -tenderness. The paleness of her cheek held no -eloquence of suffering for him; the sadness of -her eyes left his heart untouched. As for the -child, far from feeling a thrill of paternity upon -sight of it, he desired never to behold it more. -He would regard it henceforth as the cause of -his moral ruin, the beginning of a broken and -joyless life.</p> - -<p>In this hard and sullen mood he returned to -Paris, and Gabrielle grew up with Mademoiselle, -without any knowledge of her father, who apparently -had forgotten the existence of both. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h3 class="nobreak" id="AN_INTERLUDE">AN INTERLUDE - <br> - <span class="small">A DECISION FIN DE SIÈCLE AT THE CAFÉ LANDER</span> - </h3> - - -<p><span class="smcap">I<b>N</b></span> the middle of the rue Taitbout, there is a -little café, which was not so well known twenty -years ago as it is now, at the end of the nineteenth -century. Then it was only beginning to -emerge from the inferior position of crémerie. -Came one day, from the unconventional region -of the Latin Quarter, somewhere in the seventies, -an enterprising proprietor; and in his wake -followed a train of noble youths, enthusiastic -in the praises of Lander, wishful for the further -enjoyments of his hospitalities, and with kindly -memory of his generosity in the matter of -credit.</p> - -<p>Lander brought the pleasant ways of the -<i>Quarter</i> across the town with him, and the -band of noble youths stood by him, encouraged -and sustained him. In consequence, the Café -Lander flourished exceedingly, and its circle of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> -clients daily increased, until it was known, far -and wide, as the resort of embryo genius. For -all the boisterous and good-tempered young -fellows who crowded round its tables, and -emptied bocks and consumed coffee (fifty centimes -a cup with <i>fine champagne</i>), were coming -great men. They were the future lights in -literature, art, philosophy, and politics. The -real living great man they professed to regard -with respectful admiration, but they wanted -none of him in their midst. In the slang of -the day, he had made his pile, and reposed on -velvet and laurels among the Immortals. When -he would have become a part of the past, and -the future was their present, they could afford -to be on more intimate terms with him. But -for the present, they belonged exclusively to -the future.</p> - -<p>These young fools had their place a while, -and expectation dwelt indulgently upon them. -They chatted loudly of isms and ologies and -oxies, with refreshing crudeness: upheld the -realistic, the romantic, the psychological, and -Heaven knows what other schools of literature. -They prated of form, and matter, and art, and -style, as only Frenchmen, bitten by love of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> -these things, can prate. And then, one by one, -they dropped out of the ranks of embryo genius, -having accomplished nothing, with the great -epic unwritten, unwritten the drama, the psychological -novel that was to teach M. Bourget -something new about women; unwritten the -important <i>History of the Franks</i>, that was to -throw into relief hitherto unrevealed aspects of -the character of their conquerors; unsolved -the problems of metaphysics under discussion, -undiscovered the great political panacea of the -age, unpainted the grand masterpiece. With -the first stone of their reputation still to be -laid, they went, and the café saw them no more.</p> - -<p>Some of them became commonplace advocates, -and made uninteresting citizens and -fairly reputable fathers of families: or sordid -notaries, or humdrum bourgeois. Romance -shook its bridle rein with a regretful backward -glance: ‘Farewell for evermore,’ and the converted -fool turned upon his heel to enter into -the ignoble strife with his fellows in quest of -daily bread. Others there were who had a -troublesome way of right-about-facing upon -fond expectation. They jilted the muse for -historical research, or discarded art for literature, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> -or drifted from sonnets to the stage. One -youth of philosophic tastes was known, with -inexcusable fickleness, to shake off the secular -garb, and array himself in the white of the -cloister. He was the only one who made a -serious reputation; he became a fashionable -preacher, and wrote a <i>History of the Church</i> -which brought upon him the wrath of Rome.</p> - -<p>But if they were mostly crude, ineffectual -youths, they had bright faces, and eager -glances, and hearts full of hope and enthusiasm. -They were each confident of his -own powers, inapprehensive of defeat or failure, -bound upon a fiery race for experience and -new sensations, contemptuous of the past, -and looked gaily toward a future of glorious -achievement. Not a city but furnishes the -type, and in no other city is it so persistent -as in Paris. Paint one such, and you paint all -her young men, nourished upon vivid imagination, -upon inexhaustible hope and unconquerable -self-faith.</p> - -<p>Into this circle of frank and amiable egotists, -Dr. Vermont dropped accidentally some ten -years ago. Being of an experimental turn of -mind, and apt to fall upon mild curiosity in -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> -his casual scrutiny of impetuous youth, he -stayed. It is a mistake to assume that an -interest in youth, and a tolerance of its nonsense, -is an indication of lingering kindness of -heart Dr. Vermont liked youth as a vivisectionist -likes animals. It taught him much -that he desired to know, and where it did not -teach him precisely, it helped him along the -path of observation. Men are grown-up children; -boys are rude philosophers, artists, poets, -what you will.</p> - -<p>A cold, passionless man was Dr. Vermont, -the one feeble flame of human feeling he had -thrilled to having faded out of memory almost -upon the death of his just buried young wife. -She, too, had interested him, only differently, -being of a less calculable and possibly less -shallow order of being than the embryo great -men of Lander’s. Widowhood had sundered -him sharply from all personal ties, and left -him all the freer to indulge his passion for experimental -psychology.</p> - -<p>As he sat evening after evening, and drank his -coffee and little glass, and smoked a meditative -cigar, it amused him to encourage the vivacious -contentment around him, and lead the unborn -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> -reputations to reveal their bent. His influence -upon young men was a thing to make older -and saner persons gape. It was, perhaps, all -the stronger and more subtle because it was -unrecognised. He was feared, and yet admired, -to an incredible degree. His mild, sarcastic -face, with its finished features and wholly -effaced humanity of expression, put a point -upon emulation and goaded to rash display. -But none were made to feel the rashness of -their flights, or the absurdity of their theories. -Dr. Vermont was too clever a man to scare expansion, -or cow ambition. This was how he kept -his hold upon the fresh-moustached lads around -him. This was how they spoke of him among -themselves as a good fellow—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">un bon garçon, -malgré</i>—well, in spite of a great many things.</p> - -<p>Thus he sat, and smoked, and listened, while -the years passed, and out of the circle familiar -faces went and new ones came. It must be admitted -there was not much variety in the entertainment. -Always the same questions of form -and expression, of style and matter; always the -same comparison of international literatures and -the relative virtues of different forms of government; -above and beyond all, sex and its unexplained -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> -and stinging problems. They never -tired, and each batch came up, fresh and eager for -the old discussions. Names may vary, fashions -may alter, but the rough, broad facts of life are -there, immutable like nature, ever recurrent -like the ebb and flow of the tide.</p> - -<p>A sense of weariness was upon Dr. Vermont -the December night I write of, as he walked -toward the Café Lander. Most of the lads -were dispersed by the Christmas vacation. But -he knew precisely those who were expecting -him. Anatole Buzeval, his favourite, a charming -young fellow, with healthy Norman blood -in his veins, and in spite of the disastrous -environment of Paris <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fin de siècle</i>, with something -throbbing under his coat that suspiciously -resembled a boy’s free heart. He came from -a Norman fishing town, near the beat of the -channel, washed by a friendly old river and -wooded by still friendlier trees. In boyhood, -he had walked in the woods, he had fished in -the river, he had known the delights of amateur -seafaring, and rode, and shot live things, and -was first awakened by love to the melody of -the birds, and to heroism by the genial spirit of -endurance of the fishermen. These influences -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span> -kept him partially sheltered from the century-worn -cynicism and exhausted emotions prevailing. -It accounted for the ring of sincerity -in his laughter, for the zest of his ephemeral -enthusiasms and the courageous freedom of -his blue eyes. But he was nevertheless bitten -by the disease of the hour, and his speech was -tainted with the cheap <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fin de siècle</i> indifference -and dejection. He was the youngest of the -party, the most intelligent and the brightest. -Beside him sat Gaston Favre, a youth who -would have been an artist if the death-throes -of the century left him any room to believe in -art. Nothing any longer interested him, but -he was still capable of remarking upon sight of -a bad picture—</p> - -<p>‘Now, if it were worth the trouble, or really -mattered, there is food for indignation in that -picture.’</p> - -<p>Whereupon he would survey it in the spirit -of ostentatious tolerance, without a wince or a -critical flash of eye.</p> - -<p>The third, Julien Renaud, was a little older -than these two, and professed a dead interest -in politics. Time was when Lander’s echoed -with the noble flow of his eloquence. Time -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> -was when it was confidently believed that he -was destined, not only in his own imagination, -to reach the tribune, and thunder effectively -against the abuses of government. But that -was in M. Constans’ hour, and M. Constans was -notoriously Julien’s pet aversion. In those -remote days, he was antagonistic toward what -he called ‘the whole shop of the Elysian Fields,’ -and relished M. Carnot as little as he had ever -relished ‘old Father Grévy.’ But these were -now half-forgotten ebullitions of youth, and like -his beloved France, he was battered and bruised -by the defeats of life into complete indifference. -Nothing mattered. In reply to everything, he -had but one response, a quiet shrug, a weariedly -lifted eyebrow, and a murmured <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">cui bono</i> upon -a long-drawn sigh. On this evening the chosen -drink was punch, which resulted in more boisterous -converse, and showed Anatole in almost -a lyric mood. The first mention of the insipidly -recurrent phrase of the hour—‘end -of the century’—inspired him to fall upon -mirthful reminiscences, just as Dr. Vermont -entered the café.</p> - -<p><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘M. le docteur désire?’</span> said the waiter, -helping him off with his overcoat. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span></p> - -<p>The doctor named his drink as he took a -seat, and blandly scrutinised each flushed and -smiling face.</p> - -<p>‘We were talking, Doctor,’ Anatole cried, ‘of -ways of ending the year. Do you remember, -two years ago, when I first joined you, coming -straight from Barbizon, where I chummed with -a queer and amusing Scotch artist? how I -taught you all to sing what I conceived to be a -Scotch melody—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Temps Jadis</i>—and we -drank at midnight an execrable decoction called -in Scotland a tod-dy, standing, and gave an -English shake-hands all round, which I am -told is the way in Scotland of toasting the -departing year?’</p> - -<p>The Doctor paused in the act of lifting his -glass, and nodded, as he threw out a couple -of absent names in signification of his keen -remembrance of the evening.</p> - -<p>Followed good-natured and regretful words -for each absent face. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les temps jadis</i> were not -such bad times after all, though the melancholy -Scotch might chant them with more melody -than the vivacious sons of Gaul. Jean this was -an excellent heart; Henri that, a capital good -fellow, the pity was he stuttered so. Frédéric, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> -poor fool, had settled down, and married a <i>dot</i> -and a squint, and the squint, alas! was so -marked, that the dowry was a totally inadequate -compensation. Upon which, Julien -made cynical mention of the greater security -of marital rights when backed by aid so powerful -as a squint.</p> - -<p>‘But, since women are only happy in virtue -of their lovers and not in virtue of their husbands,’ -shouted Anatole, with a charming look -of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">rouerie</i>, ‘what a dismal future for Frédéric’s -wife! I declare I could find it in my heart to -rush off and console her. I should be so blinded -by my own burning eloquence, as I flung myself -at her feet, that I would have no eyes left for -the squint.’</p> - -<p>‘Not until you came to yourself in a revulsion -of feeling, my friend,’ sneered Julien Renaud.</p> - -<p>‘Has any one seen Henri Lemaître since the -night we drank our Scotch tod-dy, Anatole, -and sang, or tried to sing, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Temps Jadis</i>?’ -asked Dr. Vermont.</p> - -<p>‘No. He was last heard of in Japan, -studying the gentle art of self-defence, as -practised by the gentle Japanese. He derided -the duel, and loathed European pugilism, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> -he thought something might be done towards a -more civilised settlement of disputes by borrowing -of the remoter civilisation of the land of -the chrysanthemum. What will you? Did he -not study the washy water-colours of the -immortal Monsieur Loti?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, an affection for Pierre Loti would explain -any absurdity!’ said Gaston Favre, with a grim -smile. ‘If we could hope to sit here a hundred -years hence, and make a summary of the gods -of the coming century, I wonder what sort of -intellectual company should we have under discussion.’</p> - -<p>‘Finished humbugs, I dare swear,’ shouted -Anatole. ‘Already, from force of mere good -writing, we have fallen upon intellectual inanition. -The last century wound up by unveiling -the goddess of reason; we’ve unveiled the goddess -of form, and the devil swallow me, if there -is anything to be found behind our excellent -style. Each light of a new school sounds a -loud trumpet to inform the world that he has -at last discovered truth. So does a silly hen -who lays an ordinary egg, the counterpart of -her fellow-hen’s. You can’t convince her of the -fatuous impertinence of her cackle, nor prove -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> -to her that there is nothing particularly great in -the laying of eggs. I declare, nowadays, every -trumpery artist and scribbler takes himself as -seriously as the hen, and divides his time between -laying and cackling.’</p> - -<p>‘Each one has his theory, and it is more important -that he should reveal that theory to the -public than even paint his picture, write his -play, or novel, or story upon it. So much has -America taught him by means of that strange -institution, the interviewer.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ cried Anatole, in a burst of exaggerated -despair, ‘I gave up France when she took the -American interviewer to her bosom, and the -best papers were not ashamed to give us the -opinions of the latest Minister, and expose the -lack of taste and modesty in the youngest -Master.’</p> - -<p>‘Not France alone, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mon cher</i>,’ interposed Dr. -Vermont; ‘English journalism has become no -whit less vulgar and personal. Vulgarity, -ostentation, fraud, rapacious advertisement—these -are all the symptoms of the great moral -disease of the century. Were a Lycurgus to -rise up for each state, I doubt if the nations of -the earth would have the wisdom to return to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> -frugality, courage, and simplicity—so much have -we lost by the long race of civilisation, so much -our superiors were the old Pagan Spartans, and -so dead are we to all promptings of delicacy,—without -moral or physical value, without even -valour.’</p> - -<p>The Doctor spoke dejectedly, as if the hope -of all good had died within him. The young -men suddenly remembered that they, too, were -weighted with a like lassitude and unbelief, and -finished their punch in silence.</p> - -<p>‘I expect we shall see the century out in a -lugubrious spirit,’ sighed Anatole, when, upon -a sign from Dr. Vermont, the waiter had replenished -their glasses.</p> - -<p>‘Where’s the use of facing a new one?’ asked -the Doctor, with a vague, dull glance into space. -‘The same chatter, the same humbug, the -same vulgarity and fraud. Always the same, -and inevitably the same. New idols, new -theories, new habits start up to prove more -monotonous than the old ones——’</p> - -<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose,’ -interrupted Gaston Favre.</p> - -<p>‘Exactly, and Alphonse Karr was not the -first to find it out. I have a better plan, lads, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> -for saluting the new century than your Scotchman’s -tod-dy and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Temps Jadis</i>,—than even -the insipid shake-hands of Albion.’</p> - -<p>The punch had gone to the young heads, and -gave them a craving for excitement. Each one -leant forward over his glass, with shining eyes -and flushed cheeks, eager and expectant. It -was not often that Dr. Vermont condescended -to plan for their amusement.</p> - -<p>‘Let us suppose ourselves singing <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Les Neiges -d’Antan</i>, and toasting our old acquaintances. -We shall awaken into a new century, just the -same as the old. The more it changes, the -more it will be the same. Are you not prospectively -tired of it already?’</p> - -<p>He looked round gravely upon the young -men, and excitement died out of each glance -under the sad indifference of his. They felt upon -their honour to be no less weary and cynical -than he. A nod of emphatic agreement from -the three young pessimists was supplemented -to the Doctor’s monologue, as he continued—</p> - -<p>‘Suppose we salute the twentieth century—already -worn before birth—by a single pistol-shot, -the mouth of each man’s to his brains. -As we are none of us likely to do anything with -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> -our brains, more than the hundreds of other -young men I have seen vanish from these tables -into nothingness, there can be no patriotic -objection to our blowing them out in company.’</p> - -<p>The young men sat back in their chairs, and -drew a long, deep breath. They were almost -sobered for the moment, and profoundly troubled -by their leader’s extraordinary proposition. -However firmly we may be convinced of the -nothingness of life, such a method of toasting -the new year is calculated to give the stoutest -courage pause. Not that they held any -squeamish objections to suicide—quite the -contrary, they professed to regard it as the -natural and legitimate remedy for a broken -heart, damaged honour, or a ruined life. But, -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tudieu!</i> they all sat there drinking their punch -in freedom and security, with pockets not inconveniently -full, it is true, but with sound -hearts and sounder appetites. The prison was -not before them: then, why the deuce should -they be offered the grave?</p> - -<p>‘I thought, like Solomon, you were disposed -to complain of the sameness of all things under -the sun,’ sneered the Doctor.</p> - -<p>‘That is true, Doctor,’ assented Anatole. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> -‘But suppose we were to find things just as -same beyond the sun—or a good deal worse? -For, after all, we may flatter ourselves with -being sceptics, but what security have we that -the pistol-shot will be the end of it all? and -what if it happened to be infernally disagreeable -somewhere else, and there was no getting -back?’</p> - -<p>‘Bah, another glass of punch will put you all -right,’ laughed Julien. ‘On reflection, I find the -Doctor’s proposal an excellent one. We are -sick of everything here—wine, women, and song, -such as Paris now furnishes. Then, let us go -and see for ourselves what is going on among -the stars. There’s this comfort, Anatole, we go -in a body, if there is anything ugly to face. -That’s the difficulty about suicide,—its lugubrious -solitude. In company, one may snap his -fingers at fear. To see three friendly faces -round you, all ready to plunge at once into the -same boat, and exchange jokes simultaneously -with old Father Charon! When you lift your -own cocked pistol to your forehead, to see three -other hands and all four be shot together -out of the mystery, either into eternity or—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">le -néant</i>.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span></p> - -<p>‘Ah, there, you’re not sure either, Gaston,’ -Anatole protested, reproachfully.</p> - -<p>‘That’s just it, boy; I know nothing now, -but with the dawn of the new century I should -know everything.’</p> - -<p>‘My humble contribution to the Doctor’s plan -is the proposal that we blow our brains out -together—I mean in the same room,’ suggested -Julien.</p> - -<p>‘Precisely; I have just been thinking the -matter out. Now here in Paris, we should -excite excessive attention. But it might better -be managed in some quiet place—near the sea, -or close to a river bank, where our bodies might -disappear easily, without giving rise to immediate -alarm. I know of a half deserted island -down near Beaufort, my native town. You will -hardly believe that a place so near a busy -factory town—one of the largest provincial -cities of France—could be so forsaken and -desolate. I doubt if any one lives on it now. -My father-in-law had a big gloomy house on -that island. I don’t think there was another -inhabitant but himself. We might go down -there, and toast the new century in among the -dark rocks above the river.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span></p> - -<p>‘Beaufort! a commonplace train with such -an end in view,’ sighed Anatole.</p> - -<p>‘Not necessarily a train. What is to prevent -us from taking horse, as your favourite heroes -of Dumas did?’ said the Doctor, smiling a little -at him.</p> - -<p>‘With all my heart, if we are going to ride to -Beaufort,’ cried Anatole. ‘I don’t care if I am -shot then.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h3 class="nobreak" id="PART_SECOND"><i>PART SECOND</i> - <br> - <br> - DR. VERMONT</h3> - - <p class="center">(<i>Told by the author</i>)</p> - - <h4 class="nobreak">DR. VERMONT AND HIS GUESTS UPON - THE ISLAND</h4> - -<p><span class="smcap">I<b>T</b></span> wanted three days to the end of the year. -The afternoon had been so exceptionally mild, -that Mademoiselle Lenormant and her foreign -friend were still sitting out on the gallery enjoying -the sunset. The air was very clear, and -the heavens beautifully coloured, though the -winter dusk was beginning to drop. But it -was as yet a mere suggestion of dimness that -did not hide, while it accentuated, the edge of -bleak and empty road along the sky-line. It -sharpened the outlines of the bridge and its -castellated points below. The river was smooth -like dark glass, and rosy clouds made a blood-red -margin along its outer bank. No wind -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> -blew among the trees of the melancholy garden, -visible from the other side of the gallery, and -so still was it, that the farthest sounds sent -back their travelling echoes. The footfall of -a solitary peasant crossing the bridge made a -martial clatter, so clear and strong and self-assertive -was it upon the pavements that seemed -to sleep since feudal times.</p> - -<p>Little Gabrielle sat in a corner of the gallery -in jacket and hood, hugging Minette, who bore -the discomfort bravely, while she spelled out a -story from a large picture-book on her knee. -It was satisfactory to see that the kitten took -as much interest in the story as the reader, and -enlivened the study by occasional lunges at the -brown finger following each line. The child’s -pretty voice hardly interrupted the low conversation -of the two ladies, who faced the view -of Beaufort, and watched the road, while they -discoursed upon the philosophy of life. Mademoiselle -Lenormant always watched that road, -whether she sat in the gallery or upstairs in -her own room. It was the rival of Gabrielle -and her books, for she would willingly leave -either at any moment to look at it.</p> - -<p>Joséphine came down to carry Gabrielle inside, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> -out of the chill air, and the child was still -protesting loudly, and calling imperiously on -her aunt to rescue her from private tyranny, -when Mademoiselle bent forward with an excited -gesture, her eyes riveted upon the point -where the road seemed to issue from the sky.</p> - -<p>‘Do you not see something down there—something -dark that moves?’ she breathed, -without looking at her companion.</p> - -<p>‘Effectively. It appears to be a group of -men on horseback. Yes, Mademoiselle, it is a -party of riders, and they are coming straight -towards the bridge.’</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle shook from head to foot, and -went and caught the balustrade to steady herself, -while she continued to examine the blot -of moving shadow upon the landscape, that -increased with each wink of eyelid, until soon -it was a visible invasion of males on horseback. -A dull thud of hoofs was borne upon the air, -and near the bridge, one of the party, apparently -the leader, drew up, and seemed to address the -others. These at once fell behind, three in -number, and the foremost turned his face to -the island, and galloped ahead.</p> - -<p>‘Joséphine, viens, viens vite,’ shrieked Mademoiselle, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span> -her whole face dyed pink, and her -grey eyes dark and luminous with emotion.</p> - -<p>Joséphine hurried out, cap-strings flying, all -in a state of wild concern. What was it, but -what on earth was it? What did Mademoiselle -see?</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle began in a thick voice—</p> - -<p><span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘Je crois, Joséphine, que c’est le docteur’</span>—and -then stopped, and drew her hand slowly across -her eyes, like one awakened from a moment’s -stupor. <span lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘C’est Monsieur le docteur qui nous -arrive enfin,’</span> she added, in her usual voice, and -with a full return to her old self.</p> - -<p>Joséphine peered over the balustrade, but she -only saw three moving shapes upon the bridge, -the outlines of horse and man intermelted to -her vision.</p> - -<p>‘The foremost rider must now be half way -up the street,’ cried Mademoiselle’s companion, -glad yet ashamed that she should be there at -such a moment.</p> - -<p>‘Take Gabrielle, Joséphine, and put on her -pretty grey dress and her laces. Marie will -open the door for Dr. Vermont.’</p> - -<p>Joséphine carried off the startled child, too -frightened to ask questions or demur, and at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> -that moment the bell rang loudly, with violent -emphasis.</p> - -<p>‘I will leave you now, dear Mademoiselle,’ -said her friend, with sympathetic pressure of -her fingers. ‘Monsieur will doubtless require -this <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">appartement</i>, in which case I can return to -Beaufort this evening.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, there is a bedroom upstairs. You -will not leave me so abruptly, not now, when -perhaps I may most need a friend. Stay yet -a while.’</p> - -<p>A heavy step was crossing the hall, and -came through the dining-room towards the -gallery. The foreigner, on her way to her own -room, caught sight of a lean, youngish-looking -gentleman, with a fair beard and thin brown -hair worn off temples, deeply marked by life. -He glanced at her keenly, as he stood for her -to pass, and she had time to note the social -polish of his manners, and the melancholy -dignity of his aspect, and then he crossed the -floor and stepped out through the window, -searching with mild brown eyes for the woman -who had waited for his coming for ten long -years.</p> - -<p>His face lit up with a soft smile when he saw -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> -her, and he went forward, upon the pleasant -exclamation—‘Ma sœur!’ His intention was -to bestow upon her a formal embrace. His -hand was stretched out, and when her cold -slim fingers touched it, and lay in his palm, -and he saw the lustre of unshed tears in the -sad grey eyes that met his own steadily, and -a rosy flame tremble like confession over the -cheeks’ pallor, a new impulse came to him, and -he simply lifted her hand to his lips.</p> - -<p>‘Henriette,’ he murmured, in a troubled voice.</p> - -<p>‘The silence has been long, François,’ she -said, and smiled.</p> - -<p>He still held her hand, and gazed at her -curiously. She was not so changed as he, and -if the years had thinned, they had not lined -her face. At thirty-three, he even found her -more attractive than at twenty. There was -that about her which compelled interest, and -gave an odd charm to the simplest speech.</p> - -<p>‘Henriette, you have much to pardon me, and -your indulgence will have to go still further than -you dream. Ah, how vividly a forgotten past -may bear down upon a man at the first sight of -a familiar place! All my life down here had -clean gone from my mind. This queer old -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> -house, your father, you, even Adèle, have been -for me years past, not even a memory, much -less a link with all that is gone. It is incredible -how completely a man may forget. No regret, -no remembrance pursued me in Paris, and the -instant I crossed the bridge it all surged back -on me, not as remembered days, but as the actual -present. Verily, we are droll rascals, Henriette, -and mercilessly tyrannised by experience.’</p> - -<p>He had dropped her hand now, and was -leaning against a pillar, staring across at Beaufort. -Mademoiselle’s brows twitched sharply, -but she uttered no word of reproach, partly -from pride, and partly from surprise.</p> - -<p>‘It will be good news for Gabrielle, and for -me, if such a change decided you to remain -here now,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Gabrielle?’ he interrogated softly.</p> - -<p>‘Your child, François!’</p> - -<p>Oh, this he understood as a reproach, though -it touched him but slightly. He made a step -forward, still questioning her with movement -of brow and eyelid.</p> - -<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tiens!</i> It is true. Is it credible I could -forget I had a child? Oh! I know what you -must think of me, Henriette; and the worst of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> -it is, you cannot think badly enough of me;’ he -said, laughing drearily.</p> - -<p>‘It would be a poor satisfaction for me to -think badly of you, François. I am not your -judge. It is enough for me that you have come -back—at last.’</p> - -<p>‘What a sweet woman!’ cried Dr. Vermont, -in amazement. ‘My sister, your kindness confounds -me. Life has not taught me to expect -anything like it, and I begin to believe I am -not the sage I have lately loved to contemplate. -What, indeed, if these steadfast, silent creatures -be the sages after all, and we, the philosophers -and seekers after light, but the fools, who wear -cap and bells, and mistake them for badges of -sovereignty.’</p> - -<p>‘Here comes Gabrielle, François,’ said Mademoiselle, -interrupting his reflections.</p> - -<p>The little girl lingered shyly upon the edge -of the gallery, which Joséphine endeavoured to -make her cross by whispered entreaty and -pushes. She did not know this man who was -her father, and her small brains were busy contriving -a way to greet him. She made a pretty -picture thus, in grey silk and white lace, with a -broad crimson sash, and a big bow of red ribbon -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> -on the top of her curly brown head. Dr. Vermont -stared at her as an object of natural -curiosity rather than a charming little girl, his -own daughter.</p> - -<p>‘She is very like you, Henriette,’ he said, and -held out his hand with an ingratiating smile.</p> - -<p>Gabrielle came slowly forward, and took it; -then looked up into his face in grave and -silent deliberation. She decided suddenly to -offer her cheek for the paternal kiss, which she -did, with much conscious dignity and no sense -of pleasure whatever.</p> - -<p>‘Let me see,’ said Dr. Vermont, when he had -perfunctorily kissed her, ‘she is now about ten. -The very age her mother was when I first -beheld her. Poor pretty Adèle! She does -not in any way resemble her.’</p> - -<p>He sighed deeply, and Henriette’s eyes, fixed -on Gabrielle, filled with tears.</p> - -<p>‘What rooms does Monsieur wish me to prepare -for him?’ Joséphine asked in the pause.</p> - -<p>The Doctor started, and remembered, with -a quick disagreeable sensation, the nearness of -his friends, and its extraordinary significance. -If that good soul Joséphine but knew! If -Henriette suspected! -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span></p> - -<p>‘That reminds me, Henriette—I have left -three friends outside. I suppose you can put -us up down here, or upstairs, for a couple of -nights?’</p> - -<p>‘Only a couple of nights?’ Mademoiselle -exclaimed.</p> - -<p>‘Yes. By the dawn of New Year’s Day we -shall be far from Beaufort, so we will leave you -on New Year’s Eve after dinner. What accommodation -have you here?’</p> - -<p>‘You have forgotten that, too! There is -your old room—the large one opposite, which -a friend of mine has been using. There is a -canapé, which one of the gentlemen can sleep -on. And then there is my sister’s room, and -in the little dressing-room off it, another bed -could be put up. I think you can manage.’</p> - -<p>‘Capitally. We shall be lodged like kings. -Gaston and Julien in my old room—yes, I quite -remember it now. Yellow hangings, and an -engraving of Da Vinci’s “Last Supper,” and a -picture of Madame Lebrun. Not so? Anatole -will sleep in the dressing-room, and I in the -blue room. Is it still so blue? There used to -be a photograph of my favourite Del Sarto, -“The Madonna with St John.” Poor Adèle! -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> -What would I not give to be the same enamoured -young fellow of ten years ago, violently -combating death? But I have lived twenty -years since, and everything is dead for me.’</p> - -<p>He thrust his hands into his pockets, and -went toward the door in search of his friends, -without troubling to note the effect of his -heartless words upon Henriette.</p> - -<p>These he found trotting unconcernedly up -and down the broken pavement. With all -eternity before them, a few minutes more or -less outside a particular door could not affect -them. And when they were ushered into the -house by the Doctor, and presented to his -sister-in-law, they cast a glance of pity upon -her that she should be at so much pains to -welcome doomed, indifferent men. They listened -politely to her apologies for the insufficiencies -of their installation, and to her prayers -for indulgence in the matter of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">cuisine</i>; and -shook their heads in despondent wonder. As -for Anatole, he was as lugubrious as a funeral -mute, and the Doctor’s cynical animation at -table completely mystified him.</p> - -<p>When once the fumes of punch had abated, -poor Anatole saw his mad engagement in quite -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> -a novel light. The thought of that pistol held -by his own hand to his own brains drove him -to panic. He looked wan with fear, and fierce -from desire to conceal his fear. He was a -coward in both senses: without courage to -stand out against a foolish engagement, and -equally without courage to face death. Despite -his boasted conviction that one death is as -good as another, and any possibly better than -life, he entertained a very private notion that -suicide is a social as well as a moral crime, -hardly justifiable by the most abject blunder -and excesses—and by nothing less than absolute -dishonour.</p> - -<p>Besides, at heart he loved life, and he only -played at pessimism not to look less jaded and -cynical than the rest of the century. It was -the fashion not to be gay, to have no belief, to -have exhausted all emotions, and reached the -end of all things. Now what would those -around him say if it were known that Anatole -Buzeval relished in the privacy of his own -chamber Alexandre Dumas, and shed tears at -the death of Porthos? What self-respecting -Parisian of his day would associate with a -youth, whose favourite hero was D’Artugnan, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> -and who loved the great optimist Scott, whose -novels he studied stealthily in an indifferent -translation, and knew by heart.</p> - -<p>He was abashed by contemplation of his -own spuriousness as member of an effete circle, -where death was regarded as the best of all -things; and Mademoiselle Lenormant was -seriously distressed by the wretchedness of his -appetite and the misery of his boyish face. -She forgot herself in another, and left the -Doctor to entertain her friend, who had been -invited to join them at dinner, while she set -herself the task of rescuing the poor lad from -his own reflections. Anatole was an affectionate -and grateful young fellow, and the way to his -heart was inconveniently easy of access. When -he went to bed that night, to his other woes -was added the delightful misfortune of being -head and ears in love with the Doctor’s sister-in-law.</p> - -<p>This was a complication not unnoted by Dr. -Vermont or his companions. The Doctor -calmly stroked his beard, and watched Anatole -between the pauses of his conversation on -matters English with the foreign lady. The -foreigner, he was pleased afterwards to describe, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> -as intelligent, but as she had already touched -the rim of the arid plain of middle-age, with -equal dulness, far from the hills of youth and -from the valley of old age, he saw no reason to -pursue her thoughts or shades of speech upon -her face—by the way, he did not like English -women; they lacked <i>atmosphere</i>, and were born -without any natural grace, or coquetry, or any -desire to please—and hence he had the more -leisure to devote to inspection of Mademoiselle -Lenormant and his susceptible comrade. He -understood all the boy thought hidden of the -struggle within him. He contemplated a magnanimous -turn at the last moment, and caressed -it in all its dramatic details. Meanwhile, it -amused him to follow the conflict, and watch -the childish eagerness with which Anatole, -thinking his last hour at hand, abandoned -himself to this new fancy, with a volume of -eloquent declaration on the edge of his eyelids.</p> - -<p>And yet the Doctor’s calm inspection was -not without a twinge of anger, as at a kind of -infringement of his personal rights. As he sat -in the old salon, where in his youth he used to -chat with Monsieur Lenormant, he was in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> -grip of the past, softened, almost sentimental. -Nothing was changed about the place, which -wore the same homely aspect of shabbiness -and comfortable untidiness. But three of the -personages of that little drama were dead: -Monsieur Lenormant, Adèle, and young Dr. -Vermont. For he, too, had been young and -bright and pleasant. Once he had thrilled -from head to foot when Adèle, with a charming -movement, took one of his long fingers, and -helped him to vamp the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marseillaise</i>, and -their eyes met in a foolish fluttering glance, -and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">tudieu!</i> his own were wet!