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Mathieu Ropars: et cetera

by William Young · English · Gutenberg #39132 · 333,984 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Mathieu Ropars: et cetera

Author: William Young


        
Release date: March 13, 2012 [eBook #39132]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39132

Credits: E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Katie Hernandez, Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by the Wright American Fiction Project (http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright2/)


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E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Katie Hernandez, Marilynda
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(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by the
Wright American Fiction Project
(http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/web/w/wright2/)



Note: Images of the original pages are available through the
      Wright American Fiction Project. See
      http://www.letrs.indiana.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?idno=Wright2-2831<;view=toc;sid=075f68e4235f00ec8548d9f9e813ee33;c=wright2





MATHIEU ROPARS: ET CETERA.

by

AN EX-EDITOR.







New York:
G. P. Putnam & Son, 661 Broadway.
1868.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
William Young,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.




CONTENTS.

                                                 Page.
      I.--MATHIEU ROPARS                             7
     II.--THRICE ONLY                               76
    III.--TOSSING UP FOR A HUSBAND                  97
     IV.--MISSING MARINERS                         117
      V.--MANDRAGORA--BY THE DOZEN                 140
     VI.--DR. PABLO'S PREDICTION                   157
    VII.--THE NEW HAMPSHIRE ALPS                   163
   VIII.--SLIDING SCALE OF THE INCONSOLABLES       173
     IX.--RAMBLING RECORDS:
            The Gentle Arlesians                   179
            At Nuremburg                           183
            Roman Nomenclature                     189
            Brigands, Beggars, and Souvenirs       192
            Livres des Voyageurs                   197
      X.--A SINGULAR ANAGRAM                       199
     XI.--A WELL KNOWN DOCUMENT                    201
    XII.--BEL PIEDE                                208
   XIII.--WHO IS HE?                               210
    XIV.--TO NINON                                 212
     XV.--THE LAST OF THE ROMAN GLADIATORS         215
    XVI.--THE PRUDENT BRIDE                        218
   XVII.--THE TRAMPER'S BED AND THE KING'S         220
  XVIII.--OCCASION                                 221
    XIX.--THE MOURNFUL BALLAD OF THE ALABAMA       222
     XX.--LINES FOR THE GUITAR                     224
    XXI.--THREE MEN AND A WOMAN                    225
   XXII.--ANOTHER MARBLE FAUN                      227
  XXIII.--CHARADES                                 232


     These literary chips from the workshop of an arduous profession
     were, with few exceptions, contributed to the "_Albion_" newspaper,
     between the years 1848 and 1866.

         New York, May 25, 1868.






                        MATHIEU ROPARS.

              _From the French of Emile Souvestre._

                               I.


At the extremity of the roadstead of Brest, in the open space that lies
stretched out between the Ile Longue and Point Kelerne, may be seen two
rocks crowned with massive granite buildings, and standing boldly up. On
the former, the lazaretto of Treberon has been established; the latter,
which in other days was used as a burial-ground and thence took its name
of the Ile des Morts, now contains the principal powder-magazine of the
naval arsenal. The two rocks separated by an arm of the sea, are about
six miles distant from Brest. In appearance these little islands are not
unlike. Beyond the ground occupied by the buildings upon them, they
offer nothing to the eye save a succession of stony slopes, dotted here
and there with coarse moss and prickly thorn-broom. Vainly there might
you look for any other shelter than that afforded by the fissures of the
rocks, for any other shade than that of the walls, for any other walk
than the short terrace contrived in front of the buildings. Naked and
sterile, the two isles remind you of a couple of immense sentry-boxes
in stone, placed there for the purpose of keeping guard over the sea,
which is roaring beneath them. But if the foot that treads them remains
imprisoned within a narrow circle, the view from their summit extends
over an infinite space. Here, you have the bay of Lanvoc, bordered by a
dull-looking and stunted vegetation; there, Roscanvel with its shadows
crossed by the graceful spire of its church; there, Spanish Point
bristling with batteries; and lastly, close upon the horizon lies Brest,
with its dock-yards, its forts, and the hundred masts of its ships,
visible through a veil of mist. Midway opens out the Goulet, the harbour
of this marvellous lake, through which arrive and depart unceasingly
those wandering sails, that issue forth to flaunt the ensign of France
upon the waters, or to bring it home again from far-away lands.

A cannon-shot, the echo of which was still booming along the shores, had
just announced one of these arrivals, and a frigate, with a light
breeze, was doubling the Point under a cloud of canvas. From the
esplanade of Treberon a man, wrapped in a pilot-cloth cape and wearing a
narrow-brimmed glazed hat, under which it might be seen that his locks
were turning grey, was looking at the noble vessel as she glided along
in the distance, between the azure of the sea and of the sky. It was
obvious that the keeper of the lazaretto (for he it was) gave but casual
attention to the sight, with which his long residence at Treberon had
familiarized him. His look, for a moment resting carelessly upon the
frigate which had begun to brail up her upper sails, soon reverted to
his more immediate neighbourhood, and settled itself at the foot of the
pathway, that led from the esplanade to the sea, upon a group which
appeared more decidedly to interest him. And in truth the object of this
rivetted gaze was of that sort which might have attracted the least
attentive eye. A pupil of Phidias would have traced in it the germ of
one of those antique bas-reliefs, of which the marble has become more
precious than gold.

Two little girls and a goat were coming up the winding path together.
The elder of the two, who might be eleven years old, was holding the
freakish animal by one of those long pieces of sea-weed that resemble
strips of Spanish leather. Her black hair fell down upon a neck
embrowned like a raven's wing, and threw something of a wild hardihood
into her expression, tempered however by the velvety softness of her
eye. The younger, seated on the goat as though it were her customary
place, was of such rosy-white complexion as you see in the flower of the
eglantine. A tuft of broom, mingling with her golden hair, fell down
upon her shoulder, and gave her an indescribably coquettish grace. The
two sisters compelled the goat, which submitted most unwillingly, to
moderate its pace; but still, as they proceeded, they were obliged to
double the slender reins by which they kept it within bounds, and anon
to catch hold of the wreath of sea-flowers twisted about its horns.
Then what joyous shouts and peals of laughter were there without end,
broken in upon by the gentle bleatings of _Brunette_ as she pawed the
ground with her foot, and shook her saucy little head! Any other hands
but those of Josephe and Francine would have tried in vain to make her
even so far submissive; but for the latter the goat had been a
foster-mother, a circumstance evidently not forgotten.

Mathieu Ropars had been watching for some time this pleasant little
contest between the fantastic _Brunette_ and his daughters, when he felt
a hand laid upon his arm; he turned round and encountered, so to say,
close against his shoulder the bronzed and smiling face of their mother.

--"Just look at those children," said he, nodding his head in the
direction of the merry group.

--"Heavens! Francine will fall," exclaimed the mother, stepping towards
the path. He drew her back.

--"Let them be," said he; "don't you know that there is nothing to fear
when Josephe has her eye upon them? Besides, _Brunette_ loves them
better than her own kids; nor are they behind-hand in returning it.
Heaven forgive me, if that creature isn't what they think most of--after
us!"

--"And after Monsieur Gabriel," chimed in their mother--"at least so far
as Josephe is concerned; for although he scarcely stayed more than a
week in the lazaretto, and that's three years ago, the child never lets
a day pass by without speaking of him."

--"To tell the truth, the Lieutenant is a sort of man not easily to be
forgotten," replied Ropars, "especially by the little one yonder, to
whom he was so kind and made so many promises. Why, wasn't he to bring
her all manner of wonderful things from the East? And by the bye, if
nothing has happened to him, I believe that we shall pretty soon see him
again, as well as the _Thetis_."

--"In the meantime I must tell the children of another visit, which will
also be no small treat for them."

--"Whose?"

--"Cousin's, and little Michael's."

--"Dorot's coming?" inquired Mathieu, looking towards the platform of
the Ile des Morts. "How do you know?"

--"Can't we talk by signal just as well as his Majesty's ships?" said
Genevieve laughing. "Look, he has hung out of his window three small red
handkerchiefs; that's to tell us that he's coming over. Besides, I saw
Michael going down to the Superintendent's."

--"Bravo!" cried Ropars, his face lighting up; "your cousin and the boy
must sup with us--that is to say, if your pantry is not quite so empty
as your hospital."

Genevieve protested, and then enumerated with an air of complacency all
her culinary resources, which had fortunately been replenished, two
days before, by the Superintendent, who supplied at the same time the
powder-magazine and the lazaretto. Mathieu promised to complete the
feast by broaching for the artillery-man an old bottle of Rousillon
wine, stowed away for a long time under the sand of his cellar.

The two little girls at this moment came up on to the terrace.

--"Quick, here!" cried Genevieve, "quick; there's somebody coming."

--"Monsieur Gabriel?" asked Josephe, springing forward with this
exclamation.

--"No, no, goose-cap--cousin Dorot and little Michael."

An involuntary gesture of disappointment escaped from the child; but
Francine clapped her hands and broke out into shouts of joy. The goat,
left to herself, bounded along the precipitous slopes of the rocks,
where she set to work browsing on the tufts of brackish herbage; the
sisters took each other's hand to go down towards the little
landing-place; whilst their mother went into the house with a view of
getting everything in readiness.

As had been remarked by the last-named, the special affection of Josephe
for Monsieur Gabriel was already of several years standing. It dated
from a quarantine performed at Treberon by the Lieutenant, who, charmed
by her grace, bordering though it was upon the savage, had exhibited
towards her a marked regard, to which the child had responded with what
amounted almost to a passion. Having entered the navy against his
inclination, Monsieur Gabriel had adopted little of it but its uniform.
In the midst of a life of change, hardship, and adventure, he dreamed
unceasingly of the unchangeableness of the domestic hearth, and of
peaceful family enjoyments. He was one of those lovers of solitude, who
are born to live amongst labourers, and women, and children. Confined to
the lazaretto of Treberon, he had brought thither a few favourite books,
and his violin, on which he played for hours at a time, with no other
end than the listening to its melodious vibrations. When he went out,
Josephe ran to meet him, acted as his guide along the rocks, and
escorted him to their most secluded recesses, in which, day by day, he
discovered some unknown plant, or moss that was new to him. In the
evening, be paid a visit to the old quarter-master whose quiet enjoyment
of life had attracted his notice. Genevieve talked to him of her
children; Josephe begged of him a story or a song; and when it was time
for him to retire for the night, he went back to his cell, light hearted
and with tranquil mind. A fortnight thus slipped away as if it had been
an hour; so that when his quarantine was at length performed, and it was
necessary for him to leave Treberon, his deliverance did but awaken in
him a feeling of regret. He came back several times to pass whole days
upon the lonely islet; and when finally he was embarking for a distant
voyage of discovery, he promised the solitary family that he would
occasionally write to them. Ropars had in fact received some letters
from him; and, as we have seen, was expecting his speedy return. For the
moment, the visit announced by Genevieve exclusively occupied the keeper
of the lazaretto. He remained alone upon the esplanade, whence he
continued to look towards the Ile des Morts. The distance rendered
visible everything done there; it was easy to recognize persons and to
distinguish their movements. He could therefore see Dorot take his way
towards the skiff, set up the mast, and hoist the sail; and the little
Michael catching hold, with some difficulty, of the tiller.

Previously to the two families becoming allied by marriage, the keepers
of the powder-magazine and of the lazaretto had known each other in the
navy, wherein one was a quarter-master and the other a sergeant of
artillery. Appointed to Treberon, Mathieu Ropars had rejoiced at the
idea of meeting his old ship-mate Dorot, already several years
established at the Ile des Morts, with his wife, his son, and a female
orphan relative. The lazaretto being almost always deserted, he was left
with ample leisure for frequent visits to the powder-magazine, and for
becoming well known there and thoroughly appreciated. Genevieve, Dorot's
cousin, was particularly taken with such a character, so
straight-forward and yet so gentle. She had been tried, until she was
sixteen, by all the pains and penalties of misery. Taken then, from
charitable motives, into the house of her cousin whose wife occasionally
made her pay dearly enough for his hospitality, the poor orphan had
accustomed herself to expecting nothing at any one's hands, and to
receiving as a favour whatever was accorded her. Thus the frank
cordiality of Mathieu was more touching in her eyes than it would have
been in those of another. She welcomed it with a gratitude half filial,
to which insensibly became added that shade of a more tender feeling,
always blended into the attachments of a woman whose heart is
disengaged. An intimacy between herself and Ropars went on,
strengthening from day to day, whilst neither of them took account of
their predilections. As he marked the young girl in the bloom of her
expanding beauty, Mathieu, who already felt the weight of years upon
him, would never have dreamed of asking her to share his existence;
whilst Genevieve, happy in seeing him daily and in the consciousness of
his immediate neighbourhood, thought not of desiring anything further.
It needed the offer of a situation for her at Brest, and the consequent
prospect of a separation, to enlighten them as to their mutual
dependence on each other. Perceiving that Genevieve shed tears, Ropars,
who could not shut his eyes to his own distress of mind, took courage
and brought matters to a point. He told her that she might dispense with
this separation, if the isle of Treberon were no more irksome to her
than the Ile des Morts, and if his society were as agreeable to her as
that of her cousin. The poor girl, weeping, blushing and overjoyed,
could only reply by letting herself fall into his arms. The old
quarter-master forthwith opened his mind to Dorot. The marriage took
place; and he carried off Genevieve to his islet, of which henceforth
he mistrusted not the solitude.

The difference in their respective ages did not seem to mar the
happiness of the keeper and the orphan girl. Both were possessed of that
which renders marriage a blessing--the simple mind and the heart of
kindly impulse. Children came, to draw still closer these ties, and to
enliven their hearth. The younger was just born, when Dorot lost his
wife, and was left alone with his son Michael, thirteen years of age.
This premature widowerhood had revived the friendship of the two old
shipmates. Their intercourse became more frequent. The skiff that served
both establishments was stationed at the little haven of the Ile des
Morts, and was thus at the disposition of the artillery-man, who missed
no opportunity of coming to pass a few hours with his neighbours. But
notwithstanding their proximity, and the ease with which the passage was
made, these visits could not be of daily occurrence. Dorot was obliged
to be constantly on the watch; his official orders were equally sudden
and unforeseen; nor could he expose himself to the risk of too frequent
absence. His appearance therefore at the lazaretto had not ceased to be
a happy exception to the rule. Father, mother, and children alike found
in it a festal occasion; and it was never without great rejoicing that
the signal was observed announcing the agreeable visit, and the boat
seen putting out from the little landing-place and stretching over
towards Treberon.

This time, so soon as Ropars saw her on the way, he went down to meet
her. Scarcely had she touched the ground, when Michael jumped ashore,
threw his arms about the keeper, then about the two little girls, and
then ran off with the latter towards the house. Dorot stepping out in
turn, shook hands heartily with Mathieu; and the pair, chatting, slowly
began the ascent. Having reached the summit of the cliff, they faced
about by force of habit, to take a look out to sea. The artillery-man
remarked that the frigate had just clewed up her lower sails.

--"God help us! she's going to anchor," said he; "did you ever see,
Mathieu, a homeward-bound ship let go so far from land?"

--"That depends," replied the old quarter-master; "we hold off when we
mistrust a fort, or are afraid of reefs."

--"But there's nothing of that sort here," remarked Dorot; "the frigate
has no need to fear the guns of the Castle which are her very good
friends, or the roadstead which is as safe an anchorage as if she were
fast in the dry-dock. There must be something extraordinary."

--"Perhaps the ship has to perform quarantine," suggested Ropars; "the
_Thetis_ is expected."

--"That's it; you've named her," cried the artillery-man, winking his
eye and shading his forehead with one hand so as to look more fixedly at
the distant vessel; "it is the _Thetis_, or I'm a heathen. I had her
down yonder for a week, when she took her powder on board; I know her
by the set of her masts and by her bearing on the water."

--"The _Thetis_!" echoed Mathieu; "then we shall soon see Monsieur
Gabriel. What delight for Josephe! Quick; let's tell her."

He was hurrying off, but Dorot kept him back. "No hurry," said he;
"never reckon too surely on what a ship brings home. Pick people out,
and they're just those that are missing when the roll's called. Better
wait till the Lieutenant brings his own news."

--"You're right," replied the quarter-master; "the more so since the
frigate comes, if I don't mistake, from the Havannah."

--"Who knows whether she won't bring you some lodgers for your
lazaretto?"

--"So be it; they'll be welcome. With Genevieve and the children, one
can't be dull; but once in a while there's no harm in a little company.
You fellows at the Ile des Morts, you have the artillery
despatch-carrier, who keeps you up to all that goes on, to say nothing
of inspections and your convoys of powder; whilst here--never a thing!
Not one visitor in a twelvemonth! At least, if you have to put people
sometimes into quarantine, you hear what's done on land there, and that
leaves you some thing to talk about for months."

The artillery-man shrugged his shoulders--"That's all very well, when
they don't bring disease with them; but the old coasters still talk of a
quarantine in which the lazaretto ran short of both earth and rock for
burying the dead, and when the bodies were of necessity thrown into the
sea with a shot attached to their necks, as in vessels out on a voyage."

--"Now may Christ spare us such a trial!" exclaimed Ropars, respectfully
touching his hat, as he was used to do whenever he pronounced the
Saviour's name. "But you're speaking of a long time ago, Dorot; please
Heaven, we won't see such again. There are no heathen here now; and I
believe that God's good will will take care of us."

Dorot nodded his acquiescence. In fact this confidence, springing from a
simple faith, had up to that time been justified by experience. During
the thirteen years that the keeper had spent at Treberon, he had only
received healthy persons into quarantine, who were complying with a
formal regulation, and were obliged to make proof of their good health
by undergoing this preventive sequestration. There were indeed rare
exceptions. Like all lazarettos, that of Treberon remained generally
unoccupied; and the keeper kept watch there alone, like an ever-living
sentinel posted in advance of the continent, for the purpose of warding
off contagion.

As they chatted, Dorot and he had reached the house. Genevieve was
waiting for them at the doorway, surrounded by the three children who
laid hold of and talked to her all at once. After an exchange of their
accustomed friendly greetings, she went in, with the two keepers, whilst
Michael drew off Francine and Josephe towards _Brunette_, who was
waiting for them on a pinnacle of rock, eyeing them and bleating at
them. The youngster, accustomed to chase his father's sheep upon the
declivities of the Ile des Morts, endeavored to get at her; but the
capricious creature sprung from point to point along the precipices,
letting herself at every moment almost be caught, and at every moment
bounding away from the hand that just could touch her.

Whilst the children kept up this chase, with a thousand calls to one
another and a thousand peals of laughter, Ropars and Dorot entered the
eating-room in which Genevieve was already laying the cloth. It was a
room of middling size, furnished by the keeper himself at the period of
his marriage, and ornamented with a few marine engravings. Amongst these
was particularly distinguished a portrait of Jean Bart, that nautical
Hercules on whom, as all the world knows, his traditional celebrity has
fastened all manner of superhuman exploits and impossible adventures.

Having made his guest sit down, Mathieu went off to disinter his bottle
of Rousillon wine; and brought it back all whitened with the sand, and
capped with a green-waxed cork that bespoke its noble birth-place. Dorot
good-temperedly complained of such extravagance, and hinted that he
could not make his visit a long one, inasmuch as the officer commanding
the post of the Ile des Morts had charged him to bring the skiff back
before sunset. Genevieve therefore hurried herself to serve up the
dinner, and called the children to take their places at table.

With persons whose entire life was contracted within the narrow limits
of two small islands, the conversation could not be much varied. Mathieu
talked of his still-lines set between the headlands of Treberon, and
Dorot of his small cherry-tree. The latter might be regarded as the one
stumbling block of pride, over which the habitual modesty of the worthy
sergeant was sure to trip. No other keeper before his time had succeeded
in securing what he planted, from the sea wind; this was the only tree
that had ever been seen in the two islands; and Lucullus might well have
been less proud of the first cherry-tree that he brought from Persia,
for the purpose of gracing his triumph. Humble as regards everything
else, Dorot drew himself up proudly when there was any question of his
poor wild-stock; he only let it be seen by his friends and his
superiors, and then at their urgent solicitation. Objects resemble human
kind, and very often assume the importance that is given them, in place
of that to which they are entitled. Thus overcharged and carefully
tended, the fame of the cherry-tree of the Ile des Morts went abroad
from Plougastel to Camaret; it was everywhere talked of as a prodigy.
The pride of Dorot had increased in a corresponding degree, and was just
now swollen to the highest pitch by an event no less extraordinary than
unforseen. He brought the news of it to Treberon, but would not make it
known too abruptly. All supposable things were first to be run over, as
in the famous letter of Madame de Sevigne on the marriage of
Mademoiselle. Finally, when every one had given it up, he determined to
enlighten them, and announced ... that the cherry-tree was in blossom!

