vpJmSBt . :*m ■ B'EDWARDS LONDON: WARD, LOCK,.and CO. RO For the Haif, < Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library Sunburn, Redness and Chilblains, Cutaneous Bottles, 2/3 and 4/6. ESSENCE 01 EUKONIA. : Garden, London, and DO NOT LET YO OFennings' Chijdron Convu EMORY UNIVERSITY I h* UJ LU H >- CO < UJ are cooling FJENb CHILDREN^ For Children Cu 0 To prevent Convulsions. (Do not contain Calomel, Opium, Morphia, or anything injurious to a tender babe.) 6old in Stamped Boxes at is. i$d andzs. 9d. (great saving), with' full directions. Sent post free for 15 stamps. Direct to Alfred Fennings. West Cowe9,1.W. Read FENNINGS1 EVERY MOTHER'S BOOK, which contains valuable hints on Feeding, Teething, Weaning, Sleeping, ete. Ask your Chemist for a free copy. m m Q nm/iu; auv UUUU 11 u) y v u u v| ny Sold in Boxos at is. i$d. and zs. 9d. with directions. Sent post free for 13 stamps. Direct to A. fennings, West Cowes, I.W, The largest size Boxes, 2s. 9d. (33 stamps post free), contain three times the quantity of the small boxes. Read FENNINGS' EVERYBODY'S DOCTOR. Sent post free, 13 stamps. Direct A. fennings, West Cowes, i.W. FENNINGS' EVERY MOTHER'S BOOK sent post free on ai card. Direct to ALFRED FENNINGS, West Cowes, CO O c 3D m o ication by letter or post I.W. CO E-i © « EH W tt O CO UJ l/l © © S w * § o O W E-« DO NOT UNTIMELY DIE! ^ SORE THROATS CURED WITH ONE DOSE. FENNINGS' FEVER CURERI « BOWEL COMPLAINTS cured with One Dose. 2 TYPHUS or LOW FEVER cured with Two Doses. 525 DIPHTHERIA cured with Three Doses. IS SCARLET FEVER cured with Four DoseSi CHOLERA cured with Five Doses. M INFLUENZA cured with Six Doses. q Sold in Bottles at is. 1 id. each, -with full directions, by all Chemists. Ifl Read FENNINGS' EVERYBODY'S DOCTOR. Sent post ffee for M 13 stamps. Direct AfFENNINQS. West Cowes, I.W. * CO o w w o £ H m S3 O SO O > H CO taw—oT.ViT OTaHiVj■•■*,,i,v^>kf>*T»^«jyyc>.vl^>^i-Tn-n. J. Collis Browne's Chlorodyne rapidly cuts short all attacks of Epi- lepsy. Spasms, Colic, Palpi- tation. Hysteria. T"\r. J. Collis Browne's ^ Chlorodyne is the true palliative in neuralgia, Gout, Cancer, Toothache, Rheumatism. IMPORTANT CAUTION The immense Sale of this REMEDY has given rise to many UNSCRUPULOUS I M I T A- T I O N S . n.B.—every Bottle of Genuine Chlorodyne bears on the Government Stamp the nanie of the inventor, r. J. Collis Browne. D SOLD IN BOTTLES, IS. i}d. zs. 9d., 4s. 6d.,'by all Chemists. Sole Manufacturer, J. T. Davenport, 33, Great Russell Street, w.c. This Sweetly-Scented Emollient Milk is superior to every other preparation for rendering THE SKIN SOFT, SMOOTH, AND WHITE. It entirely removes and prevents all ROUGHNESS, REDNESS, SUNBURN, CHAPS, And all other blemishes of the skin caused by SUMMER'S HEAT OR WINTER'S COLD. It keeps the skin cool and refreshed in the hottest day in summer, and soft and smooth in the coldest winter. BEETHAM'S is the only genuine I Bottles, Is. and 2s. 6d., of all Chemists. Free for 3d. extra, by the Sole Makers, M. BEETHAM & SON, Chemists, Cheltenham. | Of all Chemists and Stores. Matthews's essex Fuller's To Protect the Skin. To heal Chafings. -q,t, 4 - Ho. To Preserve the Complexion. JIj Mjrli fa For Roughness and Redness. waa® For Sunburn and Freckles. J?r A « For Tender Feet. vW.# UL 13, BEETHAM'S GLYCERINE AND CUCUMBER For the Skin. Used in the Royal Nurseries. PUV'C X: JX X © >* H H-t Pi £ Oh Pi O k Q W CO CO <3 CL Pi £ CO a £ PURE CONCENTRATED cocoa 57 PRIZE MEDALS AWARDED TO * J. S. FRY & SONS, BRISTOL, LONDON, AND SYDNE1 IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH. IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH. BY AMELIA B. EDWARDS, AUTHOR OF "MONSIEUR MAURICE," "BARBARA'S HISTORY," " DEBENHAM'S VOW," " MISS CAREW," ETC. WARD, LOCK, BOWDEN & CO., LONDON, NEW YORK, AND MELBOURNE. [The right of translation is reserved.'] CONTENTS. O CHAP. fAQB I.—MY BIRTHPLACE AND PARENTAGE I II.—THE LITTLE CHEVALIER - IO III.—THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING 19 IV.—THE CHEVALIER MAKES HIS LAST EXIT • 25 V.—IN MEMORIAM 29 VI.—POLONIUS TO LAERTES 32 VII.—AT THE CHEVAL BLANC 36 VIII.—THE ISLAND IN THE RIVER- ... 42 IX.—DAMON AND PYTHIAS - - _ - • "55 X.—THE NEXT MORNING - - - - 6l XI.—MYSTERIOUS PROCEEDINGS 63 XII.—BROAD CLOTH AND CIVILISATION - - 63 XIII.—I MAKE MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY 75 XIV.—THE HONOURABLE SOCIETY OF LES CHICARDS 85 XV.—WHAT IT IS TO BE A CAVALIERE SERVENTE - 96 XVI.—A CONTRETEMPS IN A CARRIAGE- - - IOI XVII.—THE WIDOW OF A MINISTER GF FINANCE - 112 XVIII.—A MARRIAGE NOT A LA MODE - - - Il6 XIX.—A DINNER AT -T&E MAISON DOREE AND AN EVENING PARTY 128 XX.—THE CHATEAU DE SAINTE AULAIRE - - 140 XXI.—I FALL A SACRIFICE TO MRS. GRUNDY - 151 XXII.—HIGH ART IN THE QUARTIER LATIN - - 159 XXIII.—THE QUARTIER LATIN - 167 XXIV.—THE FETE AT COURBEVOIE - - - - 173 XXV.—THAT TERRIBLE MULLER - 187 XXVI.—THE PETIT COURIER ILLUSTRE - - - I92 XXVII.—THE ECOLE DE NATATION - 200 XXVIII.—THE RUE DE L'ANCIENNE COMEDIE AND THE CAFE PROCOPE 206 XXIX.—THE PHILOSOPHY OF BREAKFAST- - - 209 XXX.—A MAN WITH A HISTORY 214 XXXI.—FANCIES ABOUT FACES 223 XXXII.—RETURNED WITH THANKS - - - - 232 XXXIII.—AN EVENING PARTY AMONG THE PETTI BOURGEOISIE - - 238 iv. CONTENTS. CHAP. VMift XXXIV.—MY AUNT'S FLOWER GARDEN - • 249 XXXV.—WEARY AND FAR DISTANT- - - 258 XXXVI.—THE VICOMTE DE CAYLUS - - - - 261 XXXVII.—GUICHET THE MODEL 272 XXXVIII.—NUMBER TWO HUNDRED AND SEVEN - - 281 XXXIX.—THE END OF BRAS DE FER - - - 285 XL.—THE ENIGMA OF THE THIRD STORY - - 290 XLI.—A CHRONICLE ABOUT FROISSART - - 296 XLII.—THE OLD, OLD STORY 3°3 XLIII.—ON A WINTER'S EVENING - 305 XLIV.—A PRESCRIPTION 3*5 XLV.—UNDER THE STARS 320 XLVI.—THERMOPYLAE 324 XLVII.—ALL ABOUT ART ~ 330 XLVIII.—I MAKE MYSELF ACQUAINTED WITH THE IMPOLITE WORLD AND ITS PLACES OF UNFASHIONABLE RESORT - 334 XLIX.—THE KING OF DIAMONDS - 341 L.—THE DUEL AT BELLEVUE - - - - 351 LI.—THE PORTRAIT - - 356 LII.—NEWS FROM ENGLAND 360 LIII.—THE FADING OF THE RAINBOW - - - 363 LIV.—TREATETH OF MANY THINGS ; BUT CHIEFLY OF BOOKS AND POETS - 367 LV.—MY BIRTHDAY - 374 LVI.—BRINGETH THIS TRUE STORY TO AN END 386 IN THE DAYS OF MY YOUTH CHAPTER I. MY BIRTHPLACE AND PARENTAGE. Dolce sentier, Colle, che mi piacesti, Ov'ancor per usanza amor mi mena ! Petrarch. WEET, secluded, shady Saxonholme ! I doubt if our whole England contains another hamlet so quaint, so picturesquely irregular, so thoroughly national in all i its rustic characteristics. It lies in a warm hollow environed by hills. Woods, parks, and young plantations clothe every height and slope for miles around, whilst here and there, peeping down through green vistas, or towering above undulat- ing seas of summer foliage, stands many a fine old country mansion, turretted and gabled, and built of that warm red brick that seems to hold the light of the sunset long after it has faded from the rest of the landscape. A silver thread of streamlet, swift but shallow, runs noisily through the meadows beside the town and loses itself in the Chad, about a mile and a half further eastward. Many a picturesque old wooden bridge, many a foaming weir and ruinous water-mill with weedy wheel, may be found scattered up and down the wooded banks of this little river Chad ; while to the brook, which we call the Gip-stream, attaches a vague tradition of trout. The hamlet itself is clean and old-fashioned, consisting of on? 2 In the Days of my Youth. long, straggling street, and a few tributary lanes and passages. The houses some few years back were mostly long and low- fronted, with projecting upper storeys, and diamond-paned bay- windows bowered in with myrtle and clematis ; but modern improvements have done much of late to sweep away these antique tenements, and a fine new suburb of Italian and Gothic villas has sprung up between the totfnand the railway station. Besides this, we have a new church in the mediaeval style, rich in gilding and colours and thirteenth-century brass-work ; and a new cemetery, laid out like a pleasure-garden ; and a new school-house, were the children are taught upon a system with a foreign name ; and a Mechanics' Institute, where London professors come down at long intervals to expound popular science, and where agriculturalists meet to discuss