</p> - -<p>These were extraordinary things to remember, -perhaps, but not so extraordinary as the -persistence with which his backward glance -rested, not on the image of his lovely young -wife evoked from the past—but upon Henriette -as she then was. That picture of grave, silent -girlhood haunted him in a singular and unexpected -way. The forgotten drama rose up, -and confronted him with its ruthless <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">dénouement</i>. -And if he were not too proud and wilful -ever to acknowledge regret, he might know -that it was there the sting lay, as he remembered: -that he should have played an ignoble -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> -trick upon poor old Monsieur Lenormant, and -have looked at Adèle instead of at Henriette—on -one memorable occasion. He had played -for his happiness, and happiness had passed -him by. Perchance, had he played a more -honourable game, happiness would have been -with him all these years, and the noble woman, -whose suffering in his choice he now knew he -had then divined, would have brought him -finer and more delicate enjoyment than that -which he had found elsewhere.</p> - -<p>‘Yet who knows?’ he added, as a sound lash -upon sentimental musing. ‘There is no such -thing as happiness, and I should have tired of -her goodness as I have tired of the badness of -others.’</p> - -<p>But he smiled indulgently, when Anatole -droned a melancholy melody upon her charms -that night. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> -<h4 class="nobreak" id="NEW_YEARS_EVE">NEW YEAR’S EVE</h4> -</div> - - -<p><span class="smcap">W<b>HILE</b></span> the young men were still sitting over -their coffee and rolls in uncheerful converse, Dr. -Vermont stole upstairs—not to see Gabrielle, -but to talk to Henriette. His thoughts had -been with her all night, and he was eager for -sight of her by day.</p> - -<p>When he entered, a spot of insufferable radiance -burnt into the hollow of her thin cheek; -but this confession was counteracted by the -extreme sadness of her greeting. She, too, had -thought during the night, and thought had -cruelly struck at her life-long idol. For had he -not forgotten Adèle? and was Adèle’s child -anything more than his by name? To have -found him indifferent to her because of the -dead! But to find him indifferent to both! -There was the point of pain, and with it the -wrench of a wounded faith, which could never -more uphold her in her solitude.</p> - -<p>She looked at him anxiously, to see if a night -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> -spent in the blue room had stamped his cynical, -handsome face with a trace of suffering, of revived -feeling. The poor lady could not be -expected to interpret any such sign except as -homage to her dead sister. So she lifted up -her heart in honest gratitude for the touch of -humanity in his manner as he held Gabrielle to -his knee, and stroked her brown hair gently. -Such is the guileness and simplicity to be found -on a forsaken island, where gossip is not, and -society revelations are unknown.</p> - -<p>‘And you have lived here the old quiet life, -Henriette, with no thought of marriage or -change,’ the Doctor said musingly, and noted -with pleasure the charming habit of blushing -she had retained, like a very young girl.</p> - -<p>‘Surely, François, you would have expected -to be apprised of my marriage, or of any other -change?’</p> - -<p>‘I? Why should I? Had I not of my own -will dropped out of your existence? If I chose -to forget our relationship, what claim on your -courtesy could I urge? You are too sensitive, -too loyal, too good, Henriette. You were -always that. Your father used to say so, and -so used Adèle. Ah! they loved you well—those -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> -two. I wish now for your sake—I -honestly wish you had dealt me the measure I -deserved, and my neglect would have stung you -less.’</p> - -<p>‘It did not sting me, François. I have no -pride of that kind. Life is too full of pain. -But I was sorry and grieved for Gabrielle’s -sake.’</p> - -<p>Had she not the right to hide the rest from -him—simple-minded lady? who believed she -had succeeded—since she so honourably strove -to hide it from herself? Dr. Vermont pushed -the child away, and came and stood before his -sister-in-law. His imperious glance compelled -hers, which she lifted timidly, apprehensively.</p> - -<p>‘You are an angel, Henriette—oh, I don’t mean -in the hackneyed conventional sense, but as a -man means it when the goodness of another -forces him to face right and wrong, and he feels -he cannot undo the wrong and cannot choose -the right. It is a miserable position. Ah! if -it were not so late? But my tongue is tied. -My first mistake was here, in this very room, -years ago—twenty, thirty, a lifetime may be. -Your father lay on the canapé dying, and I was -sitting beside him. He spoke of you; I knew -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> -well that he spoke of you, though he did not -mention your name. It was you he wished me -to marry, and I, following his glance, looked at -Adèle instead. Happiness seemed to woo me -from that flower-like face, and I believed in -happiness then. Now!’ he shrugged in his expressive -way, and added, in a softer voice, -drooping humbly to her: ‘God forgive me, -Henriette, but now I question the wisdom of -that choice.’</p> - -<p>‘It was a natural choice, François, and it -would be anguish for me to think that you -could regret it. Spare me that sorrow. Surely -I have suffered enough, and have not reproached -you. But this indignity would indeed give -voice to the pain of silent years, and bid me -utter words neither you nor I could forget. I -gave her to you,’ she went on, in a dull tone of -protest. ‘It was the best I had, my dearest and -sole one on earth. But what did it matter if I -was the lonelier, so that you and she were happy -together? I have asked so little of life. Leave -me that remembrance, François. No man had -a sweeter wife than my Adèle, and for her I can -be satisfied with a loyalty no less from her husband -than that which I have given her.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span></p> - -<p>She glided from the room without another -look for him. He stood and stared after her, -with a fantastic, almost amused movement of -eyebrow, though the heart within him felt -heavy to bursting with an odd assortment of -sensations.</p> - -<p>When they met again, it was at the luncheon -table, with his companions and Mademoiselle’s -foreign friend.</p> - -<p>‘Anatole devours her with his eyes,’ he said -to himself. ‘Poor moth! he is sadly burnt, and -the fact that she is eight or nine years his -senior makes his hurt the graver. There are -compensations in a hopeless love when the ages -are reversed.’</p> - -<p>But his mild sarcastic face wore no look of -dejection or dismay as he sat and discoursed -upon Shakespeare and Molière with the -foreigner, only of intelligent survey and an -amiable satisfaction in all things, including -the clowns of Shakespeare, from whom most -Frenchmen instinctively shrink. After lunch -they played chess and discussed, in the usual -way, the school of realists, décadents, symbolists, -and the recent revival of romanticism in a -gentleman, said to combine the melodious style -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> -of George Sand with the adventurous spirit of -the great Dumas. It was only when the -foreigner retired, and the young men went -upstairs to study the stars in the friendly odour -of tobacco, that the Doctor ventured again to -address Henriette.</p> - -<p>‘He is an interesting lad, Anatole—eh?’</p> - -<p>‘Very. But it distresses me to see him so -sad and worried at his age. He appears to -have some trouble on his mind,’ said Mademoiselle, -leaning her elbows on the table and -her chin upon her folded hands.</p> - -<p>‘He has fallen in love with you—that’s his -trouble, Henriette. I assure you, up in Paris, -he is the reverse of sad or worried. He is the -life of Lander’s.’</p> - -<p>Dr. Vermont achieved his purpose: he made -her blush from neck to forehead.</p> - -<p>‘You forget, François, that you are talking -to a middle-aged woman of a very young man,’ -she said, in surprise.</p> - -<p>‘Not so middle-aged as that,’ laughed Dr. -Vermont, unjoyously. ‘And the others,—do -they appear to have any trouble on their -minds?’</p> - -<p>‘It has not struck me. I should say they -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span> -are rather futile men, who would probably fail -in any undertaking in an abject way,’ she said, -dismissing them.</p> - -<p>But she did not dismiss Anatole from her -mind, and when he came to say ‘Good-night’ -to her, she greeted him with so much direct and -personal sympathy in her smile, in her glance, -and in the slight pressure of her fingers, that I -declare the poor fellow was only restrained -by the presence of Dr. Vermont from bursting -into tears then and there, and confessing -all to her. Instead, he choked an inclination -to sob, and turned despairingly on his -heel.</p> - -<p>It rained heavily all next day—the fatal New -Year’s Eve. With an instinct for dramatic -fitness, Anatole spent the first half in a state -of suppressed tearfulness, as an appropriate -ending of his young life. He was unrecognisable -to himself even, for never before had he -dropped into the elegiac mood. With the -lyric, with the martial, with the bacchanalian, -he was familiar enough. He tried to recover -his self-esteem by imagining what his state -would be on the battle-field. But the satisfaction -he might feel in shooting a German, or bayoneting -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> -an insolent Englishman, was wanting to -take from the horror of contemplated death; -and the candid wretchedness of his face provoked -sympathetic misery in the glance of all -who beheld him. What would he not give for -one more sight of the old fishing town in Normandy, -for a chat with the genial honest fishermen -who had never heard that accursed phrase, -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Fin de siècle</i>, and little cared whether they -were at the beginning or the end of the century. -No, if his mother were alive, he was convinced -he never would have entered into that wicked -jest upon matter so solemn as death. He -would have known better, had he even a sister, -like that sweet and noble-looking lady, Mademoiselle -Lenormant.</p> - -<p>It was too late now, and this was his last day. -Thank God it rained! It rained so darkly and -so dismally that the regrets of life were mitigated -by the mournfulness of nature. It was -relieved thereby of much of its attraction and -of all its enchantment. Had a single ray of -sunlight fallen upon the damp earth, it would -have shaken him to the depth of his being. -This fact he jealously kept to himself, dreading -the sneer of those two superior young men, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> -Julien and Gaston, who thought themselves -such very fine fellows because they persisted in -their indifference to eternity, and cared not a -rush for the poor old world they were going -from. But Anatole knew better than to envy -them. He held that it requires but a bad heart, -or none at all, and feeble brains atrophied by -the cheap philosophy of the hour, to reach this -stage. So, while they smoked and joked downstairs -in dismal hilarity, he sat upstairs with the -ladies, and drank tea, and made a gallant effort -to play with little Gabrielle. How happy he -might be if this were to be permanent reality, -and Paris, with its unrest, its bitterness, its noise -and glitter, an ugly dream!</p> - -<p>Dr. Vermont showed himself neither upstairs -nor downstairs. Before lunch he walked to Beaufort, -and on his return, he slowly made the tour -of the island. It had been mentioned that upon -one side of the island, as you stepped from the -bridge beyond a broken arch and a dangerous -reach of rocks down to the inky waters, there -was an old tower. Monsieur Lenormant’s -house was lower down on the opposite side, -facing the cemetery. This tower had been an -ancient fort when the entire isle was the fortified -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> -retreat of an illustrious and rebel house. -It had sustained sieges, and known the roar of -musketry, and it still stood nobly upon its -martial memories, albeit a ruin of centuries. -All was silence and desolation on this side of -the island. No one walked its pavements, and -the laundresses wheeling their barrows to town -from the lower end, instinctively chose the -inhabited quarter to pass.</p> - -<p>‘A man might rot to carrion here,’ said -Dr. Vermont, as he stood between the battered -walls of the tower, and looked up at the weeping -heavens, and then down at the sullen and -swollen river. ‘None would know, and a few -days’ persistent rain would rush the river beyond -the rocks in among these ruins, and carry -our bodies away to the sea.’</p> - -<p>And then he walked with his hands in his -pockets, unmindful of the rain, to the neglected -cemetery. He stood a while against the white -tomb of his young wife, upon which some -flowers lay, a lifeless pulp in a pool of water. -Thirty-nine only, and two days ago he believed -he had tasted all life had to offer, and wanted -no more of its bitterness or its sweetness? But -he would not humble himself to admit that he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> -had erred two days ago, and that there still -remained at the bottom of the cup a draught -he would willingly drink. He put the present -from him, and the stirring voice of a troubled -consciousness, and leaned there in the rain to -dream a while of youth, and hope, and all things -good that have been and are no more.</p> - -<p>It was late in the afternoon when he returned -and shut himself in the blue-room to write -letters. This done, he examined a pair of -pistols, loaded one which he laid upon the table, -and with his odd, hard smile, carried the other -into the dressing-room where Anatole slept, -and placed it on the bed. There was still half -an hour to dispose of before dinner—his last -half hour of solitude. He took up the candle, -and walked slowly round the room, inspecting -each object, pricking by association, memory, -that just then needed no pricking. The pity was -that the man’s sharp face never lost its calm -irony of expression, and his shapely mouth -never lost its trick of quiet smiling. For him -absurdity lay at the bottom of all things—if -not absurdity, something so much worse as to -be beyond toleration.</p> - -<p>Man in all his moods, he insisted, was a mixture -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> -of grossness and absurdity, and it mattered -little which of the two elements prevailed. The -one excess worked mischief for himself, and the -other mischief for his neighbours.</p> - -<p>When the dinner-bell rang, Dr. Vermont -appeared still smiling and humorously observant. -He it was who spoke most, and most -coherently, at table. Julien and Gaston swaggered -a little, and their faces were pale and -excited. Anybody with an eye in his head -might have guessed they were morally perturbed, -and Mademoiselle, mindful of the -hurried departure that night, questioned her -foreign friend, sitting below with Dr. Vermont, -in a swift, apprehensive glance. But the -Doctor was so cool and steady, and discoursed -so blandly with his neighbour, that she dismissed -her fears, and set herself to cheer and -encourage poor Anatole. If his depression -were really due to a violent fancy for herself, -then she was in duty bound to act the part of -mother, or at least of elder affectionate sister,—which -she did with consummate ability, and -drove the unhappy lad to despair.</p> - -<p>After dinner the Doctor, instead of rising, -said, laughing— -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span></p> - -<p>‘Henriette, to-night we men will follow the -example of our barbarous brothers of England, -and will remain over our wine after the ladies. -To borrow a habit from your countrymen, -Madame, cannot offend your taste, though I -am afraid I should not find a Frenchwoman -tolerant of it.’</p> - -<p>‘I believe Englishmen sit at wine and the -ladies retire,’ said Mademoiselle, hesitating. -She did not like the innovation, and frankly -showed it.</p> - -<p>‘Your pardon, Henriette, we have our plans -to discuss. You, Madame, too, will hold us -excused?’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, Monsieur, I think it a commendable -custom which keeps men and women so -much apart. They meet then with greater -zest and novelty.’</p> - -<p>Dr. Vermont held the door for the ladies and -bowed. He stooped and kissed little Gabrielle, -and held her head a moment against him. And -then when the door closed, he shrugged his -shoulders, and sighed.</p> - -<p>‘That’s the Englishwoman for you—a creature -without tact or charm. The British matron -is only fitted to be a mother of a family. She -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> -can neither hold us back, nor encourage us with -dignity. Ah! lucky we are, gentlemen, to be -the slaves and masters of that adorable bundle -of perversities—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">la femme française</i>!’</p> - -<p>While he spoke he uncorked a bottle of -Monsieur Lenormant’s fine old Burgundy, and -filled each glass to the brim.</p> - -<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Allons, Messieurs.</i> Let us drink the last -hours away. I give you a toast to begin with—the -delicious Frenchwoman.’</p> - -<p>The young men half emptied their glasses at -a draught, and then cast haggard glances at -the sarcastic Doctor. He slowly drained his -glass, and lifted the bottle again.</p> - -<p>‘And since our delightful torment would -never consent to go unmated, even in a toast, -let us drink, gentlemen, to her inadequate, but -sympathetic partner—the gallant Frenchman.’</p> - -<p>The first bottle of Burgundy loosened their -tongues again, and inspired them to a febrile -gaiety. They laughed loudly, broke into snatches -of song, and by the time the second bottle was -empty, one and all had fallen upon sentimental -reminiscences. They thought themselves back -at Lander’s, and the discretion of the ladies’ -retreat could not be questioned. Anatole -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> -thundered roughly upon the perfidy of a certain -Susanne, and Gaston vowed that none of -her crimes could equal the trick one Blanche -played him—the men used to call her ‘Blanche -of Castille,’ in recognition of the many virtues -she seemed to have inherited from her illustrious -namesakes, doubtless; and Julien interposed -dryly, with a droll anecdote of a lady -once known in Paris as ‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Perle Noire</i>’.</p> - -<p>Dr. Vermont said nothing, but listened and -attacked the third bottle. He reached across, -and filled Anatole’s glass, and smiled upon him -almost pleasantly.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind Susanne, or any other perfidious -fair, my lad. It comes to the same -at the end, whether they have been faithful or -not. They die, and we die, and sleep “a long, -an endless, unawakeable sleep”. It’s half-past -nine now,’ he added, looking at his watch. ‘In -two more hours, we shall be starting out upon -the road that has no ending, leads nowhither, -unless it be to dark, bottomless space.’</p> - -<p>‘Why so?’ asked Julien. ‘May we not be -shooting through the stars? Anatole in his -present mood will make straight for Venus, -but I, seeking compensation for the dulness -of a peaceful life, will rather choose Mars. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> -One ought to fall in for some good fighting -there, eh?’</p> - -<p>Anatole stood up, and went over to the -window. The melancholy flow of water from -the drooping eaves could be heard, and the sky -was as black as the river and the landscape. -No light in the heavens, no light below nearer -than Beaufort, no sound but the splash of rain. -The susceptible fellow shivered visibly, and -went back to the table to comfort himself with -another draught of Burgundy.</p> - -<p>‘There is not a star to be shot into,’ he said -gloomily; ‘and it is raining as if the whole -universe were melted.’</p> - -<p>‘We have a couple more toasts to drink, -gentlemen,’ said the Doctor, standing. ‘Are -your glasses filled?’</p> - -<p>Well, if they could do nothing else, they -could at least get drunk before they went on a -voyage among the stars, or fell asleep like dogs -for eternity.</p> - -<p>‘An Englishman, when he is tired of life, -takes to drink; a Frenchman blows his brains -out,’ Julien observed, as he helped his neighbour -to the bottle.</p> - -<p>‘Upon my conscience, I do not know that -the Englishman has not the best of it.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span></p> - -<p>‘He is of hardier build, my friend, and can -take his drinking and pessimism in equal doses. -We are the slaves of our nerves, and can stand -neither pessimism nor drink.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you ready? The toast is the downfall -of France.’</p> - -<p>The young men stolidly laid down their -untasted wine, and looked at the Doctor for -explanation. They themselves might go to -the dogs, and the mischief take them there, or -elsewhere. The universe might melt away -into nothingness, but France, beloved France, -must ever stand fast, proud and honoured and -beautiful. Drink to her downfall? Was -Doctor Vermont mad?</p> - -<p>‘Why not?’ said Doctor Vermont imperturbably. -‘We shall be no more. And what -can it matter to us? France has had her day, -as Egypt, Greece, and Rome had theirs. I -would have her spared the misery of a slow -decline. It is now the turn of Russia, which -will be the civilisation of the future. If you -prefer it, we will drink then to Russia.’</p> - -<p>So they drank to Russia, long and deeply; -and Anatole, who had a pretty tenor voice, -intoned the Russian Hymn, which the others -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> -listened to on their feet. And then to keep up -the musical glow, and the golden moment of -unconsciousness, he burst into the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Marseillaise</i>, -knowing well that few can resist that most -thrilling and spirited of national songs.</p> - -<p>When he had finished the last verse, and -the last chorus was sung, his companions sat -silently gazing into their empty glasses. They -had finished six bottles of Burgundy between -them, and were now passably drunk, though not -incapable of presenting themselves before the -ladies to say good-bye. The Doctor went -first, and waited for Anatole outside the salon -door.</p> - -<p>‘Remember, boy, it is “Good-night”—not -“Good-bye,”’ he said sadly, as he pressed his -friend’s shoulder.</p> - -<p>Mademoiselle and her companion sat before -a low wood fire, chatting quietly. They heard -the songs from the dining-room, and smiled -and shook their heads. Mademoiselle remarked -that the young men were discourteous -enough to carry the habits of the Latin Quarter -into private houses, but since her brother-in-law -tolerated such behaviour, it was not for her to -object, since they were his guests. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span></p> - -<p>When the door opened, both ladies looked -blankly round at the invasion. The Doctor -stood a moment on the threshold and arched his -brows in smiling signification. The foreigner -felt she would give a good deal to get behind -that smile, and understand that queer lifting -of the eyebrow. That the man wore his smile -as a mask, she had no doubt, and she was -not without suspicion that behind it lay concealed -a different personage from the actor on -view. He advanced, and came and stood in -front of his sister-in-law, looking down on her -with a new gravity on his reckless handsome -face. The flush under his eyes gave a brilliance -to his wistful gaze that justified the fascinated -flutter of the poor lady’s heart. For she had -never seen him look in the least like that, -though she had seen his eyes melt to another.</p> - -<p>‘Henriette, good-night,’ he said softly.</p> - -<p>She gave him her hand, with a glance of -sharp inquiry.</p> - -<p>‘Is it good-bye, François?’</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye? Why good-bye? It’s a lugubrious -word. <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Au revoir, ma sœur.</i>’</p> - -<p>His lips touched her fingers an instant, and -already he had turned to shake hands with her -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> -companion. Gaston and Julien came behind -him, and bent their bodies in two in a dignified -salute, but Anatole held out his hand, and clung -feverishly to hers when she took it, while his -eyes held hers in dismayed conjecture. Was it -despair she read in them, or terror, or simply -the pain of young love? But his speech was -lagging and broken, not that, she decided, -of a sober man, and she withdrew her hand -abruptly, with a curt movement of dismissal -of her head.</p> - -<p>The boy turned to follow his companions, -and felt his heart break within him as he -went downstairs. While they passed through -the blue-room, the Doctor again leant in affectionate -pressure upon his shoulder.</p> - -<p>‘Courage, Anatole. No woman is worth a -pang.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, Monsieur le Docteur, you cannot think -that of her. She is worth the best man could -offer, and all he might suffer. You know it, -Doctor. Deny if you admire her.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t deny it, if that will console you.’</p> - -<p>‘And you can fling away such a chance,’ -moaned Anatole.</p> - -<p>‘I fling away nothing, for the simple reason, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> -I have nothing to fling away. It is not chance -any of us lack, chances of making fools of -ourselves, of others. Chance, my friend, is -generally another word for blunder. Some -philosophers call the world chance, and is not -that the biggest blunder of all?’</p> - -<p>‘You mystify me, Vermont. I call perversity -the worst of all blunders. And is it not perversity, -if you love Mademoiselle Lenormant, -to——’</p> - -<p>‘Who says I love Mademoiselle Lenormant? -I loved her sister, in a way, and she is dead. -You’ll find your pistol all ready there on the -bed. Put it into your pocket. It is half-past -eleven. Tell the others I will join them -instantly.’</p> - -<p>Before crossing the passage to the other -bedroom, Anatole stole softly upstairs, and -knocked at the salon door. Mademoiselle -Lenormant opened the door, and surveyed -him in disapproving surprise.</p> - -<p>‘In what way can I serve you, Monsieur?’ -she asked. He slipped into the room under her -arm. There was an empty chair near, and into -it he dropped, glancing up at her prayerfully.</p> - -<p>‘Mademoiselle, I am about to face a long, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span> -perhaps a perilous voyage,’ he said, and the -slight break in his voice and the wet lustre of -his boyish blue eyes captivated her judgment, -and melted her into all heart as she listened -and looked down upon him.</p> - -<p>‘I have come back to you, to ask you -before I set out for the unknown, just one -moment, to place your hand on my forehead -and say, “God bless you, Anatole.” Do you -pardon the presumption?’</p> - -<p>She bent forward, brushed the tossed hair off -his forehead, kissed it tenderly, and said, ‘God -bless you, Anatole.’</p> - -<p>Silently and sobered the four men went out -into the wet night. They walked round the -island first to make sure that every house slept. -There was not a light anywhere, not a sound. -They trod the ground as quietly as booted men -can tread, and came round by the cemetery and -the low broken wall to the tower. Here they -entered, and the Doctor struck a match that -through the blurred illumination they might -see the advantages of the spot he had chosen -to salute the new century. It was certainly -better than the sensation they should create -anywhere near Paris. I doubt not that each -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> -one privately regretted the rash engagement -they had made over their punch at Lander’s a -week ago. But none had the courage to give -the first voice to regret. False shame and fear -of ridicule held them tongue-tied, and resolved -to make the best of their bargain.</p> - -<p>When they had selected a spot near the hollow -of the encroaching rocks, where, if they fell, -they might be washed unnoted down into the -river when the flood came high, Julien separated -himself from the group, and walked over to -the lower wall, whence the lights of Beaufort -could be seen. These lights were rare and dim, -but they cheered him inexpressibly. They were -eloquent of life in the monotony of darkness.</p> - -<p>He sat on the edge of the wall, and stared -past the shadow of the bridge, out into the -terrible loneliness of night, and shuddered at -the roar of the eddying river below. Upon -the breast of that river one might float into the -beautiful South—a word made up of the sense -of sweetness, and flowers, and sunshine, and -blue waters, and clear skies. When he was a -youngster he used to tell himself that he would -save up his money, and go to Italy. And now -he was no longer young, had not saved up his -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> -money, had not seen Italy, and was going to -die—and leave it all behind.</p> - -<p>At that moment a peal of bells was heard -from over the water, and Gaston Favre announced -in a cold, dull voice that the cathedral -of Beaufort was pealing the midnight chimes. -Had there been light, each man would have -been seen to quiver from head to foot, and then -grow rigid upon his feet.</p> - -<p>‘My friends, is it agreed that we salute the -dying century upon the last stroke of the -cathedral bell?’ asked Dr. Vermont, in a -hushed, muffled voice.</p> - -<p>‘It is agreed,’ said Gaston, after an imperceptible -pause. The four men gathered together, -and took their pistols out of their -breast-pocket. Dr. Vermont lifted his face -up to the cold wet wind. His lips parted to -the heavens’ moisture, and he felt refreshed. -Since there could be pleasure in the fall of -raindrops upon heated lips, why not even then -admit that life may be worth living? Why -not see the bright background to present pain -as well as the dark contrast of evil behind joy? -We have said the Doctor was a proud and wilful -man, and he would accept no sensation as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> -admonishment of error,—but this gave him -some pause.</p> - -<p>In one swift backward glance, he saw the -long roll of travelled years—years misspent, -possibly, but not without their baggage of unearned -joys; saw the start of resplendent youth -ringing him onward to a manhood of renown: -remembered friends he had once regarded with -other than mere cynical interest: moments that -had throbbed with light, and all the loveliness -of untainted freshness—perfumed, dewy like a -May orchard in blossom, swathed in youth’s -eternal purple. While the lads around him -faced the inevitable, as they thought, and -though shrinking, white-lipped, and frozen with -horror, from his cold acquiescence, endeavoured -to warm themselves to the last act in the spirit -of bravado and contemplation of the deluged -earth, he had taken a sudden rebound from his -old attitude. It was no longer the dislike of -life and the weariness of experience that held -him in chill imprisonment The old desire for -boyish blisses, and the cordial of laughter -mantled and burst in his brain like a riot of -song. It was a revelation, with all the meaning -of prayer first understood. A pulsing regret -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> -for all he was leaving, for what he had known, -and, above all, for that which was yet unknown, -swept him instantly upon a fiery wave. It shot -his arm down nervelessly. The pallid, spiritual -face of Henriette seemed to hang in the sullen -space of black sky and wet black earth. It -glowed like a lamp, and shed a faint illumination -upon the dusk. The faded monotone of -her voice murmured prayerfully above the -weighted splash upon the stones, and awoke -the essential impulse of existence. While such -women lived and prayed for men, could the -deeps of life be said to have closed? ’Tis -an old-fashioned notion, but, like most old-fashioned -things, ’tis the simplest and the best. -It softened the hard retrospection of Dr. -Vermont’s glance, and lent a wavering tenderness -to his peculiar smile.</p> - -<p>Upon the sixth stroke of the cathedral bell, -he offered his hand in silence to Julien Renaud, -who squeezed it roughly, in assurance of undiminished -courage. Poor lad! He needed -the assurance sadly. Upon the eighth stroke, -Dr. Vermont sought Gaston’s hand, but the -limp moist fingers he grasped made no effort -to respond to his pressure. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> - -<p>‘Courage, Gaston,’ he cried, in a friendly, -animated voice, and upon the tenth stroke he -turned to Anatole, and had there been a ray -of light above or around, Dr. Vermont’s face -would have been seen to undergo a wonderful -and beautiful change. Honest affection that -makes no pretence of concealment, humanised -it, and a magnanimous resolve filled its expression -with cheering purport. The worst -of us, you see, have our heroic moments, only -it often happens that, like Dr. Vermont’s, they -pass unnoticed in the dark.</p> - -<p>‘There is happiness ahead for you yet, -Anatole,’ he breathed quickly through his -teeth, while he swung the unhappy young -fellow’s arm once up and down, in warm emphasis -to communicate the reassuring fluid to -him.</p> - -<p>‘Gentlemen, ’twas an excellent joke, and as -might be expected of such excellent lads as you, -carried out with uncommon spirit and dash. I’m -proud of you, gentlemen, and shall feel honoured -in the privilege of saluting the new century in -your midst. We fire heavenward—a good omen—and -then we shake hands again, in cordial -assent that humanity is not so worn but it may -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span> -still be relied upon for entertainment. You -will say there are higher things. I’m not so -sure there are not. Anyway, ’tis not an excessive -claim that youthful pessimists may -without shame start a fresh century as cheerful -philosophers. The heavens are not always -weeping, and most of us are the better for the -sun’s shining.’</p> - -<p>He spoke rapidly, and a muffled shout dying -away upon a thick sob, broke from each troubled -breast. The first throb of emotion spent itself -in obedience.</p> - -<p>When the last stroke of the cathedral bell -had fallen upon the silence with a prolonged -thin echo, a loud simultaneous report was -heard to startle the night, and travel above -the roar of the river, far across the empty -country.</p> - -<p>Gaston and Julien Renaud, utterly unnerved -by the reaction, fell sobbing into each other’s -arms, but Anatole, bewildered past understanding, -thought he was shot, and fell in a -heap at Dr. Vermont’s feet. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="EPILOGUE">EPILOGUE</h3> -</div> - -<p class="center">(<i>From the travellers notebook</i>)</p> - - -<p><span class="smcap">T<b>HE</b></span> suppressed excitement of the past two -days has more than made up for the stillness -of the two months that preceded them. Against -these forty-eight hours of trembling anticipation -and surmise, the long weeks of undisturbed -and pleasant converse and childish chatter make -a background of placid years, instead of weeks.</p> - -<p>I see them filled with fireside talks, dips into -musty volumes, walks in a long gallery, to the -murmured music of water, and in frosty starlight, -with the lamps of Beaufort lending cheerfulness -to the scene. Sometimes an expedition -to some castellated town, southward, and wanderings -through vividly coloured streets, or -among lovely hills, where winter flowers grew -and sweetened the air, and the grey of the -river was shot with blue, as it glided into -sunnier regions. And then the friendly greetings -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> -upon return, and a child’s excited demand -to know what I had seen, how far I had travelled, -perhaps since morning, or the day before; above -all, what I had brought back for her.</p> - -<p>Beautiful calm days, already remembered -regretfully as part of the for ever past! They -will outlive, I hope, recent events, though they -have sent them to slumber a while in the cemetery -of the mind. For perturbation fell upon -us, from the hour Mademoiselle and I stood -watching a party of riders bear down toward -us along the great road, like a picture sharply -evoked from the time of postchaise and tragedy -carried upon the momentous clatter of hoofs.</p> - -<p>I had met Dr. Vermont, had spoken to him, -and found he did not realise in any way my -expectations. He was a well-bred man, as far -as the superficialities of the drawing-room permitted -me to judge. But his face was inexplicable -and tormenting. It may once have been -a strong face, but its strength was almost effaced -by life. And yet there was no weakness about -it—only an indifference that saps at strength. -It could look daring and reckless, was never -without a smile of quiet irony, and there was -surely enough humorous observation in the mild -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span> -brown eyes to fill his days with easy pleasure -and interest. But was there not something -worse than sadness behind this good-humoured -mask? I thought so from the first, and my -impression was soon justified by an incredible -episode. I also believed that before the Doctor -had been twenty-four hours in the house, he -had fallen in love with Mademoiselle Lenormant. -But why he should have wanted Anatole -to marry her, I cannot understand. Surely, -surely, he knew that she loved him! must have -known it all along.</p> - -<p>When he and his companions left the salon -on that last evening, I said good-night at once -to Mademoiselle. I almost reproached myself -with seeing so much, divining so much that -remained untold. I sat in my room with a -pen in my hand, unable to write from excess -of interest in what was going on around me. -Why should peaceable modern men start off -upon a midnight expedition in this mediæval -fashion? Neither my own imagination could -devise an adequate explanation, nor did I receive -any assistance from the objects that -surrounded me in Monsieur Lenormant’s room, -which I attentively examined. How heavily, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> -drearily the rain fell, and what an awful darkness -outside! I stood at the window and -listened to the midnight chimes from the -cathedral and churches of Beaufort. On New -Year’s Eve most people feel sentimental at this -hour, and recall the various places and circumstances -in which they have listened to the peal -of bells upon the death of the old year. But -this I felt to be a sadder occasion than any -other New Year’s Eve, because a whole century -was dying with it, the only century I was familiar -with, and I rather shrank from trial of the new.</p> - -<p>An extraordinary sound followed at once -upon the last peal of the bells. It seemed so -close, that it jerked me back from the window, -quite shaken with the reverberation. There -could be no doubt either of its nature or of -the fact that it rose from some near point upon -the island. It was more than a single pistol-shot. -Now, the washerwomen could not have -devised that singular method of saluting the -new-born century. Neither could the chaplain -of the Benedictines, who occupied an old, dark -house at the end of the island upon our side. -The wine-shop of Geraud always closed at nine -o’clock, and on such a wet night no living soul -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> -would have crossed the bridge for the sake of -his bad liquids.</p> - -<p>I went to Mademoiselle’s room, anxious to -hear what opinion she would have upon the -startling occurrence.</p> - -<p>‘Somebody has been murdered near us,’ she -cried excitedly, when I entered.</p> - -<p>‘Good heavens! what ought we to do?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what we ought to do, but what -I should like to do would be to go and see for -myself,’ she said, and looked questioningly at -me.</p> - -<p>‘You are a brave woman, Mademoiselle; I -should have feared to propose it, but I will -gladly accompany you.’</p> - -<p>‘Let us go and call up the chaplain of the -Benedictines. He and I are almost the lords -of this island, and if any one were wounded, or -in need of our help, it is our duty to be on the -spot. We will take Joséphine’s big umbrella -and her lantern.’</p> - -<p>The rain was awful, and the darkness of the -night was so thick that we seemed to cleave a -way through it as we buffeted with the driving -downpour. To my troubled ear, our steps, -along the deluged pavement, carried a portentous -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> -message into the silent night. There was -a light in the priest’s house, and the sound of -our footsteps approaching brought him to the -door even before we had knocked.