Unanimous was the cry of astonishment and delight. Prisoners in their
island, it was several years since Ropars and Genevieve had seen a tree
in blossom; and the two little girls could not recall to mind that they
had ever seen one. Loudly and both at once, they beset Michael with
questions. Was the cherry-tree flowering in gold-colour like the
thorn-broom, or in the colour of blood like the sea-furze? How could the
blossoms ever become fruit? Must they wait a long time? Would the tree
bear the red cherries of the coast, or the black-hearts of the upper
country? Dorot cut all these inquiries short, by declaring that he would
come over next day, for the whole of the family, that they might see the
wondrous tree and dine at the Ile des Morts. The ecstacies of the
sisters may be imagined. Their mother could not check their laughing and
their clapping of hands. They continued their cry of "to-morrow,
to-morrow!" just as Aeneas' look-out men kept up their cry of "Italy,
Italy!" when they saw through the empurpled vapours that goal of so many
efforts and such longings.

Remarking their impatience, the sergeant proposed to carry them over,
that very evening, with Michael. There would be still day-light enough
on their arrival, for them to see the cherry-tree covered with its coat
of summer-snow, and their parents could fetch them, next day. The
children backed this offer with their entreaties; Ropars smiled,
without replying; but Genevieve entered her protest against it. What
would she do, if Francine and Josephe were away? Many a time ere this,
on waking in the middle of the night, she had fretted herself at not
hearing their gentle breathings; she had jumped up in agony, and had
crept on tip-toe to their bed, to touch them and to listen to them; how
would it be then, if they were not there; how could she herself sleep
quietly without fancying some danger? She would dream that the
powder-magazine was on fire, or that the Ile des Morts was going down
like a vessel foundering--and all this was said betwixt a laugh and a
tear. The little maidens, bent at first on setting off, were soon
hanging on their mother's shoulders, touched by her contagious
tenderness, and declaring that they preferred to remain. The
artillery-man insisted no longer. He took with Mathieu the path that led
down to the sandy shore, and was followed by Genevieve and the children,
all silent for the moment.

The sun declining to the horizon lit up the promontory of Kelerne, and
painted in the passage of Goulet a stream of purple and gold. A breeze
began to play over the bay, and chequered it with undulating ripples.
The perfume exhaled from the saps was wafted in puffs of wind from the
main land, as were the tinklings of the Angelus, and the lowing of the
cattle driven home. A consciousness of strength in repose was
perceivable, together with an indescribable air of serenity, that stole
from surrounding objects upon the senses, and found its way to the very
depths of the soul. The sky, the earth, and the water seemed by mutual
consent to have subdued their voices, in order to mingle them in one
harmonious murmur. Without analyzing the soft but not enervating
influence that surrounded them, the two keepers with their families were
alive to its effects. Silently they went down the foot-path, pausing
upon their steps, as though to lengthen out the sense of enjoyment, or
to taste of it drop by drop. Having, however, reached the boat, it
became necessary to part. Josephe made the sergeant promise to come for
them early in the morning. The sail at last was hoisted; and the skiff,
launched out upon the yielding waves, sped her way towards the
powder-magazine.

At the moment when she reached the middle of the channel that separates
the two islands, a ship's long-boat, unobserved hitherto in the
excitement of leave-taking, appeared to leeward of Treberon. Her
peculiar build, her black color traversed only by a single white ribbon
at the water-line, and the perfect condition of her spars and sails,
would have sufficed to show what she was, even if the costume of the
double row of sailors ranged along the thwarts had not betrayed the
man-of-war's men. On crossing the skiff steered by the sergeant, she was
sheered suddenly off; and by the last glimpse of day-light might be
discerned the yellow flag of the Health Office.

At this sight, Genevieve and the children uttered an involuntary cry.
All three at once comprehended that these were occupants coming to the
lazaretto; that they would put the island into quarantine, and prevent
all external intercourse. The next day's visit must be indefinitely
postponed, and the cherry-tree would have finished blossoming before
they could have regained their liberty. This dashing down of a
newly-raised anticipation had in it something so abrupt and so
unexpected, that Francine and Josephe could by no means resign
themselves to it. Desolate was the look that they exchanged, and
silently did they begin to weep, as their mother took one of them in
either hand, and sorrowfully remounted the path. Genevieve herself felt
her heart oppressed; on reaching the platform, she could not but pause
for a moment. The skiff with rose-coloured sail, that bore away the
promise of another meeting and of a festival, had disappeared; the black
long-boat was there at her feet--and with it had come to shore,
seclusion, melancholy, and disease. Genevieve kissed her children; but
scarcely could she keep back a tear that had gathered beneath her
eyelids, as without the inclination to prolong her look she hastily
entered the house.

Mathieu in the meantime had gone to receive the persons placed in
quarantine, and to open the lazaretto for them. On returning, he looked
somewhat pale, and his face wore an expression with which Genevieve was
struck; but at the first question she asked him, he abruptly interrupted
her, to inquire where Francine and Josephe were.

--"Don't you see them?" she replied, pointing to the two little girls
sitting down in a dark corner, still sobbing, and with eyes still moist;
"did you think that they had gone with their cousin?"

"Would to God, they had!" murmured Mathieu in an agonized voice, but not
overheard by the children.

Genevieve looked at him, stupefied. "Why so?" she asked; "what has
happened? Tell me, Mathieu, in the name of the Holy Trinity! what is the
matter?"

--"Well, then," answered the keeper, "there is ... there is ... death
upon the island."

--"How do you mean?"

--"I mean, my poor wife, just what I have seen! The _Thetis's_ long-boat
has landed her hospital-mates and doctors, with eight sick men; not one
of whom will ever touch the main-land again."

--"Holy Virgin! what is it?"

--"The yellow fever!"


                                 II.


For him who dwells in-land, the yellow fever is but a disease similar to
a thousand others, of which he knows nothing save the name. Family
tradition and personal experience can attach to it, for him, neither
terror or regret. But amongst our maritime population, the word sounds
like a knell; not only bringing to mind a risk to be encountered, but
reviving affliction, of recent or of ancient date. There, where every
family has one at least of its loved members absent in foreign
countries, the terrible scourge is all too well identified with the
number of widows and orphans that it has made. It ranks with the storm
and the reef of rocks, as a deadly foe. Its name, let fall, produces the
same effect as the wind that whistles, or the surf that roars. Looks are
interchanged on hearing it; and thought recurs to the absent, if not to
the dead.

Ropars, on this occasion, dwelt mainly on those about him; and in truth,
no one could have better right than he to be ill at ease. Thrown in
former days upon a station where the yellow fever was epidemic, he had
seen the seamen of the fleet decimated around him, and had himself
barely escaped, as if by miracle. The remembrance of that butchery, as
he termed it, was too vivid, and he had too often described it to
Genevieve, for their firmness not now to be shaken. They troubled not
themselves on their own account, but on account of those whose existence
was so dear to them. Mathieu's first thought was of his wife and of his
children; the first impulse of Genevieve was to fold them in her arms,
and to declare that they must all go away. Some trouble had the old
sailor in making her comprehend that, even if retreating were not
dishonorable for him, it had become impossible. The long-boat had made
sail for the frigate, and the yellow flag was hoisted at the lazaretto.
Quarantine had begun for all who happened to be at Treberon. Not a soul
could henceforth pass beyond its limits: and Ropars pointed out to
Genevieve the gun-boat sent by the health officer, which had been
brought to bear at half cable's-length distance from the island, and cut
off from it all intercourse by boats. They were in fact definitively
penned in with the epidemic, and condemned to run its risk to the end.

But the agitation of Mathieu, in which surprise had worked its part, did
not last long. The quarter-master soon regained his original strength of
mind, which had been slightly unhinged in the tendernesses of his
domestic life; and, regardless of his own previous words, he set himself
seriously to soothing the terror of Genevieve by underrating the danger
that they incurred. After all, they were not here in a state of things
that favoured the disease; they had not to contend against the
enervating sun of the Havannah or Brazil; this was not one of those
awful contagions that spread from house to house like a fire, leaving
behind it the dead alone--it was a disorder partly spent, and from
which, with certain precautions, escape was easy. The chief and the most
indispensable of these precautions was to avoid going near the
apartments occupied by those who had been brought into quarantine, and
never to stay to leeward of the lazaretto. Josephe and Francine were at
once informed of this. Genevieve explained to them every thing that they
were to do, with a minuteness of detail, that savoured alternately of
threatening and of endearment. At first, as the punishment for any
failure of obedience, she pointed out to them the disease, or even death
itself; then seeing them turn pale with fear, she drew them within her
caressing arms and re-assured them by her kisses. Mathieu added to her
exhortations something more definite and more secure. Next morning, he
marked out a space enclosed with stakes joined together by a cord, as
the children's permitted bounds. By way of increased precaution, the
goat herself was brought within this enclosure, picketted to a stake,
and fed upon winter fodder. The keeper, on his part, held aloof from
habitual intercourse with the infirmary-men and the doctors of the
lazaretto. He would even have been ignorant of the fate of those who
were in quarantine if, every evening, the descent of a few men towards
the sandy shore of the little isle, and the tinkling of a bell that
warned him to stand out of their way, had not made it obvious that their
errand was to dig a grave. The vacancies, besides, were rapidly filled
by fresh invalids brought on shore by the frigate's long-boat, for the
epidemic did not seem as yet to decrease or to relax its severity. No
convalescent inmate had yet appeared upon the terrace of the lazaretto.
The skiff belonging to the gun-boat, that enforced the sanitary
regulations, came near the landing place every morning; but no one
landed. Provisions and medicines were put ashore by means of a
travelling pass-rope, set up in the creek; the Surgeon's report was
received at the end of a boat-hook; and then the skiff sailed away in an
apparent hurry, that bespoke the fear of contagion.

However, after the first few days were past, Ropars and Genevieve felt
somewhat re-assured. The blows that death dealt around them were mute
and hidden; the edge of inquietude became insensibly blunted. Seeing
that it was possible to live in contact with the formidable malady, they
half forgot, both of them, that is was also possible to die. It was with
them as with the inhabitants of a besieged city, who no longer tremble
at the roar of cannon. In vain did the bell tinkle every evening, and
the long-boat bring ashore every morning a fresh batch of the
death-stricken; the continuance of the danger made it seem to be a
matter of course, and this feeling soon merged into a sense of security.
Once in a while even, Genevieve forgot every thing and recommenced her
singing; but abruptly it was suspended at sight of the yellow flag, or
as a sudden recollection crossed her mind. Then the song was stifled
into a sigh.

Ropars had made inquiries for Monsieur Gabriel, on the first arrival of
the sick. The epidemic had not then attacked him; but his own breaking
off from all intercourse with the hospital-mates, and with the crew, had
prevented his seeking further information. Several boat-loads had been
brought ashore, without any opportunity for his hearing of the
Lieutenant, when he received a note, cut through with scissors and
steeped in vinegar. It contained only these few words, written in
pencil:

     "I am come here.... If I live, we shall meet.... If I die ...
     present this letter to the captain of the _Thetis_ ... and claim
     for Josephe ... my large mahogany chest.
                                                          GABRIEL."

The writing, scarcely legible, betrayed a hand that shook with fever.
Mathieu, grievously taken by surprise, forgot this time all his
precautions, and ran to the lazaretto. But the Surgeon would not let him
see the Lieutenant, whose condition seemed to give him grave concern. In
the evening it was still worse, and left little room for hope; on the
following day there was none at all.

Josephe, from whom they had concealed the name of the frigate that was
ravaged by the epidemic, had no suspicion of the danger of her friend;
still, her sister and herself had none the less lost all their gaiety.
Prisoners within the narrow bounds marked out by their father, they were
both moodily seated near the stake to which the goat was picketted; and
she, lying down at their feet, seemed to disdain the fodder that was
scattered before her. Josephe, holding Francine propped against her,
proposed to her, one after another, all the little games to which they
were accustomed; but the child shook her head, her eyes fixed upon the
sea.

--"What will you do, then, Zine?" asked she, saddened by her sister's
sadness.

There was no reply. The elder had one hand upon the younger's head, and
played for an instant with the ringlets of her golden hair.

--"You're longing to go across there to see Michael? isn't that it?" she
resumed, bending down over the little one; "but it's too late; the
cherry-tree has shed its blossoms."

--"Then you believe that the cherries are already ripe?" interrupted
Francine, turning up to Josephe her face that listlessness had robbed of
a portion of its roses, but with her large eyes full of curiosity.

--"I don't know," said the elder "mother will tell us. But let's think
about something else; you know that we cannot go to the
powder-magazine."

--"No, nor to the end of the island, nor any where," added Francine,
letting herself sink down again upon Josephe's knees.

The latter, bent at all events on amusing the child, then called her
attention to the goat, that had just got up. Starting suddenly from her
doze, _Brunette_ was describing round her stake a series of such droll
evolutions, that the child's sadness could not hold out against them,
and she soon broke out into a laugh. Josephe, who at first had chimed in
with her merriment, was afraid that the mutinous creature's gambols
would end by her breaking the cord; she put her hand out to prevent it.

--"Let her be, let her be!" cried Francine in high glee; "look how she
rears up! see how she dances! Well done, _Brunette_; higher, little one,
higher!"

The child, kneeling down upon the sand, clapped her hands, with shouts
of delight; and the goat, that seemed excited by her voice and by the
noise, redoubled its capricious boundings. All at once, the stake,
loosened by such continued tuggings, was drawn out of the ground: the
animal jumped to one side; and finding itself no longer held back,
started off for the further extremity of the island.

The two sisters gave utterance to a cry, and then, from an irresistable
impulse, sprang away together in pursuit. The corded limits were passed,
and they were soon led off along the declivities, calling to _Brunette_,
who according to her old tricks would wait, bleating, for them, and then
caper away at their approach. In the eagerness of their chase they thus
reached the summit of the island, followed the slopes that went down to
the sea, and finally arrived at the foot of the ravine that was farthest
removed from their dwelling. It was there only that Josephe bethought
her of their disobedience. She stopped, out of breath, and held back her
sister with her arms.

--"Not a step further, Zine!" cried she; "we ought not to have come so
far; mother forbid it."

The little one looked round about her, and remarked in turn the spot in
which they were. It was a large fissure hollowed out in the stony soil
of the island, and, at the bottom of which broad ferns and flowering
brooms had sprung up in tufts. Right and left, through the
partition-walls of rock, peeped up the stone-break, and the sea turf
with its purple cats-tails, and the fox glove that thrust its long stalk
from the crevices, loaded with rose-coloured bell flowers.

At such a sight, Francine could not restrain a cry of admiration. Here
was the first verdure, here were the first flowers she had seen, since
strict orders had confined her to the barren platform occupied by the
keeper's house. Neither could she resist the temptation; slipping away
from the hands of her sister, and unwilling to hear a word, she
disappeared in the thickest of the flowering tufts.

Having vainly called to her, Josephe followed to bring her back; but the
child went on from shrub to shrub, without any inclination to stop. At
every fresh handful of gathered flowers, uselessly did Josephe cry,
"enough!" "More, more!" was Francine's answer, as she piled up within
her apron, upheld by the two corners, all on which she could lay her
hands. Want of place alone could make her consent to suspend her
harvesting. Loaded with herbs and wild flowers, falling in garlands down
to her very feet, she at length was disposed to take hold again of
Josephe's hand, who set to work to find their way back, and cautiously
removed the prickly-broom from their path.

The children were on the point of reaching a ridge made up of heath and
broom, when the warning bell was heard above their heads. They stopped,
and raised their eyes. Four of the infirmary-men were coming down
towards the ravine, bearing their funereal burden. They were following
the only foot-path practicable on the slope, and the little girls could
not proceed on their way, without meeting them. Terrified, they drew
back amongst the bushes that still concealed them, and paused, leaning
one against the other. The bell tinkled by fits and starts, drawing
nearer at every sound. At length they could distinguish the heavy
footstep of the bearers ringing upon the rock, and could see their
darkening outlines marked out in the twilight. They were advancing
precisely to the little oasis wherein the children had taken refuge.
Arrived at the entrance, they seemed to consult together for an instant;
then resumed their way through the thorny tufts, rounded the mass of
rock behind which the sisters had crouched, and stopped, with the words,
"Here it is."

Francine, in dire alarm, had hidden her head upon Josephe's knees; she,
less timid, gently put aside the branches, and could then see a grave
already dug in a gravelly portion of the soil. The infirmary-men had
laid down the corpse upon the ground, wrapped-up in a coarse linen
cloth. Then they took a sack, hidden under a projecting bit of rock, and
emptied its contents into the grave. The white dust, that rose up from
it as a cloud, was wafted to the children in a sour odour of lime. This
was carefully spread over the bottom of the hole, so as to form a bed
for the dead body, and was then sprinkled with water drawn from the sea.
These preparatory measures had all been taken in gloomy silence. Nought
was heard but the scraping of the spade upon the rocky soil, and the
monotonous bubbling of the tiny waves that rippled with the evening
breeze upon the shore. Josephe, her neck out-stretched, her large eyes
dilated, and with a painful sense of tightening at her heart-strings,
continued on the watch.

At this moment, two of the bearers took up the body, and brought it
close to the hole dug for its reception. They were separated from the
children only by a tuft of bushes. As they lightly grazed it with their
burden, a gust of wind unrolled one of the corners of the covering
cloth; a livid head was visible by the last glimmering of light; and
Josephe uttered a stifled cry. The fall of the body into the pit
prevented her being heard; but the moment's glance had sufficed--the
child thought she recognized the face of Monsieur Gabriel. She threw
herself back, in inexpressible horror. It was the first time that death
had come before her eyes, and it appeared to her in a guise that filled
her with grief and terror. Clinging to Francine, she began to tremble in
every limb. The noise of the earth and flint-stones, that were shovelled
into the grave, held her as one petrified. It was only when the four
grave-diggers had left the ravine and disappeared in the pathway, that
her agony found vent. Francine raised her head and asked what had
happened; but receiving no reply, threw herself into Josephe's arms, and
began in turn to sob.

The distress of her little sister seemed to counteract that of Josephe,
who forced herself to stifle her own anguish, and began embracing and
consoling Francine.

--"Don't cry" stammered she, choking in spite of herself; "you mustn't
be afraid, ... you mustn't cry...."

--"What is the matter with you, Josey; what is it?" inquired the little
one again, holding her sister's head between her own two hands, and
kissing her moistened cheeks.

--"It's ... nothing, ..." returned Josephe, her accent belying her
words, ... "I was taken by surprise...."

--"Have the men gone?" asked Francine, looking with frightened glance
towards the grave.

--"You see they have," answered Josephe shuddering.

--"What did they come here to do? They were carrying something. It was a
dead body, wasn't it?"

Her sister put her hand upon her lips.

--"Don't talk of that, Zine!" murmured she, her sobs again overpowering
her.

--"You saw it?" asked the child, frightened, yet curious.

--"Yes, O God!" faltered forth her sister in reply; "... and ... I knew
it again ... it was Monsieur Gabriel!"

--"Your good friend, Josey?" cried Francine; "are you sure? And he's
there ... there, under the ground? ... Oh! let's go, let's go; I'm
afraid ... I'm afraid!"

And again she threw herself into her sister's arms, who exerted herself
to the utmost to re-assure her, and at the same time to control her own
tears.

--"There, stop, Zine!" said she, with broken voice; "... we must be calm
... we must dry up our eyes ... or mother will be uneasy." Then raising
herself suddenly, "Hark," she added, "I fancied I heard some one calling
us; quick, quick, let's go up!"

With these words the two little maidens rose from the ground; quitting
the ravine, they hastily regained the platform, trembling and out of
breath when they reached it.

Genevieve was waiting there for them; but it was already dark, and this
prevented her noticing their trouble. She took them by the hand, to lead
them in, and made them repeat their joint prayers; both went to bed,
without speaking of the adventure at the ravine.


                                 III


Josephe slept badly; and the next morning, when she got up, was pale and
drooping. Genevieve, who did not fail to notice it, questioned her with
nervous solicitude; but the child answered that nothing was the matter.
Only, at every inquiry, her eyes filled with tears, and her voice
trembled. Thus languidly for her did the day wear away. In the evening
she was still more depressed, but still not suffering pain. She passed a
restless night; and on the following morning Ropars went for the Surgeon
of the lazaretto. He examined the child, and put several questions that
darkened the brow of Mathieu. Genevieve, whose looks went direct from
the Surgeon to her husband, perceived this; and she felt a blow stricken
upon her heart. At the moment when the two crossed the thresh-hold, she
followed, shut the door abruptly, and stopped them.

--"It is the ... disease, ... is it not?" she asked in anguish. She had
not dared to name the yellow fever; the Surgeon seemed to hesitate in
his reply.

--"Ah! I'm certain of it," she exclaimed, confirmed by this very
hesitation; "so, our precautions have all been useless! The blow has
come, and all is over!"

She could not avoid sinking down upon the stone bench, placed beside the
door; and she covered her face with her apron. The Surgeon taxed himself
to console her with vague assurances; but it was evident that he himself
had no longer confidence in his efforts. Overcome by the implacable
power of the contagion, he persevered in struggling against it, without
hope and from a sense of duty, as soldiers, for the honour of their
flag, defend silently a post that has been abandoned. So, perceiving
that his words, far from soothing the grief of Genevieve, did but
redouble it, he turned towards the keeper, and, having briefly repeated
to him some directions already given for the child, he went his way.