popular grievances. At the other extremity of the town, down by Girdlestone Grange, an old moated residence where the squire's family have resided these four centuries past, we are full fifty years behind our modern neighbours. Here stands our famous old " Kings Head Inn," a well-known place of resort so early as the reign of Elizabeth. The great oak beside the porch is as old as the house itself; and on the windows of a little -disused parlour overlooking the garden may still be seen the names of Sedley, Rochester, and other wits of the Restoration. They scrawled those autographs after dinner, most likely, with their diamond rings, and went reeling afterwards, arm-in-arm, along the village street, singing and swearing, and eager for adventures—as gentlemen were wont to be in those famous old times, whea they drank the king's health more freely than was good for their own. Not far from the "King's Head," and almost hidden by the trees which divide it from the road, stands an ancient charitable institution called the College—quadrangular, mullion-witidowed, many-gabled, and colonised by some twenty aged people of both sexes. At the back of the College, adjoining a space of waste ground and some ruined cloisters, lies the churchyard, in the midst of which, surrounded by solemn yews and moulder- ing tombs, stands the Priory Church. It is a rare old church, founded, according to the county history, in the reign of Edward the Confessor, and entered with a full description in Domesday Book. Its sculptured monuments and precious brasses, its Norman crypt, carved stalls, and tattered banners drooping over faded scutcheons, tell all of generations long gone by, of noble families extinct, of gallant deeds forgotten, of knights and ladies remembered only by the names above their graves. Amongst these, some two or three modest tablets record the passing My Birthplace and Parentage. 3 away of several generations of my own predecessors—obscure professional men for the most part, of whom some few became soldiers, and died abroad. In close proximity to the church stands the vicarage, once the Priory ; a quaint old rambling building, surrounded by magniii- cent old trees. Here for long centuries, a tribe of rooks have held undisputed possession, filling the boughs with their nests and the air with their voices, and, like genuine lords of the soil, descending at their own grave will and pleasure upon the adjacent lands. Picturesque and mediaeval as all these old buildings and old associations help to make us, we of Saxonholme pretend to something more. We claim to be, not only picuresque, but historic. Nay, more than this—we are classical. We were founded by the Romans. A great Roman road, well known to antiquaries, passed transversely through the old churchyard. Roman coins and relics, and fragments of tesselated pavement, have been found in and about the town. Roman camps may be traced on most of the heights around. Above all, we are said to be indebted to the Romans for that inestimable breed of poultry in right of which we have for years carried off the lead- ing prizes at every poultry-show in the county, and have even been enabled to make head against the exaggerated pretensions of modern Cochin-China interlopers. Such, briefly sketched, is my native Saxonholme. Born beneath the shade of its towering trees and over-hanging eaves, brought up to reverence its antiquities, and educated in the love of its natural beauties, what wonder that I cling to it with every fibre of my heart, and even when affecting to smile at my own fond prejudice, continue to believe it the loveliest and peace- fullest nook in rufal England ? My father's name was John Arbuthnot. Sprung from the Arbuthnots of Montrose, we claim to derive from a common ancestor with the celebrated author of " Martinus Scriblerus." Indeed, the first of our name who settled at Saxonholme was one James Arbuthnot, son to a certain non-juring parson Arbuthnot who lived and died abroad, and was own brother to that famous wit, physican, and courtier whose genius, my father was wont to say, conferred a higher distinction upon our branch of the family than did those Royal Letters Patent whereby the elder stock were ennobled by His Most Gracious Majesty King George the Fourth, on the occasion of his visit to Edinburgh in 1823. From this James Arbuthnot (who, being born and bred at: St. Omer, and married, moreover, to a French wife, was himself half a Frenchman) we Saxonholme Arbuthnots were the direct descendants 4 In the Days of my Youth. Our French ancestress, according to the family tradition, was of no very exalted origin, being in fact the only daughter and heiress of one Monsieur Tartine, Perruquier in chief at the court of Versailles. But what this lady wanted in birth, she made up fn fortune, and the modest estate which her .husband purchased M'ith her dowry came down to us unimpaired through five generations. In the substantial and somewhat .foreign-looking red-brick house which he built (also, doubtless, with Madame's Louis d'ors) we, his successors, had lived and died ever since. His portrait, together with the portrait of his wife, son, and grandson, hung on the dining-room walls ; and of the quaint old spindle-legged chairs and tables that had adorned our best rooms, from time immemorial, some were supposed to date as far back as the first founding and furnishing of the house. It is almost needless to say that the son of the non-juror and his immediate posterity were staunch Jacobites, one and all. I am not aware that they ever risked or suffe .ed anything for the cause ; but they were not therefore the less vehement. Many were the signs and tokens of that dead-ai? i-gone political faith which these loyal Arbuthnots left behind them. In the bed- rooms there hung prints of King James th(. Second at the battle of the Boyne; of the Royal Martyr with his plumed hat, lace collar, and melancholy fatal face ; of the Old and Young Pretenders ; of the Princess Louisa Teresia, and of the Cardinal York. In the library were to be found all kinds of books relat- ing to the career of that unhappy family: " Ye Tragical History of ye Stuarts, 1697," " Memoirs of King James II., writ by his own hand;" " La Stuartide, an unfinished epic in the French language by one Jean de Schelandre; "The Fate of Majesty exemplified in the barbarous and disloyal treatment (by traitor- ous and undutiful subjects) of the Kings and Queens of the Royal House of Stuart genealogies of the Stuarts in English, French, and Latin ; a fine copy of " Eikon Basilike," bound in old red morocco, with the royal arms stamped upon ' ie cover; and many other volumes on the same subject, the names of which (although as a boy I was wont to pore over their contents with profound awe and sympathy) I have now for the most part forgotten. Most persons, I suppose, have observed how the example of a successful ancestor, is apt to determine the pursuits of his descendants down to the third and fourth generations, inclining the lads of this house to the sea, and of that to the bar, according as the great man of the family achieved his honours on ship- board, or climbed his way to the woolsack. The Arbuthnote offered no exception to this very natural law of selection. They could not help remembering how the famous doctor had ex- My Birthplace attd Parentage. 