</p> - -<p>‘Who is it? What is it?’ he whispered.</p> - -<p>‘It is I, Mademoiselle Lenormant, father. -We want you to come and examine the island -with us. There is shooting somewhere, and -somebody may have been murdered or dying.’</p> - -<p>‘You have a lamp. Wait a moment, and I -will join you.’ Outside he said, ‘Let us try the -cemetery. Phew! how it rains. It is a deluge. -I am not surprised at your courage, Mademoiselle, -for it is not since yesterday that I -know you. But your friend—ah, I forgot, she -is English, and the Englishwoman, I have -always heard, is capable of anything.’</p> - -<p>I doubt not the little compliment of the good -chaplain was as welcome to my friend as to -myself, and warmed us both upon that dreary -adventure. In silence we beat our way round -to the cemetery, and then only remembered, -what we should not have forgotten, that it was -locked. Seeing how unlikely it was that any -one should have contrived to get inside without -the key for any black purpose whatsoever, the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> -chaplain thought it unnecessary to go back for -it. So we then decided to examine the rocks -along as far as the tower, and afterwards go -over the ruin.</p> - -<p>There was nothing about the rocks but an -occasional water-rat, that ran into hiding as -soon as the gleam of the lantern revealed him. -Nothing along the pavement under the low -wall. We bent under the nearest broken arch -of the tower, and entered it upon the river side. -At first our lantern only served to accentuate -the darkness, and show the deeper masses of -shadow in the walls. We groped forward, and -held our breath, in mingled fear and expectation. -Nothing stirred; only the rain fell heavily -with the noise of splashing when it touched the -water below. I advanced foremost, and my -foot brushed something that was not jagged -stone or bramble.</p> - -<p>‘Bring your lamp here, Monsieur, whoever -you are,’ a familiar voice cried out, in an imperious -tone.</p> - -<p>I started, and stood to let the priest and -Mademoiselle approach, wondering what it could -mean. The priest held the lantern down low, -and we at once recognised Dr. Vermont’s pale -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span> -face looking up from a tangled heap of black -against his knee.</p> - -<p>‘We stopped before crossing the bridge to -fire a shot in welcome to the new century, and -this unstrung boy must needs topple off his -balance, and faint away in sheer fright,’ he -hurriedly explained.</p> - -<p>‘A very strange proceeding, Monsieur,’ said -the priest, frowning.</p> - -<p>I knelt down and touched poor Anatole’s -chill face, but Mademoiselle had no word. -She could only stand and stare in haggard -amazement.</p> - -<p>‘I have not asked your opinion, Monsieur. -It is your help I desire,’ said Dr. Vermont, -with an unabated ferocity of pride.</p> - -<p>‘Am I not shot?’ asked Anatole vaguely, -opening his eyes and glancing about in terror.</p> - -<p>He made an instinctive gesture to feel for -the wound on his forehead, and sat up straight. -He was wild and giddy, and, seeing me first, -could not take his eyes off my face; he even -stretched out his hand in awe to touch me.</p> - -<p>‘But for that confounded darkness, we might -have had him in shelter long ago,’ muttered -Dr. Vermont. ‘Julien and Gaston have gone -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> -to look for a lamp. Can you stand, Anatole?’ -he asked the bewildered youth.</p> - -<p>Anatole stood up quite promptly, without -any assistance. The rain fell from every part -of his form in rills, and, as he shook himself -free, he breathed a deep, happy sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Great God! I am saved,’ he murmured, and -staggered forward.</p> - -<p>‘Will nobody explain this hideous mystery?’ -shouted the chaplain, like ourselves on the -verge of hysterics from emotion.</p> - -<p>Dr. Vermont, standing with the lantern in -his hand, shrugged impertinently, and a ray -of light glancing off his pale face, revealed its -enigmatic smile.</p> - -<p>‘Take my arm, Henriette,’ he said, very -gently, approaching Mademoiselle, who throughout -the scene was silent. ‘My poor girl,’ I -heard him add, in quite an altered tone, as he -gathered her trembling frame to him.</p> - -<hr class="tb" > - -<p>At an end for me the quiet studies and the -pleasant talks upon the lovely long terrace of -that old house by the grey river. At an end -for Mademoiselle the waiting; at an end the -long shadow of deferred hope stretched like a -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> -pall upon the backward years. I know not if -the defence of the Emperor Julian has been -concluded. When last I heard from her she -was in Italy with Joséphine, Gabrielle, and -Gabrielle’s strange father. She stands clear -before me in her new home, the snow gathering -early upon her head, and the mark of the -silent, tragic years deepening the austerity that -autumnal joys could never melt from sensitive -lips and shadowed glance. I frame her image -against some old Italian palace in the blackened -arches of its balcony, and see her, when the -stars are out, and regret throbs more poignantly, -gazing across the blue waters that wash her -beloved land, the mirthful, sunlit waters, into -which flows her own grey river.</p> - -<p>The old house beyond the broken arches of -the bridge, that leads to the desolate island, has -been sold. Who now sits upon the terrace that -overlooks the towers and spires of Beaufort? -I cherish the hope that it is some one with a -bosom not insusceptible to the thrill of romance, -some one with a heart that still can beat to the -swift measure of fear.</p> - -<p>Anatole I have since seen in Paris. He is -working steadily at some profession, and sharp -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> -illness has made a saner and stronger man of -him. Upheaval, after a while, when the elements -quiet down again, generally brings reform. -The Café Lander knows him no more, I have -ascertained, and while he shrinks from mention -of Dr. Vermont’s name, he is ever glad and -grateful to talk of Henriette Lenormant. He -bore his dismissal bravely, after she had so -devotedly nursed him through that heavy shock, -and he is generous enough to give thanks for -the cherishing friendship of the woman he loved -in vain.</p> - -<p>Gaston Favre has accepted an official post -in the provinces, and Julien Renaud is an -industrious journalist. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span></p> - - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > -<div class="chapter vcenter"> - <div class="half-title">BRASES</div> - <div class="right"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">À Madame Bohomoletz</i></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h2 class="nobreak" id="BRASES">BRASES</h2> - <h3 class="nobreak">I</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">L<b>IKE</b></span> another foreigner, I had my ideal of the -Irishwoman—bewitching, naturally, but built -upon somewhat hackneyed and high-coloured -lines: vivacious play of feature, blue-black hair, -violet eyes, and complexion made up of lilies -and roses. So when Trueberry, the gallantest -friend man ever found on English shores, asked -me to join him in a trip to Erin, imagination -hastily evoked this resplendent creature of -my desire, and I straightway proposed to myself -the pleasing excitement of a flirtatious -romance. I told Trueberry I thought nothing -more delightful than the prospect I had formed, -to fall in love, and ride away. Trueberry, in -his fatal Saxon way, made some grim rejoinder -about the riding away being the pleasantest -part of it.</p> - -<p>We shot and rode and fished, and stared -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> -at the girls, without any fervour of glance or -flutter of pulse, it must be confessed, I alertly -on the look-out for this creature of dazzling -contrasts and laughing provocation. With -fancy still uncomforted, Trueberry was dangerously -hurt, and we were several miles distant -from the nearest village. A peasant offered to -help me carry my comrade down the glen, and -assured me that the lady of the grey manor -would be glad to receive him. Our claim at -the hall was courteously responded to by an old -man-servant, who drew a couch out on which we -stretched my moaning friend, and then I was -directed to the doctor’s house, some way along -the uplands. My guide offered me the shelter -of his roof hard by, when I spoke of looking for -a lodging.</p> - -<p>It was late in the afternoon when the doctor -and I reached the manor. The sun was level on -the western horizon, an arch of misty gold upon -a broad sheet of silver lying behind the nearer -low-hanging clouds, so that the silver heaven, -beyond this chain of grey and opal hills, looked -mystically remote and clear, while lower down -lake and purple mountains were softened by a -fine white veil of mist, and the sea was visible -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> -curling its delicate foam upon the crest of the -tide among the rocks. The valley below was -dusk, shut in by the grand sweep of girdling -mountains, and so still was the air that every -far-off sound carried, from the echo of ocean’s -murmuring to the nearer crash of a waterfall hissing -down the rocks, and the pleasant lilt at my -feet of a little rivulet lipping its daisied marge. -The birds were in full chorus, and each of the -dense trees nested song. We left the breezy, -wandering moors, which swept the horizon in a -measurelessness of space as triumphant and -vast seemingly as the illimitable Atlantic rolling -from their base, and took the narrow road that -sloped down to the glen of firs and oak, where -the light could scarce make a path among the -deepening shadows. Outside all was great, -in air, on land, on water. Here intolerable -compression of space and such a diminution of -light as to harass nerves and imagination. My -preoccupation about Trueberry rather stimulated -than blunted my visual faculties, and I -noted with abhorrence each detail of the sharp, -precise landscape; the thin vein of water -glimmering through the darkening grass like a -broken mirror, the abrupt curve of the road from -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> -the shoulder of the bluff, and the stiff, dim -plumes of the heather washed of purple pretension -in the twilight, while through a clump of -black firs the rough front of the manor made a -fainter shade in the grey air. The solitude was -scented with the fragrance of wild thyme, and -as we approached, old-fashioned odours blew -against us from the garden.</p> - -<p>Trueberry was restored to a vague consciousness, -and lay with shut eyes in a darkened room. -I walked outside with the doctor, who was a -cheery, hopeful fellow, and in diagnosing my -friend’s case, furnished me with no occasion -for alarm. I found it strange that no member -of the family had come forward to explain the -gracious hospitality by a personal interest in -the wounded man. As I stood in the chill air -musing on this odd unconcern, I heard a light -step behind, coming from the house. I turned, -and faced the woman who was to dominate -my heart by one swift sweep of all that had -ever claimed it.</p> - -<p>She looked at me, and in one grave, steadfast -glance the miracle was accomplished. Is this -love? I have been so often, so continuously in -love, and yet have never known anything that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> -approached it. It was like the mystery of life -and death—not to be explained, not to be -conquered, not to be eluded. It needs no will -to be born, to die; so it needs no will to -surrender to such an influence. Upon a single -throb of pulse, it has established itself permanently -upon the altar of life, and sentimental -fancies and shabby yearnings drop out of -memory with the sacramental transfusion of soul.</p> - -<p>Of course I saw that she was a beautiful -woman, but this only afterwards. What I first -saw was the deep impersonal gaze that drew -the heart from my breast. It met mine with -a full, free beam, and held it upon a wave -of inexplicable emotion. Bondage to it was a -glory, a consecration of my manhood. The -subtle, the elusive nature of my captivation was -the spiritual point upon an ordinary passion. -It was the spurs, the belt of knighthood. For -this I understood to be no mere command of -senses, but the imperative claims of life-long -allegiance, whether for suffering or for -happiness.</p> - -<p>Perhaps by nature I was attuned to such -surrender. Since ever romantic hopes first -broke their deeps in my boyish brain, and my -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> -heart was lifted on the first warm wave of desire, -I have eagerly yearned for free passionate -servitude to one sovereign lady. There was -always the mediæval strain in me, though I -have fluttered idly enough, like the moth round -the flame, and hovered in a sort of protective -sympathy and admiration, round pretty womanhood, -not objecting to being trampled on as a -holocaust to graceful and bewildering caprice. -But now had come the enslavement of the soul, -not of the senses; of the spirit, not of the eye. -Homage did not bend in banter, but was exalted -on the wings of reverence. It was only afterwards -that I remembered the details of the face: -its unchanging pallor and exceeding finish, the -peculiar unrippling sheen of the blonde hair, -like gold leaf in its unshaded polish, the inner -curves of coil as deep an amber as the outer -edges, without shadow of curl or ring round -neck and temple. So smooth and shining a -frame was admirably adjusted to the small, -grave, glacial oval, with its look of wistful -abstracted charm, with a delicate chiselling only -an inspired pencil could copy, with an exquisite -line from brow to chin. Such was the transparency -of the colourless skin that like a shell, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> -it seemed in the light to reflect the warm rose -of life beneath. Under the arch of the unerring -brows, long grey eyes, shadowed blackly, that -in girlhood must have presaged storm, but now -the black lay broodingly, a seal to the clear -grey depths. You looked into, not through -them; and found them too bewilderingly unstirred -by the yearning trouble of the gazer.</p> - -<p>There was, perhaps, a conscious but not an -undignified expression in her dress. Sweeping -folds of grey matched the austere stillness -of her eyes, as did the full cambric of throat -a wanness reminiscent of a mediæval saint. -Long sleeves lined with silk fell backward, and -the inner ones were of crimped cambric: hardly -affectation, but the supreme touch to beauty so -visibly haloed as hers. Her voice was in keeping -with the clear eloquence of her glance; full, -unperturbed, sustained without conscious modulation -or trick, harmonious like all sounds of -natural sweetness. It fell with the sentence, -as the Irish voice habitually does, but softly, -without abrupt cadences or huskiness.</p> - -<p>‘All that lies in our power for your friend’s -care and comfort will be done,’ she said, after -her unhurried survey of me. ‘There is little to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> -offer in such an out-of-the-way place but home -medicines and home resources, and there will -not be much in the way of distraction for him, -since I live here alone with my children, and my -solitude is unbroken. I regret that you have -decided to lodge elsewhere, but pray do not -spare us your visits. The house is your friend’s, -and I am honoured in being of use to him.’</p> - -<p>It was hardly a bow she made, but drooped -her eyelids with a curious movement, and lowered -her chin from its ineffable upward line. The -words I scarcely heard, though every fibre -trembled with emotion at her speech. I thought -the voice, with the softening syllables dropping -into silence, more exquisite than any music -dreamed of. Its tones accompanied me as a -murmur rather than the remembrance of actual -words in my walk up to the free bluff, whence -I could look down on the grey manor, and -mixed with the resounding roar of ocean, as -the wind blew the melody of the waves shoreward. -What was the distinction of this woman -who through all the days to come offered me -rapture and agony by noontide and by midnight? -Not her beauty so much as her essential difference -from others. Not the gleaming gold of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> -her hair, but the solemn simplicity of her bearing -in such accord with the vast and unbroken -solitude around her. Her voice I acknowledged -without shrinking or terror, as we accept all -essential elements, to be henceforth the dominant -key of life for me, the note to sound my -depths and touch me at will as an impassive -instrument. Was this woman free? I asked -myself, with a thrill of revolt, as I remembered -her mention of children. But no word of -husband! This fact let in a ray of hope upon -my dread. I could never again belong to -myself with the cheap security of an hour ago, -and what was there for me if there was no room -for me in the chambers of her heart?</p> - -<p>At the cottage I found my host frying some -salmon for supper. He was a tall, bent peasant, -meagre and pallid from much thinking and -under-feeding, with all the Celt’s quaint mixture -of melancholy and humour in his keen blue -eyes and wrinkled smile. He did the honours -of his humble dwelling with stately courtesy, -and was too proud and well-bred to offer futile -apologies for the poverty of his shepherd fare -and rude bed.</p> - -<p>‘Your friend, sir, is not anything worse, I -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> -trust,’ he said. I gave him the doctor’s report, -and said it was now a case for complete rest -and care. I reddened with remorse, remembering -how little I had been thinking of Trueberry.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, ’tis he that’s in excellent hands,’ said -the peasant, turning the salmon, and then -dreamily rested his cheek against the closed -hand that held the fork, with his elbow supported -on the other wrist.</p> - -<p>‘May I not learn to whom we are indebted -for so much kindness?’ I asked tremulously.</p> - -<p>‘Your friend, sir, is at the house of Lady -Brases Fitzowen,’ he answered, and I shrank -beneath the sharp look he cast on me. ‘’Tis -herself, sure, we all love and delight in as if -she was one of God’s angels.’</p> - -<p>This seemed to me in my exalted mood as -such an obvious statement that I received it -with the same simplicity it had been uttered. -Were we not brother Celts,—albeit, I a -Parisianised Breton, and he an illiterate -native of wild Kerry uplands? His tribute to -the lady of my destiny raced a flame through -me like a delicious flattery.</p> - -<p>‘I have seen her,’ I said, striving to command -my voice in unconfessing tones. ‘I can quite -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> -believe you. I should like to know something -of her, if you will not deem my curiosity an -impertinence. She spoke of her children. Does -her husband live?’</p> - -<p>‘He does,’ the peasant answered, I thought -sullenly.</p> - -<p>I caught a fork fiercely in my hand, and bent -to trace figures with it on the cloth, hoping -thereby to shield my excessive pain from his -sharp scrutiny.</p> - -<p>‘She did not mention him to me,’ I half -cried.</p> - -<p>‘’Tis natural. They’re no longer one.’</p> - -<p>Oh, the warm revulsion, the wild joy in that -queer reply. I read in it the peasant’s definition -of divorce. It sprang light and flame through -me, and heated senses benumbed a moment -ago. It gave definiteness to rash hope, and -melted away all doubt and apprehension. -Brases free was to be wooed. Heaven knows -conceit was never more eliminated from self-judgment -than then, but I felt the urgent claim -of the rare passion so instantaneously born. -All my worth lay in the quality of that love, -and it was not such that any woman could reject -without a pang. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p> - -<p>‘Then she is free,’ I said, and heard the thrill -in my own voice.</p> - -<p>‘Free!’ exclaimed the peasant, frowning. -‘That’s as may be. Them Protestants believe -such-like things, but we don’t, sir. However -things happen, we hold folk once married can -only be freed by death. I take it, sir, you come -from foreign parts, though ’tis a wonder to me -how you have learnt the English tongue so well. -May be, beyond in your land, they’re like the -Protestants, and play fast and loose with the -marriage tie.’</p> - -<p>He laid the dish of salmon on the table, -and disappeared outside. My state of mixed -emotions, of exasperated nerves, of pulses -throbbing against my consciousness like a discordant -instrument, anger with that prejudiced -peasant predominating, reduced me to the level -of savage and child. The fellow in his implied -abhorrence of divorce was so aggravatingly -phlegmatic, so heartlessly unconscious of all it -might mean for me. I did not knock him down -or force him to eat his obnoxious words, but -sat still and endeavoured not to observe the -rest of his rational preparations for the evening -meal. I was on fire for further facts of the tale, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> -but dared not question, in my uncontrollable -temper. When the peasant at length seated -himself opposite me, with a dish of salmon, -smoking potatoes, and a bottle of potheen between -us, I was able to make a fair pretence of -hunger. I had no difficulty in praising the -salmon and the big flowery potatoes, the best of -the world, and novelty supplied the needful -sauce. The potheen was simply barbarous, a -suitable drink for Caliban or the Indian brave, -and no amount of water could soothe it to my -French palate. But between lively grimaces -over it, I was enabled to ask, without self-betrayal—</p> - -<p>‘Then, I suppose, Lady Fitzowen’s husband -does not live at the manor?’</p> - -<p>He looked at me gravely over his glass, and -nodded.</p> - -<p>‘They are divorced?’</p> - -<p>‘Not quite as I should say. Separated, they -call it.’</p> - -<p>Here was a toppling down of the airiest edifice -built of gossamer. I could have cried out at -the stab like any thwarted child. And yet the -barrier of a living husband, like an unclean -skeleton, between us, made that vision in the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> -early twilight no less pure and spiritual than -when not seen across the tragic story, <i>married -widowhood</i>. A widow, still had sanctity lain -upon my suit, where now reproach would lie as -a pall. Suppose my love drew hers, how should -I live through terror of waking some poisonous -snake to her mortal injury, of the nameless -dread of slander to breathe its dark flame -against her sinless brow? A shadow upon such -devotion as mine was an unacceptable desecration. -Torture itself prompted me to further -questioning.</p> - -<p>‘Was it she who sought separation?’</p> - -<p>‘I believe it was her people, sir. He was a -bad lot, they say, wild after the women, and not -over nice in his ways. She’s gentle now, but -she was proud and passionate as a girl, and she -felt the shame of the thing and ran. ’Tis a -wonder the poor crathurs don’t oftener run, the -provocation thim fine gentlemen gives them. -Anyway, her people settled the matter, and she -came to live here, ’tis now close on four years -ago. The second child was born here, God -bless it, and we all love it like our own.’</p> - -<p>I went outside to smoke a cigarette in the -solitude of starlit night. One never wants for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> -proof of how much cruelty, shame, misery, and -injustice may be gathered into an innocent girl’s -existence by marriage. I had already seen -much of it, and was familiar with the musings -melancholy contemplation of it provoked. But -here was matter not for musing but for fiery -revolt. Every nerve thrilled with a sympathy -so complete as to make her retrospective pain -most personally mine, to thrust my individuality -from its old bright environment out for ever into -her desperate loneliness. Joy seemed to me a -miserable mockery, the portion of trivial, contemptible -humanity. The best proof of moral -worth lay in the excess of suffering endured. -Virtue was measured by the degree of pain, and -laughter dwelt with the ignoble jesters and -clowns. Sorrow was a diadem upon that golden -head, I murmured, and looked for confirmation -in the cold radiance of the stars above, darting -their shuttles of lambent flame in and out the -purple depths of sky.</p> - -<p>I peered down through the darkness, searching -for the grey manor among the massive -shadows. But no lighted window revealed it to -my yearning gaze, and somehow I felt glad that -Brases had suffered. Tears were the mark of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> -the elect, and had given her eyes that penetrating, -unjoyous clearness of the stars, had given -her beautiful lips their set line of austere silence, -had placed on that frail white brow the conquering -seal of valour and forbearance. A -passion so remote from whimpering sentiment -as that which she had inspired, was one to take -pride in, and I cared not now whether grief or -weal were my portion, for I, too, was crowned, -and, like her, stood apart.</p> - -<p>I was glad to face the wide, empty moors by -sunrise. The valley lay below the brilliantly lit -mountain shoulder, where scarcely a shadow -offered rest for the eyes. The Reeks opening -out, peak upon peak, glittering and wild, made -a magnificent picture. Here a crescent of -shattered points, there a sunny tarn through -the hollow of the cliff, shot with amber rays; -and downward, deep valley beyond deep valley, -dusk with foliage, and broken by zigzag pathways. -I sat on the shelf of a rock, whence I -could perceive the glen and grey mass of -the manor. An eagle sweeping over the brow -of the bluff, the shrill cry of curlews in their -undulary shoreward flight, presaging tempest, -the thunder of the Atlantic in the steady roll -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> -of its surges, were the sole sounds in my -majestic solitude.</p> - -<p>I sat and dreamed, and filled in the unknown -pages of that one volume now for me, the life -of an innocent and high-spirited girl, urged in -the passivity of an untroubled heart into an -uncongenial marriage. The thought that she -might have loved a worthless husband was an -intolerable smart, and I rejected it for the more -bearable belief that she had entered bondage in -a neutral condition, without any apprehension -of the warmer moments of life, unawakened to -the imperious claims of the heart.</p> - -<p>And in dwelling bitterly on the penalties of -such experience, the illimitable price exacted for -limitable error, I started to my feet in angry -denial that part of the price was the harsh -sentence against other choice. What did it -matter if the world’s wisdom rebuked our folly? -What did it matter if the callous eye saw stain -where I felt glory? What did anything matter, -so long as I had the will to leap all barriers -that lay between Brases and me? To pass -through flame and wave, so that she was on -the other side of peril with outstretched -arms? -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span></p> - -<p>The manor, with its air of rude decay, was -curious rather than picturesque. It fronted a -lawn that dropped into a thick plantation of -fir, along which ran a silver trout-stream. The -gravelled walks wandered away into the woodlands -that waved in brilliant arches of beech -and larch by an upward slope to the horizon, -where the spires of pine scalloped the skyline. -Trueberry was asleep, so I amused myself by -inspecting the portraits of the hall. They were -all members of my hostess’s family. That was -obvious, even if the old butler had not informed -me of the fact. A fair lady in velvet and long -ruffles looked at me with her clear eyes, just so -sweet, but bolder, and one tall girl was so -vividly like her that I greeted her with a flame -of enamoured recognition I would not dare -bestow on the living woman. The same gold-leaf -of hair, the same exquisite intangibility of -look, the same wanness of cheek and ineffable -upward line of chin and brow.</p> - -<p>When at last I saw Trueberry, I found him -coherent and eager for my visit. He lay in a -faded, heavily-curtained room, so old and dim -that the bright rays of morning penetrating -through the crimson curtains sparkled incongruously, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> -and turned squares of the silk into -blood-red. Coming in from the sunlit air, its -sombreness shot me blind, and I could see nothing -until I had blinked the sun out of my eyes.</p> - -<p>‘What a dark room!’ I cried.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it’s a delightful room,’ said Trueberry -dreamily, with the look of a visionary. ‘I’m so -glad I had that accident, and was carried in -here. Visions seem to start out of half-forgotten -romances, and everything is suggestive. It’s so -dark and quaint and big. Just the room to be -ill in, and not mope. I like my condition, too, -now that pain is on the wane. Fact and fancy -are so deliciously inextricable. I never know -what is really happening and what I am imagining. -Last night I saw a picture that seemed -to be real, and was in perfect harmony with the -antique air of the room. A sort of Saint Elizabeth -in a mediæval frame. You know one’s -ideal of St Elizabeth?’ he added, looking at me -with a little quizzical stir in his languid glance. -‘Sweet, serious, and lovely, carrying roses from -heaven, and smiling softly on children and the -sick. She smiled at me when she saw me staring.’</p> - -<p>‘Your hostess?’ I asked, chill with apprehension. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> - -<p>‘I suppose so, if it wasn’t a dream. There’s -fever in my blood still, and at night the imagination -is a terrible agent. Yet the picture -remains so distinct upon memory: the voice -was so real, so musical, I can hear it still.’</p> - -<p>‘Tell me about it,’ I said, curious and -alarmed.</p> - -<p>‘I was trying to make out my surroundings -in the dull lamplight, and wondering where you -were, when a curtain was lifted by the whitest -hand I have ever seen, and framed in the folds -was a beautiful pale woman in grey. She held -a lamp high up, and the light caught and -played over her brilliant hair till it shone like -living gold. I feared to wink lest the vision -should vanish. The light revealed the bust, -while the folds of the skirt fell into heavy shadow. -It was the crimped white about neck and wrists -and the long queer sleeves that made me imagine -fever had evoked some recollection of -Italian galleries—half Giotto, half Botticelli: -but she actually moved, and the unfathomable -gravity of her gaze held mine, and when she -smiled, I ceased to feel pain.’</p> - -<p>He spoke almost to himself, as if he had forgotten -my presence, and as I looked down at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> -him, so drowsily contented, I saw the old tragic -monster lifting its terrible head between us. -For the first time I was conscious of a jealous -pang in contemplation of his favour of person. -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Grands dieux!</i> and I so fatally ugly! And if -Trueberry had possessed nothing but good -looks, I had my brains and my reputation -to balance that advantage. But he was no -mere hero of sentimental girlhood—he was a -handsome, high-bred gentleman, with all the -finest qualities to repay a noble woman’s love, -with all the personal charm to captivate a -fastidious woman’s fancy. What had won my -admiring friendship might be trusted to win -Brases’ responsive love:—his sincerity, a certain -picturesque dash that always made me think of -Buckingham as described by Dumas—Anne of -Austria’s Buckingham. It breathed so essentially -the high air of romance, the chivalry, the -ennobling sentimentality of vigorous manhood. -He was no troubadour, but as I have said, -Buckingham to the heels in modern raiment, -unflinching before peril, of delightful -manners, faithful to friend, implacable to foe, -brilliant, generous, and full of romantic spirit. -Such a woman as Brases I deemed above susceptibility -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> -to a mere facile charm of manner, -averse from so vulgar a quality as fascination. -But Trueberry did not fascinate: he captivated. -He carried sunshine with him to appeal to the -austerest temperament, and in some subtle way, -without an effort, became a need. A more -attractive manliness was nowhere to be met, -and if in friendship I found him indispensable, -what would he not be to the woman whose -heart he won?</p> - -<p>Should I repeat the peasant’s talk? Better -not. Silence between us was best until speech -could not be avoided. So I took an aching -heart back to the cottage, with a promise to -return in the afternoon.</p> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="BRASES_II">II</h3> -</div> - -<p>That afternoon, passing through the hall on -my way to Trueberry’s room, I was arrested -upon no direct effort of will by the face of the -pale blonde girl, looking at me so vividly out -of canvas through the dear glance my own -ached with longing to behold. Standing thus, -my ear detected with a thrill of recognition the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span> -light footfall behind me. I turned, and the -sight was water to a man fevered with thirst. -All morning I had wondered if a transient -state of nerves might not be accountable for an -effect perhaps over-excited imagination had -exaggerated. But this second meeting was full -confirmation of the agonising power of Brases -over me. I rejoiced in this added proof of my -servitude. Because of her presence, life revealed -deeper meaning, earth fresher hues. My heart -fluttered on the topmost crest of emotion, and -tossed on a violent wave of joy. The awful -quietude of our full long gaze held me tranced -in silence.</p> - -<p>‘You found your friend better,’ she said, -and her voice in that tense moment was like -the bursting of the surges upon their swell. -My eyes must have told it with fatal illumination, -had hers not absently fallen on a portrait. -‘I should gladly press you to stay here with -him, but I fear you would find it dull. The -house, I know, is gloomy, and I see no one. -But if you can face the dulness for your friend’s -sake, if it would lessen your anxiety——’</p> - -<p>‘You are too kind,’ I burst out eagerly, for -some inexplicable reason repelled by the suggestion -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> -of Trueberry and myself together -under her roof. ‘My friend is in the best of -hands, and I should not dream of trespassing -so far. Besides, I enjoy my walks to and from -the cottage.’</p> - -<p>What an idiot I was, to be sure, and what a -miserably inadequate refusal! Yet could I give -my real reason? That a sharp-witted man of -the world, an intelligent French writer of some -fame, should be driven to inane stuttering at -the greatest moment of his existence, was -surely a grotesque fatality. I saw with a shock -the contraction of the delicate brows, and the -surprised interrogation of the proud glance she -levelled at me. Then pride and surprise ebbed -back to their still depths, and the brows -smoothed by sheer effort of will, I divined, -and she smiled coldly, a little austere smile, -remote and frosted like a ray on ice. A -woman of my own land would have read below -the commonplace words the deeper melody of -the heart’s unuttered eloquence. But Brases, so -untutored, so wrapped in her musing and undiscerning -solitude, had not this tact of sympathy, -this subtle divination, this keen scent of sex. -Her simplicity was mournful and gentle, but -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> -not penetrative nor scrutinising. Mute fervour -I saw would leave her untroubled, and with -Trueberry near, I feared to hope her regard -would ever gleam and drop in glad surrender -at my coming, or her pulses quicken to the -bidding of my touch. I felt crushed, out of -reach of comfort, and resolved no more to -tread that haunting pathway from the little -rocky plateau to this sombre valley, but to -go out with my immeasurable pain into the -soothing limitlessness of earth and sea and air -upon the moors. Yet there was the misery of -it—I could not command my will. I felt -the folly of it; I apprehended the misery of -a rivalry between Trueberry and me,—self at -odds with the finest friendship that ever knitted -men together. But I as well knew that my -hunger to-morrow for Brases would be greater -even than to-day, and a starving man will gnaw -at straw when you refuse him bread.</p> - -<p>I found Trueberry half raised upon his -pillow, a pink flush like the reflection of a -flame upon his pallid cheek, and the blue of his -eyes burning darkly.</p> - -<p>‘Have you seen her?’ he asked, meeting my -hand affectionately. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span></p> - -<p>‘Yes.’</p> - -<p>The dull, brief tone must have struck him as -implied negation of his visible enthusiasm, for -he scanned my face quickly, and asked in a -surprised voice—</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you find her beautiful, Gontran?’</p> - -<p>‘Most beautiful,’ I replied, with grim emphasis.</p> - -<p>I sat down, and took up a volume of <i>The -Ring and the Book</i>, which lay on a little table -close to an arm-chair at the foot of the bed.</p> - -<p>‘No, no, Gontran. Not that, pray. She has -been reading it to me,’ he shouted, as if a -wound were pressed.</p> - -<p>I looked at him queerly, I felt; how far he -had travelled already, when it was ‘she’ with -him, and he could voice so candidly the trouble -of blood and being. Or else my passion was -the deeper, and ran in a mysterious channel, -where speech is desecration, thought hardly -delicate enough to follow its intangible flow.</p> - -<p>‘You remember those lovely lines, beginning—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“First infancy pellucid as a pearl”?</p> -</div> - -<p>‘They might have been written of her,’ he -continued, in his dear, fresh, expansive way. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> -‘Pompilia, infant, child, maid, woman, wife, the -ideal of our earth. Why, it was surely of her -that Browning was dreaming.’</p> - -<p>I continued in silence to finger the book her -hand had touched, and my eye fell on that -chivalrous passage, clear even to my foreign eye -in spite of antipathy to Browning’s roughness:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">‘And if they recognised in a critical flash</div> - <div class="verse indent0">From the Zenith, each the other, her need of him,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">His need of—say a woman to perish for,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">The regular way of the world, yet break no vow,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Do no harm, save to himself—?’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Sully Prudhomme, I thought, would have -expressed the idea more exquisitely. I preferred -the soft musical murmur of that unapproachable -little poem, the breathing soul -of a tenderer chivalry:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">‘Si je pouvais aller lui dire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Elle est à vous et ne m’inspire,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Plus rien, même plus d’amitié</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Je n’en ai plus pour cette ingrate.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mais elle est pâle, délicate,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ayez soin d’elle par pitié.</div> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Écoutez-moi sans jalousie,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Car l’aile de sa fantaisie,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">N’a fait, hélas, que m’effleurer.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Je sais comment sa main repousse,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mais pour ceux qu’elle aime elle est douce,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Ne la faites jamais pleurer.</div> - <div class="verse indent0"></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span></p> - </div> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Je pourrais vivre avec l’idée</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Qu’elle est chérie et possédée</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Non par moi mais selon mon cœur.</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Méchante enfant qui m’abandonnes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Vois le chagrin que tu me donnes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Je ne puis rien pour ton bonheur.’