Ropars remained some moments on one spot, with his arms crossed and his
head upon his breast; but a still deeper groan from Genevieve caused him
to raise his eyes. He took her hand.

--"It isn't time for despair yet," said he, with gentle firmness; "when
God shall have decided against us, your whole life-time will be left for
grief. At present, let us devote ourselves to our duty, and follow
strictly the injunctions of the doctor."

--"And he has told us nothing at all!" said the mother, who at heart
felt half-incensed against the Surgeon, for not having more vigorously
combatted her fears; "he has not given us any hope!"

--"God is the master," replied Mathieu, in all simplicity, "and so long
as he has not declared his pleasure, we may believe that all will work
well; but if the darling creature must be taken from our hands, let us
at least to the last moment show him, how keen is our desire to keep
her."

Hereupon the feverish voice of the child reached their ears.

--"Hark, she's calling me!" cried Genevieve, rising in urgent haste to
go in. Ropars stopped her.

--"Dry your eyes first," said he, passing his own hand with fond
compassion over the poor mother's moistened eyelids; "Josephe mustn't
think that you are anxious. Don't you know that her life may depend on
this?"

--"Yes, yes," she answered, "fear not, Mathieu, I will not cry any
more;" and she forcibly restrained the tears that were filling her eyes
afresh... "Look, no one would notice it now... And the doctors, besides,
may be mistaken, mayn't they?... And after all, God will have pity on
us."

--"We must hope so," replied the keeper, much moved; "but if it is his
part to have pity, it is ours to show resignation. Bear up, then, good
heart; go to the child with a smile; it will do her good; and first of
all ... kiss me ... that we may keep up each other's resolution."

Josephe's mother threw her arms around her husband's neck, and gave way
to a new flood of tears. But she checked them at the sound of the sick
one's voice calling her for the second time, and, by a supreme effort
thrusting down her despair into the very depths of her heart, she rushed
into the house with calm brow and a smile upon her lips.

Josephe, nevertheless, grew rapidly worse. In the evening the fever was
doubly hot upon her. One after another, she spoke of sister Francine, of
Michael, of the cherry-tree in blossom, and of her good friend Monsieur
Gabriel. At one moment she fancied that she heard the last-named; she
called him; she wished to know if he had brought her the promised
presents. At another time, the scene in the ravine appeared to be
vividly in her recollection; she cried out that Monsieur Gabriel was
dead; and she heard the earth grating over him in the pit. The Surgeon
came to see her repeatedly, and multiplied his prescriptions, without
power to arrest the onward march of the disease. That night was an awful
one for the hapless mother; she kept her child clasped in her arms, the
little one's mind wandering more and more. At sunrise the turbulent
delirium was over, to give place to the torpor that precedes death. At
length, towards the middle of the day, Josephe opened her eyes, and
uttered one sigh--it was the last.

The blow had been so decidedly expected, that the despair of Ropars and
of Genevieve could scarcely be violent. The bitterness of their loss
had, so to say, preceded it; both had tasted it, drop by drop, during
the protracted agony. And yet the mother's calmness had in it a
something haggard, that would have startled a looker-on less troubled
than Mathieu himself. Bent upon rendering the last offices to her
daughter, she was long occupied in combing out her beautiful black hair;
she dressed the body in her best clothes, and laid it out with the hands
crossed over the breast, as Josephe had been used to carry them when
asleep. All this was done slowly, tranquilly, with a sort of complacency
even, and often intermingled with kisses. It was but at intervals that a
tear trickled over her cheeks, that were marbled with glowing spots; it
was but a slight trembling that shook the hand, as it performed its
sorrowful duty. At length, when she who had brought this child into the
world, and who had nourished it with her milk and with her affection,
had herself sewed it up in its shroud, she went to the window, broke the
stalk of a gilly-flower--the only one that the sea-winds had
spared--pulled off its leaves, and scattered them over the winding
sheet.

In the meantime, night had fallen. Deposited at the head of the darkened
alcove, the dead form might indistinctly be traced through its covering
of linen, as though it were sketched in marble. Higher up hung a Christ,
in ivory, the head bent forward, and the arms extended. Genevieve knelt
down near the bed, and remained there for a long time, with her head
leaning upon her joined hands. Half-aloud she murmured a prayer; but
whilst her lips repeated faithfully every word, their meaning was not
taken in by her mind. When she had finished it, she raised herself up
mechanically, and looked about her; her brain was a gloomy chaos.
Putting up both hands to her forehead, she pressed it, with a stifled
cry, as though she sought to stay that whirlwind of confused and
lacerating thoughts. There was, for some few moments, a struggle between
her will and her despair; finally the former gained the ascendant; she
stepped towards the door and opened it.

Her husband had taken refuge on the platform with Francine, to remove
her from the harrowing sight of placing the body in its shroud.
Genevieve could see him standing near the parapet; the little girl was
at his feet, with her head resting on his knees. Since the death of her
sister, she had not spoken a word. Fixed in one place, with eyes dilated
and lips compressed, she seemed to be endeavouring to comprehend what
had occurred. Her two small hands hung down inactive, and her naked feet
appeared to be glued to the ground. Seeing her thus, under the early
rays of the moon that were playing in her light-coloured tresses,
Genevieve was, as it were, brought back to herself. A flash passed
across the blankness of her expression; her nostrils dilated; a flood of
tears gushed from her eyes. Springing towards the child, she seized it
in her arms with a sort of doleful passionateness, to which Francine at
once and amply responded, by an outburst of sobs and caresses. For a
long time there was nothing but an interchange of broken appeals and
unfinished phrases. The little girl would go on asking for her sister,
while the mother, whose despair was revived by such demands, compelled
herself to smother them beneath her kisses. At last, her strength
exhausted, she let her arms, that upheld Francine, drop down, and felt
that she was gently withdrawn from her. It was Mathieu, who placed the
child upon the ground. He then led the mother a little further apart,
and obliged her to sit down upon the stone-bench, leaning her back
against the parapet. She tried to raise herself up, as she stretched out
her hands.

--"My child!" she stammered through her sobbings; "I want my child!"

--"In good time thou shalt see her," said Ropars, who according to the
custom of the Bretagne peasantry only _thee'd_ and _thou'd_ Genevieve,
when under the influence of strong emotion; "but first thou must listen
with all attention, for what I have to tell thee is of the deepest
consequence."

--"Ah! I would, I would!" was her reply, putting both hands up to her
head; "but don't be hurt, Mathieu, if it be impossible. I hear yonder,
look you, something that hushes up all the rest; it is her death-rattle,
my good man!... And ... do you know?... I like the anguish that it
causes me, to hear it; I can fancy that there still is breath in her.
Oh! Jesus! who would have told me, that I should yearn after the dying
breath of my child?" Ropars laid a hand upon the head of the miserable
woman, whose sobbings had recommenced.

--"Be soothed at heart," he said to her with touching firmness; "the
good God wills that we should submit, and not thus give way. The dead
one is now in her Paradise, where she has no more need of us; but she
leaves behind her a sister, whose life is in our charge."

--"How do you mean?" asked Genevieve, raising towards him her eyes, in
which alarm had arrested the tears.

--"Don't you understand?" returned the keeper, lowering his voice; "the
breath of the disease is like the sea-wind; it spares no one; and it may
send, at any instant, the living to rejoin the dead."

--"Heavenly Saviour! is this a warning?" demanded Genevieve, clasping
her hands. "Must this child too, be struck down?... Have you remarked
any thing?... Ah! tell the truth, Mathieu, tell it at once; I would
rather be killed at one blow."

--"So far, the child suffers from nothing but her distress," rejoined
Ropars; "but if she remains in this deadly air, who can guarantee us
that she will escape?"

--"Evil upon us!" cried Genevieve, raising her joined hands over her
head; "why did you remind me of it, Mathieu? I did not wish to think of
it; and now I shall see her dying, every hour. God forgive you for thus
turning the blade that is within my heart!"

--"If I touch it, it is but to withdraw it," was the quarter-master's
answer. "It won't do now to shut one's eyes and let the squall overtake
us; we must work ship with all our might for the little one's safety....
If she remains on the island, you have too many chances of sewing up her
winding-sheet, Genevieve; she must leave it forthwith."

--"But how?"

Ropars threw his eyes around him, to satisfy himself that he was not
overheard.

--"There is a way," he replied cautiously.

--"The powder-magazine skiff?"

--"No!"

--"The gun-boat?"

--"She's there, you know, to keep guard over the island."

--"But who then can help us?"

--"The tide."

Genevieve looked at her husband, but without understanding what he
meant.

--"It is now high-water," continued Mathieu; "in less than an hour the
sea will have gone down enough to leave only four feet of water upon the
line of reefs that runs from Treberon to the Ile des Morts. With
courage, and by the help of God, the passage may be tried. I am going to
carry the child over to Dorot."

And as the mother could not restrain a cry of terror;--"Speak lower,
unhappy one!" he added vehemently; "are you desirous of betraying me?
Except the Superintendent of the powder-magazine and myself, no one
knows the way. We have often passed along it when we were fishing
together, and always passed it safely."

--"But not at night," interrupted Genevieve; "not burdened with a
child."

--"The child weighs scarcely anything, and the moon is full," replied
Ropars somewhat impatiently. "Besides, I have been thinking of it all
the evening; and there is no other means. My mind is made up, and I
shall do what must be done, happen what may. Your remarks may lessen my
confidence, but cannot hold me back. Try rather, then, to brace up my
nerves, as is the duty of a brave wife, and to prepare the child to go.
When the outer point of the high rock is bare, it will be time for me to
make the attempt, and for you to pray God that he may open us a way of
safety in the sea."

The quarter-master's tone was so determined, that Genevieve saw at once
the uselessness of resistance. With little will of his own in the
ordinary transactions of life, Mathieu rarely formed a resolution; but,
once decided on, he maintained it immovably. Moreover, when the first
shock was passed, his explanations and assurances somewhat tranquillized
Francine's mother, and indeed half convinced her. There remained the
child, whose opposition or fright was apprehended by Ropars. Genevieve
went and raised her up from the ground, and the father and the mother
seated her upon their knees, which they purposely placed close
together.

--"You want to see the cherry-tree in blossom, don't you?" said the
former, embracing her.

--"Not any more, now," was the low-toned reply.

--"Nay, nay, it is just the time," added the poor mother with an effort;
"over there, you will be more at liberty ... happier ... you'll have
Michael for a play-fellow."

--"No," said the child with changing voice, "I would rather stay with
Josephe."

Genevieve clasped her hands and closed her eyes; speech failed her. It
was Ropars' turn. Drawing Francine close up to his breast, and
whispering in her ear,

--"Listen," said he; "we are in trouble. You would not wish to make it
worse, would you? You love us too well for that."

In place of answer, the child threw both her arms about her father's
neck, and pressed her little rosy cheek against the wrinkled cheek of
the mariner.

--"Yes, yes, I was certain of it," continued Mathieu; "and you will do
whatever we ask you?"

Francine made an affirmative sign.

--"Well, then," Ropars went on, "you must go and pass a few days with
Uncle Dorot; and as we have no boat, I am going to carry you over the
passage. Won't you be quiet in the middle of the sea, when you have
papa's shoulders for a skiff?"

The child shuddered.--"I would rather stay," said she, in hurried
accents.

--"But that's impossible," rejoined the father; "I want to carry you to
the powder-magazine. It must be so, and we are to set out directly. But
if you are not brave, if you think of calling out, the way will be
harder, and perhaps something serious may happen to me. Do you
understand?"

--"Yes ... yes ... I won't go," replied the little girl, beginning to
tremble.

Genevieve drew her once more into her arms. "Hush, hush!" said she,
laying her lips upon Francine's hair, and rocking her upon her breast,
"children ought to obey.... God has ordained it ... do what you are
bidden ... for your papa, ... for me ... for Josephe.... If she could
speak she would tell you to be good and obedient.... Would you make her
sorrowful in Heaven?"

--"Oh! no," cried the child, throwing herself again into Mathieu's arms.

--"Then you will come?" asked he.

--"Yes," murmured the little girl.

--"And you won't be afraid; you won't say a word?"

--"No."

--"Let's be going then!" exclaimed the keeper, who had got up and was
looking over the parapet. "The high rock is out of water; we mustn't
wait any longer."

He took Francine in his arms and went rapidly down one of the foot-paths
leading to the shore of the islet. Genevieve followed, in inexpressible
anguish. All three reached a rocky point that stretched far out into
the waters. It was the extremity of the line of reefs that connected the
powder-magazine with Treberon. Ropars placed the child on the ground, in
order to take note of his direction. The passage, under the rays of the
moon, was tinged with pale green, varied by small lines of white that
were made by the light fringe of foam upon the waves. So gentle were
their undulations, that one might have fancied a field of green wheat
chequered with white camomile flowers. Beyond, the Ile des Morts in all
its breadth was illumined by the moonlight, with its yellowish
buildings, its long slated roofs, and its lightning-rods, standing out
against the sky. So calm was the night that the sentry's step was heard,
as he paced up and down before the watch-box of granite, built at the
corner of the esplanade. At the forked head of the two islands, and
partially in shadow, lay the silent gun-boat, balancing at anchor.

Ropars examined every thing with scrupulous attention. He pointed out to
Genevieve the direction of the submarine causeway, indicated by a faint
shadow on the surface of the water, as he threw aside his waistcoat and
hat; then taking both of his wife's hands, who looked at him with
haggard eyes,--"the time is come, Genevieve," said he; "kiss me, and
pray the good God to be with us."

The poor woman responded at first to his embrace, without power to utter
a word; but when she felt that he had disengaged himself and was
returning towards the child, a cry escaped her; she was not mistress of
herself. She forgot all that Mathieu had said to her, all that she
herself had promised, and encircled him with her arms in all the
desperation of terror.

--"You shall not go," she stammered out, "you shall not go!... It is
rushing on to death ... in the name of your marriage-vow, remain to be
my succour, my companion!... Would you then leave me here alone with
Josephe?... Look, how broad the sea is, and how deep! You and Francine,
you will be lost in it!... Ah! if it be God's will, let us all die here;
but at least let us die together! Mathieu, I will not have you quit me;
you shall not carry off my child; you shall not go!"

Ropars endeavoured to calm her, and struggled to release himself from
her hold; but she clung to him, and refused to hear a word. And as he
recalled to her that she had, a minute before, induced Francine's
consent,

--"I was wrong," she wildly interrupted him; "I will no longer have it
so. If you leave me, I will follow; and you will be responsible before
God for what may happen. Mathieu, do not tempt me! Mathieu, have pity on
me!... What have I done to you, that you should thus go voluntarily to
destruction? Do you no longer care for life with me?... Ah! if I have
failed in my duty, be not angry with me, dear soul! If my too great
anguish has offended you, forgive me! I will not cry any more; I will be
every thing that you desire. Hold; look on me rather; forgive me; but
say that you will stay."

She had sunk down upon her knees, and held Ropars' hands pressed firmly
against her lips. He exerted himself to raise her up.

--"Enough, Genevieve," said he, in a tone wherein commiseration disputed
with impatience; "I thought that you were braver.... This is not what
you promised me. Think, think, unhappy woman, that the time is passing
away!"

Genevieve groaned, and recommenced the same entreaties. He cast an
anxious look towards the sea, and saw that the farthest jags of the high
rock were dry. Longer delay would increase the danger, and might render
the passage impossible. Mathieu seized Genevieve sharply by the elbows,
and raised her upon her feet, with her face opposite his own.

--"On your salvation, listen!" said he, in accent so decided that she
trembled at it; "this is the first time that I have reminded you that I
am your master, and, if you be not wiser, it will perhaps be the last;
but by the God who saved us, you shall obey, and that without further
discussion! The child's life is to be preserved; nothing can stay me
now. Remain there, I solemnly command you, and make not one step, nor
utter one single cry, or, so surely as I am my mother's son, I will
never forgive you, even until the day of Judgment!"

At these words, he seated Genevieve, petrified by the shock, ran to his
little daughter, whom he took upon his shoulders, and dashed with her
into the waves.

When Genevieve turned round, at the noise made by his plunge into the
water, Ropars was on the causeway of the submerged reefs, and the waves
were rolling against his breast. She tried to get up; but her strength
failed her, and she could but utter a feeble cry. Mathieu heard it and
looked back. He could see through the moonlight the indistinct form of
Genevieve who, half-lying down upon the rock, was wringing her joined
hands as though towards him. He found his heart, which he had steeled by
an effort of will, sinking within him in pity for her. Taking note of
the waters, green and deep, whose abysses were opening around him,
hearing over his head the breathings of the child who panted with
terror, and thinking that the hapless creature from whom they had just
parted violently might perchance never see them more, there came across
him a feeling of commiseration so tender, that tears almost filled his
eyes; he paused, in spite of himself, in the midst of the murmuring
waves, turned his head backwards towards the shore, and called to her in
a voice, restrained but full of gentleness--"Don't cry Genevieve; and
God bless you! all will go well."

Then, without waiting for an answer, which he feared might unman him, he
went on his way, his eyes fixed upon the line along the water that
marked the direction of the reef. Soon, however, he ceased to
distinguish that particular appearance of the waves which rendered it
easy to trace this line from the shore. Immersed in the sea, he no
longer saw anything beyond him, but a surface uniform and agitated,
without any distinctive movement or colour. He was therefore compelled
to shape his course direct for the rock on the Ile des Morts whereon the
causeway abutted, and which with its pointed ridges was visible,
far-away in the obscurity.

Armed with a broken boat-hook, Mathieu sounded at each step that he
took; but notwithstanding all his care, the difficulty of his course
increased at every moment. The unevenness of the rocks exposed him to
incessant stumbling. Lifted off his feet by the waves, half-stunned by
the deep rumbling noise that was around him, groping along a path
irregular and strange to him and bounded on either side by an abyss, he
advanced with the greatest deliberation, his strong will controlling his
impatience, and his whole soul rivetted upon his every movement. His
fixed gaze sought to pierce the liquid veil of the waters; his hands
glued to the boat-hook seemed to long to solder it to the reef; his
feet, in an agony of search, seemed to force themselves to guess at
their path, before they would select it. Thus he reached the middle of
the passage, where he came into the neighbourhood of the gun-boat. All
there was silent; nothing stirred. The cries of "Watch, Watch!" uttered
at intervals by the look-out at each cat-head, had for some time ceased
to be heard; their two shadows even were not perceptible, for they had
long been immovable at their post. Certain that their look-out was
altogether needless, the sailors on watch were without doubt asleep.

Mathieu, who was afraid that they might awake, was anxious to avoid this
danger by hurrying on; but at the very moment when he came within the
shadow thrown, abaft the gun-boat, over the glittering waters, his
footing of rock failed him by suddenly shelving downwards. Francine felt
him sinking, as a vessel that founders, and the waves washed up over her
hair. She could not restrain a piercing shriek.

Her father, in extreme alarm, lowered her down against his breast, and
pressed one hand upon her lips. But it was too late; the cry had
undoubtedly been overheard, for a shadow immediately rose up, forward,
and the noise of footsteps echoed along the deck. Ropars had but time to
throw himself under the taffrail of the stationary vessel, and to grasp
a boom, whereto he remained suspended.

One of the sailors on watch came aft, and was immediately joined by his
comrade.

--"The devil take me, if I didn't hear a cry," said the former.

--"Pardieu! it half-woke me up," added the second.

--"But I've looked about, and it's no use; I don't see any thing."

--"Nor I."

The couple were leaning over the sea, which kept up its gentle
murmurings, and on which only light undulations were visible, fringed
with half-phosphorescent foam. The second man of the watch seemed all at
once to be seized with inquietude, that caused his voice to tremble.

--"I say, Morvan," he cautiously began, "those Roscanvel and Lanvoc
barks haven't passed by, without leaving some christian soul under water
here--don't you think so?"

--"Why so?" asked Morvan.

--"Why so?" returned the sailor, who seemed half-afraid and
half-ashamed; "why, parbleu! ... you know what they say ... I didn't
invent it ... there are some people who tell you that shipwrecked men,
dying in mortal sin, leave their souls upon the waves that drowned them:
and that every year, on the day and at the exact time of the accident,
they utter a cry of anguish, just by way of asking prayers for
themselves."

--"And you believe that, you, Lascar?" said Morvan with a laugh more
blustering than assured.

--"It isn't I," rejoined the sailor, "it's our mess-mates.... But, none
the less, the voice wasn't like any body else's; it was sharp and thin,
as one might say that of a child."

--"Get out, nonsense!" interrupted the first seaman, evidently
disquieted by his comrade's explanation; "you see there's nothing more
to be heard, and there is nothing afloat but the moonlight, and the
night-chill that will make us sneeze. It's well that we both kept our
allowance of wine. Come on, let's go and drink it; that'll put your
morality into trim again."

The two sailors went off. After waiting a moment, Mathieu replaced the
child on his shoulders, enjoined strict silence, at the same time
cheering her up, and let go the boom for the purpose of regaining the
causeway; but he had lost the direction, and his feet encountered only
empty space. Forced to swim with his precious burden, he hoped that a
few fathoms' distance would bring him back to his pathway on the reefs;
he had already gone beyond it. Fresh attempts were not more successful;
and twenty times did he renew his search, finding only, at each, deep
water.