5 celled in literature as in medicine ; how he had been not only Physici an in Ordinary to Queen Anne and Prince George of Denmark, but a satirist and pamphleteer, a wit and the friend 0/ wits—of such wits as Pope and Swift, Harley and Bolingbroke. Hence they took, as it were instinctively, to physic and the belles lettres, and were never without a doctor or an author in the family. My father, however, like the great Martinus Scriblerus, was both doctor and author. And he was a John Arbuthnot. And to carry the resemblance still further, he was gifted with a vein of rough epigrammatic humour, in which it pleased his independ- ance to indulge without much respect of persons, times, or places. His tongue, indeed, cost him some friends and gained him some enemies; but I am not sure that it diminished his popularity as a physician. People compared him to Abernethy, whereby he was secretly flattered. Some even went so far as to argue that only a very clever man could afford to be a bear; and I must say that he pushed this conclusion to its farthest limit, showing his temper alike to rich and poor upon no provoca- tion whatever. He cared little, to be sure, for his connection. He loved the profession theoretically, and from a scientific point of view ; but he disliked the drudgery of country practice, and stood in no need of its hardly-earned profits. Yet he was a man who so loved to indulge his humour, no matter at what cost, that I doubt whether he would have been more courteous had his bread depended on it. As it was, he practised and grumbled, snarled at his patients, quarrelled with the rich, bestowed his time and money liberally upon the poor, and amused his leisure by writing for a variety of scientific periodicals, both English and foreign. Our home stood at the corner of a lane towards the Eastern extremity of the town, commanding a view of the Squire's Park and a glimpse of the mill-pool and meadows in the valley beyond. This lane led up to Barnard's Green, a breezy space of high uneven ground dedicated to fairs, cricket matches, and travelling circuses, whence the noisy music of brass bands, and the echoes of alternate laughter and applause, were wafted past our windows in the summer evenings. We had a large garden at the back, and a stable up the lane; and though the house was but one storey in height, it covered a considerable space of ground, and contained more rooms than we ever had occasion to use. Thus it happened that since my mother's death, which took place when I was a very little boy, many doors on the upper floor were kept locked, to the undue development of my natural inquisitiveness by day, and my mortal terror when sent to bed at night. In one of these her portrait still hung above the 6 In the Days of my Youth. mantelpiece, and her harp stood in its accustomed corner. In another, which was once her bed-room, everything was left as in her lifetime; her clothes yet hanging in the wardrobe, her dressing-case standing upon the toilet, her favourite book upon the table beside the bed. These things, told to me by the servants with much mystery, took a powerful hold upon my childish imagination. I trembled as I passed the closed doors at dusk, and listened fearfully outside when daylight gave me courage to linger near them. Something of my mother's pre- sence, I fancied, must yet dwell within—something in her shape still wander from room to room in the dim moonlight, and echo back the sighing of the night-winds. Alas! I could not remember her. Now and then, as if recalled by a dream, some broken and shadowy images of a pale face and a slender hand floated vaguely through my mind ; but faded even as I strove to realise them. Sometimes, too, when I was falling off to sleep in my little bed, or making out pictures in the fire on a winter evening, strange fragments of old rhymes seemed to come back upon me, mingled with the tones of a soft voice and the haunt- ing of a long-forgotten melody. But these, after all, yvere yearn- ings more of the heart than the memory :— " I felt a mother-want about the world, And still went seeking." To return to my description of my early home;—the two rooms on either side of the hall, facing the road, were appro- priated by my father for his surgery and consulting-room ; while the two corresponding rooms at the back were fitted up as our general reception-room, and my father's bed-room. In the former of these, and in the weedy old garden upon which'it opened, were passed all the days of my boyhood. It was my father's good will and pleasure to undertake the sole charge of my education. Fain would I have gone like other lads of my age to public school and college ; but on this point, as on most others, he was inflexible. Himself an obscure physician in a remote country town, he brought me up with no other view than to be his own successor. The profession was not to my liking. Somewhat contemplative and nervous by nature, there were few pursuits for which I was less fitted. I knew this, but dared not oppose him. Loving study for its own sake, and trusting to the future for some lucky turn of destiny, I yielded to that which seemed inevitable, and strove to make the best of it. Thus it came to pass that I lived a quiet hard-working home life, while other boys of my age were going through the joyous My Birthplace and Parentage. 7 experience of school, and chose my companions from the dusty shelves of some three or four gigantic book cases, instead of from the class and the playground. Not that I regret it. I believe, on the contrary, that a boy may have worse companions than books and busts, employments less healthy than the study of anatomy, and amusements more pernicious than Shakespeare and Horace. Thank heaven ! I escaped all such ; and if as I have been told, my boyhood was unboyish, and my youth pre- maturely cultivated, I am content to have been spared the dangers in exchange for the pleasures of a public school. I do not, however, pretend to say that I did not sometimes pine for the recreations common to my age. Well do I re- member the manifold attractions of Barnard's Green. What longing glances I used to steal towards the boisterous cricketers, when going forth gravely upon a botanical walk with my father ! With what eager curiosity have I not lingered many a time be- fore the entrance to a forbidden booth, and scanned the scenic advertisement of a travelling show ! Alas ! how the charms of study paled before those intervals of brief but bitter temptation ! What, then, was pathology compared to the pig-faced Lady, or the Materia Medica to Smith's Mexican Circus patronised by all the Sovereigns of Europe ? But my father was inexorable. He held that such places were, to use his own words, " opened by swindlers for the ruin of fools," and from one never-to- be-forgotten hour, when he caught me in the very act of taking out my pennyworth at a portable peep-show, he bound me over by a solemn promise (sealed by a whipping) never to repeat the offence under any provocation or pretext whatsoever. I was a tiny fellow in pinafores when this happened, but having once pledged my word, I kept it faithfully through all the studious years that lay between six and sixteen. At sixteen an immense crisis occurred in my life. I fell in love. I had been in love several times before—chiefly with the elder pupils at the Miss Andrews' establishment; and once (but that was when I was very young indeed) with the cook. This, however, was a^much more romantic and desperate affair. The lady was a columbine by profession, and as beautiful as an angel. She came down to our neighbourhood with a strolling company, and performed every evening in a temporary theatre on the Green for nearly three weeks. I used to steal out after dinner when my father was taking his nap, and run the whole way, that I might be in time to see the object of my adoration walking up and down the platform outside the booth before the performances commenced. This incomparable creature wore a blue petticoat spangled with tinfoil, and a wreath of faded poppies. Her age might have been about forty. I thought her the loveliest of 8 In the Days of my Youth. created beings. I wrote sonnets to her—dozens of them—in tending to leave them at the theatre door, but never finding the courage to do it. I made up bouquets for her, over and over again, chosen from the best flowers in our neglected garden ; but invariably with the same result. I hated the harlequin who presumed to put his arm about her waist. I envied the clown, whom she condescended to address as Mr. Merriman. In short, I was so desperately in love that I even tried to lie awake at night and lose my appetite; but, I am ashamed to own failed signally in both endeavours. At length I wrote to her. I can even now recall passages out of that passionate epistle. I well remember how it took me a whole morning to write it; how I crammed it with quota- tions from Horace ; and how I fondly compared her to most of the mythological divinities. I then copied it out on pale pink paper, folded it in the form of a heart, directed it to Miss Angelina Lascelles, and left it, about dusk, with the