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>But the virile sweep of the sentiment Browning -revealed had something of ocean’s strength and -immensity that aroused the sea-born Breton -under the extraneous veneer of culture. A -Parisian cannot escape the charm of classic -polish, but now and then with us the Celt runs -riot, and sentiment rebels against the leash of -form.</p> - -<p>Under the cynicism of the analytical novelist’s -sacrifice, renunciation, the conquering strife of -passion over duty, noble failure, the greatly -borne martyrdom of humanity, are the things -that have ever appealed to me. I have always -desired to love and be loved in the cleansing -fire of pain rather than in the facile yielding to -the senses. So that there really was no logical -reason why I should whimper and mope because -Brases had not dropped into my arms -by some magnetic influence. And even if she -chose elsewhere! So long as her choice was -justified by happiness, what need had I to complain? -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> -I murmured Sully Prudhomme’s lines, -of a more subtle beauty of feeling than Browning’s, -and Trueberry cocked a wistful brow.</p> - -<p>‘Repeat them louder, they sound so beautiful,’ -he urged, and I repeated them.</p> - -<div class="poetry-container" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">‘“Car l’aile de sa fantaisie,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">N’a fait, hélas, que m’effleurer,”’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>he cried, with water in his eyes. ‘Could you picture -yourself, Gontran, saying that of the woman -you loved to the man who had gained her!’</p> - -<p>‘I hope so,’ I replied, smiling. ‘The bitter -would be so sweet. And then the magnificent -retort upon broken hopes:</p> - -<div class="poetry-container" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">“Méchante enfant qui m’abandonnes,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Vois le chagrin que tu me donnes?</div> - <div class="verse indent0"><i>Je ne puis rien pour ton bonheur.</i>”’</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>I spoke lightly, like the cynical boulevardier, -while inwardly I was bleeding. But Trueberry, -bereft, by weakness and love, of all power of -scrutiny or penetration, saw nothing of my -suffering. He was in the absorbing paradise -of a new-born claim, in the unconscious premonition -of response, and smiled vaguely at -me, dear fellow, as if a strong but agreeable -opiate had drugged him.</p> - -<p>Trueberry was so improved next morning -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> -that I found the children playing in his room. -They were a little lad and girl in the toddling -age, prettily named Brendan and Mave. I -have never seen children so well-bred, so charming -to look at and to talk to. The boy had -thick brown curls, with a reddish gleam in -them, and his mother’s eyes, while the girl -had her gold hair, with big eyes, like the leaf -of a purple pansy. They lisped, as only angels -ought to lisp, and fetched your heart between -your eyelashes from very delight and sympathy.</p> - -<p>While we played and chattered, and those -pretty creatures rolled over Trueberry, the -waves of their embroidered skirts entangled -in his beard and neck, they like white balls, -taking their falls so good-humouredly, and -then on the ground, standing like birds to -shake out their snowy plumage, the door -opened, and Brases smiled upon the threshold.</p> - -<p>Trueberry’s pinched expressive face waved -pink, and gazing blue went instantly to black. -I stood grasping the back of my chair, and saw -Brases for the first time not icily aloof, not -throned on dead dreams. There was a human -flame under her pallor, and her smile had an -approachable womanly sweetness. It deepened -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> -the grey of her eyes, and lent an ineffable softness -to her sad mouth. The curves of the lips -pleaded like a child’s for tenderness and unexacting -devotion. I could have bent a knee -to her in a rush of feeling less lofty than homage, -and said: ‘Bid me suffer, dear one, so that -you are happy.’ To my surprise, she shook -hands with me, in cordial frankness, hoped I -was pleased with the condition of my friend, -and then bent and took Trueberry’s hand with -a very different air. Of course, he was her invalid, -and no woman worth the name is ever -the same to the sick and the strong. For -Brases to look at me like that, and hold my -hand with that gentle imperiousness, I, too, -should have to be wounded and stretched -under her roof on my back.</p> - -<p>She had no Irish fluency, and her speech was -curiously strained and elaborated, without, however, -any obvious affectation. The words came -deliberately, and yet with a fearless reticence. -It was repression, not secrecy. Life with her -was a tale of baffled personal hopes, of unmeasured -pain, of nature overcome, of lower -impulses proudly unrecognised, of cold allegiance -to duty, and the unfathomable tenderness -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> -of maternity. Her children, as she told us, with -their little arms about her neck, were her one -joy.</p> - -<p>‘I fear I spoil them,’ she added; ‘but I strive -to make them think of others, while they, alas! -so well know that I only think of them.’</p> - -<p>Mave, I was glad to see, was the mother’s -favourite. At all times I like a woman to love -her girls best; the preference breathes in my -esteem, so essentially of distinction and lovableness. -But æsthetic gratification here was sharpened -by the fact that Mave’s father had never -seen her. To me Mave was all her mother’s -child, for which reason, during my visits, I -never failed to coax her on my knee, where -she would sit at first in a stiffened attitude of -good behaviour, until she got used to my dark, -foreign face, and gleefully ran to greet me. -While she nestled and gurgled in my arms, lisping -her excited speech, Trueberry and Brendan -chanted nursery rhymes, taught each other -surprising verses, and told one another fairy tales.</p> - -<p>It was the day Trueberry first got up that -conjecture stabbed me with the jealous knife -of certainty. Despair closed round me like a -physical grasp, and I toppled rudely over my -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> -airy ideal of renunciation and self-effacement. -I had dwelt with such soothing vanity of spirit -on my gracious bending to the happiness of -my sovereign lady and my friend, and when -I saw them then exchange a long, grave, shining -gaze of full confession, and noted the enchanting -air of command with which she waved him -back to his chair, when he stood to greet her, -the deeps of nature burst their barriers.</p> - -<p>Unstrung and irritable from the strain of -my false position, I walked rapidly up to the -cottage, asking myself whether I should go or -stay, and unable to decide which would cost -me more. My host was smoking a pipe outside, -in placid contemplation of a patch of potatoes. -He directed secretive eyeshot sideways on me -in sharp inquiry, then bent his glance again -upon the green leaves, and meditatively kicked -away a stone.</p> - -<p>‘’Tisn’t good for a young man of your years, -sir, to lead this sort of life,’ he said. ‘Foreign -cities are gay places, I’ve heard tell. ’Tis -among them you ought to be. The moors, -and the rocks, and the sea, the praties I plant -and eat, and the salmon I catch, satisfy the likes -of me, but I’m thinking, sir, ’tis poor work for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> -you, counting the stars be night, and crying -for the moon be day.’</p> - -<p>‘A man might be worse employed than -watching the stars,’ I replied, ignoring his -rebuke.</p> - -<p>‘To be sure, sir. ’Tis a candle-light that -teaches us a wonderful power of patience. -When you look at them, the wear and tear of -life seems a useless sort of thing.’</p> - -<p>‘So it seems, viewed in any light—rush, or -gas, or sun,’ I assented drearily. ‘But why do you -want to get rid of me, if I am content to stay?’</p> - -<p>‘I’d be grieved to think you imagined me -anything but proud of your company, sir; -but I’m thinking it ’ud be best for yourself -to go away. You look down a bit lately, and -’tis me own heart bleeds for you. But you’re -young, agra, and them sort of troubles soon -pass. ’Tis surprising how wonderful quick the -heart is to mend any time.’</p> - -<p>His intention and sympathy sprang tears to -my eyes. He saw this, and touched my shoulder -gently, nodding a sapient head.</p> - -<p>‘I make bold to tell you, sir, that a fine -pleasant boy like yourself has no business to go -hankering after one as has known deception -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> -and wept misfortune, an’ whose husband lives. -Them’s foreign ways, I know. Haven’t I read -a power of books? Take my word for it, ’tis -better to run after the girls. There it’s all fair -and square, above board, and ’tis natural. ’Tis -your duty to her and yourself to turn your -back on us.’</p> - -<p>‘It always is our duty to be most miserable, -I fear,’ I said dejectedly. ‘But why should a -woman wear weeds because a scoundrel lives? -in the bloom of youth, beautiful, with a maiden -heart for the winning? and what law is broken -by honourable devotion?’</p> - -<p>I forgot I was talking to a peasant, and stood -there in the sunlight, pleading Trueberry’s -cause. For what now had I to do with her -heart, or she with my love? My hour of ordeal -had come, and I confess I was surprised by my -own frailty. I had expected to bear it so much -better, to act so much more gallant a part. -Instead, I was broken with jealousy, and my -eyes were blinded with tears. I had not -conquered nature, did not swim triumphantly -in the upper sphere of impersonal feeling, submissive -to an ideal sway, glorying in the -supreme servitude of unacknowledged, unexacting -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> -devotion. I was a poor exasperated human -wretch, unjustly angry with my friend for his -selfish blindness, wrath with the woman’s -serenity, which could not interpret my feeling, -vexed that neither, in their bliss, should care -whether I lived or died of it. I had craved so -little,—the pale ray of hope, insubstantial as a -dream, but cherished with frenzy. And now -how was I to still the fierce ache of regret in -the years ahead? Bereavement fronted me, a -silent spectre, my mate for evermore. The -precious hours had gone, sleepless nights and -sullen days, in a hinted persistence of prayer in -her presence, of longing out of it, and nothing to -come of all the anguish, of revolving transport -and agony, but this sense of miserable failure.</p> - -<p>Looking down from the plateau to the glen, -it seemed to me that I had been accomplishing -this backward and forward march from cottage -to manor by an unreal measurement of time. -The years before sank into insignificance beside -these two weeks of frustrated yearning. I went -into the house to shut my grief away from the -friendly scrutiny of my peasant friend, and -battled with the monster that wrecks our dignity -and our intelligence. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="BRASES_III">III</h3> -</div> - -<p>Next morning, with seared eyelids, and heart -a red raw wound, conscious of the peasant’s -disapproving inspection, my feet carried me -unreluctantly toward torture. It was part of my -implacable fate that I should diagnose my own -misery through the happiness of the two beings -who bounded the limits of sensation for me. -Trueberry was alone, and greeted me with a -vagueness of glance that denoted retrospective -bliss. He was glad to see me in a quiet way, -as a feature in enchanting environment.</p> - -<p>We smoked in silence until our incommunicative -companionship was abruptly disturbed by -the arrival of a couple of officers from a neighbouring -garrison town. Pleasant fellows both, -carrying a rollicking breath of Lever into the -surcharged atmosphere. They spoke at the top -of their voices, hailed us with obvious delight, -joked, quizzed, and gallantly misconducted -themselves from the point of view of lucky and -unlucky lover. I was reminded that I was -French, and made an effort to do honour to my -land. While they stayed, I shook off melancholy, -and matched their breezy recklessness with the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> -intoxication of despair. Heaven knows what -we laughed at, but everybody except Trueberry -shouted hearty guffaws, and seemed to regard -life as the most entertaining of jokes. They -chaffed Trueberry on his captivity to isolated -beauty, and hinted in their broad barrack way -at the perils of bewitchment. Trueberry went -white with repressed anger, and I dusky as a -savage. I wanted to fell the harmless fool for a -pleasantry common enough in affairs of gallantry -between men, but Trueberry passed it off with -his superlative breeding, and the officer adroitly -changed the conversation.</p> - -<p>When Brases joined us before lunch, the -younger of the two again provoked me by -approaching her with a slight military swagger, -his air, as he took her beautiful hand, so clearly -saying: ‘Madame, allow me to observe that -you are a remarkably handsome woman, and -I shouldn’t mind being your captive myself.’ -Not that he was impertinent or fatuous, but his -admiration was of a crude and youthful and -self-assured flavour. Trueberry lifted a dolorous -lid upon me, as if seeking sympathy in me for -the exquisite torment of this outer desecrating -breath upon the divine and hidden. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span></p> - -<p>They left us as cheerily as they had come, -bidding me persuade Lady Fitzowen to come -to their garrison ball next week. The major -begged to know what sins the county had -committed, to be so punished by its fairest -woman. I saw Trueberry’s fingers clench -ominously, and my own lips shut upon a grim -twist for all response. Brases stared at them -softly, as if they were a long way off, and then -a little puzzled smile stirred her eyes as she -sought Trueberry’s glance.</p> - -<p>‘I wish you could persuade Monsieur d’Harcourt -to go,’ was her acknowledgment of their -invitation. ‘He does not look nearly so well -as when he first came.’</p> - -<p>I grasped this notice as a famished dog -pounces on a stale crust. I flung her an -enchanted beam of gratitude, and red ran -momently through the grey universe. She came -out, and stood beside me on the broad gravel, -when the officers had driven away, and I found -courage to urge her to come with me to the ball -at Kilstern. It was no baseness to my friend, -surely, that I should hunger and thirst and pray -for one little moment of her life unshared with -him! -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span></p> - -<p>‘Had I any such foolish desire, Monsieur, my -obligations as hostess would still prevent me. -It is so little I can do for your friend, so -much I would gladly do. But it is no privation -for me to dispense with society. I never -liked it, and have only bitter recollections of it. -I ask nothing now from life but peace,—and -strength to live my days for my children’s sake, -striving not to wish them shortened, and -remembering that there is much else besides -personal hope and happiness. One despairs so -quickly in youth, and then the children come, -with their sweet faces made up of morning -light, soft as flowers, with the smile of paradise -in their clear eyes. And youth for me lies so -far away,’ she added, with a scarce perceptible -change of voice, and a ray lighting up her -delicate face, showed a smile so wan and faint -as rather to resemble the memory of a smile, -reminiscent as the spectre of that youth she -greeted as an alien, and I listening, wished I -had died before hearing words so sad from her -lips.</p> - -<p>Her gesture in one less superlatively sincere -might have been taxed with coquetry, so exquisite -was its expression; her white hands fell -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> -in a gentle depression with the finger-tips -curved inward.</p> - -<p>‘Even music no longer pleases me,’ she continued, -sweeping the circumscribed scene with -a flame of revolt under the drawn arch of the -lovely brows. ‘It is not sad enough. That is -why I am so fond of the ravening melancholy -of ocean’s song down upon the desolate -beach. I listen for it at night as I lie awake, -and it is the eternal funeral march of my dead -youth.’</p> - -<p>It was hardly by an effort of will that she -ceased speaking: speech dropped from her as -sound drops from the receding wave, and I -could have cried aloud in passionate protest as -I saw the veil drawn over this transient revelation -of herself. Never had she spoken to me so -before. Never had she referred to her past. -And the hint that all joy for her lay in her -children fired my brain with hope’s delirium. -Surely I had been mistaken in my haunting -dread, and stupidly interpreted the looks -between her and Trueberry. He might love -her, as I loved her, but her feeling was only the -soft interest of compassion. And yet—and -yet——! -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span></p> - -<p>Leaving her, I walked slowly down the path. -At the gate I looked back. She was still -standing there, staring across the hills, with the -sunset hues upon the amber of her head, and -revealing the matchless purity of line and tint -of face and throat. Not surrender, not love, -did that dejection of air denote. The thought -went with me, rooted in my heart, and kept -me awake, tossing on a fever-troubled pillow. -I started up, and stood at the window to watch -the stars till dawn sent a grey glimmer down -the dusk, and a white cloud sped like a wing -over the sky. I had a foreboding of rashness, -of perilous explosion on the morrow, unless I -had the wisdom to steal out alone into the -empty world. If they loved one another, it -was plainly my duty. But, oh! to be able to -look into her eyes, and cry: ‘I love you, yet I -leave you. For me death were easier, but my -death would stain your bliss with regret’s -shadow.’</p> - -<p>I questioned the stars in my blind anguish to -learn if there were no resources in nature to wall -in this terrible blank of being that stretched so -miserably, so limitlessly before me as a future -without Brases or Trueberry. Old interests, old -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> -tastes, old desires had dropped from me, and I -stood beggared of sum and aim of life.’</p> - -<p>I was abroad upon the moors by sunrise, -lessening my feeling of personal diminution in -the earth’s grandeur and the wavering immensity -of the Atlantic as it rolled under the lemon-tinted -horizon. I took my last look of forked -mountains against the grey-shot blue of the -heaven, of shattered rocks, and sombre tarn -seen through the opening of a valley, and the -distant plain, an inner sea of bracken and -heather. Ever the sound of water, of moaning -wave, of mingling rill, of foaming fall, the shrill -cry of eagle and curlew, and the melody of the -early birds. An hour hence should find me -trudging to Kilstern, away from the wild beauty -of this place—the home of Brases! On my -way back, I met my host, and mentioned my -intention. ‘That’s as it should be,’ was all he -said.</p> - -<p>His curt approval galled me, and to silence -discourteous retort, I flung myself over the -stone ledge, and took the manor path like a -chased creature. With what unconscious -accuracy of observation I noted each leaf, each -colour and form of a scene memory was destined -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> -to retain for evermore! following with -eager eyes the light as it made its own short -road of gold among the dense shadows, and -these as they picked out in blots the sunny -spaces.</p> - -<p>The hall door as usual was open, and in -passing the portraits, I took my last look of the -boy with curls and ruffles, and beyond of the -girl with the proud fair face that might be a -portrait of Brases in younger days. I inspected -it steadily, and traced where resemblance -stopped in the lack of the subtle stamp of the -soul, the ennobling seal of grief. It was a -Brases who had never wept, never thought, a -creature of mere bodily beauty.</p> - -<p>I found Trueberry walking up and down in -restless expectation. I could see that sight of -me brought an uncontrollable smart of disappointment -to his eyelids, and his expressive -mouth twitched like a child’s.</p> - -<p>‘What’s the matter, Gontran?’ he asked, -with an affectionate effort, and placed one hand -on my shoulder. ‘You look frightfully battered, -my poor fellow.’</p> - -<p>‘Last night I meant to go away in silence,’ I -said, not able to meet his kind glance, ‘but -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> -to-day I decided I owed my friend a franker -course. Neither of us is responsible for the -fact, but we must separate now.’</p> - -<p>‘You would desert me, Gontran—now!’ he -cried, and the bitter tone of his reproach fetched -a sob to my throat.</p> - -<p>‘I wish to God it should not be, that I had -the unselfish courage to stay and witness your -happiness——’</p> - -<p>‘Happiness!’ he shouted frantically. ‘My -poor boy, I am more miserable than yourself,’ -he added, with a dejected movement.</p> - -<p>‘Then you are deceiving yourself,’ I said, -shrugging and turning impatiently on my heel. -‘She loves you. I have seen it in her eyes, -felt it to the inmost fibres of consciousness in -her voice.’</p> - -<p>‘And if it were so!’ Trueberry cried, in a soft, -fond tone of interjection, that brought my -fierce look back to his face. He called himself -miserable, but bliss sparkled out of the -depths of his frank eyes. He fronted daylight, -the proud and conscious lover, and the shadow -upon his radiance was, after all, but a becoming -tone to temper fatuity to my amazed and -acrid scrutiny. Without it, I might have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> -longed to strike him, in my state of moral -degradation.</p> - -<p>‘How much nearer am I to her for that?’ he -went on, in reply to my hateful look. ‘My -dear friend, there is nothing for us both but to -take up our staff and knapsack, and trudge -wearily out of this enchanted valley into the -busy garish world, carrying with us the remembrance -of an unstable and beautiful dream. We -are equals in fortune, Gontran.’</p> - -<p>‘Equals,’ I roared, goaded by the fiery bar -of his speech. ‘What equality exists between -success and unsuccess? between the chosen and -the neglected? between heat and cold, sun and -ice, glory and shame, tears and laughter? The -barrier to your happiness may be levelled by -fate at any moment. You have but to wait -and watch the newspapers. While I——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t be rough, old man. You would be -sorrier than I if you hurt me now, when I can -ill bear more pain. For I am dismissed, sent -away. Oh!’</p> - -<p>He sat down and covered his face with -both hands, and I, in awakened wickedness of -spirit, gloated over his convulsive wretchedness. -Suffering had blunted conscience, and the finer -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> -feelings, and left me abjectly enslaved to all the -baser sensations that assail weakened humanity. -In such moments, happily brief, the savage is -uppermost, whatever the training of the gentleman. -The soul sleeps, and the body, with all -its frenzied needs and desires, stands naked, -primitive, elemental, the mere animal living -through the senses. The handsome sobbing -creature had all, and I had nothing. Yet he -dared to speak of equality in misery between us.</p> - -<p>‘Good-bye,’ I said, and moved to the door.</p> - -<p>Trueberry sprang up, and clutched my arm. -His dear, simple nature could understand nothing -of the vileness that the finer and more -complex order of being may contain. To him -I was not an embittered rival, but a cherished -friend to whom he boyishly clung in his unbearable -sorrow.</p> - -<p>‘Must we separate, Gontran?’ he entreated. -‘Why, since we both go to-day?’</p> - -<p>The inalterable sweetness of his temper shook -me on a crest of remorse, and conquered assaulting -vindictiveness. I felt so mean beside him that -I could have begged his pardon for unuttered -insult. His superiority more than justified -Brases’ choice, though the dear fellow lacked -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> -my brains, and my name commanded considerable -stir.</p> - -<p>I consented to go with him, and hurried back -to the cottage, where I found my host busy -over my portmanteau. I told him my friend -was coming with me too, upon which he scrutinised -my face mildly, and, I thought, with -satisfaction. He strapped the portmanteau, -and remarked in a dry tone: ‘That, too, is as -it should be, and I am glad there is no quarrel.’ -Taking no note of my astonishment at his -incredible discernment, he added: ‘You’ll -drink a last drop of the mountain dew to your -success and happiness in another spot, sir, -where the girls, God bless them! are fresh and -pretty and plentiful as the flowers in May.’</p> - -<p>He went into the kitchen, and I stood at the -window watching light chase shadow over the -bold visage of a reek, and assured myself -gloomily that there were a thousand ways, after -all, of threading a path through despair. Whose -life is crowned with happiness?—and hope of it -must come to an end sooner or later. Pleasure -still remains when we have shed the last tear, -and whatever may be said to the contrary -in pessimistic moments, pleasure to the last -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> -peeps out at us through the thorniest brambles, -with its varied allurements. This I told myself, -and though I could think of no possible -pleasure at the time, or compensation for the -miserable duty of facing life, I drearily supposed -I would come, like another, to find my round -of petty joys and mean delights. There was -something to be done even by a fellow so sick -at heart as I: books to be written, books to be -read, people to see, and people to avoid, countries -to travel in, and women to criticise. My -host stood at the top of the path, bareheaded, -cheering me on with his gracious ‘God speed -ye, sir!’ until the bend of the hill hid his honest -friendly face from me. I sought Trueberry in -his room, and saw his gloves, and hat, and portmanteau -on the table. I wandered about the -house, through unfamiliar chambers, till, on -lifting a curtain, a picture arrested me with a -curdling thrill. The blood flowed from heart -to brain on a dizzy wave, where it surged, so -that I had some knowledge of the sensation of -insanity. This explains my sin against honour -in standing there. I could not have left the -spot by any imperative order of conscience. I -stood as immovable as a hypnotised figure. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> -Like a spectator of the drama, with feelings -unconcerned, I was quick to note the searching -pathos and beauty of the picture.</p> - -<p>They two stood together in the middle of the -room, she with her hands on his shoulders, he -with an arm round her waist, holding one of her -little hands clasped above. The passionate gaze -of both was matchless in its eloquence. Both -faces were white and luminous, as if touched -with a ray from heaven, anguish adequately -mixed with transport. Such a look from a -woman’s eyes was surely worth dying for.</p> - -<p>‘Brases, must I go away?’ Trueberry asked -brokenly.</p> - -<p>She moved a little in his embrace, and pressed -her face against his breast, then recovered herself, -and said firmly—</p> - -<p>‘You must, dear friend.’</p> - -<p>‘Think of it, beloved,’ he cried, holding her -closer to him. ‘Such links as chain us. We -two as one, is it not madness to dream of living -apart? Every beat of life within you, Brases, -must cry out against this parting. It is murder -of our souls. Go, I may, but with you, Brases.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t make me go over it again,’ she pleaded, -in a tired voice, ‘it was so hard before. While -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> -a man lives who calls me wife, can I come to -you with a tarnished name?’</p> - -<p>‘Tarnished!’ The smile he shed upon her -was convincing enough to redeem a fallen -angel, it was so warm, and soft, and indulgent, -with all love’s sweetness and shelter. ‘The -stain is on his name, and that you would drop. -The law will release you. Come, come. You -cannot live alone now, any more than I can. -Think of what it means—craving light and -love and happiness, all within reach, and we -dying apart on the brink.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no, don’t tempt me. Your desire is my -weakness. Your voice draws my being from -its roots, and my pulses beat to the rhythm of -yours. See how much I confess, and then be -merciful, and go.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it always right to follow our ideal of duty, -when nature points so clearly another way?’ -he still urged. ‘What reason have we always -to regard our judgment as better than hers, -since she is so big and mighty, and we so small -and helpless.’ He held her hand pressed against -his lips, and I could hear his murmuring speech -through the trembling fingers. ‘What is the -past with such a present as ours, such a future -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> -as we might have? My love would soon blot -it from your memory. Trust me, Brases, I too -have my past with its burden of regrets I would -fain forget.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, had I met you before fatality crossed -my path,’ she said, upon a quick sob, ‘when my -palm was as clean as a child’s, how my spirit -would have bounded to the wedding of yours! -But that may never be now.’</p> - -<p>Her arms dropped renouncingly, and the -smile that travelled slowly over her blanched -face shed a rapturous light upon his. His eyes -held hers in willing bondage. Though this was -her farewell I could divine the supreme effort -that kept her from his arms, by the fingers -fluttering like the wings of a bird against her -dress, while it were hard to say which her half-lifted, -gently averted face, with the eyes straining -back to his, most eloquently expressed: -surrender or renouncement.</p> - -<p>Trueberry sprang to her and caught her to -him, and their lips met in a kiss that had the -solemnity of a sacrament. I staggered back, -clapping my hand over my mouth to prevent -a shout of white-hot anguish, and could see the -darkness sweep down upon me like a big comforting -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> -wing. I hoped it was death come to -gather me like a suffering, inarticulate child, -into its soft mother’s arms.</p> - -<p>But I struggled back into life, and had again -to front the road of care and blind endeavour. -How long later I cannot say, but I saw Brases -standing over me, looking at me in pitying -wonder. She took my hand in both of hers, -and bending, softly kissed my cheek. This -was the mother’s kiss I hoped death had -given me. I stared at her, too broken for -wonder or emotion, and sitting down beside -me, with my hand still in hers, she said—</p> - -<p>‘We were very much frightened, you were so -long unconscious. Mr. Trueberry told me you -have not slept of late, and that you are very -unhappy. I, too, am unhappy, and that is why -I kissed you. But you are better now, and you -will try to forget your pain, or, at least, to bear -it well. It is the best any of us can do. They -will drive you to Kilstern, and you will return -to France alone, carrying my best wishes -for your welfare. Mr. Trueberry has gone -already.’</p> - -<p>I struggled to my feet, swallowed the wine -she poured out for me, and then, in a dull, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span> -uneager voice, asked, ‘Did Trueberry leave no -message for me, Madame?’</p> - -<p>‘He was very much concerned, and full of -sympathy, but he has his own trouble to bear, -and thinks he will bear it best alone. He will -write to you to Paris in a few days.’</p> - -<p>A trap was at the door, and she came out -with me, and when we had shaken hands in -silence, stood looking after me, as I was indeed -forcibly carried away. She was dim to my -sight, a mere blurred grey figure, with light -about her head, and the landscape looked watery -and broken, as if seen through bits of bobbing -glass. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span></p> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > -<div class="newpage vcenter"> - <div class="half-title">A PAGE OF PHILOSOPHY</div> - <div class="right"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">À M. Gaston, Paris<br> - de l’Institut de France</i></div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h2 class="nobreak" id="A_PAGE_OF_PHILOSOPHY">A PAGE OF PHILOSOPHY</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">T<b>HERE</b></span> was a break in the soft stream of -Rameau’s eloquence when somebody spoke of -Krowtosky. The interruption came from Louis -Gaston, a brilliant young journalist, whose air of -sanctified rake and residence in the Rue du Bac, -in front of a well-known shop, earned him the -nickname of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Petit Saint Thomas</i>.</p> - -<p>Krowtosky’s name diverted the channel of -the murmurous, half-abstracted discourse to -which we had lent an attentive ear, physically -lulled, and though charmed, not boisterously -amused by Rameau’s sly anecdotal humour and -complaisant lightness of tone. Rameau always -talked delightfully, without any apparent consciousness -of the fact; above all, without any -apparent effort. He never raised his voice, -gesticulated slightly, accentuated no point, and -left much to his listener’s discretion; and his -calm drollery was all the more delicious because -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> -of the sedate and equable expression of his -handsome face.</p> - -<p>‘Krowtosky,’ he repeated, as he turned his -picturesque grey head in Gaston’s direction; -with a deliberate air he removed his glasses, -slowly polished them, and interjected, ‘Ah!’</p> - -<p>‘You must remember that queer Russian -who used to hold forth here some years ago,’ -Louis Gaston continued, in an explanatory tone; -‘a heavy, unemotional fellow, with desperate -views. He began by amusing us, and ended -by nearly driving us mad with his eternal -<i>Nirvana</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes,’ somebody else cried, suddenly -spurred to furnish further reminiscences. ‘His -trousers were preternaturally wide, and his -coat-sleeves preternaturally short. You always -imagined that he carried dynamite in his -pockets, and apprehended an explosion if you -accidentally threw a lighted match or a half-smoked -cigarette in his neighbourhood.’</p> - -<p>‘He had small eyes, and a big nose, the head -of an early Gaul, and a hollow voice,’ I remarked.</p> - -<p>‘A monster to convince the Tartars themselves -of their superior ugliness, if they entertained -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> -any doubt of it,’ half lisped a Frenchman -recently crowned by the Academy, and as -unconscious of his own ill-looks as only a man, -and above all a Frenchman, can be.</p> - -<p>‘The good-nature of your remarks and your -keen remembrance of Krowtosky prove that he -must be a personage in his way,’ said Rameau -mockingly.</p> - -<p>‘What became of him?’ asked Le Petit Saint -Thomas, between slow puffs of his cigarette.</p> - -<p>‘Poor fellow! He has fallen upon grief.’</p> - -<p>‘Naturally; it is the great result of birth. A -love affair?’</p> - -<p>‘Worse.’</p> - -<p>‘Blasphemy, Professor! ’Tis the sole sorrow -of life. The rest are but the trifling ills of -humanity.’ Gaston spoke with all the authority -of a young man who is perpetually in and -out of love, is backed upon the thorny path -of literature by rich and devoted relatives, and -has never known a day’s illness upon his road.</p> - -<p>‘It can’t be marriage, for that violent resource -would merely drift him into deeper depths of -Pessimism, which would be a gratifying confirmation -of his theories.’</p> - -<p>‘It can’t be love either,’ I suggested. ‘Pessimism -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> -and love don’t mate. Marriage it might -be; for even a pessimist may be conceded the -weakness of objecting to a demonstration of -the nothingness of marriage in the person of -his own wife.’</p> - -<p>‘It might be debt, if that were not a modified -trouble since the inhuman law of imprisonment -was abolished.’</p> - -<p>‘Behold the force of imagination, Professor,’ -exclaimed Gaston, pointing to a visionary perspective -with his cigarette, in answer to -Rameau’s glance of contemplative irony. ‘I -see our monster married to an unvirtuous -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">grisette</i>, or an amiable young laundress, who -discovers the superior attractiveness of an -optimist poet on the opposite side of the way. -She can hardly be blamed for the discovery; for -though we may applaud the courage of a -woman who marries a monster, it would be -both rash and cruel to expect her to add fidelity -to her courage. Where women are concerned, -it is a wise precaution to count upon a single -virtue.’</p> - -<p>‘Your wit, the outcome of natural perversity, -flies beyond the mark,’ said Rameau, shrugging -his shoulders. ‘The real sorrows of life are -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> -very simple, and command respect by their -simplicity. The others are the complications, -the depravities of civilisation at which -we cavil and laugh. Krowtosky has not -stumbled in double life, but he has just lost -a baby girl.’</p> - -<p>There was dead silence. A perceptible start -of emotion found expression in an interjectionary -arch of brow, a sigh blown on the puff -of a cigarette, and an uneasy shifting of -attitudes. A baby girl! What a slight thing -in the hurry of life, what a simple thing in its -crowding perplexities! The tragic end of men -and women whom the years have worn and -fretted; the sudden death of happy youth in -the midst of its bright promises; the peaceful -sadness that accompanies the departure of the -old, who have honourably lived their lives and -accomplished all natural laws:—but the closed -eyes of a little baby girl! What is it more than -tumble of a new-born bird from its nest, leaving -no empty space? Upon a boy paternal pride -might have feasted, and the sting might remain -that new avenues to fame and fortune were -closed by his sharp withdrawal.</p> - -<p>Yet despite the insignificance of the loss, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> -none of the faces round Rameau wore a look of -indifference or surprise. For a moment each -man was serious, touched, and uninclined for -wit at poor Krowtosky’s expense. Upon -dropped lids I seemed to see the big grotesque -head, so full of honesty and strife, bent in -grief over an empty cradle; and I was wrung -by a smart of anger when Gaston lightly -asked, ‘Is there then a legitimate Madame -Krowtosky?’</p> - -<p>‘All that is most legitimate,’ replied Rameau -gravely.</p> - -<p>‘You have followed the story?’</p> - -<p>‘Since I played the part of confidential -friend—why, I know as little as you.’</p> - -<p>‘And the lady?’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, the lady! Her I only know on report -that cannot exactly be described as impartial.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it a story worth telling?’</p> - -<p>‘In its way it is curious enough, especially -unfolded in the illumination of Krowtosky’s -jumble of crude philosophy and speculative -theories, and, above all, told in his queer -French. He has honoured me with a correspondence -in the form of a journal. It is -extremely interesting, and I have preserved it. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> -Some day I will publish it,—when the philosopher -is dead, of course.’</p> - -<p>‘Then begin now, my dear Professor,’ I urged. -‘Try its effect <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">en petit comité</i>.’ We read assent -in the Professor’s way of crossing his legs, while -he drew one hand slowly round the back of -his head. When he had carefully polished and -adjusted his glasses, each of us chose a commodious -attitude, and looked expectantly at -him. After a pause, Rameau began in his soft -conversational tone, subdued like the indefinite -shade of the lamp-screen that cast its glimmer -over heads and profiles, showing vaguely upon -a background of dull tapestries.</p> - -<p>‘Krowtosky looked much older than his age. -He was, in fact, very young, Pessimism being -one of the most pronounced symptoms of the -malady of youth. He is still young, and the -malady has yet some years to run. He came -here with a letter to me from an old friend in -Moscow, and a very big bundle of hopes.