Frightened and panting for breath, he swam about without aim,
endeavouring to touch ground, and no longer able to distinguish the Ile
des Morts from Treberon. After having long shifted his course, struggled
against the tide in which every moment he plunged still deeper, been a
thousand times brought back from despair to hope, and run the full
length of his endurance and his courage, he felt at last that he was
overcome. His respiration grew painful, his eyes were covered with a
film; all things were to him but as a revolving chaos; his mind
wandered. A moment more, and he and Francine had disappeared beneath the
waters. The gun-boat, which he had wished to avoid, but which he could
no longer perceive, was his sole means of safety. He summoned all his
remaining strength to utter a cry for help; a surge, more powerful,
stifled it on his lips. Half-fainting and having nothing left him but
that instinctive self-defence which survives the will, he struggled
still an instant, buffeted from wave to wave; then felt that he was
going down. But all at once, he was arrested; his feet had fallen on to
the reef; they were fastened on it, and steadied themselves thereon;
his body straightened up; the water that blinded him seemed to lower
itself. He took breath and looked before him, and could see at the
distance of a hundred steps the cleft rock of the Ile des Morts. A few
minutes sufficed for reaching it. Touching the shore he fell down upon
it, and called Francine with expiring voice. The child, terrified, could
only reply by throwing herself upon his breast, where he held her for
some time in his embrace. His first thought had been for her; his second
carried him back to Genevieve who was expecting his return, to know that
they were safe. Still tottering, he raised himself up, took his little
daughter by the hand, and set himself to climbing the steep slope that
led to the terrace.

It was necessary to make the tour of the powder magazine, to avoid the
sentinel placed at the angle which commanded the main roadside; and
also, on reaching the magazine keeper's door, to knock gently, for fear
of being heard from without. Dorot fortunately had the light sleep of
old soldiers; he awoke at the first knocking, and appeared at the
window.

--"Open the door!" said Mathieu to him in a low voice.

--"Ropars!" cried the sergeant, thunderstruck.

--"Lower! and be quick!" returned the seaman "our lives' safety is at
stake."

Dorot went down rapidly, drew back the bolt, and made them enter the
house. Mathieu paused, when across the thresh-hold, with the child
pressed against his knees.

--"Heaven protect us! whence come you, Ropars?" inquired the sergeant.

--"You see," replied the sailor, "we have come out of the sea, and we
have crossed over it, to come hither."

Dorot drew back, exclaiming, "Can it be? in God's name, what has
happened, that you should thus expose your life?"

--"It has happened," rejoined Mathieu, "that Josephe died this morning
of the contagion! ... that"--

--"What's that you say?"

--"'Tis just so, Dorot; and as Genevieve and I were anxious to save the
other one, I have brought her to you."

--"And Heaven reward you for the thought!" said the sergeant; "the child
is dearly welcome."

He had offered his hand to Mathieu; but the latter did not take it.

--"Think well what it is I am asking you," said he; "perhaps the child
may be bringing here disease and desolation upon you!"

"I hope there will be nothing of the kind," returned Dorot; "but God's
will be done!"

--"Bear in mind also," continued the quarter-master, insisting, "that if
the thing gets wind, you run a risk of punishment for having violated
the quarantine."

--"Then the will of man be done!" was the sergeant's simple observation.

--"But still think."

--"Of nothing further, Ropars," interrupted the sergeant; "there! enough
said--too much. No words about the matter; you have brought me the
little one; I accept her."

He had stooped down to Francine, whom he then took up in his arms, and
with her remounted to the small chamber formerly occupied by Genevieve.
He, himself, stripped off from the child her dripping clothes, and put
her to sleep in an old cot of Michael's.

The father, who had followed them, remained at the door with his arms
hanging down at his side, the very picture of gratitude deeply felt, but
unable to vent itself in words. Only, when Dorot turned round towards
him, he seized one of his hands and held it silently grasped. Dorot, who
desired to avoid a scene, began at once to talk of the means of
concealing the little girl's change of abode. It was sufficient that her
absence from Treberon would not be remarked; as for her being at the Ile
des Morts, it could not give rise to any suspicion, since the guard of
artillery that did duty at the magazine, and that might have been
surprised at this increase in the keeper's family, was to be changed on
the following day. Ropars arranged certain signals for transmitting
mutually the news between the neighbour islands. These were to be
renewed several times a day, and thus relieve them at least from the
anguish of uncertainty. At length, when all had been agreed upon,
Mathieu drew near the window and looked out. The breeze had freshened,
the sky appeared less starry, and a transparent vapour was beginning to
creep over the sea.

--"It is time to start," said he, returning towards the sergeant; "may
God pay you for what you do, Dorot! As for Genevieve and myself, we
shall remain your debtors to all eternity."

--"We'll talk of that, by and by," replied the keeper; "just now, the
main thing, and that which troubles me, is the passage over."

--"Don't be uneasy about that," answered Ropars; "now that the child is
in safety, I shall cross the channel just as easily as one goes to
church. The limbs are firm when the heart doesn't tremble. But I wish I
were already on the other side; I've stayed here too long for Genevieve,
who is looking for me."

--"Away, then! if it must be," cried the sergeant; "but for God's sake,
Ropars, be careful, and don't forget that you have two lives to save
with your own."

--"I'll do all that a man can do," returned the quarter-master; "and
believe me, cousin, I've no desire to die this night!... But too much
talk; the time is slipping away; I mustn't wait for the change of tide."

He went up to Francine's cot, to take leave of her; but the child,
wearied out by so many emotions, had dropped off to sleep. One of her
arms was doubled beneath her head, and lost in the loosened tresses of
her golden hair; the other, folded on her breast, pressed to it a little
relic formerly given to Genevieve who, in her superstitious motherly
devotedness, had deprived herself of it that it might be a safe-guard
for her child. Although her breathing was equal and easy, still was it
broken at intervals by a long drawn sigh; whilst her cheeks, that in her
sleep were beginning to re-assume their rosy tint, still showed some
traces of tears. Mathieu looked at her for some moments in touching
silence; then bending himself slowly down, imprinted a light kiss upon
Francine's tiny hand, then one upon her hair, then one upon her cheek.
Without opening her eyes, the child made a gesture of annoyance; he
stood up.

--"Yes, yes, there, sleep, poor creature of a merciful God!" he
half-muttered; "I will not wake you."

Once more he seemed to enwrap her in a look overflowing with tenderness;
then returned to Dorot, and took his hand.

--"I bequeath her to you, cousin," said he, moved in the extreme; "no
one knows what may happen. Only ... I can trust in your kindly heart,
and if ever the child should become an orphan...."

--"Now God preserve her from it!" the sergeant took him up; "but if such
misfortune should occur to her, Mathieu, you know well that she would
become Michael's sister."

--"Thanks!" abruptly broke in the seaman; "that's exactly what I was
longing to hear.... And now I set out calmly. I am prepared for every
thing."

--"But you shan't set out thus, shivering and pulled down," objected the
sergeant; "you must take something to cheer up your spirits."

--"Nothing," said Ropars, eagerly; "you have given me all that can give
me strength, in giving me the assurance that the child will not remain
unaided. Providence will do the rest. Your hand! and good-bye till we
meet--here, or elsewhere!"

They heartily embraced; then Mathieu went down to the shore, and
committed himself again to the waters. Although the tide had begun to
rise, the passage was effected without overmuch danger. He reached,
unharmed, the high rock of Treberon which the floodtide had already
encroached upon, and he ran to the place where he had left Genevieve.
She was there no longer.

Astonished that she should not have awaited his return, he rapidly
mounted the foot-path, reached his door, and called aloud. There was no
reply. The darkness did not allow him to distinguish any thing. He
groped his way to the hearth, and threw around him the trembling light
of a lamp hurriedly lighted. Attracted to the alcove, his glance soon
made out, beside the white form of the dead sewed up in its shroud, the
outline of another and a larger form, extended without moving. Mathieu
approached in agony. It was Genevieve in a swoon.


                              IV.


Thanks to the Surgeon's skill, Ropars' wife at length regained her
senses; but it was to fall into convulsive spasms, followed by the
annihilation of all her faculties. The whole day passed without her
shaking off the torpor that belonged at once to sleep and to death. One
might have said that so many shocks had snapped asunder her existence,
and that the quiverings of life, still flitting across her state of
languor, were but the movements of a machine on the point of stopping.
However, towards evening, the fever declared itself. The patient passed
insensibly from lethargy to delirious agitation; she did but recognize
Mathieu at intervals; and falling back, with her senses, upon her
sorrows, she soon fell again into wandering.

None of these symptoms seemed to belong to the malady that ravaged the
lazaretto; and the Surgeon, disconcerted, let Mathieu divine his
inability to make it out. Accustomed to the coarse medicines required by
the robust patients of our ships, he was perforce a stranger, as are all
like him, to the ailments of more delicate natures. Thus did he stand
baffled before this woman, dying of a disorder such as he vainly sought
to trace in his experiences. He could not conceal his doubts, and his
need of more enlightened advice. Science, to which these mysterious and
redoubtable symptoms were familiarized, might find there an index, where
he perceived only confusion, and point out a remedy, which he dared but
essay at hap-hazard.

This avowal, wrung from his loyal truth, was for Mathieu a new source of
torture. Shut up within prescribed limits which forbid strangers to
approach Treberon, he could not invoke that experience to which
Genevieve might perchance owe her safety. In vain did he see, at his
feet, boats for transporting him across the sea, and on the horizon a
town whence aid might be brought to him; an obstacle invincible and
insurmountable linked him to his source of trouble.

Two whole days passed away for him, as one long agony, in alternations
of mute dejection and of furious despair. After sitting for several
hours at the bedside of the dying woman, when he saw the fever that had
been lulled for an instant now returning with increased force, he ran
down to the edge of the reefs, gazed upon the waters in the midst of
which he found himself imprisoned, upon the armed vessel that guarded
the passage, upon the ravines of the island dotted with graves recently
dug, and pressing his closed fists against his forehead he cursed the
day on which he had accepted this voluntary imprisonment. Angrily did he
call God to account for the blows with which he was stricken; then,
restored to his religious faith, he joined his hands, and with tears
besought the Almighty to spare Genevieve.

Towards the morning of the third day, he had cause for believing that
his prayers had been heard. The fever abated, and the patient recovered
all her clearness of mind. But this change did not induce her to share
the delight or the hopes of Mathieu.

--"Never believe that this is a cure, dear soul," said she in tones
scarcely audible, and alternating every phrase with periods of silence;
"the disease is going ... but it carries all with it.... That evening,
when you went across the channel ... when I heard the child's cry from
out of the sea itself ... I thought it was all over with you both ...
and then ... I can't say what took place ... but it seemed to me ...
that within me ... the main string of life was snapped.... So I feel
now, that it's all over."

Ropars combatted these fears, repeating that the Surgeon was encouraged,
and that all would go well. Genevieve, whose eyes were closed, raised
the lids with difficulty and threw a glance upon him that was full of
melancholy sweetness.

--"God is the master, Mathieu," said she; "he knows whether I am happy
in living with you.... Only, ... believe me, poor husband, and don't
rejoice too much ... it were wiser to expect the worst."

--"It were wiser," interrupted the quarter-master, "to take rest, and
have confidence. I, too, trust in what I feel. This very night, I had a
weight of lead upon my heart; it is light now; I can breathe in one
single breath. In God's name, let your health be restored to you, and be
anxious for a continuance of life, if it were but for my sake."

Genevieve made an effort to lay her cold and moistened hand upon that of
Ropars.

--"You are good, Mathieu," said she, letting fall two little tears, the
last that emotion could drain from eyes already exhausted with weeping.
"Ah me! my chief regret now is at not having always thought of this ...
at not having shown myself sufficiently grateful.... Heavens! how much
worthier we should be of those we love, if we did but remember that some
day we must leave them.... Since my mind has returned, this idea has
haunted me; I now perceive all my faults; ... I feel remorse for
them.... Oh! tell me in mercy, Mathieu, do you forgive me now ... for
never having been what I ought to have been?"

--"Talk not so, Genevieve," said the seaman quickly, and with deep
feeling; "you know well that I could not have asked from God a better
wife. Since you have been mine, I have wanted for nothing; it is I who
should be grateful to you."

--"No, no," replied the sick woman with increasing animation; "many a
time have I lacked courage and patience.... Not with you alone ... but
with Francine ... with Josephe! ... poor child of my heart, who had so
few years to live!... And to think, Mathieu, that I have often made her
cry! ... her, who is now beneath the ground!... Ah! it is the tears of
the dead that weigh heavily here.... And other persons, whom I may have
injured ... and God against whom I have sinned!... Cannot I then hope
for mercy?"

Then, as if this idea had awakened in her a sort of terror:

--"Ah! it is impossible!" added she, sitting up; "Mathieu, Mathieu, I
must see a confessor!"

--"But how to get him here?" said the quarter-master sorrowfully; "have
you forgotten that the island is in quarantine?"

--"What! not to be able to save even one's soul?" returned Genevieve,
clasping her hands. "Alas! am I then doomed to die without
reconciliation? My God! what is to be done? The most miserable sinner is
allowed to confess his sins, and to ask absolution for them; my God!
must I alone remain without help?"

She stopped abruptly, putting up both hands to her forehead.

--"Ah! I remember now," she resumed; "have you not told me that on board
your ships, when at the moment of death no priest was to be had, any
Christian might take his place? ... that God looked to the intention?"

--"I have said so," replied Ropars, "and all the seamen hereabouts will
tell you the same thing, upon the assurance of their pastors."

--"Then," replied the dying woman, turning towards the seaman her eye
lustrous with the fever, "I desire to confess myself to you!"

She raised herself upon her elbow, and crossed herself. Mathieu seemed
overwhelmed, but could make no objection to her will. As we have
remarked, he belonged to that race almost extinct, even in Brittany, in
whom still existed the earnest and the simple faith of other days.
Often, on occasion of shipwreck, men such as he might have been seen,
after exhausting all means of saving themselves, to kneel down in the
expectation of death, and confess themselves one to another, as did the
ancient cavaliers on the eve of combat. Therefore was he more troubled
than surprised at the request of Genevieve; and when he heard her murmur
the prayer that precedes confession, he took off his hat and made the
sign of the cross, ready to fulfill the holy office that necessity had
entrusted to him.

And something mournful and touching was it. The early dawn of day light
doubtfully illumined the alcove; the dishevelled head of Genevieve was
bent towards the grizzled head of Mathieu; and one might have heard the
murmur of that supremest confidence carried on in lowered voice, often
interrupted by the failure of the dying woman's strength, or by the
seaman's entreaties that she would curtail it. But she persisted in
resuming it, with the determination peculiar to those severe consciences
which are never satisfied with their self-accusations. At length, when
she had concluded, Ropars detached the ivory crucifix from the head of
the bed; he approached it to the lips of Genevieve, and placing his hand
upon her brow with mournful solemnity,

--"May God pardon thee as I do to the utmost of my power," said he; "and
if it be not his will that thou shouldst live for my happiness, may he
provide for thee a place in his Paradise!"

Her face assumed an expression of ineffable serenity.

--"Thanks," murmured she; "your absolution shall prevail before the
Trinity, Mathieu; now I feel at peace."

A ray of sunlight creeping in through the window-curtain reached her
bed; she turned round.

--"It is day," continued she; "I did not hope to see another.... God has
given me a respite!... He is willing that I should taste of the latest
joy that I looked for upon earth ... nor will you refuse it to me,
Mathieu?"

--"Ask it, Genevieve," said the mariner; "what man can do, I will do."

She took his hand and looked at him.

--"You have told me, haven't you, that cousin could see and make out
your signals?"

--"Yes, and it is true."

--"Then by all the affection you bear me, Mathieu, I beseech you to
signalize him at once to bring Francine out upon his terrace; when she
is there, you will take me in your arms, you will carry me to the high
rock, and if God grant me grace, I shall reach it with still life enough
left to see my child once more, and to embrace her in spirit."

--"It shall be done so as you desire, Genevieve," said the
quarter-master, who, impressed by the presentiments of the dying one,
had abandoned hope, and had not strength to refuse her anything.

--"Quickly, then, very quickly!... for I feel that God is calling me."

Ropars rushed out, as though he feared there would scarcely be time; but
he came in again almost in a moment, exclaiming that Francine was
already on the terrace of the magazine with Dorot. Stretching out her
hands to him, the dying woman uttered a feeble cry of joy. He wrapped
her up in his winter-cape, and carried her gently in his arms as far as
the parapet of their platform.

--"Where is she?" inquired Genevieve, her eyes blinded by the light of
day, and trying in vain to look steadily; "I can't make out anything,
Mathieu! where is the child: show me the child!"

--"Look down there at our feet," replied the seaman; "can you see the
high rock?"

--"Yes."

--"Can you follow the bubbling of the sea along the reef?"

--"Yes, yes."

--"And away, yonder, over the reefs, can you distinguish the stone-work
of the terrace?"

--"Down there? ... no ... there's only a cloud! I can see nothing....
Oh! if it be too late!... if she be there under my very eyes, and I can
no longer see her!... My God, my God, once more, only once, let me see
my child!"

These words, or rather these mother's cries, had been so full of
sadness, that Ropars could not restrain his tears. He seated his sinking
wife upon the parapet, and himself kneeled down to support her.

--"Courage, Genevieve!" he stammered out; "look well to this side ...
between the line of the sea and the sky."

--"I am looking," said Genevieve, appearing in the effort to rally all
the life left in her ".... Raise my head, Mathieu ... screen me from the
sun...."

She checked herself with a stifled exclamation.

--"Ah! there she is! there she is!... She sees me ... she is lifting up
her arms.... Francine ... my daughter ... my child!"

So impulsively did she lean forward, that but for Ropars, she would
have thrown herself upon the rocks that sloped down to the sea. A
flitting ray of life had lighted up her features; she sent kisses on her
fingers to the child, and talked to it as though it could hear her; she
raised her hands to Heaven, with rapid and broken ejaculations; she
smiled and wept at once. Finally, her strength failed to endure so great
emotion, and her head fell upon the quarter-master's shoulder. In alarm,
he took her again in his arms, to carry her back into the house; but she
made signs to him that she wished to remain out of-doors. He laid her
down upon the bench, whereon the family had been used to sit together in
the evening, in front of the sea, which was now lighted up by the rising
sun. After a swoon that lasted some time, she opened her eyes, and asked
for her daughter. Mathieu looked towards the powder magazine and said
that Dorot had taken her away. She bowed her head with sorrowing
resignation.

--"He has done right," she went on, in feeble accents; ... "besides, I
feel ... that my sight grows thick.... I couldn't see her any more ...
and ... I still have something to say to you.... Come closer, Mathieu
... closer ... my voice is failing.... Give me your hand.... I want to
be sure that you hear me."

Ropars knelt upon the sand, with one hand in that of his dying wife, and
the other placed behind her, to support her.

--"You are going to stay alone," she continued. "Elsewhere, you could
perhaps endure it; but here, in the midst of the ocean, it is not the
life of a man, or of a Christian.... You are used to having some one
keep you company ... some one to love you.... When I am gone ... another
one must take my place."

--"Never!" broke in Ropars.

With her hand she silenced him.

--"Hush!" said she gently; "you must needs think this, so long as I am
before your eyes ... but when I am laid in the grave, you will then feel
your want.... Believe not that I would reproach you, my poor husband....
I do not wish to carry away your happiness with me in my winding
sheet.... No ... no ... wherever I may be, I shall need to know that you
are well cared for."

--"Enough, Genevieve!" murmured the seaman, choking with emotion.

--"Let me go on to the end," she resumed; "I have still one plea to
urge.... When you take off the crape from your arm, Mathieu ... promise
me to think of the dear creature who is our child ... the child of both
... and who will remain with you, to remind you of me ... choose a wife
who may fill my place towards her."

--"What is it that you are asking me, and whom could I give her for a
mother, after yourself?" rejoined Ropars.

--"Some one" ... Genevieve went on ... "who would not grudge me the
having been chosen first ... some honest heart that would take kindly to
an orphan ... who would talk to her of me ... who would teach her to
love God ... and to obey you!... If you promise me that this shall be
so, Mathieu ... if you promise it on your honour ... and on your
salvation, I shall fall asleep, at peace, and blessing you."

Ropars made the promise, amidst sighs and groans; but this was the dying
woman's last effort. After having thanked him by an embrace, she let
herself sink into her husband's arms. It almost seemed as though the
power of her will had slackened the steps of Death, for the sake of this
final compact. Scarcely was it completed, when her sufferings
recommenced. Carried back to the alcove, she died there towards the
close of the day. Her last words were a prayer, in which her husband's
and her daughter's names were intermingled.