money- taker at the pit door. I signed myself, if I remember rightly, Pyramus. What would I not have given that evening to pay my sixpence like the rest of the audience, and feast my eyes upon her from some obscure corner ! What would I not have given to add my quota to the applause ! I could hardly sleep that night; I could hardly read, or write, or eat my breakfast the next morning, for thinking of my letter and its probable effect. It never once occurred to me that my Angelina might possibly find it difficult to construe Horace. Towards evening, I escaped again, and flew to Barnard's Green. It wanted nearly an hour to the time of per- formance ; but the tuning of a violin was audible from within, and the money-taker was already there with his pipe in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. I had no courage to address that functionary ; but I lingered in his sight and sighed audibly, and wandered round and round the canvas walls that hedged my divinity. Presently he took his pipe out of his mouth and his hands out of his pockets ; surveyed me deliberately from head to foot, and said :— " Hollo there ! aint you the party that brought a three-cornered letter here last evening ?" I owned it falteringly. He lifted a fold in the canvas, and gave me a gentle shove between the shoulders. " Then you're to go in," said he, shortly. " She's there, some where. You're sure to find her." The canvas dropped behind me, and I found myself inside, My heart beat so fast that I could scarcely breathe. The booth was almost dark ; the curtain was down; and a gentleman with My Birthplace and Parentage. 9 striped legs was lighting the footlamps. On the front pit bench next the orchestra, discussing a plate of bread and meat and the contents of a brown jug, sat a stout man in shirt-sleeves, and a woman in a cotton gown. The woman rose as I made my appearance, and asked, civilly enough, whom I pleased to want. I stammered the name of Miss Angelina Lascelles. "Miss Lascelles!" she repeated. "I am Miss Lascelles." Then, looking at me more narrowly, " I suppose," she added, " you are the little boy that brought the letter ?" The little boy that brought the letter ! Gracious heavens ! And this middle-aged woman in a cotton gown—was she the Angelina of my dreams ? The booth went round with me, and the lights danced before my eyes. " If you have come for an answer," she continued, " you may just say to your Mr. Pyramid that I am a respectable married woman, and he ought to be ashamed of'himself—and, as for his letter, I never read such a heap of nonsense in my life ! There, you can go out by the v/ay you came in, and if you take my advice, you won't come back again !" How I looked, what I said, how I made my exit, whether the door-keeper spoke to me as I passed, I have no idea to this day. I only know that I flung myself on the dewy grass under a great tree in the first field I came to, and shed tears of such shame, disappointment, and wounded pride, as my eyes had never known before. She had called me a little boy, and my letter a heap of nonsense ! She was elderly—she was ignorant—she was married ! I had been a fool; but that knowledge came too late, and was not consolatory. By-and-by, while I was yet sobbing and disconsolate, I heard the drumming and fifing which heralded the appearance of the Corps Dramatique on the outer platform. I resolved to see her for the last time. I pulled my hat over my eyes, went back to the Green, and mingled with the crowd outside the booth. It was growing dusk. I made my way to the foot of the ladder, and observed her narrowly. I saw that her ankles were thick, and her elbows red. The illusion was all over. The spangles had lost their lustre, and the poppies their glow. I no longer hated the harlequin, or envied the clown, or felt anything but mortification at my own folly. " Miss Angelina Lascelles, indeed !" I said to myself, as 1 sauntered moodily home. " Pshaw ! I shouldn't wonder if her name was Snooks !" CHAPTER II. THE LITTLE CHEVALIER. A mere anatomy, a mountebank,' A threadbare juggler. Comedy of Errors. Nay, then, he is a conjuror. Henry VI. Y adventure with Miss Lascelles did me good service, and cured me for some time, at least, of my leaning towards the tender passion. I consequently devoted myself more closely than ever to my studies—indulged in a passing mania for genealogy and heraldry—began a collec- tion of local geological specimens, all of which I threw away at the end of the first fortnight—and took to rearing rabbits in an old tumble-down summer-house at the end of the garden. I believe that from somewhere about this time I may also date the commencement of a great epic poem in blank verse, and heaven knows how many cantos, which was to be called the Columbiad. It began, I remember, with a description of the Court of Ferdinand and Isabella, and the departure of Columbus, and was intended to celebrate the discovery, colonisation, and sub- sequent history of America. I never got beyond ten or a dozen pages of the first canto, however, and that Transatlantic epic remains unfinished to this day. The great event which I have recorded in the preceding chapter took place in the early summer. It must, therefore, have been towards the close of autumn in the same year when my next important advent ire befell. This time the temptation assumed a different shape. Coming briskly homewards one fine frosty morning after having left a note at the Vicarage, I saw a bill-sticker at work upon a line of dead wall which at that time reached from the Red Lion Inn to the corner of Pitcairn's Lane. His posters The Little Chevalier. IT were printed in enormous type, and decorated with a florid bordering in which the signs of the zodiac conspicuously figured. Being somewhat idly disposed, I followed the example of other passers-by, and lingered to watch the process and read the advertisement. It ran as follows :— MAGIC AND MYSTERY ! MAGIC AND MYSTERY 1 M. LE CHEVALIER ARMAND PROUDHINE, (of Paris) surnamed THE WIZARD OF THE CAUCASUS. Has the honour to announce to the Nobility and Gentry of Saxon holme and its vicinity, that he will, to-morrow evening, (October —, 18—) hold his First SOIREE FANTASTIQUE in THE LARGE ROOM OF THE RED LION HOTEL. Admission is. Reserved Seats, 2s. 6d. To commence at Seven. N'.B.—The performance will include a variety of new and surprising feats of Legerdemain never before exhibited. A soirie fantastique / what would I not give to be present at a soirde fantastique J I had read of the Rosicrucians, of Count Cagliostro, and of Doctor Dee. I had peeped into more than one curious treatise on Demonology, and I fancied there could be nothing in the world half so marvellous as that last surviving branch of the Black Art entitled the Science of Legerdemain. What if, for this once, I were to ask leave to be present at the performance ? Should I do s? with even the remotest chance of success ? It was easier to propound this momentous question than to answer it. My father, as I have already said, dis- approved of public entertainments, and his prejudices were tolerable inveterate. But then, what could be more genteel than the programme, or more select than the prices ? How different was an entertainment given in the large room of the Red Lion. Hotel to a three-penny wax-work, or a strolling circus on barnard's Green ! I had made one of the audience in that very room over and over again when the Vicar read his celebrated " Discourses to Youtn," or Dr. Dunks came down from Grinstead B 12 In the Days of rn> Youth. to deliver an explosive lecture on chemistry ; and I had always seen the reserved seats filled by the best families in the neigh- bourhood. Fully persuaded of the force of my own arguments, I made up my mind to prefer this tremendous request on the first favourable opportunity ; and so hurried home, with my head full of quite other thoughts than usual. My father was sitting at the table with a mountain of books and papers before him. He looked "up sharply as I entered, {'erked his chair round so as to get the light at his back, put on lis spectacles, and ejaculated :— "Well, Sir!" This was a bad sign, and one with which I was only too familiar. Nature had intended my father for a barrister. He was