</p> - -<p>‘I hardly know what he expected to make -of Paris, but Paris, I imagine, made nothing of -him. I did what I could for him, which was -not much, and from the first I had no illusions -whatever upon the nature of his probable -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> -success. I found a lady ambitious to read -Turgenieff and Tolstoï in Russian. I sent -Krowtosky to her; but after the second lesson -she dismissed him on the plea of his unearthly -ugliness; his heavy Calmuck face diverted her -attention from Turgenieff’s charming women -and Tolstoï’s philosophy, and gave her nightmares. -I encouraged the poor fellow to come -here, which he did, and most of you met him -frequently. He was interesting in his way, -very, but crude and boundlessly innocent. He -had the queerest notions upon all things, and -having sounded the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Décadents</i>, he professed to -find them hollow. I think he suspected those -gentlemen of an unreasonable sanity and an -underhand enjoyment of life. The French -Realists he dismissed as caricaturists; he said -they were reading for the devil when he was -drunk and in a merry mood. I daresay he -meant the Czar.</p> - -<p>‘He railed at the mock decay of modern -civilised life, and imagined that a glimpse of -Pessimism beyond the Pyrenees would prove -instructive. He was convinced that he would -find it there of less noxious quality, exhibiting -the sombre melancholy and dignity of a great -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> -race fallen into poetic decay and unvexed by -the wearisome febrile conditions of its development -here. “You understand nothing of the -spirit of calm fatality,” he would say, apostrophising -the nation in my humble person for lack of -a more enlightened audience. “You are everlastingly -in strife with your own emotions and -despairs; and these you decorate, as you idly -decorate your persons, with persistent vanity -and with wasteful care.” I deprecated the -charge upon my own account, and assured -him that it took me exactly four minutes -to decorate my person each morning. Four -minutes, I claimed, cannot be described as an -exorbitant charge upon Time for the placing -and adjusting of eighteen articles, and as he -seemed to doubt the number, I told them off, -including my hat and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">pince-nez</i>. I mentioned -a few Frenchmen who I thought accepted the -luxury of unemotional despair calmly enough, -and were as incapable of strife as a tortoise. -He shook his head; he was not easily to be -convinced. His Pessimism was so black that -our sombre Maupassant was a captivating -Optimist beside him. And provided with this -meagre intellectual baggage, he set out for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> -half-forgotten and ruined lands, beginning with -Spain.’</p> - -<p>‘He fell in for a fortune, I suppose,’ Gaston -interrupted.</p> - -<p>‘He had not a sou, which is the best explanation -of an expensive voyage. Remark, my -friends, that a man only becomes really extravagant -and reckless upon an empty purse. An -empty purse and an empty stomach are equally -effectual in producing light-headedness, and -vest us in the cloak of illusion. Illusion I -opine to be one of the things that look best -in rags. Krowtosky travelled third class, and -was prodigiously uncomfortable, which, after -all, is another method of enjoying life upon his -theory. He ate Bologna sausages, and refreshed -himself with grapes upon the wayside.</p> - -<p>‘His first letter was dated from Bayonne. -It was a long and a curious letter, and so -interested me that I resolved to follow up the -correspondence with vigorous encouragement, -for it was not an occasion to be missed by a -student of mankind. I will read you some -extracts from these letters, which I have here -in a drawer of my writing-table.’</p> - -<p>The packet of letters found, Rameau went on -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> -reading, with the perfect and polished irony -and charm of enunciation that could cast an -intellectual glamour over an auctioneer’s inventory. -‘“I have chosen you as the recipient -of the impressions and incidents of my voyage,—why, -I hardly know; I am not inspired by -any strong sympathy for you. My esteem and -my liking are very moderate indeed; you have -a face that rather repels than invites confidence, -and I ought to be discouraged by the fact that -I have no faith in your sympathy for me, and -have every conviction that you are the last -person likely to understand me. The friend -who would understand me, and for whom I -should enjoy writing these impressions and the -adventures that may lie ahead, is at present -voyaging in far-off waters; I think he is somewhere -about the Black Sea, but I don’t know -his address, or when or where communication -might chance to reach him. So, having cast -about me for a confidant, choice alighted upon -you; but you need not read my letters if they -bore you. They are written rather for my own -gratification than for yours. If I possessed -literary talent, the public would be my natural -victim....” -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span></p> - -<p>‘This was a flattering beginning, you will -admit, but it sharpened my curiosity. After -that I began to look forward to Krowtosky’s -post-day, as some people look forward to the -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">feuilleton</i> of the morning paper. His queer -minute handwriting never found me indifferent -or unexpectant of diversion.</p> - -<p>‘At Toulouse he wrote again: “A young girl -got into the carriage with me. We were alone, -and she soon gave me a visible demonstration -of the strange eccentricities oddly explained by -the single word <i>love</i>. Why <i>love</i>? It is simply -a malady more or less innocuous and only -sometimes deadly; but love, no! I was not -flattered; I am above that weakness, because -nothing pleases me. I was interested, however, -and investigated the case with scientific calm. -So might any physician have diagnosed a disease. -It struck me for the first time as a form -of mild insanity. I asked myself why the poets -and romancers amuse themselves in writing of -it rather than of the other fevers and bodily -illnesses that overcome us. For everything -about this young girl convinced me that love is -but a sickness. I studied her gestures, her expression, -her tones of voice and her attitudes; -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> -all served to prove my theory. One minute I -offered to open the window, and the next I -suggested that perhaps it would be better to -close it. She assented. Though curious, it was -rather monotonous, but she assented to everything -I proposed. If I looked at her, she -looked at me; if I looked away, she continued -to look at me. After a couple of hours’ study, -I felt that I quite understood love and all its -phases. I found it in the main a silly game, -and an excitement only fit for brainless boys -and girls in their first youth. But the most -remarkable feature of humanity is its crass -stupidity; it is a monstrously shabby and feeble -institution, male and female. This young girl, -now; I daresay you and others would call her -pretty. Bah! I can see but the ugliness of -women. Behind their forehead thought does -not work; their eyes only express the meanest -and most personal sentiments. Big black -empty eyes and sensual red lips; a round lazy -figure and nerveless hands! I protest there is -more intelligence and matter for study in a dog -than in these insipid creatures, all curves and -no muscles. Men, say they, don’t understand -them. Are dolls worth understanding? They -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> -are actuated solely by impulse and personal -claims. What is there in this worth understanding? -I escaped from my conquest, now grown -irksome, upon the frontier, and I am resolved -never to give evidence of a similar weakness. -It is degrading folly. What, for instance, can -women see in us to inspire this most infelicitously-called -tender passion, and, in the name -of all that is eternal, what are we supposed to -see in them to justify it?...”’</p> - -<p>‘A sympathetic dog, to go snarling in that -cantankerous way through life because the -Almighty has seen fit to cast a flower or two -across his path,’ growled the indignant Petit -Saint Thomas, to whom love was the main -object of existence.</p> - -<p>‘Scenery does not interest him much,’ Rameau -went on, with an acquiescent nod; ‘but he has -a good deal to say upon his impressions of the -Spanish race in particular, and of all other races -in general. The subject is not a new one, and -Krowtosky is only really entertaining when he -is talking of himself, or of his next-door neighbour -in connection with himself.</p> - -<p>‘“I am on the whole much disappointed in -Madrid,” he continues further on, “not because -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> -it is a duller town than I had imagined, but -because local colour and national individuality -are almost extinct. It proves the disastrous -tendencies of all races to amalgamation and -imitation. Yet, after all, Rameau, what is the -real value of local colour? It is more often -than not a mere matter of imagination, and -one of the illusions we fancy we enjoy. Any -one with a lively imagination can invent a -more vivid local colour for all the countries he -has never visited than he is likely to find in -any of them. Witness Merimée and his band. -They duped their public like the vulgarest -literary conjurors, and showed us that a trick -will serve us instead of what we are pleased to -call Nature. And the deception was but the -result of our stupid hunger for the unusual. -As if anything under the monotonous stars of -an unchanging heaven can be unusual; and as -if everything in this old and ugly world is not -hideously familiar! The more varied our -travels the more similar our experience. For, -Rameau, our real ills are monotony and -stupidity. Man resembles man, as rats resemble -rats, only he is a good deal less interesting -and more noxious. You have a fine -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> -head, and I have a misshapen one. Well, the -same perplexities, needs, instincts, appetites, -passions, and impulses agitate us, and explain -our different actions, which, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">au fond</i>, have no -variety in them whatever. We change the -symbols of our faiths, while these remain fundamentally -the same, and we give our countries -different names to represent the unchangeable -miseries of humanity....”</p> - -<p>‘Here you have the malady of youth in its -crisis. A <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">décadent</i> poet could not chant more -lugubriously, though perhaps less intelligibly. -The sick youth laments in the same irritable -tone the vulgarity of the <i lang="es" xml:lang="es">madrileñas</i>, the exaggerated -prowess of the gentlemen of the -arena, exalts the patient and noble bulls, rails -at the puny byplay of the picadors and at the -silly enthusiasm of the spectators. He rushes -distractedly from an inexpensive inn, where a -band of merry rascals joined him and over -wine sang the praises of the Fair. Praise of -the eternal feminine he cannot stand. Poor -wretch! Had he been Adam in the Garden -of Paradise, Eden would have ceased to be -Eden upon the impertinent introduction of -Eve. We find him complaining that he should -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> -have left a score of maundering youths in -Paris doing dismal homage to the Sex, to -drop upon a sillier band in Madrid hymning -the everlasting subject. He protests the -Spanish women, for all their eyes and arched -feet, are untempting and insipid, like the rest. -They are not the dolls of the North; they are -the animals of the South. He confines his -curiosity to Spanish literature, and is in pursuit -of its apostle of Pessimism. “I am taking -lessons in Spanish,” he writes from another -inn. “I teach Russian to as poor a devil as -myself, in exchange for his help in his own -tongue. Between us we are making creditable -progress. He is writing an article on the -Russian novelists for a review that will pay -him something like twopence a page. Yet he -preserves his faith in literature! Mighty indeed -is man’s capacity for cherishing illusions. -I advised him to break stones for a lucrative -change, but he seems to doubt the value of -the advice since I do not follow it myself. -This is one of the things that prove man a -rational being. We read Castrès together. You -have doubtless heard of Castrès, the poet of -Spain, and said to be sufficiently sedative as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> -regards the happy hopes of youth. Such is -my Spaniard’s description in reply to a question -of mine upon his tendencies. I have inserted -the phrase as a concession to the perverse taste -for local colouring. The phrase paints the -man; he lives upon onions and bread into the -bargain, and dreams with a cigarette between -his lips. This morning I went to see Castrès.... -I found the great man writing and smoking -at the same time in a big sparsely furnished -bedroom. He is low-sized and heavily built, -with soft black eyes and a forest of hair round -and about his sallow face. He looks as if he -dined well and liked women. There is always -something unctuous and fatuous about a man -who likes women, which becomes intolerably -accentuated if women should happen to like -him too. The expression suggests a mixture -of oil and sugar. We discussed the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Décadents</i> -under their new name, and hardly appreciated -the advantage of exchange, symbolism being -no whit less empty and vapid; another demonstration -of the worthlessness of novelty, since, -however much we vary things, we end where -we start, at the Unchangeable. Castrès agrees -with me that Naturalism is dead; but what the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span> -devil, he asked, is going to take its place? -Naturalism under a new name, I replied, which -is only romance upside down. Whether we -invent animals or angels, it matters little. It -is romancing all the same, and only proves that -one man likes <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">eau sucrée</i> and another likes -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">absinthe</i>. It is a concoction either way, and -about as useful in one form as in the other.... -Of Castrès the man I thought as indifferently -as I did of Castrès the poet. I asked him how -Pessimism stood in Spain, and who were its representatives. -He shrugged, spat, and surveyed -me dismissingly, and with his big soft eyes.... -‘<i lang="es" xml:lang="es">Caramba!</i> I can’t say I know much about -it. But I believe it will never flourish here. -We have too much sun, and life is, on the -whole, easy enough for us. An hour of sunshine, -a crust of bread, and a bunch of grapes, -or the taste of an onion and a lifted wine-skin -upon the roadside, and there you have a -Spaniard built and ready for love-making. -What more does he want? And in a land -where women are fair and facile, wherefore -should he whine, and see black where God -made blue? I have here a volume of poems just -published by a young girl—Señorita Pilar Villafranca -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span> -y Nuño. I have glanced through the -volume, and I don’t think you can ask for anything -finer in the way of Pessimism. It is -enough to make a sane man cut his throat, if -he had not the good sense to pause beforehand, -in distrust of the sincerity of the writer who -could survive the proof-reading of such dismal -stuff. It reminds me of what I have heard of -Schopenhauer, who, after wrecking all our -altars, could sit down and enjoy a heavy dinner. -He despised none of the pleasures of life in -practice, while decrying them all in theory. -You’ll probably find that this young woman -dines heartily, and employs her evenings over -her wedding outfit, if she is not already married -and nursing her first baby. I took the book -away and read it with my poor devil that -evening. You will not be surprised to learn -that I found it very much superior to anything -of Castrès’ I have read. He might -well sneer at her in self-preservation, that -being the weapon the strong have ever preferred -to use against the weak. It is bad -enough to find real talent in a young -woman, but absolute unbelief, the doctrine -of complete negation! To find in this land -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> -of To-morrow, a feminine apostle of the -<i>Nirvana</i>....”’</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ interrupted Gaston, ‘I was wondering -what had become of the word.’</p> - -<p>‘“A feminine apostle of the <i>Nirvana</i>,”’ continued -Rameau, with an expressive smile. -‘“Judge if masculine opinion in Spain would -be indulgent. Even my poor devil, though no -less struck than I with the poetry, found it -much too strong for a woman. ‘But she is -doubtless old, and then it matters less. The -discontents and disappointments of old maidenhood -have drifted her into deep learning and -irreligion,’ he added, by way of consolation. -‘Old or young,’ I exclaimed, ‘it is all one to -me. For me she is a thinker, not a woman. -And I am going straight off to her publisher, -from whom I’ll wrest her address, if need be, -by reason of a thick stick.’</p> - -<p>‘“The services of a stick were not required. -My request was immediately complied with. -I carried the lady’s book in my hand, and was -no doubt mistaken for a recent purchaser. My -poet lives on the fourth floor in a very shabby -house, in a very shabby street at the other end -of Madrid. I deemed it wise to defer my visit -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> -until after dinner. It was half-past eight when -I climbed the four flights, and stood on the -landing, anxiously asking myself if I had made -up my mind to ring. Had it not the air of an -invasion? While I was yet debating the door -opened, and an untidy-looking maid shot out -into the passage. I captured her before the -twilight of the stairs had swallowed her, and -demanded to see the Señorita Pilar Villafranca -y Nuño. I understood that it would not serve -me in her eyes to give evidence of uncertainty -or bashfulness. ‘She is inside; knock at the -middle door and you’ll find her,’ screamed the -untidy maid, and in another moment she was -whirling down the stairs, and I was left to shut -the hall door and announce myself.</p> - -<p>‘“The house was tidier than the maid. I -crossed a scrupulously clean hall and knocked -at the middle door, as I had been directed. A -low, deep voice shouted, <i>Come in!</i> While turning -the handle gingerly, I thought to myself, -the poor devil was right; only a woman of -massive proportions and very advanced years -could bellow that order. The scene that met -my eyes was prettier than absolute conformity -to my ideas demanded. In a neat little sitting-room, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span> -lit by a shaded lamp, were seated three -persons; a stout Spanish woman engaged with -a basket of stockings, a pale, thin young girl -with melancholy eyes of an unusual intensity -of gaze, and a small lad sitting at her feet, and -reading aloud from a book they held together. -The child had the girl’s eyes, but while curiosity, -belonging to his years, brightened their sombreness -with the promise of surprise and laughter, -hers held an expression of permanent sadness -and soft untroubled gloom. It was superfluous -information on the mother’s part, in response to -my mention of the poet’s name, to indicate her -daughter majestically, as if she wished it to be -understood that she herself had no part in the -production of matter so suspicious in a woman -as poetry. I was on the brink of assuring her -that nobody would ever deem her capable of -such folly, and begging her to return to her -stockings as occupation more appropriate than -the entertainment of an admirer of the Muse -she despised, when Pilar quietly said, ‘Be seated, -sir.’ From that moment I took no further heed -of the Señora Villafranca than if she had been -the accommodating <i lang="es" xml:lang="es">dueña</i> of Spanish comedy -and I the unvirtuous, or noble but thwarted, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> -lover who had bribed her. In ten minutes Pilar -and I were talking as freely as if we had known -one another from infancy; far more freely, -possibly, for in the latter case we should long -ago have talked ourselves to silence. How do -these young girls manage to get hold of books, -Rameau, when all the forces of domestic law -are exercised to keep them apart? There is -not a living Spanish or French writer with -whom this child, barely out of her teens, is not -acquainted. Her judgment may often be at -fault,—whose is not, if backed by anything like -originality? But to hear her discuss Naturalism! -Castrès, puffing his eternal cigarette, -walks you through <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">les lieux communs</i>, but this -girl takes flights that fairly dazzle you. And -then her Pessimism! The queer thing is that -she has found it for herself, and Schopenhauer -has nothing to do with it. For that matter, -nobody living or dead seems to have had anything -to do with the forming of her. She is -essentially <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">primesautière</i>. You French do manage -to hit upon excellent words; <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">primesautière</i> -perfectly describes this Spanish maid. She is -all herself, first of the mould, fresh, though so -burdened with the century’s malady. So young, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> -and she believes in nothing—but nothing, Rameau! -She hopes for nothing, for nothing! -She plays with no emotions, feigns no poetic -despairs, utters no paradoxes, and is simplicity -itself in her gestures, expressions, and ideas. -She calmly rejects all the pretty illusions of -her sex, without a pang or regret, because, for -her, truth is above personal happiness.</p> - -<p>‘“We talked, we talked—talked till far into -the night, while the fat mother slumbered -noisily in her chair, and the little boy slept -curled up at his sister’s feet. Can you guess -what first put it into my head to go? The -smell of the lamp as the wick flickeringly -lowered. ‘<i lang="es" xml:lang="es">Dios mio!</i>’ cried Pilar, ‘it is close -on two o’clock, and we have been chattering -while my mother sleeps comfortlessly in -her chair, and my little brother is dreaming on -the carpet instead of in his bed. Good-night, -sir; I must leave you and carry my baby to -bed.’ She stooped and lifted the sleeping boy -with her arms. Such bodily strength in one so -frail much astonished me. I would have offered -her help, but the little lad had already found -a comfortable spot in the hollow of her neck, -and with a cordial nod to me she disappeared -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> -into the inner room. I had not expected this -evidence of womanly tenderness from her, and -the picture haunted me on my way down the -dark staircase and through the dim starlit -streets.”</p> - -<p>‘The extracts from the next letters are singularly -characteristic,’ said Rameau, well pleased -by our profound attention. ‘Krowtosky, upon -his return to Paris, has taken a third-class -ticket from Madrid to Bayonne. To the poet -he has said his last farewell, and probably wears -upon his heart her precious autograph. Not that -Krowtosky is ostensibly sentimental. He rejects -the notion of such folly, and if by chance he -dropped into pretty fooling, be sure he would -find a philosophical way out of the disgrace -deservedly attached to such weakness. “I am -travelling to Bayonne,” he writes, “and I will -reach it to-morrow afternoon, but I am convinced -that once there I shall straightway take the train -back to Madrid. Odd, is it not? Yet I feel -that I shall be compelled to return to that young -girl. And this is not love, mark you, Rameau; -not in the least. I know all about that. Did -I not study it in the case of that young girl -I met at Toulouse? Well, nothing I feel for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> -Pilar in any way resembles the foolish sentiment -her gestures and looks expressed. I am -quite master of myself, and do not hang on any -one’s lips or glances; but I must see Pilar again. -Do you know why I hesitated outside her door -that first evening I called upon her? I had a -presentiment, as I climbed up those stairs, -that I should marry her. We may reject a faith -in presentiments, but they shake us nevertheless. -How slowly this train goes! The landscape, -across which we speed in the leisurely -movement of Spanish steam, is flat and ugly, an -interminable view of cornfields. There is a -wide-hatted priest in front of me with an open -breviary in his hand. Perhaps I shall find -myself craving service of one of his brothers -some day. What an odd fellow I am, to be -sure! I intend, oh certainly I intend to take -the Paris train to-morrow night from Bayonne, -and as certainly I know I shall find myself on -my way back to Madrid! And it cannot be for -the pleasure of passing a couple of days and -nights in a beastly third-class carriage, which is -nothing better here than a cattle-pen....”</p> - -<p>‘Of his reception by the poet, of his sentiments -and wooing, he writes very sparingly. His -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> -great terror is that I should detect the lover -where he insists there is only a philosopher. -Philosophy took him from Madrid, and -Philosophy brought him back within forty-eight -hours. Philosophy sued, wooed, and won the -Muse, and led him to his wedding-morn. -While engaged in its service, he writes in this -jocose strain the very evening of his marriage: -“This morning in a dark little church, in a dark -little street of Madrid, we were married. Though -neither of us believes in anything, we agreed to -make the usual concession to conventional -feeling and social law, and were married in the -most legal and Christianlike fashion. Nothing -was lacking,—neither rings nor signatures, nor -church-bells nor church-fees, nor yet the -excellent and venerable fat priest, a degree -uglier than myself, who obligingly made us one. -While this ceremony was being performed, I -could not forget the inconvenient fact that -neither of us brought the other much in the -shape of promise of future subsistence, not even -hope, of which there is not a spark between us. -This preoccupation distracted me while the priest -mumbled and sermonised, and a wicked little -French couplet kept running through my head: -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span></p> - -<div class="poetry-container" lang="fr" xml:lang="fr"> -<div class="poetry"> - <div class="stanza"> - <div class="verse indent0">Un et un font deux, nombre heureux en galanterie,</div> - <div class="verse indent0">Mais quand un et un font trois,—c’est diablerie!</div> - </div> -</div> -</div> - -<p>Meanwhile the fat priest discoursed to my wife, -most excellently, upon the duties and virtues of -the true Christian spouse, to which discourse -my wife lent an inattentive ear. Perhaps she -also was thinking of the future,—somewhat -tardily. My dear Rameau, have you ever -reflected upon the amazing one-sidedness of religion -on these occasions? Wives are eloquently -exhorted to practise all the virtues, and not a -word is flung at the husbands. It is something -of course for us to learn, by the aid of the -Church, that all the duty is on the other side, -and that we have nothing to do but command, -be worshipped, and fall foul of infidelity. The -beautiful logic of man, and the profound Pessimism -of woman! She never rebels, but accepts -all without hope of remedy. The real Pessimists -are women. They admit the fact that everything -is unalterable, evil without amelioration; -everything is, and everything will remain to the -end. Man occasionally rises up, and takes his -oppressor by the throat, but woman never. -There is a point at which his patience vanishes, -but hers is inexhaustible. She is the soul and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> -spirit and body of the malady only diagnosed -this century. Conviction that suffering is her only -heritage is hers before birth, and she placidly -bends to the law of fate often without a murmur, -always without the faintest instinct of revolt. -Is she an idiot or an angel? The latter rebelled -in paradise; then she must be an idiot. Man -is activity, she is inertia; that is why she yields -so readily to his ruling. These are thoughts -suitable to the marriage of two Pessimists. -There will be on neither side revolt or stupid -demands upon destiny. I am simply interested -in the development of this strange union of -the barbarous North and the barbarous South, -and watch this unfamiliar person, my wife, -placed in an enervating proximity by a queer -social institution. I wonder if she will eventually -prove explosive; meantime it is my -privilege to kiss her. I have not mentioned it, -but she has very sweet lips.”</p> - -<p>‘After this there is a long lapse of silence. I -fear the delights of poor Krowtosky’s honeymoon -were soon enough disturbed by the grim -question of ways and means. As I was only a -fair-weather friend in default of the sympathetic -confidant voyaging in distant waters, I imagine -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> -at this period the traveller must have returned, -and received the rest of the journal so wantonly -intrusted to me, or Krowtosky must have confided -his troubles to his wife. When next I -hear from him, it is many months later, and he -has just obtained a professorship in a dreary -snow-bound place called Thorpfeld. From his -description, it is evidently the very last place -God Almighty bethought himself of making, -and by that time all the materials of comfort, -pleasure, and beauty had been exhausted. “As -Thorpfeld is not my birthplace,” writes Krowtosky, -“I may befoul it to my liking. It -contains about seven thousand inhabitants, one -poorer and more ignorant than another. What -they can want with professors and what the -authorities are pleased to call a college, the -wicked government under which we sweat and -suffer and groan alone can tell. Six out of a -hundred cannot read, and three of these can -barely write. The less reason have they for -a vestige of belief in man, the more fervent -is their faith in their Creator. Nothing but -anticipation of the long-delayed joys of paradise -can keep them from cutting their own and their -neighbours’ throats. They ought to begin with -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> -the professors and the rascally magistrates. -As if snow and broken weather were not enough -to harass these poor wretches in pursuit of a -precarious livelihood, what little money the -magistrates or the professors leave them is wrung -from them by the popes. Even Pilar is demoralised -by her surroundings. She has left -off writing pessimistic poetry, and has betaken -herself to Christian charity. ’Tisn’t much we -can do, for we have barely enough to live upon -ourselves, but that little she manages to do somehow -or other. These hearts of foolish women -will ever make them traitor to their heads. I -naturally growl when I find our sack of corn -diminished in favour of a neighbour’s hungry -children, or return frost-bitten from the college -to find no fire, and learn that my wife has -carried a basket of fuel to a peasant dying up -among snow-hills. She does not understand -these people, and they do not understand her, -but they divine her wish to share their wretchedness, -her own being hardly less; and then she -is a pretty young woman! Timon himself -could hardly have spurned her. But where’s -her Pessimism? Has it vanished with the sun -and vines of her own bright land, or has it found -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> -a grave in the half-frozen breast of a strange -Sister of Charity unknown to me and born of -the sight of snow-clad misery such as in Spain -is never dreamed of? You see, I am on the -road to poetry instead of my poor changed -young wife.</p> - -<p>‘“Last evening when I came home from a -farmer’s house, where I had stopped to warm -myself with a couple of glasses of <i>vodka</i>, I -found her shivering over the remaining sparks -of a miserable fire. She looked so white and -unhappy and alone, so completely the image of -a stranger in a foreign land, to whom I, too, -her husband, am a foreigner, that I asked -myself, in serious apprehension, if I might -not be destined to lose her in the coming -crisis. ‘Pilar,’ I cried, ‘what ails thee?’ And -when she turned her head I saw that she was -crying silently. ‘I want my own land; I want -the sun and vines of Spain, where at least the -peasants have wine and sunshine in abundance -whatever else they may lack!’ I should think so, -I grimly muttered, remembering that over there -the mortar that built up the walls of a town was -wet with wine instead of water, and that fields -are sometimes moistened with last year’s wine -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> -when the new is ready. Pilar is right, my -friend. There is no poverty so sordid and -awful as that of the cold North. But what -could I do? I could not offer her the prospect -of change. She was sobbing bitterly now, and -I had no words of comfort for her. If only she -had not forsaken her principles and her poetry! -But the baby may rouse her when it comes. -She has not smiled since we left Spain, -poor girl. We must wait meanwhile; but -Rameau, it is very cold.”’</p> - -<p>‘Poor little woman!’ murmured Gaston. ‘I -hardly know which is the worst fortune for her, -her transplantation or her marriage with that -maundering owl Krowtosky. Krowtosky married -to a pretty Spanish poet! Ye gods, it is -a cruel jest! There would have been some -appropriateness in the laundress or the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">grisette</i>, -but a Spanish girl with arched feet and melancholy -eyes! I vow the jade Destiny ought -to have her neck wrung for it. Is there a -Perseus among us to free this modern unhappy -Andromeda?’</p> - -<p>‘Poor Krowtosky! he deserves a word too,’ -I modestly ventured to suggest, touched by -that little stroke, <i>It is very cold</i>, and his fear of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> -losing his wife. ‘He is more human than he -himself is aware, and we may be sorry for -him too.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, yes,’ assented Rameau, and he dropped -an easy sigh. ‘If he is a bear, he is an honest -bear. His next letter was just a note to -announce the birth of a little girl and the well-being -of the mother, which was followed by a -more philosophical communication later, as soon -as the gracious content of motherhood had -fallen upon the young Spaniard. Relieved of -his fears, he plunges once again into high speculation, -and throws out queer suggestions as to -the result of such conflicting elements in parentage -as those contributed by Spain and Russia. -He has found an occupation of vivid interest,—that -of watching the development of his child, -which he is convinced will turn out something -very curious. Pilar, he adds, has so far recovered -her old self as to have written a delicious little -poem, which has just appeared in the <i>Revista</i>. -It is over there, if any of you can read Spanish.’</p> - -<p>‘And the baby is now dead,’ said Gaston.</p> - -<p>‘Dead, yes, poor mite! It had not time to -show what the mingling of Spanish and Russian -blood might mean. Krowtosky’s letter was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> -most pitiful. That I will not read to you; it -affected me too deeply. It was the father there -who wrote. Unconsciously the little creature -had forced a way into his heart, and discovered -it a very big and human heart despite his -Pessimism and Philosophy. What hurt him -most was the cruel hammering of nails into the -baby’s coffin, and the sound keeps haunting him -through the long wakeful nights. Of the bereaved -mother he says little. His mind is fixed -on the empty cradle and the small fresh mound -in the churchyard, whither he goes every day. -I believe myself that it is the first time his -heart has ever been stirred by passionate love, -and now he speaks of never leaving Thorpfeld,—a -place he has been moving heaven and earth -to get away from the past six years.’</p> - -<p>‘I promise you, Professor, that I’ll never -laugh at him again,’ said Gaston, very gravely. -‘There can be nothing absurd about a man who -mourns a little child like that. Give me his -address, and I’ll write to him at once.’</p> - -<p>‘It may be a distraction for him, and at any -rate it will serve to show him that he is remembered -in Paris,’ said Rameau, eager to comply -with the request. We thanked the Professor -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> -for his story, with some surprise at the lateness -of the hour. The door-bell rang, and the -appearance of the servant with the evening -letters arrested our departure. With a hand -extended to the sobered St. Thomas, Rameau -took the letters and glanced as he spoke at the -top envelope, deeply edged with black. ‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tiens!</i> -a letter from poor Krowtosky,’ he exclaimed. -He broke the seal and read aloud: ‘My dear -friend, I thank you for your kind words in my -bereavement. But I am past consolation; I -am alone now; my wife is dead, and my heart -is broken.’</p> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter vcenter"> - <div class="half-title">ARMAND’S MISTAKE</div> - <div class="right"><i>To Demetrius Bikélas</i></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h2 class="nobreak" id="ARMANDS_MISTAKE">ARMAND’S MISTAKE</h2> - <h3 class="nobreak">I</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">U<b>NTIL</b></span> the age of twenty-one, Armand Ulrich -submitted to the controlling influences around -him,—somewhat gracelessly, be it admitted. -He sat out his uncle’s long dinners, and solaced -himself by sketching on the cloth between the -courses. He showed a discontented face at his -mother’s weekly receptions in a big Parisian -hotel, and all the while his heart was out upon -the country roads and among the pleasant -fields, where the children played under poplars -and dabbled on the brim of reedy streams. At -twenty-one, however, he regarded himself as -a free man, and threw up a situation worth -£50,000 a year or thereabouts. From this -we may infer that he was a lad full of bright -hopes and fair dreams.</p> - -<p>He was the only son of a Frenchwoman of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> -noble birth and of the junior partner of a -wealthy Alsatian banking-house. His taste for -strolling and camping out of doors, sketch-book -in hand and pipe in mouth, was partly an -inherited taste, with the difference that transmission -had strengthened instead of having -weakened the heritage. In earlier days Ulrich -junior had not shown an undivided spirit of -devotion to commercial interests; he had, on -the contrary, permitted himself the treasonable -luxury of gazing abroad upon many objects -not connected with the business of the firm. -Amateur theatricals had engaged his affections -in youth; five-act tragedies, in alexandrines as -long as the acts, had proved him fickle, and -operatic music had sent him fairly distraught. -He aspired to excel in all the arts, and as a fact -was successful in none.</p> - -<p>When congratulated upon his brother’s versatility, -Ulrich senior would contemptuously -retort that the fellow was able to do everything -except attend to his business. As a result, he -was held in light esteem at the bank, and the -meanest client would have regarded himself -insulted if passed for consultation to this accomplished -but incompetent representative of the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span> -firm. However agreeable his tastes may have -rendered him in society, it cannot be denied -that they were of a nature to diminish his commercial -authority. Humanity wisely draws the -line at a sonneteering banker, and looks upon -the ill-assorted marriage of account and sketch-book -with a natural distrust.</p> - -<p>This state of things broke the banker’s heart. -He had a reverence for the firm of Ulrich -Brothers, and if he considered himself specially -gifted for anything, it was for the judicious -management of its affairs. Thus he lived -and died a misappreciated and misunderstood -person. To him it was a grievous injustice that -he should be treated as a man of no account, -because of a few irregular and purely decorative -accomplishments. His heart might be led -astray, he argued, but his head was untampered -with, and that, after all, is the sole organ essential -to the matter of bonds and shares. A man -may be a wise head of a family and an honest -husband, and not for that unacquainted with -lighter loves. Such trifles are but gossiping -pauses in the serious commotions and preoccupations -of life. But no amount of argument, -however logical, could blind him or others to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> -the fact that commercially he was a dead failure, -because a few ill-regulated impulses had occasionally -led him into idle converse with two or -three of the disreputable Nine; and mindful of -this, he solemnly exhorted his son Armand to -fix his thoughts upon the bank, and not let himself -be led astray like his misguided father by -illusive talents and disastrous tastes.