On the ensuing day, the grave in which Josephe already reposed was
re-opened to receive Genevieve, for, during the past month, Death had
reaped so abundantly that the barren island lacked space for his doleful
harvest. Informed of what had happened, by means of the signals agreed
upon, the keeper of the powder-magazine brought Francine to the edge of
his rock, and the child, on her knees, uttered a prayer for her mother's
spirit, at the moment the funeral ceremony was ended, across the water.

This death was the last. Like those expiatory victims who, in
sacrificing themselves, were wont to appease the anger of the Gods,
Genevieve seemed, in going down to the tomb, as though she closed its
doors behind her. A fortnight later, and the yellow flag slid down the
flag staff that over-topped the lazaretto, and those who had been
quarantined, now cured, went away in the frigate's long-boat. They only
left behind them, on the dreary island, a man whose hair had become
perfectly white, and a child in mourning clothes.




                           THRICE ONLY.

                                I


Do not imagine that this is to be a love-story. Very few experiences
furnish material for such. Rarer still is the ability to use the
material, when it falls in one's way. At any rate, I make no pretension
thereto.

But it sometimes happens during the earlier and more tumultuous period
of a man's life, that casual occurrences take place, which do not indeed
at the time immediately influence his actions or his fortunes, but which
in later days may be recalled with interest. Of this sort--if I mistake
not, or if I do not mar them in the telling--were my three meetings with
Mary Verner. I only met her thrice.

The first time--many a year has sped away since; but it seems, if I shut
my mental eye to events and feelings with which the interval has been
crowded, and my bodily eye to the library table before me, as if the
little scene were being enacted here, now, to-day.

Whence this power of summoning up the ghosts of long ago? Why should the
comparatively recent refuse to be stamped upon the memory, and the old
impressions refuse to fade? Let philosophers answer; I have no more
inclination to write an essay than to tell a love-tale. My purpose I
have already stated; though I omitted to mention that I write my own
veritable experience--with a change of names, a studied obscurity of
dates, and a very slight change otherwise.

The precise year I do not remember, nor, consequently, my own exact age;
but I must have been about fourteen. George Verner, Mary's brother--poor
fellow! I saw his death registered, the other day, in that odious corner
of the _Times_--was my class-mate and play-mate at a school some few
miles from London. He was a good-looking and good-tempered fellow, if
not remarkable for his abilities. It chanced that I was--in the choice
language of the time and place--"a dab at Latin verses." I helped George
once in a while with his exercises; and once in a while with the
mince-pies, that his mother's a cook used to send him on the sly. The
first time that I saw her--Mary Verner I mean, not the cook--was on a
whole holiday; George, who lived in the neighbourhood, had invited me to
pass it with him. The old family coach came for us at ten o'clock, with
the fat old horses and the fat old family coachman, just for all the
world as you may often meet them in the story-books that are called
"exceedingly natural," and as you now-a-days rarely find them in real
life. Pony-phaetons, britzkas, coupes, "Croydon-baskets," and
nondescript vehicles that, being neither close carriages nor open, are
palmed off as both--these have superseded the full-bodied of my early
recollections.

I fancy that I see her now.... You perceive that though I note the
modern change in the carriage department, I recognize none such in the
phraseology of our tongue. I fancy I see her now. You may, if you
please, alter the wording; but that's the plain English of it.

As we drove up the sweep that led from the lodge to the front entrance
of a very beautiful suburban villa, I leaned out of the window, with the
curiosity natural to a boy of fourteen, on strange ground.

Mary Verner--I knew, by the family likeness, that she was George's elder
sister, the moment my eye lighted on her--was trimming or watering her
geraniums, in one of the recesses on either side of the porch.

"Here, Mary, here's Cuthbert _tertius_," said George, running up the
steps, and pushing me before him.

"I know him; how d'ye do? I'm glad to see you," was the frank reception,
spoken in a clear, round-toned, springy voice, that seemed to drop
without effort out of a rose-lipped mouth well-filled with well-knit
teeth. And as she spoke smilingly, she opened a pair of large brown eyes
that I have since thought--for boys don't know much about the law of
colours--were designed to harmonize with what we call a clear brunette
complexion. Certainly, if the ballad of "The Nut Brown Mayde" be a model
imitation of the antique, Mary Verner might have sat for the portrait.

But it was not so much her eyes that took hold of me, open though they
did by degrees, wider and wider, until I wondered when they would cease
opening; nor her coal-black hair, dressed as you may see it in the
likenesses by Sir Thomas Lawrence; nor her rosy mouth; nor her even
teeth; nor her figure full of grace, _svelte_ as the French call it, for
which we have no answering word. It was not these, or any of them. It
was the carolling of her few words, so free and unconcerned in tone. If
I had not met her subsequently, I might have forgotten her looks; I
doubt whether her voice could have passed from me.

I need not tax my memory or my invention about the trifling though happy
events of that day. It was pretty evident who was mistress of the house,
though the fond and proud mother of Mary Verner had the air of a
dignified and well-bred woman. Silent or talking, it was Mary who
dispensed the honours, at least so far as the stranger was concerned.
Probably it was the same with all comers; but this is only a surmise.

Well; the whole holiday came to an end, and we were driven back to the
old school by the old coachman, our pockets full of chestnuts, and our
boyish hearts full of a sense of supreme enjoyment, such we believe as,
in later life, women feel after the best ball of the season, and men
after a splendid whitebait dinner at Blackwall. I recollect telling the
fellows in the dormitory what a jolly time we had been having, and how
capitally George's pony leaped the fence on the common, round the
corner, out of sight of the house. By the way, it was partly owing to
that pony having engrossed so much of our time, that I had not regularly
fallen in love with Mary Verner. Partly, I say, because I was further
saved from this predicament by a standing devotion to my pretty cousin
Rose, which the temptation had been strong enough, but not long enough
to disturb. I never went to George's house again; and ere long the image
of his sister was stowed away on one of the upper shelves of my memory.
There it might have been smothered in dust, or even converted into it,
if chance had not taken it down and given it an airing.


                                II


Twenty-one--what a change from fourteen! How the pulse of life beats and
bounds! I was running a tilt at the pastimes, and doffing aside the
cares of early manhood, when for the second time, I came across Mary
Verner. Plump upon her, I would say, if I thought you would pardon the
coarseness of the expression. At any rate--and to be genteel--it was
unexpectedly. Twenty-one gives very few thoughts to fourteen. It may be
a much longer distance thither, when one starts at seventy to go back;
but it is surprising how much more quickly you get over the intermediate
ground. Let that be; only I don't believe I had given a thought to Mary
Verner, since the week or two that followed my first interview with her.

"Do come and dine with us on Monday," said my friend Mrs. F.; "there
will be a very charming girl here, whom you would like to see."

"Positively?"

"_Sans faute!_"

"Then keep a place for me; I'll come."

I went. It was a formal dinner-party. In the drawing-room, before going
to table, Mrs. F. came across to me.

"Now I'll introduce you to our belle of the evening. You may escort her
down to dinner. There she is, half-hidden behind that drapery. You can't
have noticed her."

"Miss Verner, let me present Mr. Cuthbert."

I should have recognized Mary Verner, as she looked up, with those
widely-opening brown eyes of hers, if her name had not been mentioned.
As it was, it was quite natural for me to remark that I believed I had
had the pleasure of seeing Miss Verner before.

And so in a few moments we were gossipping cosily about "old times," as
we, not very old people, called them.

The beautiful child had expanded into a very lovely woman, preserving
still the same characteristics of person and expression. The charm of
her voice was the same. You may be sure that when seated by her side,
with the becoming glow of lamp-light overhead heightening, if possible,
those attractions which I rather hint than attempt to describe--you may
be sure, I say, that I found her very captivating.

We talked of her brother George; of the pleasant house wherein I first
met her, and which was still her home; of her amiable and lady-like
mother who was still living; of the old pony now gathered to his sires;
of the old chestnut-trees even--in short, of all those unimportant
associations, out of which, under such circumstances, one endeavours to
establish a trivial and flitting but very pleasant little bond of
sympathy.

I declare I was half ready to fall head over ears in love with her. And
she took it all with a simple unaffected grace, that seemed to be her
very nature.

But we did not have all the talk to ourselves. I had not the presumption
to engross her entirely. Nor would it have been possible. She was--there
is no need to go over it all again--she was Mary Verner.

Nearly opposite to us at table sat a Mr. Easton, a young
barrister--young, that is professionally, for he was apparently a man of
thirty or thereabouts. He would not have been singled out as a
lady-killer, for he was none of your regular Adonises, such as hang by
dozens, in portraiture, upon the walls of our Royal Academy Exhibitions,
and lounge complacently in our Fop's Alley at the Opera. When, however,
the excitement of conversation--in which he took an active and most
intelligent part--developed the fine play of his features, you would
have pronounced him a man who added, to a cultivated and superior mind,
a look that bespoke such gift. In fact there was a manly air about him,
that claimed respect, if it did not challenge attention.

About the time when I made this notable discovery, I recollected that at
the moment of my introduction to Miss Verner, Mr. Easton was gossipping
with her in the secluded corner half-hidden by the drapery, though he
moved away, with perfect good breeding, to give place to the new-comer.

About this time, too, there began--at which end of the table, I
forget--an occasional play of badinage, whereof Mr. Easton was the
subject. For a grave and earnest man, he seemed to receive it all in
exceedingly good part. To my surprise also--to say nothing of
annoyance--my fair neighbour was brought, after a while, within its
scope. Neither did she--I was forced to acknowledge within
myself--evince either _mauvaise honte_ or sensitiveness. The truth was
plain. They were engaged.

As a child's card-built house tumbles down when the table is shaken, so
down went one of the prettiest little castles-in-the-air, that ever
simpleton built out of cards of his own shaping.

Down it went; though I flatter myself I was too much a man of the world,
to let a glimpse of its dislocated plan be apparent. Indeed, in a few
seconds, I had rallied myself on my own absurdity; gulped down my
disappointment; and resigned myself again to the charm that Mary Verner
still shed around her, if its tint was somewhat changed. Besides, I
availed myself of the sudden opportunity thus afforded, for testing the
practical value of one of my favourite theories, when I was a young
fellow and affected to bask in the sunshine of human nature: to wit,
that, apart from serious love-making, when a woman in either married or
betrothed, she has therefrom an additional feather in her social cap. So
have I found it through life--always provided that the attractive and
companionable qualities were otherwise in abundance. And this theory has
at least given heartiness to my good wishes for my fairer acquaintances
and friends. Is it not better to come to such a philosophical
conclusion, than to be always envying other people's good fortune?

Shifting, therefore, my ground, I was rapidly possessed by a strong
interest in Miss Verner's future welfare--much of which was undoubtedly
genuine.

Delicately, and by gently leading her on, I gathered something of the
story of her courtship, though I must needs confess that I cannot now
call to mind a word of it. It may be of more interest to state that she
was to make Mr. Easton the happiest of men, within six weeks or so of
that time; and that the honey-moon was to be spent in a ramble on the
Continent. Very emphatically and very sincerely did I wish her a
pleasant time of it.

But the most agreeable evenings will come to a close. This one--with its
revival of a boy's casual acquaintance, with its momentary
castle-building, and its subsequent benevolence of feeling--this one,
like all others, passed away. It did not die out, as the fag-end of a
dinner-party sometimes will; it was cut short to me by the "good night!"
of Mary Verner, as she took her departure, leaning on Mr. Easton's arm,
in the train of an elderly female relative.

When the drawing-room door closed upon her graceful figure, I felt for a
moment as though the gas had been suddenly turned off. I recollect,
however, the hostess's observation, dropped to the accompaniment of a
playfully malicious smile:

"Didn't I tell you, you would like my friend Mary Verner?"

"Yes," was the reply, "and I have passed a most delightful evening; but
I don't think it quite fair, Mrs. F."--here there was a terrible smash
of the theory--"to open the gates of Paradise, and then slam them in a
poor fellow's face?"

I was to have gone, that night, to a ball in Devonshire Place, expressly
to meet--Never mind; I was not in the humour for dancing or flirting. I
went straight home, and to bed. I tossed about a good deal, and finally
dreamed about George and the pony, and that I was climbing the old
chestnut-trees. As for Mary Verner, I couldn't in my sleep conjure up
her image. When I thought I had it--as is the way in dreams, you know,
if you ever studied them--I couldn't get nearer to her than the plaguy
old family coachman. It was only when broad awake, the next morning,
that I found myself strongly impressed by this, my second meeting. But
again--such is life and such is youth--the impression was soon stowed
away on an upper shelf in memory's garret.


                                III.


Two years later; two years and two months.

Did you ever notice the marked difference between youth and old
age--aye, and middle age, too--in the matter of reading newspapers?
We--I speak of myself now as the writer--who are in the vanguard of the
march through life, must have our _Times_ or our _Chronicle_, as
regularly as our morning meal. Is it, as some spitefully assert, that we
grow more self-complacent as we pore over the misfortunes or the errors
of our fellows; or is it, that we seek refuge from the cares and
disappointments of our own lot, in a close scrutiny of that of all the
world beside, with the minutiae of which the diligent, prying, gossipping
press so unceasingly plies our curiosity? It is folly, perhaps, to raise
the question, since this is not the place to discuss it; though it were
not far from the truth to attribute much of the pettiness of our race,
in these days, to this habit of abandoning our thoughts and impulses to
the guidance of journalists who trade in them.

I only mean to say that being still youthful at twenty-three, I "cared
for none of these things," As for heeding who was born, or buried, or
married, beyond the circle of one's own intimate connections--I should
as soon have set to work to trace the pedigree of a New Zealander.
Probably, I heard in due time that Mary Verner had become Mrs. Easton.
Certainly I did not learn it from the usual printed record. In short, I
then very seldom read newspapers at all; and this I beg you to bear in
mind. What a shocking ignoramus I should be voted, if I were to say so
of this present time.

That, too, was the season of darkness, ere Albert Smith was the Lecturer
_par excellence_; ere Oxford and Cambridge men, returning from their
"long-vacation" rambles, disputed in the daily papers their respective
prowess in scaling the precipices of Monte Rosa, or discovering new
pathways up Mont Blanc. How changed are we to-day! Save for the
voluminous records of the Crimean war, what Mamelons and Malakoffs would
the pedestrians, Smith and Jones, be now fighting over, in the _Times_!

Nevertheless, though they made less fuss about it, Englishmen were then,
as now, prone to scurrying off to Switzerland in the Autumn--some in the
true cockney spirit--some because they found there the most sublime of
all spectacles, together with the most exhilarating exercise for the
body, and relaxation of mind in its fullest sense. With myself it
amounted to a passion; "Cuthbert's hobby" it was dubbed by
acquaintances, who could eke out delight from Leamington and Cheltenham.

Profiting by the leisure afforded me during successive seasons, I had
become tolerably familiar with the Alps; with what exquisite and
inexhaustible enjoyment I am not going here to trouble you. But August
had come round again. The knapsack was stitched, where it wanted
mending. The Alpenstock was dragged to light, from the lumber-room. The
thick-soled gaiter-boots were freshly studded with hobnails. The
well-worn Swiss map was conned over once more, and a new route, leading
over yet untrodden passes, was set down in the Autumnal programme.

Suddenly I changed my mind--under the influence of an hour's talk with
an enthusiastic mountaineer--who had, during the previous season,
explored the Pyrenees. "You may not find," said he, "quite so much
grandeur; but the valleys are decidedly more picturesque, the foliage
more varied, the very tints of the mountains glowing with warmer
colours." Thereupon, a change of plan and passport. Behold me at
Cauterets in France, instead of at Grindelwald in Switzerland!

Were my object merely to fill a certain number of pages, I might here
descant at length upon the comparative beauties of the Alps and the
Pyrenees--the latter having, at present, the advantage of not being done
to death by tourists. But I will abstain. I will speak only of one day's
adventure; the day whereon, for the third and last time, I found myself
associated with Mary Verner.

Cauterets may be a pleasant place enough to those who bathe in, or
imbibe for medicinal purposes, the mineral waters that have made its
fame. It is finely placed too, pitched in, as it were, into a nook, with
lofty peaks and fringes of fir forests over-topping its somewhat formal
streets. It does not, however, offer much attraction to the connoisseur
in fine scenery. One excursion alone is to be made. Its objects are the
Pont d'Espagne and the Lac de Gaube. The former is a group of pine
trunks bridging a cascade. The latter is a tarn at the foot of the
glaciers of the Vignemale, which, you know, is one of the
mountain-monarchs hereabouts.

Before proceeding further, I may mention that I am enabled to set down
my reminiscences of this particular time and place, by reference to my
rough notes penned on the spot, journal-wise. The little memorandum book
lies under my hand, with its pages written in ink of various tints, as
hotel, or cabaret, or hut furnished the material at the moment. I like
to preserve these records. Such _souvenirs_ are the _bonnes fortunes_ of
those whose travels are ended. You see that I incline to be sentimental
as I draw towards the _denouement_ of my story.

Heavens and earth, how it rains in the Pyrenees! What a young deluge
swept down the steep stone-guttered pavements, on the morning of the
29th of August! Still, I did not choose to devote more than one day to
the neighbourhood of Cauterets; and so, having made, from my window, a
few such profound observations as the one just set down, I ordered a
horse and guide. The polite waiter was astonished, and protested, to the
extent of two or three "_Mais Monsieur!_" The guide thought the storm
would expend itself in twenty-four hours; but on my hinting that the
path would not be difficult to find, without his aid, nor
impracticable, on foot, he subsided, with an air of conviction, into
the accustomed "_Bien, Monsieur!_"

And so we started. I had borrowed one of the long, thick, hooded Spanish
cloaks, commonly used in that region which borders on Spain; and a very
effectual protection it was against the steady down-pouring of the rain.
But what is perfect in this world? A German counterpane, on a summer's
night, is not more oppressive than was this excellent protection from
the wet.

Handing, then, the heavy encumbrance to the guide, I was drenched to the
skin in about two minutes. This was a comfort. It settled the point. I
dislike uncertainty. I could be at my ease, and look about. Remember it
was yet August.

And the Val de Jeret, up which I was riding, was so grandly gloomy; the
state of the weather excluding all but close views! My note-book thus
speaks of it, the writer never dreaming that his impressions would be
told to the readers of a newspaper, with many of whom Niagara and
Montmorenci are familiar sights: "The valley presents a succession of
splendid waterfalls; and, singularly enough, as your route lies upwards,
they increase in size and beauty, from the Mahourat, the first, to the
Pont d'Espagne, the last and most celebrated. The three intervening,
that are dignified with names, are the Cerizet, the Bousse, and the Pas
de l'Ours. Besides these, there are an infinity of smaller falls, the
whole course of the Gave (or torrent) de Marcadaou--along which the path
lies--boiling over broken masses of rock. The eye is charmed by endless
variety, amid perpetual repetition. The deluge of rain, which covered
the lofty rocks on each side of the defile with clouds, had gloriously
swollen the turbulent waters. I know of nothing in natural scenery--thus
the manuscript rather enthusiastically proceeds--that impresses one so
forcibly as a cascade of large dimensions. By large I mean broad, not
lofty. The effect is apt to diminish, with vast height. These, in the
Val de Jeret, I found absolutely bewitching; for is it not a sort of
infatuation, by which we are beguiled into drawing nearer and nearer,
until you almost touch the foaming sheets as they flurry past, and are
yourself driven back, for your pains, half blind and breathless? One
fine waterfall would be enough to digest in a day. During these two or
three hours, I had a very feast of them."

If I extract this somewhat rhapsodical passage, it is to show that my
inward man was not dampened, by the dampening process externally
applied. On the contrary, I am disposed to be jubilant, almost defiant,
in proportion to the fury of the storm; that is to say when no serious
personal inconvenience is caused by stress of weather. In a mountain
region too, above all others, clouds play so great a part in the
combination of fine effects, that I have many times fairly welcomed a
tempestuous spell.

Thus from the Pont d'Espagne I continued my ride an hour or so further,
in order to reach the Lac de Gaube, knowing perfectly well that the
chances were a hundred to one against my getting a glimpse of the
glaciers of the Vignemale, at whose feet this small sheet of water is
imbedded. Small it may well be termed, for it is not quite three miles
in circumference, though the largest lake in the Pyrenees.

On the rocky shore where the rough pathway terminates, stands, or stood
at the period of which I write, a solitary hut. There, during the short
summer season, might be found a family who earned a scanty subsistence,
by catching the lake trout and serving them up to chance travellers; by
rowing, in the solitary punt, any one who cared to paddle about the dark
waters; or by escorting any still more adventurous stranger desirous of
exploring the glaciers above-named, or ascending the lower heights of
the Vignemale.

Stepping up to the door of this cabin, I entered into conversation with
its chief occupant, who probably combined in his own person the various
offices of restaurateur, fisherman, muleteer, guide, and smuggler.
Possibly I libel him in the last respect; but along that frontier of
France and Spain, it is rare to find a mountaineer guiltless of the
contraband trade.

A visitor on such a day was a welcome sight to the poor fellow, who was
eloquent in regrets that _his_ mountain and _his_ glaciers and _his_
other local points of interest were all wrapped in the impenetrable
mist. He seemed, I remember now, to care more about it than I did; for I
had revelled in the exhibition of cascades, and was rather tickled at
the notion of having come up to this lone and savage spot, where nothing
whatever was to be seen.