an adept in all the arts of intimidation, and would have conducted a cross-examination to perfection. As it was, he indulged in a good deal of amateur practice, and from the moment when he turned his back to the light and donned the inexorable spectacles, there was not a soul in the house, from myself down to the errand-boy, who was not perfectly aware of something unpleasant to follow. " Wellj Sir !" he repeated, rapping impatiently upon the table with his knuckles. Having nothing to reply to this greeting, I looked out of the window and remained silent; whereby, unfortunately, I irritated him still more. " Confound you, Sir!"he exclaimed, "have you nothing to say?" " Nothing," I replied doggedly. " Stand there ! " he said, pointing to a particular square in the pattern of the carpet. " Stand there !" I obeyed. "And now, perhaps you will have the goodness to explain what you have been about this morning; and why it should have taken you just thirty-seven minutes by the clock to accomplish a journey which a tortoise—yes, Sir, a tortoise,—might have done in less than ten ? " I gravely compared my watch with the clock before replying. " Upon my word, Sir," I said, "your tortoise would have the advantage of me." " The advantage of you! What do you mean by the advan- tage of you, you affected puppy ? " " I had no idea," said I, provokingly, "that you were in unusual haste this morning." " Haste ! " shouted my father. " I never said I was in haste. 1 never choose to be in haste. I hate haste !" " Then why " M because you have been wasting your time and mine, Sir,* The Little Chevalier. interrupted he. " Because I will not permit you to go idling znd vagabondising about the village." My sang froid was gone directly. " Idling and vagabondising!" I repeated angrily. "I have done nothing cf the kind. I defy you to prove it. When have you known me forget that I am a gentleman ? " "Humph!" growled my father, mollified but sarcastic; "a pretty gentleman—a gentleman of sixteen ! " " It is true," I continued, without heeding the interruption," "that I lingered for a moment to read a placard by the way ; but if you will take the trouble, Sir, to inquire at the Rectory, you will find that I waited a quarter-of-an-hour before I could send up your letter." My father grinned and rubbed his hands. If there was one thing in the world that aggravated him more than another, it was to find his fire opposed to ice. Let him, however, succeed in igniting his adversary, and he was in a good humour directly. " Come, come, Basil," said he, taking off his spectacles, " I never said you were not a good lad. Go to your books, boy— go to your books ; and this evening I will examine you in vegetable physiology." Silently, but not sullenly, I drew a chair to the table, and resumed my work. We were both satisfied, because each in his heart considered himself the victor. My father was amused at having irritated me, whereas I was content because he had in some sort, withdrawn the expressions that annoyed me. Hence we both became good-tempered, and, according to our own tacit fashion, continued during the rest of that morning to be rather more than usually sociable. Hours passed thus—hours of quiet study, during which the quick travelling of a pen or the occasional turning of a page alone disturbed the silence. The warm sunlight which shone in so greenly through the vine leaves, stole, inch by inch, round the broken vases in the garden beyond, and touched their brown mosses with a golden bloom. The patient shadow on the antique sun-dial wound its way imperceptibly from left to right, and long slanting threads of light and shadow pierced in time between the branches of the poplars. Our mornings were long, for we rose early and dined late ; and while my father paid pro- fessional visits, I devoted my hours to study. It rarely happened that he could thus spend a whole day among his books. Just as the clock struck four, however, there came a ring at the bell. My father settled himself obstinately in his chair. "If that's a gratis patient," said he, between his teeth, " I'll not stir. From eight to ten are their hours, confound them !" 14 Tn the Days of tny Youth. " If you please, Sir," said Mary, peeping in, " if you please* Sir, it's a gentleman." " A stranger ? " asked my father. Mary nodded, put her hand to her mouth, and burst into an irrepressible giggle. " If you please. Sir," she began—but could get no further. My father was in a towering passion directly. " Is the girl mad ?" he shouted. "What is the meaning of this buffoonery ?" "Oh, Sir—if you please, Sir," ejaculated Mary, struggling with terror and laughter together, " it's the gentleman, Sir. He—he says, if you please, Sir, that his name is Almond Pudding !" " Your pardon, Mademoiselle," said a plaintive voice. "Armand Proudhine—le Chevalier Armand Proudhine, at your service." Mary disappeared with her apron to her mouth, and subsided into distant peals of laughter, leaving the Chevalier standing in the doorway. He was a very little man, with a pinched and melancholy countenance, and an eye as wistful as a dog's. His threadbare clothes, made in the fashion of a dozen years before, had been decently mended in many places. A paste pin in a faded cravat, and a jaunty cane with a pinchbeck top, betrayed that he was still somewhat of a beau. His scant grey hair was tied behind with a piece of black ribbon, and he carried his hat under his arm, after the fashion of Elliston and the Prince Regent, as one sees them in the coloured prints of fifty years ago. He advanced a step, bowed, and laid his card upon the table. " I believe," he said, in his plaintive voice, and imperfect English, "that I have the honour to introduce myself to Monsieur Arbuthnot." "If you want me, Sir," said my father gruffly, " I am Doctor Arbuthnot." "And I, Monsieur," said the little Frenchman, laying his hand upon his heart, and bowing again—" I am the Wizard of the Caucasus." " The what ?" exclaimed my father. "The Wizard of the Caucasus," replied our visitor, im- pressively. There was an awkward paui e, during which my father looked at me and touched his forehead significantly with his fore-finger; while the Chevalier, embarrassed between his natural timidity and his desire to appear of importance, glanced from one face to the other, and waited for a reply. I hastened to disentangle the situation. " I think I can explain this gentleman's meaning," I said. The Little Chevalier. T5 " Monsieur le Chevalier will perform to-morrow evening in the large room of the Red Lion Hotel. He is a professor of legerdemain." " Of the marvellous art of legerdemair, Monsieur Arbuthnot," interrupted the Chevalier, eagerly. " Prestidigitateur to the Court of Sachsenhausen, and successor to A1 Hakim, the wise. It is I, Monsieur, that have invent the famous tour du pistolet j it is I, that have originate the great and surprising deception of the bottle ; it is I whom the world does surname the Wizard of the Caucasus. Me void/" Carried away by the force of his own eloquence, the Chevalier fell into an attitude at the conclusion of his little speech ; but remembering where he was, blushed, and bowed again. " Pshaw," said my father impatiently, " the man's a conjuror." The little Frenchman did not hear him. He was at that moment untying a packet which he carried in his hat, the contents whereof appeared to consist of a number of very small pink and yellow cards. Selecting a couple of each colour, he deposited his hat carefully upon the floor and came a few steps nearer to the table. " Monsieur will give me the hope to see him, with Monsieur son Jils, at my Soiree Fantastique, n'est ce pas?" he asked, timidly. " Sir," said my father shortly, " I never encourage peripatetic mendicity." The little Frenchman looked puzzled. " Comment ? " said he, and glanced to me for an explanation. " I am very sorry, Monsieur," I interposed hastily , " but my father objects to public entertainments." " Ah, mon Dieu J but not to this," cried the Chevalier, raising his hands and eyes in deprecating astonishment. " Not to my Soiree Fantastique ! The art of legerdemain, Monsieur, is not immoral. He is graceful—he is surprising—he is innocent ; and, Monsieur, he is patronised by the Church ; he is patronised, by your amiable Cure, Monsieur le Docteur Brand." " Oh, father," I exclaimed, " Dr. Brand has taken tickets ! " " And pray, Sir, what's that to me ?" growled my father, without looking up from the book which he had ungraciously resumed. " Let Dr. Brand make a fool of himself, if he pleases. I'm not bound to do the same." The Chevalier blushed crimson—not with humility this time, but with pride. He gathered the cards into his pocket, took up his hat, and saying stiffly—" Monsieur, je vous demands pardon?