</p> - -<p>Armand Ulrich was a merry young fellow, -who cared not a button for all the privileges of -wealth, and looked upon an office stool with -loathing. He only wanted the free air, his -pencil, and a comfortable pipe of tobacco,—and -there he was, as he described himself, the -happiest animal in France. Before his easel he -could be serious enough, but in his uncle’s -office he felt an irresistible inclination to burst -into profane song, and make rash mention of -such places of perdition as the Red Mill and -the Shepherd Follies,—follies perfectly the -reverse of pastoral. He was not in the least -depraved, but he took his pleasure where he -found it, and made the most of it. A handsome -youngster, whom the traditional felt hat and -velvet jacket of art became a trifle too well. -At least he wore this raiment somewhat ostentatiously, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> -and winked a conscious eye at the -maids of earth. With such solid advantages as -a bright audacious glance, a winning smile, and -a well-turned figure, he was not backward in -his demands upon their admiration, and it must -be confessed, that men in all times have proved -destructive with less material.</p> - -<p>But he was an amiable rogue, not consciously -built for evil, and he cheated the women not a -whit more than they cheated him. He knew -he was playing a game, and was fair enough to -remember that there is honour among thieves. -For the rest, he was fond of every sort of wayside -stoppages, paid his bill ungrudgingly, in -whatever coin demanded, like a gentleman, and -clinked glasses cordially with artists, strollers, -and such like vagabonds. The frock-coated -individual alone inspired him with repugnance, -and he held the trammels of respectability in -horror. Whether nature or his art were responsible -for a certain loose and merry generosity of -spirit, I cannot say; but I am of opinion that, -had his mind run to bank-books instead of -paints, though his work might be of indifferent -quality, he might have proved himself of sounder -and more sordid disposition. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span></p> - -<p>Even the brightest nature finds a shadow -somewhere upon the shine, and the shade that -dimmed the sun for Armand was his mother’s -want of faith in his artistic capacities. He -loved his mother fondly, and took refuge from -her wounding scepticism in his conviction that -women, by nature and training, are unfitted to -comprehend or pronounce upon the niceties of -art. They may be perfect in all things else, but -they have not the artistic sense, and cannot -descry true talent until they have been taught -to do so. It has ever been the destiny of great -men to be undervalued upon the domestic -hearth, and ’tis a wise law of Nature to keep -them evenly balanced, and set a limit to their -inclination to assume airs. Thinking thus, he -shook off the chill of unappreciated talent, and -warmed himself back into the pleasant confidence -that was the lad’s best baggage upon -the road of life. For a moment an upbraiding -word, a cold comment upon dear lips, might -check his enthusiasm and cloud his mirthful -glance, but a whistled bar of song, a smart -stroke of pencil or brush, a glimpse of -his becoming velvet jacket in a mirror, were -enough to send hope blithely through his -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> -veins, and speed him carolling on the way to -fame.</p> - -<p>It chanced one morning that he was interrupted -at his easel by a letter from that domestic -unbeliever who cast the sole blot upon his -artist’s sunshine. There was a certain haziness -in Armand’s relations with art. He worked -briskly enough at intervals, but he was naturally -an idler. The attitude he preferred was -that of uneager waiter upon inspiration, and he -had a notion that the longer he waited, provided -the intervals of rest were comfortably -subject to distraction, the better the inspiration -was likely to be. He had neither philosophy -nor moral qualifications to fit him for the jog-trot -of daily work. So that no interruption -ever put him out, and no intruder ever found -him other than unaffectedly glad to be intruded -upon. Such a youth would of course attack -his letters in the same spirit of hearty welcome -that he fell upon his friends.</p> - -<p>But as he sat and read, his bright face -clouded, and his lips screwed and twisted themselves -into a variety of grimaces. He had a -thousand gestures and expressions at the service -of his flying moods, and before he had come to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> -the end of his mother’s letter, not one but had -been summoned upon duty. The letter ran -thus:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><span class="smcap">M<b>Y</b> <b>DEAR</b> S<b>ON</b></span>,—It will, I hope, inspire you with -a little common sense to learn that your cousin -Bernard Francillon has just arrived from Vienna to -take your place at the bank. I have had a long -interview with your uncle, who makes no secret of his -intentions, should you persist in wasting your youth -and prospects in this extravagant fashion. And I -cannot blame him, for his indulgence and patience -have much exceeded my expectations. This absurd -caprice of yours has lasted too long. You are no -longer a boy, Armand, but a young man of twenty-three, -and you have no right to behave like a silly -child, who aspires to fly, instead of contentedly -riding along in the solid family coach provided for -him. If I had any confidence in your talent I might, -as you do, build my hopes upon your future fame, -and console myself for present disappointment in the -faith that your sacrifice is not in vain. But even a -mother cannot be so foolish as to believe that her son -is going to turn out a Raphael because he has donned -a velvet coat and bought a box of paints. Some -natural talent and cultivation will help any young -man to become a fair amateur, perhaps even a tenth-rate -artist; but for such it is hardly worth while to -wreck all worldly prospects. Take your father as an -example. He did all things fairly well; he drew, -painted, sang, composed, and wrote. What was the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> -end of it? Failure all round. He had not the -esteem of his commercial colleagues, while the artists, -in whose society he delighted, indulged his tastes as -those of an accomplished banker whose patronage -might be useful to them. While he was wrecked -upon versatility, you intend to throw away your life -upon a single illusion. Whose will be the gain?</p> - -<p>Your whim has lasted two years, and you cannot -be blind to the little you have done in that time. -You have not had any success to justify further perseverance. -Then take your courage in both hands; -assure yourself that it is wiser to be a good man of -business than a bad artist; lock up your studio and -come back to your proper place. If you do so at -once, Bernard will have less chance of walking in your -shoes. He is much too often at Marly, and seems -to admire Marguerite; but I do not think a girl like -Marguerite could possibly care for such a perfumed fop.</p> - -<p>When you feel the itch for vagabondage and -sketch-book, you can be off into the country, and it -need never be known that your holidays are passed -in any but the most correct fashion. As for your -uncle, he will not endure paint-boxes or pencils about -him. He is still bitter upon the remembrance of -your father’s sins in office hours. I am told he used -to draw caricatures on the blotting pads, and write -verses on the fly-leaves of the account-books. He was -much too frivolous for a banker, and I fear you have -inherited his light and unbusinesslike manners. But -be reasonable now, and come at once to your affectionate -mother,</p> - - -<span class="smcap right">S<b>OPHIE</b> U<b>LRICH</b></span>. - -</div> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p> - -<p>Poor Armand! The mention of Raphael in -connection with the velvet coat and paint-box -was a sore wound. It whipped the susceptible -blood into his cheeks, for though sweet-tempered, -a sneer was what he could not equably endure. -Surely his mother might have found a tenderer -way to say unpleasant things, if the performance -of this duty can ever be necessary! And bitter -to him was the assumption that his choice was -a caprice without future or justification. Having -swallowed his pill with a wry face, he was still -in the middle of a subsequent fit of indigestion, -when the door opened, and a young man in a -linen blouse cried gaily: ‘It’s a case of the early -bird on his matutinal round.’</p> - -<p>‘Come in, since the worm is fool enough to -be abroad. You may make a meal of him, my -friend, and welcome, but a poor one, for he’s at -this moment the sorriest worm alive.’</p> - -<p>The young man shot into the room, inelegantly -performed a step of the Red Mill to a couple of -bars of unmelodious song of a like diabolical -suggestion, and seated himself on the arm of a -chair, twisting both legs over and round the -other arm and back. In this grotesque attitude -he languidly surveyed his friend, and said -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> -sentimentally: ‘I have had a letter from her -this morning. She relents, my friend, in long -and flowery phrases, with much eloquence spent -upon the harshness of destiny and the cruelty -of parents. Where would happy lovers be, -Armand, if there were no destiny to rail -against and no parents to arrange unhappy -marriages?’</p> - -<p>‘Nowhere, I suppose. Doubtless the parents -have the interests of the future lover in view -when they chose the unsympathetic husband, -and everything is for the best. I congratulate -you. For the moment, I am empty-handed, -and filled with a sense of the meanness of all -things; so I am in a position to give you -my undivided attention,’ said Armand dejectedly.</p> - -<p>‘What’s this? I come to you, to pour the -history of my woes and joys into a sympathetic -bosom, and if you had just buried all your -near relatives you could not look more dismal.’</p> - -<p>‘I should probably feel less dismal, had I -done so. But it is a serious matter when your -art is scoffed at, and you are told that you -imagine yourself a Raphael because you wear a -velvet coat and handle a brush.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> - -<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">En effet</i>, that is a much more serious matter,’ -Maurice admitted, and at once assumed an -appropriate air of concern.</p> - -<p>Armand glanced ruefully at his coat sleeve, -and began to take off the garment of obloquy -with great deliberateness.</p> - -<p>‘Spare thyself, my poor Armand, even if -others spare thee not. Knowest thou not that -the coat is more than half the man? A palette -and a velvet coat have ever been wedded, and -why this needless divorce?’</p> - -<p>‘I will get a blouse like yours, Maurice, and -wear it,’ said Armand, with an air of gloomy -resignation befitting the occasion.</p> - -<p>‘And who has reduced you to these moral -straits, and to what deity is the coat a holocaust?’</p> - -<p>For answer Armand held out his mother’s -letter, which the young man took, and read -attentively, with an expression of lugubrious -gravity. He lifted a solemn glance upon -Armand, and shook his head like a sage.</p> - -<p>‘Your mother is not a flattering correspondent, -I admit. It is clear, she expected you to -justify your immoral choice by an extraordinary -start. She does not define her expectations. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span> -’Tis a way with women. But I take it for -granted that she esteemed it your duty to cut -out Meissonnier, or by a judicious combination -of Puvis de Chavannes and Carolus Duran, -show yourself in colours of a capsizing originality, -and finally go to wreck upon a tempest of -your own making. For there is nothing in life -more unreasonable than a mother. But go to -her to-morrow, and tell her you have doffed the -obnoxious coat, and intend to live and die in -the workman’s modest blouse.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not going,’ Armand protested sullenly. -‘I have made my choice, and I can’t be badgered -and worried any more about it.’</p> - -<p>As behoves a poor devil living from hand to -mouth upon the problematical sale of his -pictures, Maurice Brodeau had a tremendous -respect for all that wealth implies, and like the -rest of the world, regarded Armand’s renunciation -of it as a transient caprice that by this -time ought to be on the wing. He expressed -himself with a good deal of sound sense, and -thereby evoked a burst of wrathful indignation.</p> - -<p>‘Money! Money! Ah, how I hate the word, -hate still more the look of the thing! I have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> -watched them at the bank shovelling gold, solid -gold pieces, till my heart went sick. Where’s -the good of it? It fills the prisons, takes all -life and brightness out of humanity, builds us -iron safes, and turns us into sordid-minded -knaves. Where’s the crime that can’t be traced -to its want? and where’s the single ounce of -happiness it brings? We are dull with it, -envious without it, and yet it is only the uncorrupted -poor who really enjoy themselves and -who are really generous. The rich man counts -where the poor man spends, and which of the -two is the wiser? In God’s name, let us knock -down the brazen idol, and proclaim, without -fear of being laughed at, that there are worthier -and pleasanter objects in life, and that it is -better to watch the fair aspects of earth than to -jostle and strive with each other in its mean -pursuit. My very name is distasteful to me, -because it represents money. It is a password -across the entire world, at which all men bow -respectfully. And yet, I vow, I would sooner -wander through the squalor and wretchedness -of Saint-Ouen, any day, than find myself in the -neighbourhood of the Rue de Grenelle. There -may be other houses in that long street, but for -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> -me it simply means the bank. So I feel upon -sight of my mother’s hotel. Her idle and overfed -servants irritate me. Everything about her -brings the air of the bank about my nostrils, -and I only escape it here, where, thank God, I -have not got a single expensive object. I -smoke cheap cigarettes, which my poorest -friends can buy. I drink beer, and sit on -common chairs. Well, these are my luxuries, -and I take pride in the fact that there is very -little gold about me. I can sign a cheque for -a friend in need, whenever he asks me, and -that’s all the pleasure I care to extract from -the legacy of my name. For the rest, I -would forget that I have sixpence more than -is necessary for independence.’</p> - -<p>A youth of such moral perversity was not to -be driven down the cotton-spinner’s path, you -perceive, and Maurice, with the tact and discretion -of his race, forbore further argument, -and contented himself with a silent shrug.</p> - -<p>But Madame Ulrich was not so discreet. She -was a woman of determination, moreover, and -knew something of her son’s temperament. If -in her strife with what Armand gloriously -called his mistress she had been worsted, as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> -was shown by the boy’s sulky silence, she could -enlist in her service a weapon of whose terrible -power she had no doubt. A man may sulk in -the presence of his mother, but unless he has -betaken himself to the woods in the mood of a -Timon, he cannot sulk in the presence of a -beautiful young woman, who comes to him upon -sweet cousinly intent.</p> - -<p>At least Armand could not, and he had too -much sense to make an effort to do so. On the -whole, he was rather proud of his weakness as -an inflammable and soft-hearted youth. He -saw the fair vision, behind his mother’s larger -proportions, for the first time in his studio, and -made a capitulating grimace for the benefit -of his friend, who was staring at the biggest -heiress of Europe with all his might, amazed -to find her such a simple-looking and inexpensively -arrayed young creature. Maurice had -perhaps an indistinct notion that the daughters -of millionaires traversed life somewhat overweighted -by the magnificence of their dress, -bonneted as no ordinary girl could be, and -habited accordingly.</p> - -<p>‘One sees thousands of women dressed like -her,’ he thought to himself, after a quick -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> -appraising glance at her gown and hat. ‘A -hundred francs, I believe, would cover the cost. -But there is this about a lady,’ he added, as an -after reflection, while his eyes eagerly followed -her movements and gestures, the flow of her -garments and the lines of her neck and back; -‘simplicity is her crown. There is no use for -the other sort to try it; they can’t succeed, and -we know them. If Armand does not follow that -girl to bank or battle, he’s an unmannerly ass.’</p> - -<p>It was not in Armand to meet unsmilingly -the arch glance of a smiling girl, even if there -were not beauty in her to prick his senses and -hold him thrilled. Forgetful of the unwelcome -fact that she was worth more than her weight -in solid gold, he melted at the sound of her -voice, and his foolish heart went out to her upon -the touch of her gloved fingers. Not as a lover -certainly, for was she not the desired of all -unmarried Europe? There was not a titled -or moneyed bride-hunter upon the face of the -civilised world with whom he had not heard -her name coupled, while he was ignorant of the -fact that the great man, her father, had destined -him to complete her, until he bolted in pursuit -of fortune on his own account. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span></p> - -<p>It flattered him to see that she had captivated -his friend, too, not contemptuous of the prospect -of exciting a little envy in the breast of that -individual; and he shot him a look of radiant -gratitude when he saw him bent upon engaging -the attention of Madame Ulrich, who was nothing -loth to be so caught. She smiled sadly, -as Maurice chattered on in high praise of her -son’s genius, and quoted the opinion of their -common master in evidence of his own discernment. -From time to time she cast a hopeful -eye upon the cousins, and mentally thanked -Marguerite for her delicate tact and rare wisdom.</p> - -<p>Not a word of comment or surprise upon the -bareness of the studio or the shabbiness of the -single-cushioned chair upon which she sat; no -allusion to his sacrifice, or wonder at it. The -charming girl seemed to take it for granted -that a lad of talent should find the atmosphere -of commerce irksome, and gallantly admitted -that such a choice would have been hers, had -she been born a boy. To wander about the -world with a knapsack, and eat in dear little -cheap inns with rough peasants; to wear a silk -kerchief and no collar, and have plenty of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> -pockets filled with cord and penknives, and -matches, and tobacco, and pencils, and pocketbooks; -to sleep under the stars, and bear a -wetting bravely,—this is the sort of thing she -vowed she would have enjoyed, did petticoats -and sex and other contrarieties not form an -impediment.</p> - -<p>Such pretty babble might not be intended -to play into her elders’ hands, Madame Ulrich -perhaps thought, but it was very wise play for -that susceptible organ, a young man’s heart, -whether conscious or not. And that once -gained, one need never despair of the reversal -of all his idols for love.</p> - -<p>When they left the studio, Armand stood -looking after them, with his hands in his -pockets, under his linen blouse, plunged in profound -meditation, the nature of which he revealed -soon to his friend.</p> - -<p>‘And to think there goes the biggest prey -male rascal ever sighed for, Maurice. What -title do you imagine will buy her? Prince or -duke, for marquis is surely below the mark. -Think of it, my friend. There is hardly a wish -of hers that money cannot gratify, unless it be -a throne or a cottage. And the throne itself is -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> -easier come by for such as she than the cottage. -What an existence! What a dismal future! -What lassitude! What hunger, by and by, for -dry bread and cheese and common pewter! A -more nauseous destiny must it be, that of the -richest woman in the world than even that of -the richest man. At least a man can smoke a -clay pipe, and take to drink, or the road to the -devil in any other way. But what is there left -a woman whose wedding trousseau will contain -pocket-handkerchiefs that cost a hundred -pounds apiece! My aunt Mrs. Francillon’s -handkerchiefs cost that. Mighty powers! what -an awful way these charming and futile young -creatures are brought up! And you see for yourself, -this girl is no mere fashionable fool. She, -too, would have sacrificed the title and the -handkerchiefs, if it were not for the restrictions -with which she has been hedged from birth. -Let us bless our stars, Maurice, that we were -not born girls, and equally bless our stars that -girls are born for us.’</p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="ARMANDS_MISTAKE_II">II</h3> -</div> - -<p>Madame Ulrich and her niece came again -to the studio. They came very often. Armand -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> -began by counting the days between their -visits, and ended in such a state of lyrical madness -that Romeo was sobriety itself alongside -of him. In anticipation of the sequel, Maurice -supported the trial of his morning, midday, and -evening confidences with a patience deserving -the envy of angels. And not a thought of commiseration -had the raving young madman for -him, and only sometimes remembered, at the -top of his laudatory bent, to break off with -courteous regret for the unoccupied state of his -friend’s heart.</p> - -<p>‘I wish to God you were married to her,’ said -Maurice one day, and Armand naturally trusted -the prayer would be heard at no distant period.</p> - -<p>It was the hour of Marguerite’s visit. To -see the charming girl seated in the shabby arm-chair -he had bought at a sale in the Hôtel -Drouot, so perfectly at home, and so naïvely -pleased with little inexpensive surprises, such -as a bunch of flowers in a common jar, an -improvised tea made over their daily spirit-lamp, -much the worse for constant use; to see -her so vividly interested in the everyday life -of a couple of Bohemians, the cost of their -marketings, their bargains, and the varieties of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> -their meals, their cheap amusements, unspoiled -by dress-suit or crush hat, and eager over that -chapter of their distractions that may safely be -recounted to a well-bred maiden. Armand had -never known any pleasure in his life so full of -freshness and untainted delight. Bitterly then -did he regret that there should be episodes upon -which a veil must be dropped. These, I suppose, -are regrets common to most honest young fellows -for the first time in love. He would have liked -to be able to tell her everything, not even omitting -his sins; as she sat there, and listened to him -with an air so divinely confiding and credulous. -He had a wild notion that he might be purified -from past follies, and not a few dark scenes he -dared not remember in her presence, if he might -kneel and drop his humbled head in her lap, -and feel the touch of her white hands as a -benediction and an absolution upon his forehead. -He was full of all sorts of romantic and -sentimental ideas about her, little dreaming that -the clock of fate was so close upon the midnight -chimes of hope, and that the curtain was so -soon to drop upon this pleasant pastoral played -to city sounds.</p> - -<p>One day his mother came alone. One glance -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> -took in the blank disappointment of his expression -and all its meaning. She scrutinised -him sharply, and found the ground well prepared -for the words of wisdom she had come to sow. -She spoke of Marguerite, and the troubled youth -drank in the sound of her voice with avidity. -Did he love his cousin? How could he tell? -He knew nothing but that he lived upon her -presence; that the thought of her filled the -studio in her absence; that he dwelt incessantly -upon the memory of her words and looks and -gestures. This he supposed was love, only he -wished the word were fresher. It was applied -to the feeling inspired by ordinary girls, whereas -she was above humanity, and he was quite -ready to die for one kiss of her lips.</p> - -<p>When the blank verse subsided, Madame -Ulrich bespoke the commonplace adventure of -marriage, and made mention of two serious -rivals, an English marquis and his cousin Bernard -Francillon. The mention of the marquis -he endured, and sighed; but his cousin’s name -stung his blood like a venomous bite, he could -not tell why. His brain was on fire, and he -sat with his head in his hands in great perplexity. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span></p> - -<p>It was the hour of solemn choice; the -renunciation of his liberty and pleasant -vagabondage, or the hugging in private for -evermore of a sweet dream that would make -a symphonious accompaniment to his march -upon the road of life. Could the flavour of -his love survive the vulgarity of wealth, of -newspaper-paragraphs, wedding-presents, insincere -congratulations, a honeymoon enjoyed -under the stare of the gazing multitude, the -dust of social receptions, dinners, and all the -ugly routine he had flown from? On the other -hand, could he ask a daintily reared girl, like -his cousin, to tramp the country roads and -fields with him, to wander comfortless from -wayside inn to hamlet, and back to an ill-furnished -studio, at the mercy of the seasons, -and with no other luxuries than kisses, which -for him, he imagined, would ever hold the -rapture and forgetfulness of the first one? -The choice meant the clipping of his own -wings, and perhaps moral death; for her, ultimate -misery, or the tempered loveliness of a -dream preserved, and substantial bliss rejected.</p> - -<p>He could not make up his mind that day, -and sent his mother away without an answer. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> -Maurice Brodeau was not informed of his -dilemma. It was matter too delicate in this -stage for discussion. But the night brought -him no nearer to decision, and standing before -his easel, making believe to be engaged upon -a sketch he had lately taken at Fontainebleau, -he held serious debate within himself whether -he ought to consult his friend or not.</p> - -<p>In his studio upstairs, Maurice was loitering -near the window in an idle mood, and saw a -quiet brougham stop in front of their house in -the Avenue Victor Hugo. He watched the -slow descent of an old man dressed in a shabby -frock-coat, untidily cravated, who leaned heavily -upon a thick-headed cane. The old gentleman -surveyed the green gate on which were nailed -the visiting-cards of the two artists, and jerked -up a sharp pugnacious chin.</p> - -<p>‘Our ancient uncle, the respectable and -mighty banker, of a surety,’ laughed Maurice, -on fire for the explanation of the riddle.</p> - -<p>The head of the firm of Ulrich pushed open -the gate, sniffed the air of the damp courtyard, -and solemnly mounted the wooden stairs, making -a kind of judicial thud with his heavy -stick. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span></p> - -<p>‘The jackanapes!’ he muttered, for the benefit -of a tame cat. ‘It is a miracle how these -young fools escape typhoid fever, living in such -places.’</p> - -<p>Maurice cautiously peeped over the banisters, -and saw the old gentleman turn the handle of -Armand’s door without troubling to knock. -‘Good Lord!’ thought the watcher, ‘it is fortunate -friend Armand has broken with that -little devil Yvette, or the old bear might have -had the chance of putting a fine spoke in his -wheel with cousin Marguerite.’</p> - -<p>Armand in his linen blouse was standing in -front of his easel, with his back to the door. -He was certainly working, but his mind was -not so fixed upon his labour but that he had -more than an odd thought for his cousin. -Pretty phrases, gestures, and expressions of -hers kept running through his thoughts, as an -under-melody sometimes runs through a piece -of music, unaggressively but soothingly claiming -the ear. They brought her presence about -him, to cheer him in the midst of his solemn -preoccupations upon their mutual destiny. -While his reason said no, and he regarded -himself as a fine fellow for listening to reason -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> -at such a moment, her lips curved and smiled -and bent to his in imagination’s first spontaneous -kiss. And then he told himself pretty -emphatically that he was growing too sentimental, -and that it behoves a man to take his -pleasure and his pains heartily and bravely, -and not go abroad whimpering for the moon. -Just when he had made up his mind to shoulder -his moral baggage and, whistling merrily, face -the solitary roads, he was made to jump and -fall back into perplexity by a crusty, well-known -voice.</p> - -<p>‘Well, young man! So this is where you -waste your time?’</p> - -<p>Armand swung round in great alarm, and -reddened painfully.</p> - -<p>‘You look astounded, and no wonder. ’Tis -an honour I don’t often pay young idiots like -you. Ouf, man! Look at his dirty jacket. -Your father was a rock of sense in comparison. -At least, he did not get himself up like a baker’s -boy, and go roystering in company with a band -of worthless rascals.’</p> - -<p>‘I presume, uncle, you have come here for -something else besides the pleasure of abusing -my father to me.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> - -<p>‘There he is now, off in a rage. Can’t you -keep cool for five minutes, you hot-headed -young knave? What concern is it of mine if -you choose to die in the workhouse? But -there’s your mother. It frets her, and I esteem -your mother, young sir.’</p> - -<p>Armand lifted his brows discontentedly. He -held his tongue, for there was nothing to be said, -as he had long ago beaten the weary ground of -protest and explanation.</p> - -<p>‘The rascal says nothing, thinks himself a -great fellow, I’ve no doubt. The Almighty -made nothing more contrary and mischievous -than boys. They have you by the ears when -you want to sit comfortably by your fireside. -Finds he’s got a heart too, I hear. Mayhap -that will sober him, though I’m doubtful.’</p> - -<p>Armand stared, and changed colour like a -girl. He eyed his uncle apprehensively, and -began to fiddle with his brushes. ‘I—I don’t -understand you, sir,’ he said tentatively.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, you do, but you think it well to play -discretion with me. I’m the girl’s father, and -there’s no knowing how I may take it, eh, you -young villain?’</p> - -<p>The old man pulled his nephew’s ear, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> -laughed in a low chuckling way peculiar to -crusty old gentlemen.</p> - -<p>‘Has my mother spoken to you about,—about——?’</p> - -<p>‘Suppose she hasn’t, eh? What then?’</p> - -<p>‘I am completely in the dark,’ Armand -gasped. ‘How could you guess such a thing, -uncle?’</p> - -<p>‘Suppose I haven’t guessed it either, eh? -What then?’</p> - -<p>Armand’s look was clearly an interrogation, -almost a prayer. He blinked his lids at the -vivid flash of conjecture, and shook his head -dejectedly against it. ‘You can’t mean—no, it -cannot be that——’</p> - -<p>The old man waggled a very sagacious -head.</p> - -<p>‘Marguerite!’ shouted the astounded youth, -and there was a feeling of suffocation about his -throat.</p> - -<p>‘Suppose one foolish young person liked to -believe she had a partner in her folly, eh, young -man? What then?’</p> - -<p>‘My cousin, too!’</p> - -<p>‘And if it were so, eh? What then?’</p> - -<p>‘Good God! uncle, why do you come and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> -tell me this?’ The dazed lad began to walk -about distractedly, and was not quite sure that -it was not the room that was walking about -instead of his own legs.</p> - -<p>‘I think we may burn the sticks and daubs -and brushes now, eh, young man?’ laughed the -old man, waggling his stick instead of his head -in the direction of Armand’s easel, and giving a -contented vent to his peculiar chuckle. ‘Burn -the baker’s blouse, and dress yourself like a -Christian. When you are used to the novelty -of a coat and a decent dinner, you may come -down to Marly and see that giddy-pated girl of -mine. But a week of steady work at the bank -first, and mind, no paint-boxes or dirty daubers -about the place. If I catch sight of any long-haired -fellow smelling of paint, I’ll call the -police.’</p> - -<p>Armand gazed regretfully round his little -studio. He picked out each familiar object with -a sudden sense of separation and a wish to bear -them ever with him in that long farewell glance. -But the sadness was a pleasant sadness, for was -not happy love the beacon that lured him forth, -and when the heart is young what lamp shines -so radiantly and invites so winningly? Still, it -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span> -was a sacrifice, though beyond lay the prospect -of a lover’s meeting, in which the thought of -stuff so common as gold would lie buried in the -first pressure of a girl’s lips.</p> - -<p>‘You are not decided, I daresay?’ sneered -his uncle.</p> - -<p>Armand met his eyes unflinchingly, and held -out his hand. ‘A man who is worth the name -can’t regret love and happiness. For Marguerite’s -sake I will do my best in the new life -you offer, and I thank you, uncle, for the gift.’</p> - -<p>‘That young fop from Vienna will feel mighty -crestfallen,’ was the reflection of the head of -the Ulrich Bank, as he hobbled downstairs. -He disliked the elegant Bernard, and was himself -glad to have back his favourite nephew, -though the means he had employed to secure -that result might not be of unimpeachable -honesty.</p> - -<p>The banker’s departure was the signal for -Maurice, on the look-out upstairs. He bounded -down the stairs, three steps at a time, and shot -in upon the meditative youth. Armand glanced -up, and smiled luminously. ‘The besieged has -capitulated, Maurice.’</p> - -<p>‘So I should think. For some time back -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> -you have worn the air of a man on the road to -bondage.’</p> - -<p>Brodeau had never for an instant doubted -that this would be the end of it. He mildly -approved the conventional conclusion, though -not without private regrets of his own.</p> - -<p>‘A girl’s eyes have done it,’ sighed Armand -sentimentally.</p> - -<p>‘Of course, of course, the old temptation. -But she would have inveigled Anthony out of -his hermitage. A sorry time you’ll have of it, -I foresee, though I honestly congratulate you. -It is a thing we must come to sooner or later, -and the escapades of youth have their natural -end, like all things else. Only lovers believe in -eternity, until they have realised the fragility of -love itself. It was absurd to imagine you could -go on flouting fortune for ever, and living in a -shanty like this, with a palace ready for you -on the other side of the river. But there is -consolation for me in the thought that you will -give me a big order in commemoration of your -marriage—eh, old man?’</p> - -<p>When it came to parting the young men -wrung hands with a sense of more than ordinary -separation. For two years had they shared -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> -fair and foul weather, and camped together out -of doors and under this shabby roof, upon which -one was now about to turn his back. The -days of merry vagabondage were at an end for -Armand, and his face was now towards civilisation -and respectable responsibilities. He might -revisit this scene of pleasant Bohemia, and find -things unchanged, but the old spirit would not -be with him, and the zest of old enjoyments -would be his no more.</p> - -<p>‘Many a merry tramp we’ve had together, -Armand,’ said Maurice, and he felt an odd -sensation about his throat, while his eyelids -pricked queerly. ‘We’ve got drunk together -on devilish bad wine, and pledged ourselves -eternally to many a worthless jade. We’ve -smoked a pipe we neither of us shall forget, and -walked beneath the midnight stars in many -a curious place. And now we part, you for -gilded halls and wedding chimes, I to seek a -new comrade, and make a fresh start across the -beaten track of Bohemia.’</p> - -<p>Maurice crammed his knuckles furiously -into his eyes. His eloquence had mounted -to his head, and flung him impetuously into -his friend’s arms with tears streaming down his -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> -cheeks. ‘You’ll come back again, won’t you, -Armand?’</p> - -<p>‘Come back? Yes,’ Armand replied sadly; -‘but I shall feel something like Marius among -the ruins of Carthage.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll keep your velvet jacket, and when you -are tired of grandeur and lords and dukes, you -can drop in here and put it on, and smoke a -comfortable pipe in your old arm-chair.’</p> - -<p>Maurice went straightway to the nearest café, -and spent a dismal evening, consuming bock -after bock, until he felt sufficiently stupefied to -face his solitary studio, where he shed furtive -tears in contemplation of all his friend’s property -made over to him as an artist’s legacy.</p> - -<p>Though brimming over with happiness and -excitement, Armand himself was not quite free -of regret for the relinquished velvet jacket and -brushes and boxes, as he made his farewell to -wandering by a journey on the top of an omnibus -from the Étoile to the Rue de Grenelle, and -solaced himself with a cheap cigarette.</p> - -<p>For one long week did he work dutifully at -the bank, inspected books with his uncle, and -repressed an inclination to yawn over the dreary -discussion of shares and bonds and funds, of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> -vast European projects and policies in jeopardy, -and he felt the while a smart of homesickness -for the little studio in the Avenue Victor Hugo. -In the evening he dined with his mother, and -found consolation for the irksomeness of etiquette -in the excellence of the fare. He -thought of Marguerite incessantly, and spoke -of her whenever he could, but he did not forget -Maurice or the cooking-stove, on which -their dinners in the olden days had so often -come to grief. He might sip Burgundy now, -yet he relished not the less the memory of the -big draughts of beer which he and Maurice had -found so delicious.</p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="ARMANDS_MISTAKE_III">III</h3> -</div> - -<p>But all these pinings and idle regrets were -silenced, and gave place to rapturous content -the first afternoon on which he walked up the -long avenue of his uncle’s country house at -Marly. The week of trial was at an end, and -he was now to claim his reward from dear lips. -Everything under the sun seemed to him perfect, -and even banks had their own charm, discernible -to the happy eye. There was a beauty in gold -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> -he had hitherto failed to perceive, and crusty old -gentlemen were the appropriate guardians of -lovely nymphs. In such a mood, there is -melody in all things, and warmth lies even in -frosted starlight. Nothing but the sweetness -of life is felt: its turbidness and accidents, its -disappointments, pains, and stumbles, lie peacefully -forgotten in the well of memory; and -we wish somebody could have told us in some -past trouble that the future contained for us a -moment so good as this.</p> - -<p>‘Mademoiselle is in the garden,’ a servant -informed him, and led the way through halls -and salons, down steps running from the long -window into a shaded green paradise. And then -he heard a fresh voice that he seemed not to -have heard for so long, and on hearing it only -was his heart made aware how much he had -missed it during the past age of privation.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, my cousin Armand!’</p> - -<p>There was a young man dawdling at her feet -in an attitude that sent the red blood to -Armand’s forehead. This was Bernard Francillon, -his other and less sympathetic cousin. -The young man jumped up, and measured -him in a stare of insolent interrogation, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span> -Marguerite, with a look of divine self-consciousness -and a lovely blush, said, very softly: ‘So, -Armand, you have let yourself be tamed, and -you have actually forsaken your delightful den, -I hear. How could you, my cousin? The -cooking-stove, the fishing-rod, the easel, blouse, -and velvet jacket,—all abandoned for the less -interesting resources of our everyday existence!’</p> - -<p>Her eyes and voice were full of arch protest, -and her smile went to the troubled lad’s head, -more captivating than wine. ‘It was for your -sake, Marguerite,’ he answered timidly, in tones -dropped to an unquiet murmur.