If a spirit had whispered me, that the moment of my third _rencontre_
was close at hand, I should have smiled incredulously.

The fog lifted. I could see to a distance of half a dozen yards.

"What's that?"

"If Monsieur will give himself the trouble of walking up to it, he will
see."

It was on a jutting promontory of rock, close at hand. A small enclosure
was railed in. It held what was obviously a monumental tablet, in white
marble, but discoloured by exposure.

"A favourite poodle, perhaps, of the Duchesse de Berri--or one of our
eccentric Englishmen doing honour to a Pyrenean bear!" Such I thought it
might be, as I carelessly lounged up to it, and stooped to read the
inscription.

It was in French and English. I took no copy of the words. But it was
placed there in memory of Mr. and Mrs. Easton, drowned in the lake,
within one month of their marriage, on the 20th of September, 18--! The
facts were simply stated. I wish the record of them had been placed a
little further off from the rendezvous of the thoughtless and
light-hearted.

This was the last of my associations with her. But it would not interest
the reader, to be told with what feelings of surprise and sorrow I thus
learned the close of a career, which bid so fair for happiness and
usefulness. Poor Mary Verner!

Before setting-off on my return to Cauterets, I heard, from the lips of
the man with whom I had been conversing, the sad particulars of this
harrowing event. Never could the common phrase, that speaks of "painful
curiosity," have been more applicable than it was in my case, as I stood
and listened to him. Poor fellow; he had been an eye-witness. He saw my
emotion. "Monsieur knew the young couple?"--thus did he break the thread
of his little narrative, more than once.

I cannot pretend to set down his words. This is the substance of what he
told me.

The season was nearly over. The weather was splendidly fine, but very
cold. Travellers were scarcely expected; when on that brilliant
September morning, up rode the bride and bridegroom. After resting
awhile, they took the single skiff that was there, Mr. Easton offering
to row his wife across the lake, to which she very reluctantly assented.
I recollect the narrator dwelling on this fact.

The shore shelves off very rapidly. The water, in some parts, reaches to
the depth of three or four hundred feet. At all times it is of
marvellous clearness--as I observed myself--and, except during the heats
of summer, so piercingly cold, as to be altogether unbearable to the
swimmer.

My informant helped them into the boat. Mr. Easton was evidently used to
the handling of oars. The tragedy was immediately--perhaps one should
say, ostensibly--caused by those two qualities of the water of the Lac
de Gaube, to which I have just alluded--its clearness and its coldness.

The boat was at some considerable distance from the shore. The boatman
was watching them. Suddenly, Mr. Easton paused in his rowing. He and his
wife looked over the side, as though guessing at the depth. Mr. Easton
then stood up, and plunged one oar downwards into the water, with the
confident action of a man who is certain that he shall touch the bottom.
The transparency had deceived him. His oar met no resistance; and he
himself plunged heavily overboard. Such at least was the impression of
the boatman on land; and he could scarcely be mistaken.

So far as he could see, Mr. Easton did not rise to the surface. The cold
numbed him, and he sunk, not to rise again. The bereaved wife stood
upright for a moment in the boat, gazing on the water that had swallowed
up her husband before her eyes. Then she too was seen to be in it; but
not one of the two or three, who witnessed the fearful sight, could tell
whether she threw herself in, or whether she fell in, senseless. That
secret will never be solved; and what matters it to us, though the
manner of the widowed wife's death was so remarkable, that I cannot
refrain from mentioning it? In talking it over, they agreed that she did
not sink at all. As she fell, the water inflated her dress, and she was
buoyed-up, floating; though there was no sign of life or movement on her
part, observable to the agonized spectators. After a time--I forget
whether it was half an hour, or half a day--the remains of what once was
loved as Mary Verner were wafted tranquilly to the shore. Assistance
also having been procured, Mr. Easton's body was dragged-up from the
bottom of the lake. One grave in a church-yard in Essex now holds the
coffins of the ill-fated pair.

And was there no effort at rescue? Could nothing be done? This idea will
have crossed the reader's mind. It suggested many questions to me, with
which I plied the boatman, who seemed to feel keenly in them the
bitterness of unintended reproach. But his explanation--grievous as it
was--was satisfactory. There was no boat, no raft, no means of reaching
the spot. "Two of us," said he, "plunged up to our necks into the water,
in the irrepressible desire to swim out to them; though we knew that it
was certain death to go beyond our depth. Besides, Monsieur," he added
with touching simplicity, "I can't help fancying that the poor lady was
dead before she fell out of the boat. Monsieur knew her; doesn't he
think that her heart was already broken?"

"God help her, and all of us, my brave friend; I have not the smallest
doubt of it!"




                     TOSSING UP FOR A HUSBAND.

         _From the French of Vicomte Ponson de Terrail._

                                I.


The Marchioness was at her toilet. Florine and Aspasia, her two
ladies'-maids, were busy powdering, as it were with hoar-frost, the
bewitching widow.

She was a widow, this Marchioness, a widow of twenty-three; and wealthy,
as very few persons were any longer at the court of Louis XV., her
godfather.

Three-and-twenty years earlier, his Majesty had held her at the
baptismal font of the chapel at Marly, and had settled upon her an
income of a hundred thousand livres, by way of proving to her father,
the Baron Fontevrault, who had saved his life in the battle of Fontenoy,
that kings can be grateful, whatever people choose to say to the
contrary.

The Marchioness then was a widow. She resided during the summer, in a
charming little chateau, situated half-way up the slope overhanging the
water, on the road from Bougival to Saint Germain. Madame Dubarry's
estate adjoined hers; and on opening her eyes she could see, without
rising, the white gableends and the white-spreading chestnut-trees of
Luciennes, perched upon the heights. On this particular day--it was
noon--the Marchioness, whilst her attendants dressed her hair and
arranged her head-dress with the most exquisite taste, gravely employed
herself in tossing up, alternately, a couple of fine oranges, which
crossed each other in the air, and then dropped into the white and
delicate hand that caught them in their fall.

This sleight-of-hand--which the Marchioness interrupted at times whilst
she adjusted a beauty-spot on her lip, or cast an impatient glance on
the crystal clock that told how time was running away with the fair
widow's precious moments--had lasted for ten minutes, when the
folding-doors were thrown open, and a valet, such as one sees now only
on the stage announced with pompous voice--"The King!"

Apparently, the Marchioness was accustomed to such visits, for she but
half rose from her seat, as she saluted with her most gracious smile the
personage who entered.

It was indeed Louis XV. himself--Louis XV. at sixty-five; but robust,
upright, with smiling lip and beaming eye, and jauntily clad in a
close-fitting, pearl-grey hunting-suit, that became him to perfection.
He carried under his arm a handsome fowling-piece, inlaid with
mother-of-pearl; a small pouch, intended for ammunition alone, hung over
his shoulder.

The King had come from Luciennes, almost alone, that is but with a
Captain of the Guard, the old Marshal de Richelieu, and a single
Equerry on foot. He had been amusing himself with quail-shooting,
loading his own gun, as was the fashion with his ancestors, the later
Valois and the earlier Bourbons. His grandsire, Henry IV., could not
have been less ceremonious.

But a shower of hail had surprised him; and his Majesty had no relish
for it. He pretended that the fire of an enemy's battery was less
disagreeable than those drops of water, so small and so hard, that wet
him through, and reminded him of his twinges of rheumatism.

Fortunately, he was but a few steps from the gateway of the chateau,
when the shower commenced. He had come therefore to take shelter with
his god-daughter, having dismissed his suite, and only keeping with him
a magnificent pointer, whose genealogy was fully established by the Duc
de Richelieu, and traced back, with a few slips in orthography, directly
to Nisus, that celebrated greyhound, given by Charles IX. to his friend
Ronsard, the poet.

"Good morning, Marchioness," said the King, as he entered, putting down
his fowling-piece in a corner. "I have come to ask your hospitality. We
were caught in a shower at your gate--Richelieu and I. I have packed off
Richelieu."

"Ah, Sire, that wasn't very kind of you."

"Hush!" replied the King, in a good-humored tone. "It's only mid-day;
and if the Marshal had forced his way in here at so early an hour, he
would have bragged of it every where, this very evening. He is very apt
to compromise one, and he is a great coxcomb too, the old Duke. But
don't put yourself out of the way, Marchioness. Let Aspasia finish this
becoming pile of your head-dress, and Florine spread out with her silver
knife the scented powder that blends so well with the lilies and the
roses of your bewitching face.... Why, Marchioness, you are so pretty,
one could eat you up!"

"You think me so, Sire?"

"I tell you so every day. Oh, what fine oranges!"

And the King seated himself upon the roomy sofa, by the side of the
Marchioness, whose rosy finger-tips he kissed with an infinity of grace.
Then taking up one of the oranges that he had admired, he proceeded
leisurely to examine it.

"But," said he at length, "what are oranges doing by the side of your
Chinese powder-box and your scent bottles? Is there any connection
between this fruit and the maintenance--easy as it is, Marchioness--of
your charms?"

"These oranges," replied the lady, gravely, "fulfilled just now, Sire,
the functions of destiny."

The King opened wide his eyes, and stroked the long ears of his dog, by
way of giving the Marchioness time to explain her meaning.

"It was the Countess who gave them to me," she continued.

"Madame Dubarry?"

"Exactly so, Sire."

"A trumpery gift, it seems to me, Marchioness."

"I hold it, on the contrary, to be an important one; since I repeat to
your Majesty, that these oranges decide my fate."

"I give it up," said the King.

"Imagine, Sire; yesterday I found the Countess occupied in tossing her
oranges up and down, in this way." And the Marchioness recommenced her
game with a skill that cannot be described.

"I see," said the King; "she accompanied this singular amusement with
the words, 'Up, Choiseul! up, Praslin!' and, on my word, I can fancy how
the pair jumped."

"Precisely so, Sire."

"And do you dabble in politics, Marchioness? Have you a fancy for
uniting with the Countess, just to mortify my poor ministers?"

"By no means, Sire; for, in place of Monsieur de Choiseul and the Duc de
Praslin, I was saying to myself, just now, 'Up, Menneval! up,
Beaugency!'"

"Ay, ay," returned the King; "and why the deuce would you have them
jumping, those two good-looking gentlemen--Monsieur de Menneval, who is
a Croesus, and Monsieur de Beaugency, who is a statesman, and dances the
minuet to perfection?"

"I'll tell you," said the dame. "You know, Sire, that Monsieur de
Menneval is an accomplished gentleman, a handsome man, a gallant
cavalier, an indefatigable dancer, witty as Monsieur Arouet, and longing
for nothing so much as to live in the country, on his estate in
Touraine, on the banks of the Loire, with the woman whom he loves or
will love, far from the court, from grandeur, and from turmoil."

"And, on my life, he's in the right of it," quoth the King. "One does
become so wearied at court."

"Aye, and no," rejoined the widow as she put on her last beauty-spot....
"Nor are you unaware, Sire, that Monsieur de Beaugency is one of the
most brilliant courtiers of Marly and Versailles; ambitious, burning
with zeal for the service of your Majesty; as brave as Monsieur de
Menneval, and capable of going to the end of the earth ... with the
title of Ambassador of the King of France."

"I know that," chimed in Louis XV., with a laugh. "But, alas, I have
more ambassadors than embassies. My ante-chambers overflow every
morning."

"Now," continued the Marchioness, "I have been a widow ... these two
years past."

"A long time, there's no denying."

"Ah," sighed she, "there's no need to tell me so, Sire. But Monsieur de
Menneval loves me ... at least he says so, and I am easily persuaded."

"Very well; then marry Monsieur de Menneval."

"I have thought of it, Sire; and, in truth, I might do much worse. I
should like well enough to live in the country, under the willow-trees,
on the borders of the river, with a husband, fond, yielding, loving, who
would detest the philosophers and set some little value on the poets.
When no external noises disturb the honey-moon, that month, Sire, may be
indefinitely prolonged. In the country, you know, one never hears a
noise."

"Unless it be the north-wind moaning in the corridor, and the rain
pattering on the window-panes." And the King shivered slightly on his
sofa.

"But," added the dame, "Monsieur de Beaugency loves me equally well."

"Ah, ah! the ambitious man!"

"Ambition does not shut out love, Sire. Monsieur de Beaugency is a
Marquis; he is twenty-five; he is ambitious--I should like a husband
vastly who was longing to reach high offices of state. Greatness has its
own particular merit."

"Then marry Monsieur de Beaugency."

"I have thought of that, also; but this poor Monsieur de Menneval."...

"Very good," exclaimed the King, laughing: "now I see to what purpose
the oranges are destined. Monsieur de Menneval pleases you; Monsieur de
Beaugency would suit you just as well; and since one can't have more
than one husband, you make them each jump in turn."

"Just so, Sire. But observe what happens."

"Ah, what does happen?"

"That, unwilling and unable to play unfairly, I take equal pains to
catch the two oranges as they come down; and that I catch them both,
each time."

"Well, are you willing that I should take part in your game?"

"You, Sire? Ah, what a joke that would be!"

"I am very clumsy, Marchioness. To a certainty, in less than three
minutes Beaugency and Menneval, will be rolling on the floor."

"Ah!" exclaimed the lady; "and if you have any preference for one or the
other?"

"No; we'll do better. Look, I take the two oranges ... you mark them
carefully--or, better still, you stick into one of them one of these
toilet pins, making up your own mind which of the two is to represent
Monsieur de Beaugency, and leaving me, on that point, entirely in the
dark. If Monsieur de Beaugency touches the floor, you shall marry his
rival; if it happen just otherwise, you shall resign yourself to become
an ambassadress."

"Excellent! Now, Sire, let's see the result."

The King took the two oranges and plied shuttle with them above his
head. But at the third pass, the two rolled down upon the embroidered
carpet, and the Marchioness broke out into a merry fit of laughter.

"I foresaw as much," exclaimed his Majesty. "What a clumsy fellow I am!"

"And we more puzzled than ever, Sire?"

"So we are, Marchioness; but the best thing we can do, is to slice the
oranges, sugar them well, and season them with a dash of West India rum.
Then you can beg me to taste them, and offer me some of those preserved
cherries and peaches that you put up just as nicely as my daughter
Adelaide."

"And Monsieur de Menneval? and Monsieur de Beaugency?" said the
Marchioness, in piteous accents. "How is the question to be settled?"

Louis XV. began to cogitate.

"Are you quite sure," said he, "that both of them are in love with you?"

"Probably so," returned she, with a little coquettish smile, sent back
to her from the mirror opposite.

"And their love is equally strong?"

"I trust so, Sire."

"And I don't believe a word of it."

"Ah!" said the Marchioness, "but that is, in truth, a most terrible
supposition. Besides, Sire, they are on their way hither."

"Both of them?"

"One after the other: the Marquis at one o'clock precisely; the Baron at
two. I promised them my decision to-morrow, on condition that they would
pay me a final visit to-day."

As the Marchioness finished, the valet, who had announced the King, came
to inform his mistress, that Monsieur de Beaugency was in the
drawing-room, and solicited the favour of admission to pay his respects.

"Capital!" said Louis XV., smiling as though he were eighteen; "show
Monsieur de Beaugency in. Marchioness, you will receive him, and tell
him the price that you set upon your hand."

"And what is the price, Sire?"

"You must give him the choice--either to renounce you, or to consent to
send in to me his resignation of his appointments, in order that he may
go and bury himself with his wife on his estate of Courlac, in Poitou,
there to live the life of a country gentleman."

"And then, Sire?"

"You will allow him a couple of hours for reflection, and so dismiss
him."

"And in the end?"

"The rest is my concern." And the King got up, taking his dog and his
gun, and concealed himself behind a screen, drawing also a curtain, that
he might be completely hidden.

"What is your intention, Sire?" asked the Marchioness.

"I conceal myself like the kings of Persia, from the eyes of my
subjects," replied Louis XV. "Hush, Marchioness."

A few moments later, and Monsieur de Beaugency entered the room.


                              II.


The Marquis was a charming cavalier; tall, slight, with a moustache
black and curling upwards, an eye sparkling and intelligent, a Roman
nose, an Austrian lip, a firm step, a noble and imposing presence.

The Marchioness blushed slightly, at sight of him, but offered him her
hand to kiss; and as she begged him by a gesture to be seated, thus
inwardly took counsel with herself.

"Decidedly, I believe that the test is useless; it is Monsieur de
Beaugency whom I love. How proud shall I be to lean upon his arm at the
court-fetes! With what delight shall I keep long watches in the cabinet
of his Excellency the Ambassador, whilst he is busy with his Majesty's
affairs!"

But after this "aside," the Marchioness resumed her gracious and
coquettish air; as though the woman comprehended the mission of refined
gallantry which was reserved for her seductive and delicate epoch by an
indulgent Providence, that laid by its anger and its evil days for the
subsequent reign.

"Marchioness," said Monsieur de Beaugency, as he held in his hands the
rosy fingers of the lovely widow, "it is fully a week since you received
me!"

"A week? why, you were here yesterday!"

"Then I must have counted the hours for ages."

"A compliment which may be found in one of the younger Crebillon's
books!"

"You are hard upon me, Marchioness."

"Perhaps so, ... it comes naturally ... I am tired."

"Ah, Marchioness! Heaven knows that I would make of your existence one
never-ending fete!"

"That would, at least, be wearisome."

"Say a word, Madam, one single word, and my fortune, my future
prospects, my ambition!"--

"You are still then as ambitious as ever?"

"More than ever, since I have been in love with you."

"Is that necessary?"

"Beyond a doubt. Ambition--what is it but honours, wealth, the envious
looks of impotent rivals, the admiration of the crowd, the favour of
monarchs?... And is not one's love unanswerably and most triumphantly
proved, in laying all this at the feet of the woman whom one adores?"

"You may be right."

"I may be right, Marchioness! Listen to me, my fair lady-love."

"I am all attention, sir."

"Between us, who are well-born, and consort not with plebeians, that
vulgar and sentimental sort of love, which is painted by those who write
books for your mantuamakers and chambermaids, would be in exceedingly
bad taste. It would be but slighting love and making no account of its
enjoyments, were we to go and bury it in some obscure corner of the
Provinces, or of Paris--we, who belong to Versailles--living away there
with it, in monotonous solitude and unchanging contemplation!"

"Ah!" said the Marchioness, "you think so?"

"Tell me, rather, of fetes that dazzle one with lights, with noise, with
smiles, with wit, through which one glides intoxicated, with the fair
conquest in triumph on one's arm ... why hide one's happiness, in place
of parading it? The jealousy of the world does but increase, and cannot
diminish it. My uncle, the Cardinal, stands well at court. He has the
King's ear, and better still, the Countess's. He will, ere long, procure
me one of the Northern embassies. Cannot you fancy yourself Madame the
Ambassadress, treading the platform of a drawing-room, as royalty with
royalty, with the highest nobility of a kingdom--having the men at your
feet, and the women on lower seats around you, whilst you yourself are
occupant of a throne, and wield a sceptre?"

And as Monsieur de Beaugency warmed with his own eloquence, he gently
slid from his seat to the knees of the Marchioness, whose hand he
covered with kisses.

She listened to him, with a smile on her lips, and then abruptly said to
him:

"Rise, sir, and hear me in turn. Are you in truth sincerely attached to
me?"

"With my whole soul, Marchioness!"

"Are you prepared to make every sacrifice?"

"Every one, Madam."

"That is fortunate indeed; for to be prepared for all, is to accomplish
one, without the slightest difficulty; and it is but a single one that I
require."

"Oh, speak! Must a throne be conquered?"

"By no means, sir. You must only call to mind that you own a fine
chateau in Poitou."

"Pooh!" said Monsieur de Beaugency, "a shed."

"Every man's house is his castle," replied the widow. "And having called
it to mind, you need only order post-horses."

"For what purpose?"

"To carry me off to Courlac. It is there that your almoner shall unite
us, in the chapel, in presence of your domestics and your vassals, our
only witnesses."

"A singular whim, Marchioness; but I submit to it."

"Very well. We will set out this evening.... Ah! I forgot."

"What, further?"

"Before starting, you will send in your resignation to the King."

Monsieur de Beaugency almost bounded from his seat.

"Do you dream of that, Marchioness?"

"Assuredly. You will not, at Courlac, be able to perform your duties at
court."

"And on returning?"

"We will not return."

"We will--not--return!" slowly ejaculated Monsieur de Beaugency. "Where
then shall we proceed?"

"Nowhere. We will remain at Courlac."

"All the winter?"

"And all the summer. I count upon settling myself there, after our
marriage. I have a horror of the court. I do not like the turmoil.
Grandeur wearies me.... I look forward only to a simple and charming
country life, to the tranquil and happy existence of the forgotten lady
of the castle.... What matters it to you? You were ambitious for my
love's sake. I care but little for ambition; you ought to care for it
still less, since you are in love with me."

"But, Marchioness--"

"Hush! it's a bargain.... Still, for form's sake, I give you one hour to
reflect. There, pass out that way; go into the winter drawing-room that
you will find at the end of the gallery, and send me your answer upon a
leaf of your tablets. I am about to complete my toilet, which I left
unfinished, to receive you."