- -moved towards the door. On the threshold he paused, and turning towards me with at In the Days of my Youth. air of faded dignity:—"Young gentleman," he said, "you I thank for your politeness." He seemed as if he would have said more—hesitated— became suddenly livid—put his hand to his head, and leaned for support against the wall. My father was up and beside him in an instant. We carried rather than led him to the sofa, untied his cravat, and ad- ministered the necessary restoratives. He was all but insensible for some moments. Then the colour came back to his lips, and he sighed heavily. " An attack of the nerves," he said, shaking his head feebly. " An attack of the nerves, Messieurs." My father looked doubtful. " Are you often taken in this way ? " he asked, with unusual gentleness. " Mais oui, Monsieur," admitted the Frenchman, reluctantly. " He does often arrive to me. Not—not that he is dangerous. Ah, bah ! Pas du tout J " " Humph !" ejaculated my father, more doubtfully than before. " Let me feel your pulse." The Chevalier bowed and submitted, watching the countenance of the operator all the time with an anxiety that was not lost upon me. " Do you sleep well ?" asked my father, holding the fragile little wrist between his finger and thumb. " Passably, Monsieur." " Dream much ?" " Ye—es, I dream." " Are you subject to giddiness ? " The Chevalier shrugged his shoulders and looked uneasy. " C'est vrai," he acknowledged, more unwillingly than ever, " f'ai des vertices." My father relinquished his hold and scribbled a rapid pre- scription. " There, Sir," said he, " get that preparation made up, and when you next feel as you felt just now, drink a wine-glassful. I should recommend you to keep some always at hand, in case of emergency. You will find further directions on the other side." The little Frenchman attempted to get up with his usual vivacity ; but was obliged to balance himself against the back of a chair. " Monsieur," said he, with another of his profound bows, " I thank you infinitely. You make me too much attention ; but I am grateful. And, Monsieur, my little girl—my child that is far away across the sea—she thanks you also. Elle niaime The Little Chevalier. Monsieur—elle ntaime, cettepaitvre petite / What shall she do if I die ? ?" Again he raised his hand to his brow. He was unconscious of anything theatrical in the gesture. He was in sad earnest, and his eyes were wet with tears which he made no effort to conceal. My father shuffled restlessly in his chair. "No obligation—no obligation at all," he muttered, \ touch of impatience in his voice. " And now, what about u"ir tickets ? I suppose, Basil, you're dying to see all thb V-tar.- foolery ? " " That I am, Sir," said I joyfully. " I should like it above all things !" The Chevalier glided forward, and laid a couple of little pink cards upon my father's desk. " If," said he, timidly, "if Monsieur will make me the honour to accept " " Not for the world, Sir—not for the world !" interposed my father. " The boy sha'n't go, unless I pay for the tickets." " But, Monsieur " "Nothing of the kind, Sir. I cannot hear of it. What are the prices of the seats ? " Our little visitor looked down and was silent; but I replied for him. " The reserved seats," I whispered, " are half-a-crown each." " Then I will take eight reserved," said my father, opening a drawer in his desk and bringing out a bright new sovereign. The little Frenchman started. He could hardly believe in such munificence. "When? How much?" stammered he, with a pleasant confusion of adverbs. " Eight," growled my father, scarcely able to repress a smile. " Eight ? mon Dieu, Monsieur, how you are generous ! I shall keep for you all the first row." " Oblige me by doing nothing of the kind," said my father, very decisively. " It will displease me extremely." The Chevalier counted out the eight little pink cards, and ranged them in a row beside my father's desk. " Count them, Monsieur, if you please," said he, his eyes wandering involuntarily towards the sovereign. My father did so with much gravity, and handed over the money. The Chevalier consigned it, with trembling fingers, to a small canvas bag, which looked very empty, and which came from the deepest recesses of his pocket. " Monsieur," said he, " my thanks are in my heart. I will not fatigue you with them. Good morning." He bowed again, for per'"ups the twentieth time ; lingered a In the Days of tny Youth. moment at the threshold; and then retired, closing the door softly after him. My father rubbed his head all over, and gave a great yawn of satisfaction. " I am so much obliged to you, Sir," I said eagerly. " What for?" "For having bought those tickets. It was very kind of you." " Hold your tongue. I hate to be thanked," snarled he, and plunged back again into his books and papers. Once more the studious silence in the room—once more the rustling leaf and scratching pen, which only made the stillness seem more still, within and without. " I beg your pardons," murmured the voice of the little Chevalier. I turned, and saw him peeping through the half-opened door. He looked more wistful than ever, and twisted the handle nervously between his fingers. My father - frowned, and muttered something between his teeth. I fear it was not very complimentary to the Chevalier. " One word, Monsieur," pleaded the little man, edging himself round the door, " one small word !" " Say it, Sir, and have done with it," said my father, savagely. The Chevalier hesitated. " I—I—Monsieur le Docteur—that is, I wish " " Confound it, Sir, what do you wish ? " The Chevalier brushed away a tear. " Dites-moi," he said with suppresed agitation. " One word— yes or no—is he dangerous ? " My father's countenance softened. "My good friend," he said, gently, "we are none of us safe for even a day, or an hour; but after all, that which we call danger is merely a relative position. I have known men in a state more precarious than yours who lived to a long old age, and I see no reason to doubt that with good living, good spirits, and precaution, you stand as fair a chance as another." The little Frenchman pressed his hands together in token of gratitude, whispered a broken word or two of thanks, and bowed himself out of the room. When he was fairly gone, my father flung a book at mv head and said with more brevity than politeness :— " Boy, bolt the door," CHAPTER III. THE EVENTS OF AN EVENING. ASIL, my boy, if you are going to that place, you must take Collins with you." " Won't you go yourself, father ?" "I! Is the boy mad ?" " I hope not, sir ; only as you took eight reserved seats, I thought " "You've no business to think, Sir! Seven of those tickets are in the fire." " For fear, then, you should fancy to burn the eighth, I'll wish you good evening ! " So away I darted, called to Collins to follow me, and set off at a brisk pace towards the Red Lion Hotel. Collins was our in- door servant; a sharp, merry fellow, some ten years older than myself, who desired no better employment than to escort me upon such an occasion as the present. The audience had begun to assemble when we arrived. Collins went into the shilling places, while I ensconced myself in the second row of reserved seats. I had an excellent view of the stage. There, in the middle of the platform, stood the conjuror's table—a quaint, cabalistic-looking piece of furniture with carved black legs and a deep bordering of green cloth all round the top. A gay pagoda- shaped canopy of many hues was erected overhead. A long white wand leaned up against the wall. To the right stood a bench laden with mysterious jars, glittering bowls, gilded cones, mystical globes, coloured glass boxes, and other properties. To the left stood a