</p> - -<p>‘Permit me, cousin, to retire for the moment,’ -said Bernard, turning his back deliberately -upon his disconcerted relative.</p> - -<p>What was it in their exchanged looks, in -their clasped hands, in Bernard’s unconscious -air of fond proprietorship, in Marguerite’s half -droop towards him of shy surrender, that carried -to Armand the conviction of fatal error? He -watched his rival departing, and turned a blank -face upon the radiant girl, whose delicious smile -had all the eloquence and trouble of maiden’s -relinquished freedom. She met his white -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> -empty gaze with a glance more full and frank -than the one she had just lifted so tenderly to -Bernard Francillon. ‘I don’t understand you, -Armand. Why for my sake?’</p> - -<p>‘It was your father’s error. He thought you -loved me, and I, heaven help me! till now I -thought so too,’ he breathed in a despairing -undertone, not able to remove his eyes from her -surprised and delicately concerned face.</p> - -<p>‘Poor Armand! I am very sorry,’ was all -she said, but the way in which she held her -hand out to him was a mute admission of his -miserable error. He lifted the little hand to his -lips, and turned from her in silence.</p> - -<p>The sun that had shone so brightly a moment -ago was blotted from the earth, and the music -of the birds was harsh discordance, as he wandered -among the evening shadows of the woods. -All things jarred upon his nerves, until night -dropped a veil upon the horrible nakedness of -his sorrow. He felt he wore it upon his face -for all eyes to see, and he thanked the darkness, -as it sped over the starry heavens. Beyond the -beautiful valley, where the river flowed, the -spires and domes and bridges of Paris showed -through the reddish glimmer of sunset as -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> -through a dusty light. Soon there would be -noise and laughter upon the crowded boulevards, -and a flow of carriages making for the theatres -through the flaunting gas-flames; and happy -lovers in defiant file would be driving towards -the Bois. How often had he and Maurice -watched them on foot, as they smoked their -evening cigarette, and sighed or laughed as -might be their mood. Would he ever have the -heart to laugh at lovers again, or laugh at anything, -he wondered drearily! And there was no -one here to remind him that sorrow, like joy, is -evanescent, and that all wounds are healed. -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Tout lasse, tout casse, tout passe,</i>—even pain and -broken hearts.</p> - -<p>Here silence was almost palpable to the touch, -like the darkness of Nature dropping into sleep. -He turned his back upon Paris, and faced the -dim country.</p> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > -<div class="chapter vcenter"> - <div class="half-title">MR. MALCOLM FITZROY</div> - <div class="right"><i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">A Don José Maria de Pereda<br> - de la Academía Real</i></div> -</div> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h2 class="nobreak" id="MR_MALCOLM_FITZROY_I">MR. MALCOLM FITZROY</h2> - <h3 class="nobreak">I</h3> - -<p><span class="smcap">I<b>T</b></span> is all very well and worthy to devote a -lifetime, or part of it, to the study of foreign -architecture. But a friend reproachfully reminded -Fred Luffington that English minsters -are worth a glance. Fred did not dispute it. -There was a certain charm in the novelty of -the idea. So he packed his portmanteau, and -took the boat to Dover, to assure himself a -pleasant surprise.</p> - -<p>At York he bethought himself of an amiable -old Flemish priest, in whose company he had -studied a good deal of Antwerp at a time -when Antwerp wore for him the colours and -glory and other attendant joys of paradise. -The priest, he remembered, was settled hard -by, as the chaplain of a Catholic earl. He -would take the opportunity of studying village -life as well as the minsters of England; and -smoke a pipe of memory, and drink big draughts -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span> -of the beer of other days, with his friend, the -Flemish priest.</p> - -<p>Fendon was as comfortable a little village -as any to be dreamed of out of Arcadia. Its -warm red roofs made a cosy circle under the -queerest of rural walls, round a delightful green. -A real green, a goose common, with an umbrella -tree in the middle, and a village pump under -an odd grey dome of stone supported by rough -pillars. All the houses were buried in trees, -and all the palings overgrown with honeysuckles.</p> - -<p>Fred Luffington sniffed delightedly. Though -it was June, there was plenty of damp in the -air, and lovely moist smells came from the -hedges and fields. Yes; this was enchantment, -a whiff of pure sixteenth century, the very -thing described by old-fashioned writers as -‘Merrie England.’ It did not look very merry, -to be sure; rather sleepy and still. But it was -not difficult to swing back upon imagination -into the days of Good Queen Bess.</p> - -<p>Fred’s glance grew vague, and the lyrical -mood was upon him. He mused upon may-poles, -foaming tankards, and the rosy maids -and swains of the centuries when there was -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> -‘love in a village.’ There were no rosy maids -or sighing swains about, but he imagined them -along with the rest of Elizabethan decorations, -evoked confusedly by remembrance of past -readings.</p> - -<p>Everything combined to keep him in good -humour. The name of his inn, the only inn, -was ‘St. George and the Dragon.’ Who but a -scoffer or a heathen could fail to sleep well at -an inn so gloriously named? As an archæologist, -Fred was neither, so naturally he slept -the sound sleep of the believer, somebody -infinitely superior to the merely just man. -Anybody may be just, but it takes a special -constitution to believe, in the proper manner. -Fred Luffington was all that is most special in -the way of constitutions, so after a charmed -inspection of the sign-board—a rude picture of -the saint in faded colours on a semi-effaced -horse with a remarkable dragon at his feet—he -sauntered in through the porch to be confronted -with a perfectly ideal buxom landlady. This -was more than heaven, he devoutly felt, and -said his prayers on the spot to the god of chance, -who so benevolently watches over the humours -of romantic young men. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span></p> - -<p>Mrs. Matcham, spick and span and respectable, -beamed him welcome of a mediæval -cordiality. He felt at once it was good to be -with her, and took shame to himself for having -been so long enamoured of foreign parts, and -unacquainted with the pleasant aspects of -English country life. She deposited his bag -on a table at the bottom of a red-curtained -four-poster, and remarked that she was granting -him the privilege of occupying the room -of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy. There was such a -full accompaniment of condescension and favour -in her smile, and so complete a signification -of the importance and fame of Mr. Malcolm -Fitzroy, that Luffington felt abashed by his -own ignorance of the personality of the local -great man, and kept a discreet silence.</p> - -<p>When he descended to the dining-room, his -delightful landlady, entering with the tray, -paused in critical survey of the table.</p> - -<p>‘I have placed your seat before the fireplace, -sir. Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy always prefers it so. -But perhaps you would like to sit in front of -the window.’</p> - -<p>Luffington seized the fact that any taste but -that of the mysterious great man’s would be -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span> -evidence of inferiority. But it was necessary -to make a stand for originality. The expected -docility fired revolt in his veins. At the price -of consideration, he decided for the window -in front, instead of the fireplace behind. The -pleasures and pangs of our life depend upon -little things, and the little thing in question -gave a silly satisfaction to Luffington, and -disproportionately pained the good landlady.</p> - -<p>After his late lunch, Luffington strolled forth -to pick up rural sensations on his way to the -Flemish priest’s. He encountered glances of -dull interest, but nowhere the rosy village maid -and her pursuant swain that his studies in -pastoral literature had taught him to expect -as the obvious decoration of a quiet rustic -scene.</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing so misleading as literature, -unless, perhaps, history,’ he observed, in a fond -retrospect of the centuries. ‘The disappointments -of the present build for us the illusions -of the future,’ he added incoherently.</p> - -<p>The Flemish priest was tending his bees, -with a thick blue veil tied over his felt hat, when -he heard the garden gate swing upon its hinges. -He looked up and saw an elegant young man -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> -pointing, as he came along, a meditative cane -in the neighbourhood of his dearest treasures, -a row of white and blue irises.</p> - -<p>‘<i lang="es" xml:lang="es">Santa Purissima!</i> Can these sons of perdition -not learn to keep their shticks and their -long limbs from ze borders if they must invade -our gardens?’</p> - -<p>He slipped off his veil and showed a fat yellow -face streaked with the red of anger. Luffington -held out his hand, laughing.</p> - -<p>‘By all that’s holy! My young friend of -Antwerp. Welcome, welcome! Ah, my boy! -how many, six, eight years ago! What a lad -you were then with your dreams of love and -fame! And how have they fared, those dreams—eh? -Gone ahead, or dropped behind, as ’tis -the way with young dreams? <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Hein!</i>’</p> - -<p>Luffington nodded sentimentally, like one -rocked upon sudden waves of regret. The -dreams had dropped behind with the years, -and it was an effort to recall them to vivider -shape than a cloud with a sunny ray upon it.</p> - -<p>‘Have you any of the old tobacco?’ he asked. -‘A pipe might lead us over the forgotten ground -again, and revive the dead persons of that little -Antwerp drama. You’ve added bees to botany, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> -I see. Could you get up a massacre of the -drones while I am here? I’ve never been able -to put full faith in all the astounding stories we -have of the bees, and might be converted by a -practical demonstration.’</p> - -<p>‘Come along inside, and leave my bees alone, -you insolent sceptic of the world. That’s your -French air—the very worst to breathe. I suppose -you take brandy and mud in your literature, -too. I heard you talk of Dumas once, and -thought it bad, but now, of course, you’re down -with the naturalists, the symbolists, and the -philosophers of insanity.’</p> - -<p>‘Not a bit. I haven’t got beyond dear old -Dumas, where you left me. And here I am, -anchored momentarily in Arcadia, among the -bees and the flowers, under the protection of -St. George, with a mighty minster near at -hand.’</p> - -<p>Under the congenial influences of Pilsener -and a certain French tobacco affected by the -pair, they sat in a book-lined study and talked -of many things. It was only at table, later, -that Luffington, over his soup, remembered to -mention the name of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy.</p> - -<p>‘An old friend of the family,’ the priest explained, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> -meaning the earl and his wife. Upon -the Harborough estates there could, of course, -be only one family in all conversation.</p> - -<p>The priest walked back to the inn with -Luffington, and accepted a glass of rum punch -from the hand of Mrs. Matcham.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy always says that nobody -can make rum punch like me,’ she -remarked, not without the hue of modesty upon -her cheek at sounding her own praises; and -her glance sparkled to Luffington’s upon his -acknowledgment of the truth.</p> - -<p>‘There are drawbacks to a sojourn upon the -vacant hearth of a god,’ he said, when the door -closed upon her exit. ‘His worshippers are -invidiously reminiscent, and you court unfavourable -comparison whether you sit, sleep, -eat, or drink.’</p> - -<p>But the punch was good, the bed excellent, -the quiet conducive to dreamless sleep. Luffington -was abroad early next morning, indifferent -to the thought of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, as he -sipped the dew with a shower of song in his -face, and the light at his feet ran along the -grass and through the trees in dimpled -rivers of gold. The priest had told him that -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> -the earl loved his trees like children. Fred -did not wonder, as he hailed them ‘magnificent,’ -and went his way among them in full-eyed -admiration.</p> - -<p>It was a placid, even scene, such as one dwells -on in loving memory when homesick in far-off -lands. Lordly oaks and beeches and sentimental -firs beshadowed the well-trimmed lawny -spaces. The air played freely round and about -them, and the light was broad and soft. If you -stepped aside from the lawn and level avenues, -you might lose yourself in the pleasant woods, -alive with the chatter of birds, in the midst of -fragrance and gloom. Water was not absent, -and if you crossed the deer-park, you could -follow its lazy way to Fort Mary, where the -earl had a summer residence, aptly named by -the French governess, ‘Le Petit Trianon.’ -Luffington liked the notion. It was all so -artificial, so costly, so preposterously pastoral, -that his mind willingly went back to Versailles, -and the musked and scarlet-heeled century. -The ground was green velvet, unrelieved by -as much as a daisy. It demanded Watteau -robes, and periwigged phrases and piping -strains of Lulli and Rameau. The boats were -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span> -toys upon an artificial lake, and it was like -hearing of children’s games to learn of regattas -held here every summer. The idea of a -Venetian fête was more appropriate to celebrate -the birth of the heir, and lords and ladies -in rich Elizabethan disguises grouped upon the -velvet sward, upon the balcony of the ‘Trianon,’ -or making pictures of glitter and sharp shadow -upon the breast of dark water in the gleam of -variously coloured lamps.</p> - -<p>Luffington stopped to chat with a loutish -fellow who was rolling the ground down to the -minute pier, and chopping off the heads of the -innocent daisies, along his path.</p> - -<p>‘The notion of improvement is inseparably -wedded to that of destruction,’ Fred mused, as -he placidly surveyed the process, and dived his -stick among the layers of massacred innocents. -The thought opened his lips, but the lout lent -an uncomprehending ear to his speech, shook -his head as at obvious eccentricity of reflection, -and rolled on with his look of gross stupidity. -This proceeding disconcerted the traveller, who -wanted to talk, and imbibe at the founts of -rustic wit. He glanced around, and spied a -little boat swaying among the rushes. Could -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span> -he use it? The lout looked up sideways, wiped -his mouth with the back of his hand, and -offered his daughter as ferryman. At that -moment Fred heard a thin unmusical sound, -like that of a string drawn flat:</p> - -<p class="center"> -‘Friends, I’ve lost my own true lover,<br > -Tra la la la la la la.’<br > -</p> - -<p>Through a clump of noble trees a little maid -approached, not more beautiful to the eye than -was her flat, tuneless voice to the ear. She -assented without any eagerness to row him -across the lake, and had nothing more interesting -to communicate than that Mr. Malcolm -Fitzroy was very fond of Fort Mary.</p> - -<p>‘Decidedly I must see this fellow if I have to -wait a month,’ thought Fred, with a pardonable -feeling of irritation.</p> - -<p>On his way back, he hailed his friend among -the flowers and bees, and stood leaning over the -gate to acquaint him with his intention to start -at once upon exploration of the neighbourhood. -The Flemish priest stood in the blaze of sunshine, -and mopped his forehead repeatedly -before urging him to wait another day, when he -would be able to offer the advantage of his own -trap and himself as guide. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span></p> - -<p>‘I can’t go to-day,’ he said, with an air of importance. -‘Her ladyship has appointed this -afternoon to come and consult with me about -the schools.’</p> - -<p>It was evident to Mr. Luffington, as he went -off in search of lunch, that after Mr. Malcolm -Fitzroy, the Countess of Harborough was the -figure of importance. The defection of his -friend and the absence of romance among the -villagers turned him to misanthropy, and as, -late in the afternoon, fatigued after a long walk -through the woods, he entered the inn porch, he -told himself emphatically that he would leave -Fendon on his way to the cathedral, and thence -return to London.</p> - -<p>He found the inn in a state of unwonted -flurry, which was explained to him by a telegram -announcing the arrival of Mr. Malcolm -Fitzroy upon the last train.</p> - -<p>‘And I’ve the great man’s room,’ said Fred -to himself, laughing, as he set out for the priest’s -cottage.</p> - -<p>The dinner was good, the wine not execrable, -the tobacco best of all; and in excellent spirits, -quite restored to his belief in men and women, -Fred started off alone for ‘St. George and the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> -Dragon,’ under a suspicion of moonlight just -enough to send a quiver of silver through the -trees, and show the darkness of the road, but -not enough to send reason distraught down -sentimental byways and insistently urge the -advantages of open air meditation. He reached -his inn sane and safe, and bethought himself of -unanswered letters. Suddenly he was disturbed -in the glow of composition by the sound of -swift steps on the stairs and the ring of violent, -angry speech.</p> - -<p>‘A stranger in my room, Mrs. Matcham! -Tut, tut. This is what I cannot permit. Instantly -order him to clear out.’</p> - -<p>Luffington looked up inquiringly as the door -opened with an aggressive bang, and a queer -attractive-looking fellow stood eyeing him imperiously -upon the threshold. He had imagined -Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy a respectable English -gentleman, florid, prosperous, eminently aristocratic. -He was confronted with the reverse. -Before him stood in a threatening attitude, and -frowning hideously, a man almost too dark for -English blood, too small and too vengefully -passionate of feature and expression. His hair, -which curled, was of a dusty black, as if it had -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> -lain in ashes. His lips were full and red, covered -with the same dust-hued shadow, and teeth -so white, nostrils so fine and sharp, brows so low -and oddly beautiful, surely never belonged to -the respectable English race. His eyes were -long, of a liquid blackness, through which red -and yellow flames leaped as in those of an untamed -animal, and his hands were brown and -small, like the hands of a slender girl.</p> - -<p>‘Do you hear, sir? This is my room,’ he -cried.</p> - -<p>There was a foreign richness in his voice that -matched the quaint exterior, and was equally in -puzzling contrast with his pretensions as an -Englishman.... Luffington was convinced he -had to do with some adventurer over seas, -and he curtly replied that for the present the -room was his. Mrs. Matcham, scared and -anxious, shot him a glance of prayer over the -shoulder of her domineering customer.</p> - -<p>But Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy was not to be -silenced or turned out by the superior airs of a -strolling jackanapes. He paced the room in -his quick, light way, opened familiar drawers -and presses, inquired after missing objects, and -never stopped in a running murmur upon the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> -impudence of travellers and the insolence of -intruders.</p> - -<p>‘May I point out that you are condemning -yourself?’ Luffington dryly remarked, as he -watched him in wonder. ‘Intrusion can never -be other than insolent.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why the devil are you sitting here, -sir?’</p> - -<p>‘For the simple reason that I slept here last -night, and the room is mine as long as I stay -at this inn.’</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Matcham, you had no business to let -this chamber when there are others unoccupied -in the house. You know I am liable to turn up -at any moment, and that I cannot sleep in any -room but this.’</p> - -<p>There was something so boyish in the tone -of complaint, that Luffington insensibly softened -to the odd and ill-mannered creature, and -smiled broadly.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Matcham was affirming the comforts of -a back room, when he stopped her shortly with -a protest that this was information for Mr. -Fitzroy, whom the matter concerned.</p> - -<p>‘I tell you, sir, I will not give up my room,’ -shouted Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span></p> - -<p>Luffington shrugged, and made a feint of resuming -his writing, upon which Mr. Fitzroy -plumped down into an arm-chair, crossed his -slim legs savagely, and ordered the landlady to -bring in his carpet bag, and produce glasses -and two bottles of his special port. Luffington -said nothing, but smiled as he continued to -write, and took a sidelong view of his strange -enemy. The more he looked, the more he -wondered at the singular prestige of such a -person in a place like Fendon. He had not -the appearance of a gentleman, was the reverse -of imposing, and according to the Flemish -priest, was ‘just one of the poorest dogs in -Christendom.’</p> - -<p>‘He pays Mrs. Matcham thirty shillings a -week, and nobody else anything, and he travels -third class like myself,’ the priest added, but -Luffington thought that his air was that of a -man who holds back something.</p> - -<p>‘Well, sir,’ said Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, as if he -were pointing a cocked pistol at an antagonist, -‘you have an opportunity of assuring yourself -that there is good port to be had in at least one -inn in Great Britain.’</p> - -<p>‘I am ready to accept the fact upon your -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> -statement, but I am no judge of port. It’s a -wine I never drink.’</p> - -<p>‘Claret, I suppose? Abominable trash, but -there’s good stuff of that sort too, eh, Mrs. -Matcham? Two bottles of one of their castles—Lafitte, -La rose—something in that way.’</p> - -<p>He yapped out his words like the spoken -barks of an angry terrier, and poured himself -out a glass of Harborough port, which he fondly -surveyed, then tasted with a beatific nod.</p> - -<p>‘Nowhere to be had out of England. Bloodless -foreigners go to the deuce on their clarets. -They’d be content to sit at home, and let their -neighbours’ wives alone if they drank port. But -then you have to go to an earl’s cellar for anything -like this.’</p> - -<p>‘Exactly,’ said Fred Luffington, now restored -to good humour, and very much amused by his -extraordinary companion. ‘But as we all -haven’t a key to such cellars, it is safer to stick -to the harmless grape-juice than court gout with -doctored port. I’m for the foreigners myself, -whatever their domestic sins may be. Port is -as heavy as your climate, your women, your -literature.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Matcham, partly reassured, entered with -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> -two bottles and one of those hideous green -glasses described as claret glasses. This she -placed in front of Mr. Luffington, and taking a -bottle from her hand, Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -filled the unsightly chalice. Luffington drank -his wine appreciatively, pronounced it rare, and -wandered off upon the exciting topic of vintages. -He no longer wondered at the prestige -of a man who could command such claret.</p> - -<p>‘You’re a Londoner, I suppose—an impudent -Cockney?’ said Mr. Fitzroy, observing him -as he put aside the green glass and stretched -behind for his toilet tumbler. ‘Right you are -there, my friend. One of the pleasures of good -wine is to watch the play of light in its depths -of colour. It passes my imagination how such -complacent ugliness as this came to be manufactured.’ -He took the glass in his fingers, -stared at it, shook his head and flung it into -the grate.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Matcham may object to such summary -justice,’ laughed Luffington.</p> - -<p>‘Mrs. Matcham object to any act of mine, -sir? That would be a revolution. I’ve only -to say the word, and both Mrs. Matcham and -John Graham are ready to take you by the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> -scruff of the neck and plant you in the middle -of the common.’</p> - -<p>‘Instead, we sit pledging each other in the -best of wines, and your antecedent ill-humour is, -I hope, carried off, once you have named a continental -Englishman, ‘Impudent Cockney’.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy’s sombre eyes were -instantly shot with mirth. He smiled delightfully, -and as he did so, looked less and less of -a Briton. It was the lovely roguish smile of a -child that flashed from wreathed lips and ran -up like light to the broad brows arched expressively. -You would have forgiven him murder -on the spot, much less a rude speech. He -dipped into his glass, and sipped vigour therefrom -for a fresh onslaught.</p> - -<p>‘Ah, the continent! Generally means -France, and France, of course, means Paris, and -Paris, by God, means every devilry under the -sun. Barricades, Bastilles, Julys, Septembers, -baggy red breeches, Cockades, Marseillaises, -Communism, Atheism, in a word, hell’s own -mischief.’</p> - -<p>‘I commend your mental repertory, sir. It -is a neat historical survey extending over the -past hundred years. We will say nothing of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> -its justice. When our aim is the saying of much -in little, we must be content to dispense with -justice. But at least permit me to remark that -Paris does not mean the continent for me—very -much the reverse.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you ought to have sense enough to be -drinking port instead of one of your washy -French castles,’ roared Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, -attacking his second bottle after he had thrust -Fred’s second under his nose.</p> - -<p>The night wore on, and the two men gradually -grew to view one another through the -rosiest glamour. Luffington was ready to -swear that his companion was the most entertaining -he had ever encountered, and Mr. -Malcolm Fitzroy, as he subsided into sleep -upon his friend’s sofa, knew not whether he was -most satisfied in having gained his point about -the room—albeit Luffington enjoyed the bed—or -in having made the acquaintance of such a -remarkably agreeable young fellow—no nonsense, -no cockloftiness, no French Atheism, or -any other perverse ’isms for that matter, he -murmured as he wandered into the devious -country of dreams.</p> - -<p>Early next morning Luffington walked down -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> -to the priest’s cottage, to describe the night’s -adventures to his friend. They paced the -garden pathway, Fred puffing a cigar, and both -were enjoying a hearty laugh over the story, -when two figures stood upon the bright edge -of meadow that led into the deer-park. Clear -and unshadowed in the morning sunshine, it -was as pleasant a picture as the eye of man -could desire, and to Fred, after his travels, all -the pleasanter for being so distinctly English. A -fair, handsome lady, in a light tweed dress, a -broad-brimmed hat tied under her chin with -long blue ribbons; from her arm swung a long-legged -child, short-skirted, with an Irish red -cloak blown out from her shoulders, upon the -swell of which her long bright hair flowed like -a sunny streamer. The child was looking up -with an urgent charming expression, and talking -with extreme vivacity. The lady smiled down -upon her, tapped her cheek, and carried her -along at a quick pace toward the cottage.</p> - -<p>‘Her ladyship and her stepdaughter,’ said the -priest. ‘It’s beautiful to see how they love one -another. If all mothers were like that stepmother! -But the wisest of us talk a deal of -nonsense about women. Isn’t she handsome?’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span></p> - -<p>Luffington admitted that she was, in the -strictly English way—somewhat empty and -expressionless, and feared that forty would find -her fat.</p> - -<p>The countess stopped at the gate, and chatted -most affably. She gave the priest a commission -that postponed their projected excursion till -mid-day, and kindly invited Luffington to look -over the Hall at his leisure. The little girl -offered to show him her collection of butterflies, -and then skipped away, with her blonde hair -and red cloak blown out sideway like a sail.</p> - -<p>‘Has the Countess of Harborough no children -of her own?’ asked Luffington.</p> - -<p>‘No; Lady Alice is the earl’s only child, and -both he and the countess adore her.’</p> - -<p>The postponement of their excursion drove -Luffington alone into the solitary woods. But -solitude among trees had no terrors for him; -enchantment sat upon his errant mind as fancy -led him over dappled sward and under the -foliaged arches of mossy aisles. He came upon -a bridge, under which a slant of water chattered -its foamy way over large stones, and fell into -sedate and scarce audible ripples between green -banks and a thick line of shrubs. The outer -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> -bank he followed in a pastoral dream, to the -accompaniment of a pretty consort of bird-song -and babbling stream. He discovered that it -led straight to Fort Mary, and here he sat on -the edge of the pier, dangling his legs over the -lake, as he smoked and forgot the hours.</p> - -<p>The ‘Trianon’ lay behind, and as he lifted a -leg, and sprang upon the gravel, he was conscious -of the sound of a stifled sob carried, -he believed, from the trees edging the sward, -which the lout had rolled the day before. He -stepped upon it, and he might have been walking -on plush. As he went, the sound of sobs -grew heavier, and he could count the checked -breaths. He heard a man’s voice say softly: -‘My poor girl! Mary, Mary, courage.’ There -was no mistaking that gentle and soothing -voice, though he had heard it rasping and -angry the night before. A break in the column -of trees showed him a picture, the very reverse -of the sweet domestic English picture that had -charmed him a few hours ago.</p> - -<p>The Countess of Harborough was weeping -bitterly in Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy’s arms. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span></p> - - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="MR_MALCOLM_FITZROY_II">II</h3> -</div> - -<p>Fred Luffington had once had the misfortune -to see ‘an impossible brute’ preferred to his -elegant self by an old love of Antwerp, hence -he had long given up pondering the oddnesses -of women’s love-fancies. He was a gentleman -as well, and kept that sharply incorrect picture -to himself. He met the countess again, and -dropped his eyes, ashamed of his knowledge. -Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy he eyed with a droll -smile, and the more he looked at him, the more -incomprehensible the matter appeared.</p> - -<p>But he was good company, that Fred admitted -heartily, and shook his hand with a cordial -hope of meeting him again, now that their little -difference was settled, and had led to such -cheery results. He counselled him to take to -claret, and to himself remarked that his domestic -ethics seemed none the better for the drinking -of port, which evidently had not taught him -to let his neighbour’s wife alone. He had -met Lord Harborough once crossing the Park, -and perfectly understood the countess’s sobs. -That was all he did understand. He could -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> -fancy himself sobbing if he were a woman -condemned to live his days with that hard-featured, -red-haired little man, bearing himself -so primly and so distractingly respectable.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, that explains her odd choice,’ said -Luffington, turning his back upon Fendon, -after a last grasp of the Flemish priest’s hand. -‘There’s a taint of disreputableness about the -local hero, who looks as if he had rolled so -much in the dust in infancy, that neither soap -nor brush has been able to give him a respectable -head ever since.’</p> - -<p>Fred Luffington went abroad again, and -forgot all about the Flemish priest and the half -revealed drama of Fendon. A couple of years -later he had engaged to meet some friends at -Lugano and, travelling from Basle, decided to -leave the train at the entrance to the St. -Gothard tunnel, and walk over the mountain. -The weather was glorious, and such scenery is -enough to make a saint of the biggest sinner. -The flush of roseate snows, whose white from -very purity is driven to flame; the crystal -splendours above, the shadows of the valleys -revealed in the twisted gaps like flakes of blue -cloud softening the sunny whiteness, wooded -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> -depths and sparkling water, with the ineffable -beauty of the turquoise stillness of the grand -lake below: combined to make even the breathing -of a worldly young man a prayer of thanksgiving. -Fred Luffington never could gaze on -the Alps without feeling his sins drop from -him like a garment, and his soul stand out, -naked and innocent before the majesty of -creation.</p> - -<p>He had been walking since mid-day, with -rests in craggy nooks, and now at sundown it -behoved him to look out for shelter. He -waited until he had seen the last effects of an -Alpine sunset before branching into a narrow -wooded path, which he was informed led to a -little village. At the first châlet, he knocked -for admittance, and a fat woman came to the -door, in a state of evident perturbation. Her -face cleared when she discovered that he spoke -Italian.</p> - -<p>‘There is a sick man here. We think he -must be an Englishman, but we do not understand -him, and he neither knows French nor -Italian. If the gentleman would but look at -him. The doctor says he will not recover,’ she -burst out, without stopping for breath. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span></p> - -<p>Luffington followed her upstairs, and entered -a tolerably clean little room, where the sick -man lay, either asleep or unconscious. Luffington -stood, and looked at him long and musingly. -Where ever had he seen that thin, sharp, -foreign face, the curls of dust-hued black, the -oddly beautiful brow and full lips? A small -brown hand lay upon the coverlet, and it -sprang a gush of sympathy to his eyes. Suddenly -the closed lids opened and revealed eyes -of the sombre dead blackness of the sloe, without -the red and yellow flames he now so vividly -remembered. So this was the end of that -sorry drama of Fendon! Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -was dying in a far-off Swiss village on the top -of St. Gothard. And the countess? Fred bent, -and whispered his name, and begged to be used -as a friend. A gleam of recognition broke the -dark blankness of the dying man’s glance, and -he made a feeble movement of his hand, which -Luffington caught and held in a gentle clasp. -The sick man’s eyes filled gratefully. He knew -he was dying, and he was comforted by the -presence of Luffington.</p> - -<p>All through the night Fred sat and nursed -him. He was melted in kindness and gratitude -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> -that this chance of redeeming some unworthy -hours had fallen to him. He held the dying -man’s hand, listened to his babble, and promised -to destroy a packet of letters in a certain ebony -box, into which he was to place poor Fitzroy’s -watch and pocket book, and a copy of the -<i>Spanish Gypsy</i>, the only book he possessed, -and deliver it into the hands of the Countess of -Harborough. In the presence of death, Fred -could hear her name without any squeamishness.</p> - -<p>‘Take from under my pillow a locket, and -open it for me. I want to see her face again.’</p> - -<p>Fred did so, and could not help recognising -the features of the countess. He asked if Mr. -Fitzroy had any other friends to whom he could -carry messages.</p> - -<p>‘Friends? I have none,’ he said, in a toneless -way, empty of all bitterness or pain. ‘I neither -sought friendship nor offered it. I have loved -but one being on this earth, and it has been my -duty to stand by and see her suffer, and now I -must go, while she remains behind unhappy, -with none to comfort her. There is no comfort -on earth for miserable wives. When I think of -them, I am wroth to hear men complain. What -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> -do we know about pain compared with them? -And yet they bear it. The God that made -them alone can explain how. But this last -blow! How will she bear that? Mary, Mary, -my poor unhappy girl!’</p> - -<p>He closed his eyes, and seemed to dose, then -opened them, and clutched Luffington’s fingers, -like a startled child.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t leave me,’ he breathed, through shut -teeth. ‘It is so lonely among strangers. Ah, -if I were only back in my room in the ‘St. -George and the Dragon,’ with good Mrs. -Matcham! Poor Mary! The worst of it is, I -have never been able to punch that rascal’s -head. Never. For her sake, I have had to “my -Lord” him, when I wanted to be at his throat. -Well, I played the game gallantly. Nobody -can deny that. It’s for her now to continue it -alone. The locket! Where’s the locket? -Let it go with me. It contains all I have loved -on earth, and I’ll lie all the quieter underground -for having it with me.’</p> - -<p>The dawn found him lifeless, and Luffington -sitting with his stiff cold hand clasped in his -own. The locket, containing the likeness of -the Countess of Harborough and a thick twist -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> -of blonde hair, was buried, along with the -remains of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy, in a little -Alpine churchyard.</p> - -<hr class="tb" > - -<p>One summer evening, the Flemish priest of -Fendon was reading his breviary in the garden, -not so intent upon prayer that he had no eye -for his flower-beds, which he had just watered. -He turned hastily as the garden gate swung -back, and recognised Fred Luffington, who -approached with an air of unwonted gravity. -He carried a square parcel under his arm.</p> - -<p>‘My dear young friend,’ cried the enchanted -priest, keeping, while he spoke, a finger between -the leaves of his breviary.</p> - -<p>‘I have a painful commission for you. You -must take this box at once to the Countess of -Harborough, and acquaint her with the news -that Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy is dead. I buried him -in Switzerland a month ago.’</p> - -<p>The priest shook his head sadly. He -scrutinised Luffington’s features sharply, and -said—</p> - -<p>‘Thank God, she knows that already—that -is, the death. But I suspect this box will open -old wounds.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span></p> - -<p>‘Poor woman! Tell her Mr. Fitzroy sent -this by a trusted friend. I destroyed her -letters. For her sake, I wish I were not in the -secret, but unhappily, by accident, I learnt it -long before I found the poor fellow dying in -a Swiss châlet.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah,’ muttered the priest, and felt for his -pipe. ‘It’s unfortunate. Not a soul but myself -has known it for years—not even the earl, -and such a secret has cost me many an uncomfortable -moment.’</p> - -<p>Luffington cast a strange glance upon him. -His words were inexplicable. Known it for -years! Secret unshared by the earl! Was -the ground solid beneath his feet, that a virtuous -priest should contemplate the likelihood of such -a secret being shared with the earl?</p> - -<p>‘It’s not to be feared I should betray a lady. -God knows, I am no saint myself, to blame -anybody.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t blame her much myself. I deplore -the need for duplicity, but it was not her doing. -They placed her in a false position. But while -I cannot but admire the tenacity of her affections -and her loyalty to a natural claim, I have -ever been urging her to make a clean breast of -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[Pg 300]</span> -it to her husband. It was not her business to -expiate the wrong of others, but confession -would have placed her and the unfortunate -man now in his grave upon a proper footing, -and lent the dignity of candour to their relations.’