And the Marchioness opened a door, bowed Monsieur de Beaugency into the
corridor, and closed the door upon him.

"Marchioness," cried the King, from his hiding place and through the
screen, "you will offer Monsieur de Menneval the embassy to Prussia,
which I promise you for him."

"And you will not emerge from your retreat?"

"Certainly not, Madame; it is far more amusing to remain behind the
scenes. One hears all, laughs at one's ease, and is not troubled with
saying any thing."

It struck two. Monsieur de Menneval was announced. His Majesty remained
snug, and shammed dead.


                                   III.


Monsieur de Menneval was, at all points, a cavalier who yielded nothing
to his rival, Monsieur de Beaugency. He was fair. He had a blue eye, a
broad forehead, a mouth that wore a dreamy expression, and that somewhat
pensive air which became so well the Troubadours of France in the olden
time.

We cannot say whether Monsieur de Menneval had perpetrated verse; but he
loved the poets, the arts, the quiet of the fields, the sunsets, the
rosy dawn, the breeze sighing through the foliage, the low and
mysterious tones of a harp, sounding at eve from the light bark
shooting over the blue waters of the Loire--all things in short that
harmonize with that melodious concert of the heart, which passes by the
name of love.

He was timid, but he passionately loved the beautiful widow; and his
dearest dream was of passing his whole life at her feet, in well chosen
retirement, far from those envious lookers-on who are ever ready to
fling their sarcasms on quiet happiness, and who dissemble their envy
under cloak of a philosophic scepticism.

He trembled, as he entered the Marchioness's boudoir. He remained
standing before her, and blushed as he kissed her hand. At length,
encouraged by a smile, emboldened by the solemnity of this coveted
interview, he spoke to her of his love, with a poetic simplicity and an
unpremeditated warmth of heart--the genuine enthusiasm of a priest, who
has faith in the object of his adoration.

And as he spoke, the Marchioness sighed, and said within herself:

"He is right. Love is happiness. Love is to be two indeed, but one at
the same time; and to be free from those importunate intermeddlers, the
indifference or the mocking attention of the world."

She remembered, however, the advice of the King, and thus addressed the
Baron:

"What will you indeed do, in order to convince me of your affection?"

"All that man can do."

The Baron was less bold than Monsieur de Beaugency, who had talked of
conquering a throne. He was probably more sincere.

"I am ambitious," said the widow.

"Ah!" replied Monsieur de Menneval, sorrowfully.

"And I would that the man, whom I marry, should aspire to every thing,
and achieve every thing."

"I will try so to do, if you wish it."

"Listen; I give you an hour to reflect. I am, you know, the King's
god-daughter. I have begged of him an embassy for you."

"Ah!" said Monsieur de Menneval, with indifference.

"He has granted my request. If you love me, you will accept the offer.
We will be married this evening, and your Excellency the Ambassador to
Prussia will set off for Berlin immediately after the nuptials. Reflect;
I grant you an hour."

"It is useless," answered Monsieur de Menneval; "I have no need of
reflection, for I love you. Your wishes are my orders: to obey you is my
only desire. I accept the embassy."

"Never mind!" said she, trembling with joy and blushing deeply. "Pass
into the room, wherein you were just now waiting. I must complete my
toilet, and I shall then be at your service. I will summon you."

The Marchioness handed out the Baron by the right-hand door, as she had
handed out the Marquis by the left; and then said to herself:

"I shall be prettily embarrassed, if Monsieur de Beaugency should
consent to end his days at Courlac!"

Thereupon, the King removed the screen and reappeared.

His Majesty stepped quietly to the round table, whereupon he had
replaced the oranges, and took up one of them.

"Ah!" exclaimed the Marchioness, "I perceive, Sire, that you foresee the
difficulty that is about to spring up, and go back accordingly to the
oranges, in order to settle it."

As his sole reply, Louis XV. took a small ivory handled pen-knife from
his waistcoat pocket, made an incision in the rind of the orange, peeled
it off very neatly, divided the fruit into two parts, and offered one to
the astonished Marchioness.

"But, Sire, what are you doing?" was her eager inquiry.

"You see that I am eating the orange."

"But--"

"It was of no manner of use to us."

"You have decided then?"

"Unquestionably. Monsieur de Menneval loves you better than Monsieur de
Beaugency."

"That is not quite certain yet; let us wait."

"Look," said the King, pointing to the valet, who entered with a note
from the Marquis, "You'll soon see."

The widow opened the note, and read:

"Madam, I love you--Heaven is my witness; and to give you up is the
most cruel of sacrifices. But I am a gentleman. A gentleman belongs to
the King. My life, my blood are his. I cannot, without forfeit of my
loyalty, abandon his service----."

"Et cetera," chimed in the King, "as was observed by the Abbe Fleury, my
tutor. Marchioness, call in Monsieur de Menneval."

Monsieur de Menneval entered, and was greatly troubled to see the King
in the widow's boudoir.

"Baron," said his Majesty, "Monsieur de Beaugency was deeply in love
with the Marchioness; but he was more deeply still in love--since he
would not renounce it, to please her--with the embassy to Prussia. And
you, you love the Marchioness so much better than you love me, that you
would only enter my service for her sake. This leads me to believe that
you would be but a lukewarm public servant, and that Monsieur de
Beaugency will make an excellent ambassador. He will start for Berlin
this evening; and you shall marry the Marchioness. I will be present at
the ceremony."

"Marchioness," whispered Louis XV. in the ear of his god-daughter, "true
love is that which does not shrink from a sacrifice."

And the King peeled the second orange and eat it, as he placed the hand
of the widow in that of the Baron.

"I have been making three persons happy: the Marchioness, whose
indecision I have relieved; the Baron, who shall marry her; and Monsieur
do Beaugency, who will perchance prove a sorry ambassador. In all this,
I have only neglected my own interests, for I have been eating the
oranges without sugar.... And yet they pretend to say that I am a
selfish Monarch?"




                       THE MISSING MARINERS,

                    A DREAM OF THE ARCTIC SEAS.

     This fanciful sketch was written and published, before the fate of
     Sir John Franklin and his Discovery Ships was known.


There was not a curtain of any kind over the window.

Now, there are few things that I dislike more than this total want of
privacy in a bed-room. Opposite to a dead wall at a foot's distance, so
that none but bogies could peer within, or looking out through a
port-hole over the lonely sea, I confess to an almost old-maidenish
particularity in this respect. Failing, therefore, in sundry efforts to
substitute a great coat for a curtain, or even to delude myself into a
sense of seclusion, by planting an open umbrella upon a chair before the
window, I finally abandoned my efforts, determined to brazen it out,
blew out my light, and tumbled into bed, not in the best of humours.

You remember, perhaps, the bitter cold night and the flurry of a snow
storm, that came abruptly upon us, a few weeks since. That was the time
of which I write--the place was a country village. And what a freezing
night it was! The east wind blew gustily and drearily. It was
moonlight, but dull and grey; and as I lay in bed, without raising my
head from the starveling bolster vainly eked out by a meagre carpet bag,
I could see a single pine tree, on a steep bank right opposite my
window, nodding, and bowing at me by fits and by starts, as though the
capricious spirit of the night wind had bid it mock me. How I longed for
the sight of a chimney-pot!

There was no snow yet; but I listened to the rush of each driving blast,
and shrunk, huddling under the clothes, from the chill it sent through
me, as its keen edges forced their way through the crevices of the roof
over my head. At length, and after much tumbling and tossing, I fell
asleep--or believed that I did so; and presently I awoke again--or so it
seemed to me. What was sleeping, and what was waking, I scarcely knew,
that night.

Suddenly, there, between us--between myself, I mean, and the white,
shining hill-side--came an object, undefined in form but palpable in
substance, waving gently to and fro, passing and repassing before the
window, and at last appearing almost to touch it. Finally it became
stationary there, yet still undulating with that soft tremulous motion
which you may have noticed in the humming-bird, when, poised upon his
delicate wings, he darts his slender tongue into the petals of a
favourite flower. "What in the world is it?" I exclaimed; and had just
fancied that I could see a few slight cords reaching from it upwards,
above the upper edge of the window, when I distinctly heard a rap upon
the pane, and sprung from my bed, in wonderment, but not in fear. The
glass melted away--frame-work to the casement there was none--I passed
outwards, unconscious how or wherefore. I was seated, warmly and
comfortably seated, springing aloft into the moonlit and starry sky.

Then I knew that it was a balloon. It rose at the instant, and sped
rapidly through the air. The wind was strong, but blowing a steady gale;
not in gusts now, as it had been. And I felt that it was from the south,
for it was soft and balmy; and I knew that I was driving towards the
Polar star, for I saw it; and saw it growing larger and more luminous.

Then my spirit yearned after the missing Mariners; and I prayed Heaven
that I might be on my way to find them.

On we sped; but I was conscious, though the southerly gales were wafting
me to the frozen regions of the North, that there was a spirit beneath
or behind me, guiding the tiny car in which I was borne. I felt that he
was there, though I strove in vain to detect his presence. Slily did I
glance over my shoulder, abruptly did I turn my head, cautiously did I
crane over the edge--I could not see him. I felt him directing my looks
to what I beheld, shaping my thoughts whitherward they went; but it
pleased him to remain invisible.

It was yet night. Many rivers did we cross in our progress, some looking
inky-black as they flowed between snowy banks, others dimly made out,
and lost in the one unvaried tone. Lakes were there, too, and cities
sparcely scattered. The latter were mostly slumbering in the same quiet
as the former; but ascending from one I heard the alarm of a bell, and
glanced downwards at a herd of figures who seemed to be fussing and
fuming around a fire.

And now, for a moment, I knew that I was dreaming; and oh, grievous
disappointment, I half awoke to a consciousness that the vision was
slipping away from me. How I clutched at it! how I hugged it, and
refused to have a word to say to my senses! Did you never try this plan
and succeed in it? If not, I would not give a fig for your dreams.

But I caught up the thread of mine. Bravo! It was a narrow escape,
though. They told me, next day, that there had been a false alarm of
fire in the village, during the night. I would have been roasted alive,
rather than not have dreamed out my dream.

       *       *       *       *       *

Day-light, and early summer, and we were hovering over the icy land and
icy sea, scarcely now distinguishable, one from other. Nor can I,
indeed, describe much of what I saw; for methought, that we were driving
hither and thither, not only in the dreary realm of the Frost-king, but
up, and down, and athwart the ordinary current of times and seasons. So
was there much confusion. Anon it was that awful Winter, whose cold will
eat, like red-hot iron, into the unguarded flesh, or more fatal still,
will palm off Death upon his victim under the alluring disguise of
Slumber--Winter, with his terrible silence, more fearful than the roar
of his fiercest hurricanes--Winter, with his blinding mantle of unbroken
white, and his snowdrifts wherein cities might be engulphed--Winter,
with his one redeeming beauty, one attendant goddess, one Aurora, the
Borealis, whose coruscations were so marvellous to behold, so changeful,
so grand, so brilliant, that I smiled in looking on them, to think that
ever human skill had fabricated fire-works, and that their display could
throw spectators into ecstacies.

And anon it was the Arctic summer--and the blue waters peeped at
intervals between giant pyramids of ice--pyramids, and pinnacles, and
turrets, and all shapely and all shapeless masses. And these were
floating in the sunlight--some majestically sailing through the ever
opening spaces, coming never in contact with their fellows--others
jarring, and crashing, and splintering into a thousand fragments, as the
upheaving waves compelled them perilously to embrace each other; and
their greeting was as the roar of thunder-storms. And uncouth walrusses
were playing their clumsy antics on detached fragments of the ice, and
the seal was basking in the sun, and the huge whale was spouting, and
the seagull was skimming the surface of the loosened deep, dipping
therein the tips of his wings, as though to assure himself that it was
indeed liquid. Landward, too--for there was land, also, beneath us--I
seemed to see the scanty blades of a dwarfish vegetation thrusting
themselves pertinaciously through the snow; and anon the garb of the
earth seemed changing from one universal white, to varied hues of brown
and green.

Those things and other such, rare and beautiful, were visible to the
bodily eye; but the eye of my mind was not therewith content. It
strained its utmost, but saw not what it longed for; and my voice broke
out in bitterness, "Oh, the ships and the men, the men and the ships,
the good Sir John and his daring crews!"

Then I was conscious that my attendant spirit impelled the balloon in a
direction hitherto unexplored, and lo! there beneath us was a ship--a
ship, one of the objects of my search!

A ship! and my heart bounded within me at the first glimpse I caught of
it. But ah! how the blood curdled in my veins, when, at the next moment,
I saw that the ship had not, and could not have occupants. Poor,
ill-fated, ill-treated vessel; never surely did typhoon or whirlwind so
displace thee from thy proper bearings. The troubled waters of the
Atlantic or the Caribbean Sea might indeed have reared thee upwards, and
plunged thee downwards, and made thee reel to and fro, like a drunkard;
but it was alone the frozen waters of the Arctic, that could have forced
thee into this unnatural position, and then cruelly nailed thee there,
to rot into decay.

Ay, stout ship _Erebus_ or _Terror_--I wot not which--there wert thou
lying, or rather there didst thou stand upright, thy bows grovelling in
the ice, thy stern uplifted high in air, thy keel propped up against a
sheer precipice of ice, thy bowsprit shivered into splinters, thy masts
and yards, and tackle, fallen all, and tangled in most inextricable
confusion. One stick alone remained set out horizontally from the deck.
From it drooped the tattered remnant of a flag; it was the blood-red
standard of England!

As the balloon glided downwards towards the wreck, I could have peered
into the after-cabin windows; but a single glance had already satisfied
me that no living being would be found on board. I have said that my
blood curdled in my veins. Turning hastily with a sudden movement of
indignation, I obtained a moment's glance at my guide--his form was
shadowy; but by his hideous features I recognized him as Despair, and
felt that he and I were one.

But ho, a pleasant change! Down we floated, till my tiny car was almost
on a level with the vessel's bows; and there--oh, joy of joys--were
signs, palpable and undoubted, that the crew had fared better than their
ship--that they had escaped, and were gone, and had carried what they
pleased away with them. At one view I comprehended this--I read it in
the aperture sawn through the doubled planking, and in the fragments of
casks and cases with which the ice was bestrewn around. There was a
board, too, with writing upon it, nailed up conspicuously; but I tried
in vain to decipher it. Under the impulse of strong excitement, I again
turned abruptly toward my guide; this time, I could not obtain a glimpse
of him. Methought, however, that I heard a rustle like the sound of
wings, and that the inflated silk over my head became suddenly tinted
with the hues of the rainbow. And so I knew that I was under the
guidance of Hope; and that Despair would trouble me no more. Whither my
countrymen were gone I could not conjecture; but, at least, I deemed
them safe.

       *       *       *       *       *

Away, and away, we soared upwards and sped onwards; how far, and how
long, I marked not. And lo, another object! not a ship--it is a house,
this time; yes, a house in the lonely wilderness of that frozen ocean, a
hut upon the waves of that boundless _mer de glace_. And it was
fashioned in rude form; and the material was rough blocks of ice; and
snow seemed to have been used as their cement. The roof was formed by
poles and spars; and across them yet hung a sailcloth covering.
Roundabout the hut was a lofty wall, built apparently to shelter it from
storms, and snowdrifts; and the wall was built with the same material as
the house, for Nature's plentiful quarry fails not in those Polar
regions, if man's hand and man's axe be brought there, to hew and shape.
But for whom the shelter, and whither had they gone, who tenanted it? I
knew well that the long lost had been here. None but they--no miserable,
wandering tribe of Esquimaux--could have left such unmistakable marks of
forethought, and skill, and energy. Near by, too, was plainly visible
the icy cradle wherein a vessel had been lying, and on an even keel. But
ships and men were gone--gone, but how gone, and whither? Earnestly did
I gaze for some solution of this mystery; and at length I solved it, ay,
plain enough; a line along the surface of the ice became distinctly
visible, rugged and indented indeed, but straight, and stretching far
away to the Westward. Then was I assured that Sir John and his brave
comrades had been here, that they had cut out a channel for their
barque, and that the ice had closed in behind them, so soon as they had
passed on their way. Yes, I was on their track. And again I heard the
soft rustling of the wings of Hope; and the rainbow-tinted hues of the
balloon were three-fold more brilliant than before.

One other circumstance only could I note, ere we sped away again upon
the search--all who came hither had not departed hence. Side by side, in
a sheltered nook, beneath a towering pinnacle of ice, two wooden
crosses, peering above the snow, told plainly that beneath it two of the
Mariners were sleeping in death. And their names were rudely carved upon
the crosses; but again my sight, though in some respects preternaturally
sharpened, refused to satisfy my curiosity. Never mind, thought I, 'tis
a small proportion in so large a company. We must all die once; and
those who rest here, rest as well as though they were laid beneath the
"long-drawn aisle;" and their bodies are more enduringly embalmed by the
servants of the great Frost-King, than in olden days they could have
been by the hand of the cunning men of Egypt.

       *       *       *       *       *

Upwards, and onwards, and steering ever a Westwardly course. And lo, at
length--oh, God be praised--yes I found the men I sought! Yes--no more
doubt--there I saw them below me, although, with the caprice incident to
dreams, I was prevented from dropping down in the midst of them, or
rendering myself either visible or audible.

A strange scene it was, independent of its surpassing interest. Rocky
islands--vast packs and floes of ice--a lone ship beset, impeded,
entangled--a hundred pairs of lusty arms at work with ice-saws and axes,
striving to extricate her, by cutting a channel in the direction where
open water was visible. A little apart from the busy groups stood one
whom I instantly recognised as the Chief. Care had furrowed his brow,
and somewhat whitened his locks, and bowed his vigorous form; but manly
resolution was stamped upon his features, and command was in every
gesture. Bethink you how I strove to shout--how I struggled even to
throw myself down into their arms; but the dream-spell was on me; I was
invisible, perforce, and my tongue refused to give utterance.

How I watched them! and look, the burly seaman who is a few steps ahead
of his comrades, tracking out the pathway to be dug--look, he starts as
though a rattlesnake were issuing from the snow under his feet. What is
it? He stoops, and I see his big brown hand tremble, as it assuredly
would not have done, if picking up a burning grenade. What is it, bold
tar, that moves thee thus? Ay, I see now, and know the cause, 'tis
yonder little slip of gay coloured silk on which are printed a few short
words. Jack could not read, it was evident enough; but he held up his
prize, and called out something which I could not hear, and his
mess-mates bounded to the spot. Foremost in the race was an athletic
young man, in the threadbare uniform of a Midshipman, who had left his
father's halls, five years ago, a beardless boy. Nor was the Chieftain
himself the last. How did it pass rapidly from hand to hand, that little
silken slip! How did its fall amongst them seem to change the whole
spirit of the scene! But look again, a gesture from the Chief, not as
one of authority this time, but rather as one of suggestion. It is
obeyed, however, and a hundred heads are bared; and by the movements of
their lips, I could see that every living man amongst them ejaculated a
hearty "amen" to the Chieftain's short but earnest thanksgiving to
Heaven, for the assistance now known to be at hand. Then I remembered
that the brave Sir John was a pious and a God-fearing man; and that the
veriest infidel sneers not at religion in the mouth of him, whose heart
is fearless and true.

Visible to me, if not audible, what extravagant demonstrations of joy
ensued! I felt my little car vibrating to their force, as cheers, peal
upon peal, came rolling up into the welkin. Singular was it, too, that
though in my dream my ears were stopped, I could read in the expressive
features of those rejoicing Mariners their varied emotions, as they
vociferated their glee. I could see in their honest countenances, which
cheer was for Old England--which for their Queen--which for their
homes--which for their wives and little ones. Then they burst forth into
grotesque dancing, and slapping of each others' hands, and jumping on to
each others' backs, and a thousand merry antics, as though they were
children just let loose from school. And anon, in their mirth, running
races hither and thither, one, an officer amongst them, picked up
another printed silken slip, in general aspect like the former, but
addressed, it seemed, to the Chieftain by name. A second look would have
been sufficient to master its contents, but the young man looked not the
second time, he hurried with it straightway to Sir John. Rare instance
this, methought, of the working of a high sense of honour!

And the veteran, what did it convey to him? I saw not; but I saw a tear
course down his furrowed cheek; and for the moment my ears were opened
to hear his half-smothered ejaculation, "Jane, Jane, God bless
thee--true wife, noble woman--we shall meet, thank God, we shall meet!"

So I watched the merry throng, and strove in vain to catch portions of
their earnest talk. Suddenly, all eyes were turned upon the Captain; he
was speaking, and pointing to the West. A few words only seemed to come
from his lips; but those surely were words of command. In a moment,
every man, though half delirious with delight, seized upon his axe or
his saw. Work recommenced; labour was distributed in gangs. Every arm
was vigorously plied. The watch, descended from the mast-head to hear
the wondrous tidings, mounted lustily again to his look-out station.
Each man was busy at his post; and though there was perchance some
display of increased energy and activity, you would not have surmised
that these patient labourers had just exchanged the gathering gloom of
Despair for the radiant smiles of Hope. O gallant hearts of oak, thought
I--resolute, unflinching, enduring, in the prospect of the dreariest of
fates--orderly, obedient, loyal, in the thrill of unexpected
deliverance.