large arm-chair covered with crimson cloth. All this was very exciting, and I waited breathlessly till the Wizard should appear. He came at last ; but not, surely, our dapper little visitor of yesterday ! A majestic beard of ashen grey fell in patriarchal locks almost to his knees. Upon his head he wore a high cap of some dark fur ; upon his feet embroidered slippers ; and round hi? waist a glittering belt patterned with hieroglyphics. A 10 In the Days of my Youth. long woollen robe of chocolate and orange fell about him m heavy folds, and swept behind him, like a train. I could scarcely believe, at first, that it was the same person ; but, when he spoke, despite the pomp and obscurity of his language, I recognised the plaintive voice of the little Chevalier. " Messieurs et Mesdames" he began, and took up the wand to emphasise his discourse ; " to read in the stars the events of the future—to transform into gold the metals inferior—to discover the composition of that Elixir who, by himself, would perpetuate life, was in past ages the aim and aspiration of the natural philosopher. But they are gone, those days—they are displaced, those sciences. The Alchemist and the Rosicrucian are no more, and of all their race, the professor of Legerdemain alone survives. Ladies and gentlemen, my magic he is simple. I retain not familiars. I employ not crucible, nor furnace, nor retort. I but amuse you with my agility of hand, and for commencement I tell you that you shall be deceived as well as the Wizard of the Caucasus can deceive you." His voice trembled, and the slender wand shivered in his hand. Was this nervousness ? Or was he, in accordance with the quaintness of his costume and the amplitude of his beard, enacting the feebleness of age ? He advanced to the front of the platform. " Three things I require," he said. " A watch, a pocket handkerchief, and a hat. Is there here among my visitors any person so gracious as to lend me these trifles ? I will not injure them, ladies and gentlemen. I will only pound the watch in my mortar—burn the mouchoir in my lamp, and make a pudding in the chapeau. And, with all this, I engage to return them to their proprietors better as new." , There was a pause, and a laugh. Presently a gentleman volunteered his hat, and a lady her embroidered handkerchief; but no person seemed willing to submit his watch to the pound- ing process. " Shall nobody lend me the watch ? " asked the Chevalier; but in a voice so hoarse that I scarcely recognised it. A sudden thought struck me, and I rose in my place. " I shall be happy to do so," I said aloud, and made my way round to the front of the platform. At the moment when he took it from me, I spoke to him. " Monsieur Proudhine," I whispered, "you are ill ! What can I do for you ?" "Nothing, won enfant" he answered in the same low tone. " I suffer ; mats it faut se risigner." " Break off the performance—retire for half an hour." " Impossible: See, they already observe us 1" The Events of an Evening. And he drew back abruptly. There was a seat vacant in the front row. I took it, resolved at all events to watch him narrowly. Not to detail too minutely the events of a performance which since that time has become sufficiently familiar, I may say that he carried out his programme with dreadful exactness, and, after appearing to burn the handkerchief to ashes and mix up a quantity of eggs and flour in the hat, proceeded very coolly to smash the works of my watch beneath his ponderous pestle. Notwithstanding my faith, I began to feel seriously uncomfort- able. It was a neat little silver watch of foreign workmanship— not very valuable, to be sure, but precious to me as the most precious of repeaters. " He is very tough, your watch, Monsieur," said the Wizard, pounding away vigorously. " He—he takes a long time Ah / mon Dien ! " He raised his hand to his head, uttered a faint cry, and snatched at the back of the chair for support. My first thought was that he had destroyed my watch by mistake—my second, that he was very ill indeed. Scarcely knowing what I did, and quite forgetting the audience, I jumped on the platform to his aid. He shook his head, waved me away with one trembling hand, made a last effort to articulate, and fell heavily to the ground. All was confusion in an instant. Everybody crowded to the stage ; whilst I, with a presence of mind which afterwards sur- prised myself, made my way out by a side-door and ran to fetch my father. He was fortunately at home, and in less than ten minutes the Chevalier was under his care. We found him laid upon a sofa in one of the sitting-rooms of the inn, pale, rigid, insensible, and surrounded by an idle crowd of lookers-on. They had taken off his cap and beard, and the landlady was endeavouring to pour some brandy down his throat ; but his teeth were fast set, and his lips were blue and cold. "Oh, Doctor Arbuthnot ! Doctor Arbuthnot !" cried a dozen voices at once, " the Conjuror is dying !" "For which reason, I suppose, you are all trying to smother him !" said my father angrily. " Mistress Cobbe, I beg you will not trouble yourself to pour that brandy down the man's throat. He has no more power to swallow it than my stick. Basil, open the window, and help me to loosen these things about his throat. Good people all, I must request you to leave the room. This man's life is in peril, and I can do nothing while you remain. Go home—go home. You will see no more conjuring to-night." My father was peremptory, and the crowd unwillingl) dispersed. One by one they left the room and gathered- dis 22 In the Days of my Youth contentedly in the passage. When it came to the last two d». three, he took them by the shoulders, closed the door upon them, and turned the key. Only the landlady, an elderly woman-servant, and myself remained- The first thing my father did was to examine the pupil of the patient's eye, and lay his hand upon his heart. It still fluttered feebly, but the action of the lungs was suspended, and his hands and feet were cold as death. My father shook his head. " This man must be bled," said he ; " but 1 have little hope of saving him." He was bled, and though still unconscious, became less rigid. They then poured a little wine down his throat, and he fell into a passive but painless condition, more inanimate than sleep, but less positive than a state of trance. A fire was then lighted, a mattress brought ^down, and the patient laid upon it, wrapped in many blankets. My father announced his intention of sitting up with him all night. In vain I begged for leave to share his vigil. He would hear of no such thing, but turned me out as he had turned out the others, bade me a brief " Good-night," and desired me to run home as quickly as I could. At that stage of my history, to hear was to obey ; so I took my way quietly through the bar of the hotel, and had just reached the door when a touch on my sleeve arrested me. It was Mr. Cobbe, the landlord—& portly, red-whiskered Boniface of the old English type. " Good evening, Mr. Basil," said he. " Going home, Sir ? " " Yes, Mr. Cobbe," I replied. " I can be of no further use here." " Well, Sir, you've been of more use this evening than anybody —let alone the Doctor—that I must say for you," observed Mr. Cobbe, approvingly. "I never see such presence o' mind in so young a gen'leman before. Never, Sir. Have a glass of grog and a cigar, Sir, before you turn out." Much as I felt flattered by the supposition that I smoked (which was more than I could have done to save my life), I declined Mr. Cobbe's obliging offer and wished him good night. But the landord of the Red Lion was in a gossiping humour, and would not let me go. "If you won't take spirits, Mr. Basil," said he, "you must have a glass of negus. I couldn't let you go out without some- thing warm — particular after the excitement you've gone through. Why, bless you, Sir, when they ran out and told me, I shook like a leaf—and I don't look like .a very nervous The Events of an Evening 33 subject, do I ? And so sudden as it was, too, poor little gem tleman !" " Very sudden, indeed," I replied, mechanically. " Does Doctor Arbuthnot think he'll get the better of it, Mr. Basil ?" " I fear he has little hope." Mr. Cobbe sighed, and shook his head, and smoked in silence. "To be struck down just when he was playing such tricks as them conjuring dodges, do seem uncommon awful/' said he, after a time. " What was he after at the minute ?