</p> - -<p>Luffington felt mercilessly mystified. Even -suppose the lovers not altogether criminal, how -could the earl’s recognition of their irregular -situation lend dignity to it? He spoke his -perplexity, and cast the good priest into a -panic.</p> - -<p>‘What did you mean by telling me you knew -everything?’ he cried, wrathfully. ‘Malcolm -Fitzroy her ladyship’s lover! Poor woman, -poor woman! I thought you knew, and now I -must break confidence, to clear her, and tell -you the wretched story.’</p> - -<p>He drew Fred into his study, carefully closed -the door, and there laid bare a situation as odd -as the personality of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy. A -titled lady in Northumberland lost a new-born -infant, and was herself pronounced in danger -unless a child could be found to take its place. -A gypsy outcast was discovered to have given -birth to twins on the same day, and was glad -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[Pg 301]</span> -enough to resign the baby girl to the bereaved -aristocrat. The twins were the result of an -intrigue between an English gentleman and -a handsome gypsy. The little girl blossomed -into youth, as English and refined as could be, -and her foster-mother, whose life she had saved, -could not bring herself to part with her. As -no other children came, she grew up the -daughter of the house, adored by her self-made -parents. The boy was his mother’s son, an -intractable vagrant, incapable of control, with -the saving grace of a passionate attachment to -his sister.</p> - -<p>When the Earl of Harborough came forward -as a suitor, the old lord and his wife debated -long upon their duty to him and to his -house, and their desire for their darling’s advancement. -The latter instinct prevailed, and -the earl believed himself the husband of a well-born -English maiden. The adopted parents -were both dead, and the countess, unhappy in -her marriage, had nobody to turn to in her -troubles but her gypsy brother. To make good -his dubious footing at the Hall, Fitzroy had -cast himself in the way of the earl, and secured -an extraordinary popularity in the village and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_302">[Pg 302]</span> -upon the estate. The earl thought him a droll -fellow, unbent patronisingly to him, and enjoyed -his odd vagabond habits.</p> - -<p>This was the secret of Mr. Malcolm Fitzroy -and the Countess of Harborough. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[Pg 303]</span></p> -</div> - - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > -<div class="chapter vcenter"> - <div class="half-title">THE LITTLE MARQUIS</div> - <div class="right"><i>To Alice Cockran</i></div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="chapter"> - <h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_LITTLE_MARQUIS">THE LITTLE MARQUIS</h2> - -<p><span class="smcap">H<b>ERVÉ</b> <b>DE</b> V<b>ERVAINVILLE</b></span>, Marquis de Saint-Laurent, -was at once the biggest and smallest -landlord of Calvados, the most important personage -of that department and the most insignificant -and powerless. Into his cradle the -fairies had dropped all the gifts of fortune but -those two, without which the others taste as -ashes—love and happiness. His life was uncoloured -by the affections of home, and his -days, like his ragged little visage and his dull -personality, were vague, with the vagueness of -negative misery. Of his nurse he was meekly -afraid, and his relations with the other servants -were of the most distantly polite and official -nature. He understood that they were there -to do his bidding nominally, and compel him -actually to do theirs, pending his hour of -authority. With a little broken sigh, he envied -the happiness that he rootedly believed to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[Pg 306]</span> -accompany the more cheerful proportions of -the cottager’s experience, of which he occasionally -caught glimpses in his daily walks, remembering -the chill solitude of his own big -empty castle and the immense park that seemed -an expansion of his imprisonment, including, -as part of his uninterrupted gloom, the kindly -meadows and woods, the babbling streams and -leafy avenues, where the birds sang of joys -uncomprehended by him.</p> - -<p>Play was as foreign to him as hope. Every -morning he gravely saluted the picture of his -pretty mother, which hung in his bedroom, a -lovely picture, hardly real in its dainty Greuze-like -charm, arch and frail and innocent, the -bloom of whose eighteen years had been sacrificed -upon his own coming, leaving a copy -washed of all beauty, its delicacy blurred in -a half-effaced boyish visage without character -or colouring. Of his father Hervé never spoke,—shrinking, -with the unconscious pride of race, -from the male interloper who had been glad -enough to drop an inferior name, and was considered -by his friends to have waltzed himself -and his handsome eyes into an enviable bondage. -And the only return he could make to -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[Pg 307]</span> -the house that had so benefited him was a -flying visit from Paris to inspect the heir and -confer with his son’s steward (whose guardian -he had been appointed by the old marquis at -his death), and then return to his city pleasures, -which he found more entertaining than his -Norman neighbours.</p> - -<p>On Sunday morning little Hervé was conducted -to High Mass in the church of Saint-Laurent, -upon the broad highroad leading to -the town of Falaise. Duly escorted up the -aisle by an obsequious Swiss in military hat -and clanking sword, with a long blonde moustache -that excited the boy’s admiration, Hervé -and his nurse were bowed into the colossal -family pew, as large as a moderate-sized -chamber, roughly carven and running along -the flat wide tombs of his ancestors, on which -marble statues of knights and mediæval ladies -lay lengthways. The child’s air of melancholy -and solitary state was enough to make any -honest heart ache, and his presence never failed -to waken the intense interest of the simple -congregation, and supply them with food for -speculation as to his future over their mid-day -soup and cider. Hard indeed would it have -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[Pg 308]</span> -been to define the future of the little man -sitting so decorously in his huge pew, and -following the long services in a spirit of almost -pathetic conventionality and resignation, only -very occasionally relieved by his queer broken -sigh, that had settled into a trick, or a furtive -wandering of his eyes, that sought distraction -among ancestral epitaphs.</p> - -<p>He was not, it must be owned, an engaging -child, though soft-hearted and timidly attracted -by animals, whose susceptibilities he would -have feared to offend by any uninvited demonstration -of affection. He had heard himself -described as plain and dull, and thought it his -duty to refrain as much as possible from inflicting -his presence upon others, preferring -loneliness to adverse criticism. But he had -one friend who had found him out, and taken -him to her equally unhappy and tender heart. -The Comtesse de Fresney, a lady of thirty, -was, like himself, miserable and misunderstood. -Hervé thought she must be very beautiful for -him to love her so devotedly, and he looked -forward with much eagerness to the time of -her widowhood, when he should be free to -marry her. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[Pg 309]</span></p> - -<p>There was something inexpressibly sad in -the drollery of their relations. Neither was -aware of the comic element, while both were -profoundly impressed with the sadness. Whenever -a fair, a race, or a company of strolling -players took the tyrannical count away from -Fresney, a messenger was at once despatched -to Saint-Laurent, and gladly the little marquis -trotted off to console his friend.</p> - -<p>One day Hervé gave expression to his -matrimonial intentions. The countess, sitting -with her hands in her lap, was gazing gloomily -out of the window, when she turned, and said, -sighing: ‘Do you know, Hervé, that I have -never even been to Paris?’</p> - -<p>Hervé did not know, and was not of an age -to measure the frightful depth of privation confessed. -But the countess spoke in a sadder -voice than usual, and, in response to her sigh, -his childish lips parted in his own vague little -sigh.</p> - -<p>‘When I am grown up, I’ll take you to Paris, -Countess,’ he said, coming near, and timidly -fondling her hand.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Hervé,’ said the countess, and she -stooped to kiss him. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[Pg 310]</span></p> - -<p>‘M. le Comte is so old that he will probably -be dead by that time, and then I can marry -you, Countess, and you will live always at -Saint-Laurent. You know it is bigger than -Fresney.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Hervé,’ said the countess musingly, -thinking of her lost years and dead dreams, -as she stared across the pleasant landscape.</p> - -<p>Hervé regarded himself as an engaged gentleman -from that day. The following Sunday he -studied the epitaph on the tomb of the last -Marquis, his grandfather, who had vanished -into the darkness of an unexplored continent, -with notebook and scientific intent, to leave -his bones to whiten in the desert and the name -of a brave man to adorn his country’s annals. -Hervé was all excitement to learn from the -countess the precise meaning of the words -<i>distinguished</i> and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">explorer</i>.</p> - -<p>‘Countess,’ he hurried to ask, ‘what is it to -be distinguished?’</p> - -<p>‘It is greatly to do great things, Hervé.’</p> - -<p>‘And what does <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">explorer</i> mean?’</p> - -<p>‘To go far away into the unknown; to find -out unvisited places, and teach others how -much larger the world is than they imagine.’ -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[Pg 311]</span></p> - -<p>This explanation thrilled new thoughts and -ambition in the breast of the little marquis. -Why should not he begin at once to explore -the world, and see for himself what lay beyond -the dull precincts of Saint-Laurent? He then -would become distinguished like his grandfather, -and the countess would be proud of -him. The scheme hurried his pulses, and gave -him his first taste of excitement, which stood -him in place of a very small appetite. He -watched his moment in the artful instinct of -childhood with a scheme in its head. It was -not difficult to elude a careless nurse and -gossiping servants, and he knew an alley by -which the broad straight road, leading from -the castle to the town, might be reached over -a friendly stile that involved no pledge of -secrecy from an untrustworthy lodge-keeper. -And away he was scampering along the hedge, -drunk with excitement and the glory of his -own unprotected state, drunk with the spring -sunshine and the smell of violets that made -breathing a bliss.</p> - -<p>Picture a tumble-down town, with a quantity -of little streets breaking unexpectedly into -glimpses of green meadow and foliage; rickety -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[Pg 312]</span> -omnibuses, jerking and rumbling upon uncouth -wheels, mysteriously held by their drivers from -laying their contents upon the jagged pavements; -little old-fashioned squares, washed by -runlets for paving divisions, with the big names -of <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Trinité</i>, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Saint-Gervais</i>, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Guillaume le Conquérant</i>, -and the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Grand Turc</i>,—the latter the -most unlikely form of heretic ever to have -shaken the equilibrium of the quaint town; -a public fountain, a market-place, many-aisled -churches, smelling of damp and decay, their -fretted arches worn with age, and their pictures -bleached of all colour by the moist stone; -primitive shops, latticed windows, asthmatical -old men in blouses and night-caps, in which -they seem to have been born and in which -they promise to die; girls in linen towers and -starched side-flaps concealing every curl and -wave of their hair, their <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sabots</i> beating the -flags with the click of castanets; groups of -idle huzzars, moustached and menacing, strutting -the dilapidated public gardens like walking -arsenals, the eternal cigarette between their -lips, and the everlasting <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sapristi</i> and <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sacré</i> upon -them. Throw in a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">curé</i> or two, wide-hatted, -of leisured and benevolent aspect, with a smile -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[Pg 313]</span> -addressed to the world as a general <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">mon enfant</i>; -an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">abbé</i>, less leisured and less assured of public -indulgence; a discreet <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">frère</i>, whose hurrying -movements shake his robes to the dimensions -of a balloon; an elegant <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sous-préfet</i>, conscious -of Parisian tailoring, and much in request in -provincial salons; a wooden-legged colonel, -devoted to the memory of the first Napoleon, -and wrathful at that of him of Sedan; a few -civilians of professional calling, deferential to -the military and in awe of the colonel; the -local gossip and shopkeeper on Trinity Square, -Mère Lescaut, who knows everything about -everybody, and the usual group of antagonistic -politicians. For the outskirts, five broad roads -diverging star-wise from a common centre, with -an inviting simplicity of aspect that might -tempt the least adventurous spirit of childhood -to make, by one of those pleasant, straight, and -leafy paths, for the alluring horizon. Add the -local lion, Great William’s Tower, a very respectable -Norman ruin, where a more mythical -personage than William might easily have been -born, and which might very well hallow more -ancient loves than those of Robert and the -washerwoman Arletta; a splendid equestrian -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[Pg 314]</span> -statue of the Conqueror, and a quantity of -threads of silver water running between mossy -banks, where women in mountainous caps of -linen wash clothes, and the violets in spring -and autumn grow so thickly, that the air is -faint with their sweet scent. Afar, green field -upon green field, stretching on all sides, till the -atmospheric blue blots out their colour and -melts them into the sky; sudden spaces of -wood making shadows upon the bright plains -and dusty roads, fringed with poplars, cutting -uninterrupted paths to the horizon.</p> - -<p>The weekly fair was being held on the Place -de la Trinité, when Hervé made his way so -far. The noise and jollity stunned him. Long -tables were spread round, highly coloured and -decorated with a variety of objects, and good-humoured -cleanly Norman women in caps, and -men in blue blouses, were shouting exchanged -speech, or wrangling decorously. Hervé thrust -his hands into his pockets in a pretence of -security, like that assumed by his elders upon -novel occasions, though his pulses shook with -unaccustomed force and velocity; and he -walked round the tables with uneasy impulses -towards the toys and sweetmeats, and thought -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_315">[Pg 315]</span> -a ride on the merry-go-round would be an -enviable sensation. But these temptations he -gallantly resisted, as unbecoming his serious -business. Women smiled upon him, and called -him, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ce joli petit monsieur</i>, a fact which caused -him more surprise than anything else, having -heard his father describe him as ugly. He -bowed to them, when he rejected their offers -of toys and penknives, but could not resist the -invitation of a fresh cake, and held his hat -in one hand, while he searched in his pocket -to pay for it. Hervé made up for his dulness -by a correctness of demeanour that was rather -depressing than captivating.</p> - -<p>Munching his cake with a secret pleasure -in this slight infringement of social law, he -wandered upon the skirt of the noisy and good-natured -crowd, which, in the settlement of its -affairs, was lavish in smiles and jokes. What -should he do with his liberty and leisure when -his senses had tired of this particular form of -intoxication? He bethought himself of the -famous tower which Pierrot, the valet, had -assured him was the largest castle in the world. -Glancing up the square, he saw the old wooden-legged -colonel limping towards him, and -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[Pg 316]</span> -Hervé promptly decided that so warlike a -personage could not fail to be aware of the -direction in which the tower lay. He barred -the colonel’s way with his hat in his hand, and -said: ‘Please, Monsieur, will you be so good -as to direct me to the castle of William the -Conqueror?’</p> - -<p>The colonel heard the soft tremulous pipe, -and brought his fierce glare down upon the -urchin with hawklike penetration. Fearful -menace seemed to lie in the final tap of his -wooden leg upon the pavement, as he came to -a standstill in front of Hervé, and he cleared -his chest with a loud military sound like <i>boom</i>. -Hervé stood the sound, but winced and repeated -his request more timidly. Now this -desperate-looking soldier had a kindly heart, and -loved children. He had not the least idea that -his loud <i>boom</i>, and his shaggy eyebrows, and -his great scowling red face frightened the life -out of them. A request from a child so small -and feeble to be directed to anybody’s castle, -much less the Conqueror’s, when so many strong -and idle arms in the world must be willing -to carry him, afflicted him with an almost -maternal throb of tenderness. By his smile he -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[Pg 317]</span> -dispersed the unpleasant impressions of his -<i>boom</i> and the click of his artificial limb, and -completely won Hervé’s confidence, who was -quite pleased to find his thin little fingers lost -in the grasp of his new companion’s large hand, -when the giant in uniform turned and volunteered -to conduct him to the tower. Crossing -the Square of Guillaume le Conquérant, Hervé -even became expansive.</p> - -<p>‘Look, Monsieur,’ he cried, pointing to the -beautiful bronze statue, ‘one would say that -the horse was about to jump, and throw the -knight.’</p> - -<p>The colonel slapped his chest like a man -insulted in the person of a glorious ancestor, -and emitted an unusually gruff <i>boom</i>, that -nearly blew little Hervé to the other side of the -square, and made his lips tremble.</p> - -<p>‘I’d like, young sir, to see the horse that -could have thrown that man,’ said the Norman.</p> - -<p>‘There was a Baron of Vervainville when -Robert was Duke of Normandy. He went -with Robert to the Crusades. The countess -has told me that only very distinguished and -brave people went to the Crusades in those -days. They were wars, Monsieur, a great way -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[Pg 318]</span> -off. I often try to make out what is written on -his tomb in Saint-Laurent, but I can never get -further than Geoffroi,’ Hervé concluded, with -his queer short sigh, while in front of them rose -the mighty Norman ruin upon the landscape, -like the past glancing poignantly through an -ever youthful smile.</p> - -<p>The colonel, enlightened by this communication -upon the lad’s identity, stared at him in -alarmed surprise.</p> - -<p>‘Is there nobody in attendance upon M. le -Marquis?’ he asked.</p> - -<p>‘I am trying to be an explorer like my -grandpapa; that is why I have run away at -once. I am obliged to you, Monsieur, but it -is not necessary that you should give yourself -the trouble to come further with me. I shall -be able to find the way back to the Place de la -Trinité.’</p> - -<p>The colonel was dubious as to his right to -accept dismissal. The sky looked threatening, -and he hardly believed that he could in honour -forsake the child. But, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sapristi!</i> there were -the unread papers down from Paris waiting for -him at his favourite haunt, the Café du Grand -Turc, to be discussed between generous draughts -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_319">[Pg 319]</span> -of cider. He tugged his grey moustache in -divided feelings, and at last came to a decision -with the aid of his terrible <i>boom</i>. He would -deliver the little marquis into the hands of the -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">concierge</i> of the tower, and after a look in upon -his cronies at the Grand Turc and a glass of -cider, hasten to Saint-Laurent in search of -proper authority.</p> - -<p>Hervé was a decorous sightseer, who left -others much in the dark as to his private impressions -of what he saw. The tower, he admitted, -was very big and cold. He did not -think it would give him much satisfaction to -have been born in the chill cavernous chamber -wherein William had first seen the light, while -the bombastic lines upon the conquest of the -Saxons, read to him in a strong Norman accent, -gave him the reverse of a desire to explore that -benighted land. With his hands in his pockets, -he stood and peeped through the slit in the -stone wall, nearly as high as the clouds, -whence Robert is supposed to have detected -the charming visage of Arletta, washing linen -below, with a keenness of sight nothing less -diabolical than his sobriquet, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">le diable</i>.</p> - -<p>‘I couldn’t see anybody down so far, could -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_320">[Pg 320]</span> -you?’ he asked; and then his attention was -caught by the big rain-drops that were beginning -to fall in black circles upon the unroofed -stone stairs. The <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">concierge</i> watched the -sky a moment, then lifted Hervé into his arms, -and hurried down the innumerable steps to the -shelter of his own cosy parlour. Excitement -and fatigue were telling upon the child, who -looked nervous and scared. The rain-drops -had gathered the force and noise of several -waterfalls, pouring from the heavens with -diluvian promise. Already the landscape was -drenched and blotted out of view. An -affrighted peasant, in <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">sabots</i> large enough to -shelter the woman and her family of nursery -rhyme, darted down the road, holding a -coloured umbrella as big as a tent. The roar -of thunder came from afar, and a flash of lightning -broke through the vapoury veil, making -Hervé blink like a distracted owl caught by the -dawn. Oh, if he were only back safely at -Saint-Laurent, or could hold the hand of his -dear countess! No, he would not explore any -more until he was a grown-up man. A howl -of thunder and a child’s feeble cry——</p> - -<p>Meanwhile confusion reigned in the castle. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_321">[Pg 321]</span> -Men and women flew hither and thither, -screaming blame upon each other. In an -agony of apprehension, the butler ordered the -family coach, and was driven into town, wondering -how M. le Vervainville would take the -news if anything were to happen to remove the -source of his wealth and local importance. -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Parbleu!</i> he would not be the man to tell him. -Crossing the Place de la Trinité, he caught -sight of Mère Lescaut gazing out upon the -deluged square. In a happy inspiration, he -determined to consult her, and while he was -endeavouring to make his knock heard above -the tempest and to shield his eyes from the -glare of the lightning flashes, Mère Lescaut -thrust her white cap out through the upper half -of the shop door, and screamed, ‘You are -looking for M. le Marquis de Saint-Laurent, -and I saw him cross the square with Colonel -Larousse this afternoon.’</p> - -<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Diable! Diable!</i>’ roared the distracted butler. -‘I passed the colonel on the road an hour ago.’</p> - -<p>The endless moments lost in adjuring the -gods, in voluble faith in calamity, in imprecations -at the storm, and shivering assertions of -discomfort which never mend matters, and at -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_322">[Pg 322]</span> -last the dripping colonel and swearing butler -meet. M. le Marquis de Saint-Laurent and -Baron de Vervainville was found asleep amid -the historic memories of Robert and Arletta.</p> - -<p>This escapade brought M. de Vervainville -down from Paris, with a new tutor. The tutor -was very young, very modern, and very cynical. -He was not in the least interested in Hervé, -though rather amused when, on the second day -of their acquaintance, the boy asked—‘Monsieur, -are you engaged to be married?’ The tutor was -happy to say that he had not that misfortune.</p> - -<p>‘Is it then a misfortune? I am very glad that -I am engaged, though I have heard my nurse -say that married people are not often happy.’</p> - -<p>The tutor thought it not improbable such an -important personage as the Marquis de Saint-Laurent -had been officially betrothed to some -desirable <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">parti</i> of infant years, and asked her -age and name.</p> - -<p>‘The Countess de Fresney. She is not a little -girl, and at present her husband is alive, but I -daresay he will be dead soon. You know, Monsieur, -she is a great deal older than I am, but I -shall like that much better. It will not be -necessary for me to learn much, for she will -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_323">[Pg 323]</span> -know everything for me, and I can amuse myself. -I will take you to see her to-morrow. She -is very beautiful,—but not so beautiful as my -mamma—and I love her very dearly.’</p> - -<p>It occurred to the cynical tutor that the -countess might be bored enough in this uncheerful -place to take an interest in so captivating -a person as himself. But when they arrived -at Fresney, they learnt that the countess was -seriously ill. Hervé began to cry when he was -refused permission to see his friend, and at that -moment M. le Comte, an erratic, middle-aged -tyrant, held in mortal terror by his dependants, -burst in upon him, with a vigorous—‘Ho, -ho! the little marquis, my rival! Come hither, -sirrah, and let me run the sword of vengeance -through your body.’</p> - -<p>And the merry old rascal began to roll his -eyes, and mutter strange guttural sounds for his -own amusement and Hervé’s fright.</p> - -<p>‘I do not care if you do kill me, M. le Comte,’ -the boy sobbed. ‘You are a wicked man, -and it is because you make dear Madame -unhappy that she is so ill. You are as wicked -and ugly as the ogre in the story she gave me -last Christmas. But she will get well, and you -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_324">[Pg 324]</span> -will die, and then I will marry her, and she will -never be unhappy any more.’</p> - -<p>‘Take him away before I kill him—the insolent -little jackanapes! In love with a married -woman, and telling it to her husband! Ho, ho! -so I am an ogre! Very well, let me make a meal -of you.’ With that he produced an orange -and offered it to Hervé, who turned on his -heel, and stumbled out of the room, blinded -with tears.</p> - -<p>But the countess did not get well. She sent -for Hervé one day, and kissed him tenderly.</p> - -<p>‘My little boy, my little Hervé, you will soon -be alone again. But you will find another -friend, and by and by you will be happy.’</p> - -<p>‘Never, never, if you die, Countess. I shall -not care for anything, not even for my new -pony, though it has such a pretty white star on -its forehead. I do not want to grow up, and I -shall never be married now, nor—nothing,’ he -cried, with quivering lips.</p> - -<p>That evening his friend died, and the news -was brought to Hervé, as he and the tutor sat -over their supper. Hervé pushed away his -plate, and took his scared and desolated little -heart to the solitude of his own room. During -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_325">[Pg 325]</span> -the night, the tutor was awakened by his -call.</p> - -<p>‘Monsieur, please to tell me what happens -when people die.’</p> - -<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Ma foi</i>, there is nothing more about them,’ -cried the tutor.</p> - -<p>‘And what are those who do not die supposed -to do?’</p> - -<p>‘To moderate their feelings,—and go to -sleep.’</p> - -<p>‘But I cannot sleep, Monsieur. I am very -unhappy. Oh, I wish it had been the count. -Why doesn’t God kill wicked persons? Is it -wicked to wish the count to be dead, Monsieur?’</p> - -<p>‘Very.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I must be dreadfully wicked, for I -would like to kill him myself, if I were big -and strong.’</p> - -<p>At breakfast next day, he asked if people did -not wear very black clothes when their friends -died, and indited a curious epistle to his father, -begging permission to wear the deepest mourning -for the lady he was to have married. Vested -in black, his little mouse-coloured head looked -more pitiful and vague than ever, as he sat out -the long funeral service in the church of Saint-Gervais, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_326">[Pg 326]</span> -and lost himself in endless efforts to -count the candles, and understand what the -strange catafalque and velvet pall in the middle -of the church meant, and what had become of -the countess.</p> - -<p>After the burial his tutor took him to the -cemetery. The bereaved child carried a big -wreath to lay upon the grave of his departed -lady-love. Kneeling there, upon the same -mission, was M. le Comte, shedding copious -tears, and apostrophising the dead he had -made it a point to wound in life. Hervé knelt -opposite him, and stared at him indignantly. -Why should he cry? The countess had not -loved him, nor had he loved the countess. The -boy flung himself down on the soft earth, and -began to sob bitterly. The thought that he -would never again see his lost friend took full -possession of him for the first time, and he -wanted to die himself. Disturbed by this -passionate outbreak, the count rose, brushed -the earth from his new trousers with a mourning -pocket-handkerchief already drenched with -his tears, and proceeded to lift Hervé.</p> - -<p>‘The dear defunct was much attached to you, -little marquis,’ he said, and began to wipe away -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_327">[Pg 327]</span> -Hervé’s tears with the handkerchief made sacred -by his own. ‘You were like a son to her.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want you to dry my eyes, Monsieur,’ -Hervé exploded, bursting from his enemy’s -arms. ‘I do not like you, and I always thought -you would die soon, and not Madame. It isn’t -just, and I will not be friends with you. I shall -hate you always, for you are a wicked man, and -you were cruel to Madame.’</p> - -<p>The count, who was not himself accounted -sane by his neighbours, looked at the amused -and impassable tutor, and significantly touched -his forehead.</p> - -<p>‘Hereditary,’ he muttered, and stood to make -way for Hervé.</p> - -<p>The birds were singing deliciously, the late -afternoon sunshine gathered above the quiet -trees (made quieter by here and there an -unmovable cypress and a melancholy yew, fit -symbols of the rest of death) into a pale golden -mist shot with slanting rays of light, and the -violets’ was the only scent to shake by suggestion -the sense of soothing negation of all emotion -or remembrance. Out upon the road, running -like a broad ribbon to the town, unanimated in -the gentle illumination of the afternoon, the -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_328">[Pg 328]</span> -tutor and Hervé met the colonel limping along -one might imagine, upon the sound of a -prolonged <i>boom</i>. Hervé’s tears were dried, but -his face looked sorrowful and stained enough -to spring tears of sympathy to any kind -eyes. The colonel drew up, touched his cap, -and uttered his customary signal with more -than his customary gruffness. Hervé stood -his ground firmly, though he winced, for he was -a delicate child unused to rough sounds.</p> - -<p>‘How goes it, M. le Marquis? How goes it?’ -shouted the colonel.</p> - -<p>‘M. le colonel, it goes very badly with me, but -I try to bear it. My tutor tells me that men do -not fret; I wish I knew how they manage not to -do so when they are sad. I did want to grow up -soon, and explore the world like my grandpapa, -and then I should have married the Countess -of Fresney, if her husband were dead. But -now everything is different, and I don’t even -want to see the tower of William the Conqueror -again. I don’t want to grow up. I don’t want -anything now.’</p> - -<p>‘Poor little man!’ said the colonel, patting -his shoulder. ‘You’ve lost a friend, but you -will gain others, and perhaps you’ll be a great -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_329">[Pg 329]</span> -soldier one of these days, like the little -Corporal.’</p> - -<p>Hervé shook his head dolorously. He saw -nothing ahead but unpleasant lessons varied by -sad excursions to the countess’s grave.</p> - -<p>The unhappy little marquis was moping and -fading visibly. He could not be got to take an -interest in his lessons, and he proudly strove to -conceal the fact that he was afraid of his tutor’s -mocking smile. The news of his ill-health -reached M. de Vervainville in Paris, and at once -brought that alarmed gentleman down to -Falaise. On Hervé’s life depended his town -luxuries and his importance as a landed proprietor. -Was there anything his son wished for? -Hervé reflected a while, then raised his mouse-coloured -head, and sighed his own little sigh. He -thought he should like to see Colonel Larousse. -And so it came that one morning, staring out -of the window, the boy saw a familiar military -figure limping up the avenue. Hervé’s worried -small countenance almost glowed with expectation, -as he rushed to welcome his visitor, -the sound of whose <i>boom</i> and the tap of his -wooden leg upon the parquet, as well as his -dreadful shaggy eyebrows, seemed even cheerful. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_330">[Pg 330]</span></p> - -<p>‘Do you think, Monsieur,’ Hervé asked gravely -‘that you would mind having for a friend such -a very little boy as I?’</p> - -<p>The colonel cleared his throat and felt his -eyes required the same operation, though he -concealed that fact from Hervé.</p> - -<p lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">‘Boom! Touchez là, mon brave.’</p> - -<p>Never yet had Hervé heard speech so hearty -and so republican. It astonished him, and filled -him with a sense of perfect ease and trust. It -was like a free breath in oppressive etiquette,—the -child-prince’s first mud-pie upon the common -road of humanity. Hervé became excited, and -confided to the colonel that his father had -ordered a toy sailing-boat for him, and that -there was going to be a ball at Saint-Laurent in -honour of his birthday, though he was not quite -sure that he would enjoy that so much as the -boat, for he had never danced, and could not -play any games like other children. Still if -Colonel Larousse would come, they could talk -about soldiers. Come? Of course the colonel -came, looking in his brushed uniform as one of -the heroes home from Troy, and Hervé admired -him prodigiously.</p> - -<p>The birthday ball was a great affair. Guests -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_331">[Pg 331]</span> -came all the way from Caen and Lisieux, and -Hervé, more bewildered than elated, stood -beside his splendid father to receive them. -Ladies in lovely robes, shedding every delicate -scent, like flowers, petted him, and full-grown -men, looking at these ladies, made much of him. -They told him that he was charming, but he did -not believe them. One cannot be both ugly -and charming, little Hervé thought, with much -bitterness and an inclination to cry. Their -compliments gave him the same singular -sensations evoked by the tutor’s smile.</p> - -<p>‘I do not know any of these people,’ he said -sadly to Colonel Larousse. ‘I don’t think a -ball very cheerful, do you? It makes my head -ache to hear so many strange voices, and feel -so much smaller than anybody else. My papa -amuses himself, but I would like to run away to -my boat.’</p> - -<p>‘<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Boom! Mon camarade</i>, a soldier sticks to -his post.’</p> - -<p>Hervé sighed, and thought if the countess -had been here that he would have sat beside -her all the evening, and have held her hand. -And the knowledge that he would never again -hold her hand, and that so many long weeks -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_332">[Pg 332]</span> -had passed since fond lips had kissed his face, -and a sweet voice had called him ‘Little Hervé, -little boy,’ brought tears of desperate self-pitying -pain to his eyes. In these large illuminated -salons, vexed with the mingled odours of -flowers and scented skirts, by the scraping of -fiddles and the flying feet of laughing dancers, -unmindful of him as other than a queer quiet -boy in velvet and Alençon lace, with a plain -grey little face and owlish eyes that never -smiled, Hervé felt more alone than ever he had -felt since the countess’s death.</p> - -<p>Stealthily he made his escape through the -long open window, and ran down the dewy -lawn. How gratefully the cool air tasted and -the lovely stillness of the night after the aching -brilliancy within! Hervé assured himself that -it was a pleasant relief, and hoped there would -not be many more balls at the castle.</p> - -<p>The lake fringed the lawn, and moored -against the branches of a weeping willow was -his toy-boat, just as he had left it in the afternoon. -It would look so pretty, he believed, -sailing under the rising moon that touched the -water silver and the blue stars that showed so -peacefully upon it. He unknotted the string, -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_333">[Pg 333]</span> -and gaily the little boat swam out upon his -impulsion. If only the countess could come -back to him, he thought, with his boat he would -be perfectly happy. ‘But I am so alone among -them all,’ he said to himself, with his broken -sigh. ‘I wished somebody loved me as little -children are loved by their mammas.’</p> - -<p>The boat had carried away the string from -his loose grasp, and he reached out his arm -upon the water to recover it. A soft, moist -bank, a small eager foot upon it, a frame easily -tilted by an unsteady movement, the dark -water broken into circling bubbles upon a -child’s shrill cry of terror, and closing impassably -over the body of poor forlorn little -Hervé and his pretty velvet suit and Alençon -lace,—this is what the stars and the pale calm -moon saw; and over there upon the further -shore of the lake floated the toy-boat as -placidly as if it had worked no treachery, and -had not led to the extinction of an illustrious -name and race.</p> - -<p>‘Where is M. le Marquis?’ demanded M. de -Vervainville, interrupting an enchanting moment -upon discovery of his son’s absence from the -salon. -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_334">[Pg 334]</span></p> - -<p>A search, a hurry, a scare,—music stopped, -wine-glasses at the buffet laid down untouched, -ices rejected, fear and anxiety upon every face. -M. le Marquis is not in the salons, nor in the -tutor’s apartment, nor in his own. The grounds -are searched, ‘Hervé’ and ‘M. le Marquis’ -ringing through the silence unanswered. His -boat was found and the impress of small footsteps -upon the wet bank. M. le Marquis de -Saint-Laurent and Baron de Vervainville was -drowned.</p> - - -<div class="center">Printed by T. and A. <span class="smcap">C<b>ONSTABLE</b></span>, Printers to Her Majesty</div> -<div class="center">at the Edinburgh University Press</div> -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" > - -<div class="transnote"> -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="ph2 nobreak">TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES</p></div> - -<p>Some minor inconsistencies and obvious typographical and punctuation -errors have been corrected silently.</p> - -<p>On page 184, ‘He will write to you to Paris’ has been changed ‘He -will write to you in Paris’</p> - -<p>On page 217: A duplicate ‘for’ has been removed in ‘The less reason -have they for for a vestige of belief in man’</p> </div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DR. 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