       *       *       *       *       *

The remainder of my dream came upon me in snatches.

Midway in a narrow strait, between lofty and sterile banks, a battered
and crippled barque was steering South. I knew the place to be Behring's
Straits, the vessel the Discovery Ship that I had just left amidst the
ice. So bruised, however, was she, so rent, and strained, and
maltreated, that but for the friendly aid of a consort's tow-rope, she
could scarcely have adventured even on this comparatively easy
navigation. At her peak floated the standard of England; but I strove in
vain to make out the colours of her welcome escort. Once, I thought I
saw plainly the Stars and Stripes of America; but these either faded
away, or assumed the appearance of the double-headed eagle of Russia. Be
that as it may, my sense of hearing was restored; and I could both hear
and see signs of continuous rejoicing and festivity. Sounds of mirth,
and song, and music, came upwards to me from those pleasant waters.
Many a canoe, too, filled with outlandish people, visited the ships; all
was wonder, and delight, and congratulation.

       *       *       *       *       *

Hitherto there had been some consistency in my dream; for if my mode of
seeing were dream-like and fantastical, what I saw had the
verisimilitude of reality. But this was over, or at least was changed.
In place of being seated in the car of a balloon, I was now in the
maintop of Sir John's battered and leaky ship, a witness to what could
only have existence in the wild imaginings of a vision. For, methought
we were still steering to the South, when on our larboard hand uprose a
range of lofty hills, upon which it seemed to me that I could almost
have jumped. Down their sides rolled hundreds of little streams; and in
the waters, waist-deep, were myriads of human beings, delving, and
scraping, and washing, and picking up what seemed to me to be gold. But
they paused in their busy occupations, when they saw the approach of the
ships; and, holding up shining masses of the golden ore, shouted to the
long missing mariners to come to the mines, and gather a plentiful
harvest after their toils. Yardarm were we to the glittering hill-sides,
and the miners wore the air of men who rarely tempted in vain; but the
crew of the worn-out ship gaily shook their heads, laughed a pleasant
little laugh of defiance, and the words, "home, home," came floating up
to me from her deck.

       *       *       *       *       *

Another trial. The men had theirs, and were staunch. It was the master's
turn. Heading still to the southwards, but almost becalmed, I saw a
swift steamer ranging fast up with us from astern. This time the Stars
and Stripes were plainly evident. She came alongside. Her captain was on
our deck in a moment, and engaged in earnest conversation with the good
Sir John. By the wave of his hand and a word caught here and there, I
knew that the kindly American was pressing the veteran to take passage
in his steamer. He drew a little almanac from his pocket, and there
seemed to be some comparison as to dates; but Sir John finally, with a
moistened eye, touched the other on the shoulder, pointed upwards to the
British ensign, and firmly shook his head. Away rushed the friendly
steamer, and the crowding passengers on her deck took leave of us with
reiterated cheers.

       *       *       *       *       *

My dream was drawing to a close; but I yet was housed snugly in my new
position, when the look-out at the mast-head announced a sail. It might
have been the same day, or the next, or a week later. But he announced a
sail--then another--and another--and lastly a steamer under canvas. The
squadron bore down upon us. It consisted of two line-of-battle-ships, a
frigate, and a screw-propeller, under command of the British Admiral in
the Pacific. The greetings and salutes were over, and official etiquette
was somewhat relaxed under the intense excitement of the moment, when I
heard in my dream, on the quarter-deck of the flag ship, the Admiral
thus addressed the carpenter, with a certain meaning twinkle in his eye.
"That leaky old tub can never swim round Cape Horn, Carpenter." "I think
not, your Honour," discreetly replied Mr. Chips. "Youngster," continued
the Admiral turning quickly to a little middy, "go to Captain B. with my
compliments, and tell him to call an immediate survey on the Discovery
Ship." The little middy touched his cap respectfully, and off he jumped
with his message. "Mr. C.," cried the Admiral to the other midshipman
who stood by the signal-locker, "signalize the propeller to light her
fires, and get up all steam." In thirty seconds four bits of bunting
flew out from the mizen royal-mast head.

       *       *       *       *       *

The last object that I saw in my vision was the figure of a woman,
walking the ramparts of an old Spanish city on the Pacific coast of
Central America. Matronly, and dignified in her air and bearing, her
featured bore the impress of past anxiety, but across them flitted at
times the consciousness of approaching joy. She gazed wistfully ever and
anon seaward; and my heart yearned to tell her all that I had so lately
seen. The herd of vulgar gold-hunters, who thronged the battlements,
respected her, for her long-continued sorrows, her abiding faith, her
matchless perseverance. They pressed not on her steps.

I, too, who knew more than they did, how I longed to see the
meeting--but no, no, 'twere better that it should be sacred.

I had not the choice; at this moment, forced upon my unwilling ears,
through the key-hole came a tiny voice, "Please, Sir, mother says won't
you get up; the stage will be here in ten minutes."




                       WOMAN NEVER AT A LOSS.

              _An Eastern Apologue--From the French._


----I read her my manuscript; I had been abusing woman I must confess.
Not a single good word could I say for the sex; and long did my
companion and I battle the point. Many truisms, much that was strictly
veritable had I brought forward, and she had been obliged to yield to
the justice of almost all my remarks, though disclaiming against my
slander at the same time. Finally--"You intend to marry, yourself?" she
asked.

"Certainly," I replied; "to find a woman bold enough to take me, after
having convinced her that I knew all the duplicity of the sex, will
henceforward be the dearest of my hopes."

"Is this resignation or fatuity?"

"That is my secret."

"Well, then," she said, "most learned doctor of conjugal arts and
sciences, permit me to relate to you a little Eastern apologue, that I
read long ago in a small volume that was offered to us every year in the
shape of an almanac." I bowed my delighted attention. The pretty
creature threw herself back in her _chaise longue_, rested her little
feet upon the fender, and fixed her arch dark eyes upon me.

"At the commencement of the Empire," she began, "the ladies brought into
fashion a game which consisted in accepting nothing from the person with
whom one agreed to play, without saying the word 'Iadeste.' An affair of
this kind lasted, as you may suppose, whole weeks, and the height of
cleverness was to surprise one another into receiving a trifle without
uttering the magic word."

"Even a kiss?"

"Oh! I have twenty times gained 'Iadeste' in that way," said she,
laughing. "It was, I believe, about this time, apropos of this game of
which the origin is either Arabian or Chinese, that my apologue obtained
the honours of print."

"But if I tell it to you," she interrupted, looking doubtfully at me,
and passing her taper finger slowly across her lips, with a charmingly
coquettish gesture, "promise me to insert it at the end of your book!"

"Will you not be bestowing a treasure? I owe you already so many
obligations, I do not hesitate to add this; therefore, I accept it at
once." She smiled maliciously, and went on in these words.

"A philosopher had compiled a very large collection of all the tricks
our sex can play; and so, to guard himself against our wiles, he carried
this constantly about him. One day, in travelling, he found himself near
an Arabian encampment. A young woman, sitting under the shade of a
palm-tree, got up suddenly, on the approach of the stranger, and invited
him so obligingly to repose under her tent that he could not resist
accepting. The husband of this lady was then absent. The philosopher had
scarcely established himself upon the soft carpets, when his graceful
hostess presented him with fresh dates and a vessel full of milk; he
could not help seeing the rare perfection of the hands which offered the
beverage and the fruit. But to recover from the confusion into which the
charms of the young Arabian had thrown him, and whose snares he began to
dread, the wise man drew out his book and read! The enchanting creature,
piqued at this disdain, said to him in the sweetest voice, 'That book
must be very interesting, since it seems to be the only thing you
consider worthy of notice. Would it be an indiscretion to ask the name
of the science of which it treats!' The philosopher replied without
raising his eyes, 'The subject of this book is beyond the comprehension
of woman.' This refusal excited more and more the curiosity of the young
Arabian. She put forward the prettiest little foot that ever left its
transient trace upon the fleeting sands of the desert. The sage began to
waver; his truant looks would wander toward those dainty feet till his
eyes, too powerfully tempted, finally mingled the flame of their
admiration with the fire that darted from the ardent and black orbs of
the young Asiatic. Again, then, she asked in her soft low tones, 'what
is the book?' and the charmed philosopher replied, 'I am the author of
this work. It contains a record of all the tricks that woman ever
invented!'

"'What! all--absolutely all?' inquired the daughter of the desert.

"'Yes--all! And it is only in studying woman constantly, that I have
been able to overcome my fear of them.'

"'Ah!' said the Arabian, dropping the long lashes of her snowy eyelids;
and then throwing suddenly upon the pretended sage the full lustre of
her Eastern eyes she made him forget in one instant his valuable book
and its invaluable contents. Behold my philosopher the most impassioned
of men!

"Thinking that he perceived in the manner of his young hostess a slight
touch of coquetry, the stranger hazarded an avowal of his adoration. How
could he have resisted? The sky was so blue, the sand shone in the
distance like a blade of gold; the wind brought love upon its wings, and
the wife of the absent Arab seemed to reflect all the brilliancy with
which she was surrounded. Her bright eyes, too, became liquid; and she
seemed, by a slight movement of her graceful head, to consent to listen
to the honeyed words of the quondam philosopher.

"The wise man was in a full tide of eloquence when the distant gallop of
a horse was heard rapidly approaching.

"'We are lost!' cried the alarmed Fatima; 'my husband is coming. He is
jealous as a tiger, and still more fierce. In the name of the Prophet,
and if you love your life, hide yourself in this chest!' The frightened
author, seeing nothing else to do, rushed into the chest; his hostess
shut it down, locked it, and took the key. She went to meet her spouse,
and after several caresses, which put him into the best of humour, 'I
must tell you,' said she, 'a very singular adventure.'

"'I listen, my gazelle,' said the Arabian, seating himself upon a
cushion and crossing big legs after the Oriental fashion.

"'There came here to-day a kind of philosopher; he pretended to have
collected in a book all the treacheries of which my sex is capable; and
this false sage--spoke--to--me of love!'

"'Well?'

"'I listened to him!' At these words the Arab bounded like a lion, and
drew his kangiar. The philosopher, from the bottom of the chest, heard
all, and sent to the devil his book, woman, and all the men of Arabia
Petrea.

"'Fatima!' cried the husband, if you wish to live, answer! 'Where is the
traitor?'

"Horrified at the storm she had raised, Fatima threw herself at the feet
of her lord, and trembling under the menacing steel of the poniard, she
pointed out the coffer, with a single look, as prompt as it was timid.
Then rising, ashamed, she drew the key from her girdle and gave it to
her jealous lord. But--as he turned furiously from her, the malicious
beauty burst into a shout of laughter, and laying her white hand upon
his shoulder, 'Iadeste!' she exclaimed; 'at last, I shall have my
beautiful gold chain! Give it to me; you have lost. Another time, Fazom,
have a little better memory!' The husband stupefied, let fall the key,
and presenting the golden chain, on his knees, offered his dear Fatima
to bring her all the jewels of all the caravans that passed that year,
if she would only give up such cruel methods of gaining the 'Iadeste.'
Then, as he was an Arabian and did not like to lose his gold chain,
though it was to his wife, he remounted his steed and went off,
grumbling at his ease in the desert--for he loved Fatima too much to
show her his regrets.

"At last, the young woman released the philosopher more dead than alive
from his prison, and said to him, gravely,

"'Mr. Philosopher, don't forgot to insert this trick in your
collection.'"




                   MANDRAGORA--BY THE DOZEN.


And so you cannot coax yourself off to sleep? Why? Were you beguiled by
their exquisite flavour into rashly smoking three or four of those
potent Regalias, with which your friend, the rich stock-broker,
professes to aid the digestion of his guests, after a lengthened sitting
at his luxurious table? Or did the rounded arm and taper fingers of his
fair wife, presiding over the mysteries of the silver urn, tempt you to
indulgence in too frequent cups of Souchong? Perhaps you are
endeavouring, in spite of yourself, to solve some knotty problem in
politics, or love, or chess, or mathematics. Perhaps you have a
considerable bill to take up to-morrow, with a very slim balance at your
banker's. Perhaps you have a heart-ache; perhaps a head-ache. At any
rate, your nerves and senses are painfully strained; and you feel as
though you would give the world and all, for a lullaby that would serve
its purpose. My good Sir, compose your mind. If you can't sleep and
dream, as you desire--dream and sleep. Reverse, I say, the common order.
And do not sneer at the suggestion, unless you prefer tossing about all
night in vain. The process is not only not impossible; it is not half
so difficult as you might suppose, presuming--as I have a right to
presume, in regard to my reader--that your imagination is not hopelessly
inert.

Some persons recommend to the restless and wide-awake the repetition of
scraps from books, in prose or verse, just as though every one had a
plenteous store of "elegant extracts" garnered up in his memory, and as
though authors specially aimed at being somniferous. There are indeed
not a few among them, who unavoidably achieve this distinction; and the
advice might not really be bad, if you could con over--once would be
sufficient--Mr. A.'s last pamphlet on political economy, or the Rev. Mr.
B.'s last sermon. On the whole however, inasmuch as your favourite
passages--should you know any of them by heart--may be the very opposite
of soothing in their tendencies, this mode of wooing slumber can
scarcely be pronounced successful.

You must commence, I say, by dreaming, if you would compel yourself
gently to sleep; but before I proceed to introduce to you my list of
available prescriptions in this line, I note one with which my readers
may possibly be familiar, having learned it in their school-boy days.
You will not now be told for the first time, that a drowsy sensation may
be induced by musing upon--or dreaming of, which is the same thing--a
field of tall and ripe barley, swept by fresh autumnal gales. The rise
and fall of each bowed head, with its feathery and graceful spikes,
combines well with the undulating motion of the whole and the varied
play of light and shade. The idea is otherwise expressed by the British
Laureate in "The Poet's Song," one of his minor pieces; "and waves of
shadow," says he, "went over the wheat." Nevertheless it is clear that
he missed the proper application of the thought, for, in place of
lulling the beholder to forgetful repose, the sight seems to have made
him break out into a song so loud that wild swans paused to listen in
their flight, larks fluttered down to earth, swallows gave up hunting
bees, snakes slipped under sprays, wild hawks stared over sparrows
stricken under their claws, and the very nightingales were set
a-thinking. Truly a sad perversion this of a golden opportunity! But
your rhymsters were ever a crazy race. When they deal with their fellows
generally, we all know how they botch poor human nature. What, then, can
be expected, when poets undertake to figure out one of themselves?
Still, let us improve the occasion. Barley-fields or wheat-fields are
well enough in their way; only, if you conjure up this image, I would
advise you to season it with an abundance of red poppies intermingled
with the legitimate crop, and a very careful attempt on your part to
number these interlopers one by one, preparatory, if so it please you,
to flipping off their heads. With due allowance, therefore, for its lack
of novelty, this dream may be admitted into our collection.

And it may be proper to remark at the outset that, though the dreams
whereof I propose to treat are sufficiently distinct in their kind, it
is desirable, in the practical use of them, to run them one into
another--to fuse them unconsciously as it were, without being over-nice
as to the point at which one ends and another begins. It is not
requisite, however, for this reason, that they should all be packed into
one paragraph, like a daily paper's report of one of Mr. Morrill's
speeches on the Tariff, or a Secretary of the Treasury's Report. You
shall have each dainty conceit served up in its own dish, so that,
furthermore by the way, you can take them in such order as suits your
own good pleasure. This view of the matter relieves me also from the
necessity of formal arrangement. It is altogether unimportant which
fancy comes uppermost. The main thing is to shut off all thought
concerning the actualities of life, eschewing reference to your loves,
your hates, your wrestlings with circumstance, your mental cares, your
bodily ailments. I repeat it: you must dream, if you would sleep.
Counting the breezy barley-field above mentioned as one, I believe I can
supply you with a dozen subjects.

Your physical eye is closed, of course--your mind's eye being, on that
account, all the more keenly alive to impression, and the better able to
compass an unembarrassed range. Set it, then, upon a spiral stairway
endless so far as I can imagine it, though you may perchance by looking
earnestly upward discover whereto it leads, or by peering intently
downward find out its base. But did I say a stairway? That was not what
I meant; and dreamers, of all men, are at liberty to change or modify
their views. I should have said an inclined plane. Let it be steep,
smooth, slippery, broad enough to admit the passage of several figures
simultaneously, and guarded by bannisters on either side. When, fatigued
with the vain attempt to satisfy your doubts as to the safety of this
strange structure, your curiosity craves enlightenment as to its uses, I
pray you to observe how I would have it peopled. Sliding tumultuously
adown the balustrades, lo and behold an innumerable throng of Cherubs in
unbroken succession, coming whence and going whither you know not, but
each the counterpart of his predecessors, and each flapping his little
wings to maintain his balance, rendered precarious as it is by his
inability to sit a-straddle. As for the inclined plane itself thus
fantastically flanked, you soon perceive that it is the _via sacra_ of
many an Ethardo, whom you have known in the flesh or in the
spirit--Ethardo, the marvellous gymnast, who mounted and descended steep
slopes at the Sydenham Crystal Palace, by trundling inflated balls
beneath his feet. Up and down, down and up, some painfully and some
skilfully pediculating, your Ethardi pass and repass each other,
disorderly yet in order. Name them and salute them as they go by. You
have probably more acquaintances among them than I; but I recognise
Robinson Crusoe and Count Bismarck, Tarquinius Priscus and Horace
Greeley, John Ruskin and Lucrezia Borgia, Mrs. Fry and Edgar Poe, Mr.
Gladstone and Dion Boucicault, John Bright and Mrs. Grundy, Ben. Wade
and Victor Hugo, Pio Nono and the Great Mogul. Note, too, the various
material moulded into circular form, and blown up by way of ambulant
footstool; now it is a crown, now a crozier, now a bag of gold, now a
wind-bag, now a woman's heart, now a man's fame done up in a newspaper
and properly puffed. Ring the changes upon these Ethardi and the motive
power that each applies, O my wakeful friend; and at least you may lose
sight of your own individuality. Or, take a slide down the banisters
with the young Cherubs, and perchance you may touch bottom--in Lethe.

Not so? Let us proceed. There's a man at our Club, whose reputation is
so solidly built up, though on an ethereal basis, that I never knew any
one presume to question it. He is an absolute master of one
accomplishment; unrivalled, and--to the best of my belief, though I
can't vouch for the fact--unenvied. Admiring spectators gather round him
and applaud; but, if he have ambitious imitators, they rehearse in
secret. So far, he does well--ay, with consummate tact and unfailing
certainty--what few men can do at all, unless once in a while at dreary
intervals, and then by accident. Not to keep you in suspense, which is
antagonistic to repose and slumber, this young paragon contrives to
throw off his cigar-smoke from his lips, at will, in an unerring series
of the most lovely rings or wreaths, which, as they float and rise in
tremulous succession, strangely fascinate the looker-on. It may be that
this feat is not much of an achievement, morally or physically or
intellectually considered. It may be also that the Club does not do
itself much honour, in setting so high a value on this performance. But
what will you? In the palmy days of Greece, a man acquired a certain
celebrity by his precision and address in throwing peas through a
needle's eye--the peas being, I presume, much smaller or the needles
much larger, than any with which we sow or make soup in these degenerate
days. Still, so highly do I appreciate perseverance in the acquirement
of any difficult art, that I purpose doing much more for my proficient
in smoke, than was done for his man of peas by Philip of Macedon. That
bushel of ammunition was a scurvy reward. I confer immortality, by thus
registering a fact and hinting a name. And I do this from a sense of
gratitude, wherein I trust that you will participate, so soon as you
perceive the connection that may surely be traced, between the smoke
thus artistically and gracefully jetted into air, and the drowsiness by
which you would fain be possessed. Do but imagine a score of your
acquaintances round a table, each an adept in this way, and each filling
the atmosphere with coronet after coronet of vapour thrown up from
meerschaum or cheroot. Whose are the most frequent, whose the most
perfect, whose retain their form the longest? Watch the little circlets
as they wave and tremble; and award the palm of merit fairly. Nay, even
if you tell me that you are innocent of the weed and nauseated by its
odour, none the less shall this fantasy be available. I saw once a
ship-of-war firing a salute; and lo, from one of the guns went up to the
pure sky, in magnified proportions, just such a wreath as those I have
described, as delicate yet as clearly defined, and touched withal with a
suspicion of prismatic colours as it caught the rays of the sun. An
enthusiastic painter might have deemed it an invisible Fairy's aureole;
a sentimental milliner would have set it down as the flounce of her
unseen robe. Whether the gunner of this occasion had taken a lesson from
my friend at the Club, I cannot pretend to decide; I only assure you
that I witnessed the phenomenon. You have, therefore, but to multiply as
well as magnify. Think of a squadron, a fleet, all the navies of the
world, sailing slowly and majestically in unending circuit, as the
custom is whe

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