—making a pudding, wasn't he, in some gentleman's hat ?" I uttered a sudden ejaculation, and set down my glass of negus untasted. Till that moment I had not once thought of my watch. " Oh, Mr. Cobbe !" I cried, " he was pounding my watch in the mortar !" " Your watch, Mr. Basil ?" "Yes, mine—and I have not seen it since. What can have become of it ? What shall I do ?" " Do !" echoed the landlord, seizing a candle ; " why, go and look for it, to be sure, Mr. Basil. That's safe enough, you may be sure !" I followed him to the room where the performance had taken place. It showed darkly and drearily by the light of one feeble candle. The benches and chairs were all in disorder. The wand lay where it had fallen from the hand of the wizard. The mortar still stood on the table, with the pestle beside it. It contained only some fragments of broken glass. Mr. Cobbe laughed triumphantly. " Come, Sir," said he, " the watch is safe enough, anyhow. Mounseer only made believe to pound it up, and now all that concerns us is to find it." That was indeed all—not only all, but too much. We searched everything. We looked in all the jars and under all the mov- ables. We took the cover off the chair ; we cleared the table ; but without success. My watch had totally disappeared, and we at length decided that it must be concealed about the conjuror's person. Mr. Cobbe was my consoling angel. "Bless you, Sir," said he, "don't never be cast down. My wife shall look for the watch to-morrow morning, and I'll promise you we'll find out every pocket he has about him." "And my father—you won't tell my father ! " I said dolefully. Mr. Cobbe replied by a mute but expressive piece of panto- mime, and took me back to the bar, where the good landlady ratified all that her husband had promised in her name. The stars shone brightly as I went home, and there was no H In the Days of my Youth. moon., The town was intensely silent, and the road intense y solitary. I met no one on my way ; let myself quietly in ; ana stole up to my bed-room in the dark. . It was already late; but I was restless and weary too lestiess to sleep, and too weary to read. I could not detach myse from the impressions of the day ; and I longed for the morning, that I might learn the fate of my watch, and the condition ot the Chevalier. . At length, after some hours of wakefulness, I dropped into a profound and dreamless sleep. CHAPTER IV. THE CHEVALIER MAKES HIS LAST EXIT. All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances. As You Like It. WAS awaked by my father's voice calling to me from the garden, and so started up with that strange and sudden sense of trouble which most of us have experienced at some time or other in our lives. "Nine o'clock, Basil," cried my father. "Nine o'clock,— come down directiy, Sir !" I sprang out of bed, and for some seconds could remember nothing of what had happened ; but when I looked out of the window and saw my father in his dressing-gown and slippers walking up and down the sunny path with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground, it all flashed suddenly upon me. To plunge into my bath, dress, run down, and join him in the garden, was the work of but a few minutes. " Good-morning, Sir," I said, breathlessly. He stopped short in his walk, and looked at me from head to foot. " Humph ! " said he ; " you have dressed quickly " " Yes, Sir ; I was startled to find myself so late." " So quickly," he continued, " that you have forgotten your watch." I felt my face burn. I had not a word to answer. " I suppose," said he, "you thought I should not find it out ?" " I had hoped to recover it first," I replied falteringly ; " but " But you may make up your mind to the loss of it, Sir ; and serve you rightly, too," interposed my father. " I can tell you, for your satisfaction, that the man's clothes have been thoroughly examined, and that your watch has not been found. No doubt 26 In the Days of my Youth. it lay somewhere on the table, and was stolen in the confu- sion." I hung my head. I could have wept for vexation. My father laughed sardonically. " Well, Master Basil," he said, " the loss is yours, and yours only. You won't get another watch from me, I promise you." I retorted angrily, whereat he only laughed the more ; and then we went in to breakfast. Our morning meal was more unsociable than usual. I was too much annoyed to speak, and my father too preoccupied. I longed to inquire after the Chevalier, but not choosing to break the silence, hurried through my breakfast that I might run round to the Red Lion immediately after. Before we had left the table, a messenger came to say that "the conjuror was taken worse," and so my father and I hastened away to- gether. He had passed from his trance-like sleep into a state of delirium, and when we entered the room, was sitting up, pale and ghost-like, muttering to himself, and gesticulating as if in the presence of an audience. "Pas du tout" said he fantastically, "Pas du tout, Messieurs —here is no deception. You shall see him pass from my hand to the coffre, and yet you shall not find how he does travel." My father smiled bitterly. "Conjuror to the last;" said he. "In the face'of death, what a mockery is his irade !" Wandering as were his wits, he caught the last word and turned fiercely round; but there was no recognition in his eye. "Trade, Monsieur!" he echoed. "Trade!—you shall not call him trade ! Do you know who I am, that you dare call him trade ! Dieu des Dieux ! N'est ce pas que je suis noble, moi f Trade !—when did one of my race embrace a trade ? Canaille ! I do condescend for my reasons to take your money, but you shall not call him a trade ! " Exhausted by this sudden burst of passion, he fell back upon his pillow, muttering and flushed. I bent over him, and caught a scattered phrase from time to time. He was dreaming of wealth, fancying himself rich and powerful, poor wretch, and all unconscious of his condition. "You shall see my Chateaux," he said, "my horses—my carriages. Listen—it is the ringing of the bells. Aha ! le jour viendra—le jour viendra / Conjuror ! who speaks of a con- juror ! I never was a conjuror ! I deny it ; and he lies who says it! Attendons! Is the curtain up ? Ah! my table 7he Chevalier Afahes his Last Exit. 27 —where is ^ my table ? I cannot play till I have my table. Scelerats f je sins vote ! je I'a i perdu / je Vai perdu / Ah, what shalH do ? They have taken my table they have taken He burst into tears, moaned twice or thrice, closed his eyes, and fell into a troubled sleep. The landlady sobbed. Hers was a kind heart, and the little Frenchman's simple courtesy had won her good-will from the first. " He had real quality manners," she said, disconsolately. " I do believe, gentlemen, that he had seen better days. Poor as he was, he never disputed the price of anythingand he never spoke to me without taking off his hat." " Upon my soul, Mistress Cobbe," said my father, " I incline to your opinion. I do think he is not what he seems." " And if I only knew where to find his friends, I shouldn't care half so much ! " exclaimed the landlady. "It do seem so hard that he should die here, and not one of his own blood follow him to the grave ! Surely he has some one who loves him !" " There was something said the other day about a child," mused my father. " Have no papers or letters been found about his person ?" " None at all. Why, Doctor, you were here last night when we searched for Master Basil's watch, and you are witness that he had nothing of the kind in his possession. As to his luggage, that's only a carpet bag ancf his conjuring things, and we looked through them as carefully as possible." The Chevalier moaned again, and tossed his arms feebly in his sleep. " The proofs ! " said he, " the proofs ! I can do nothing without the proofs." My father listened. The landlady shook her head. " He has been going on like that ever since you left, Sir," she said pityfully ; " fancying he's been robbed, and calling out about the proofs—only ten times more violent. Then, again, he thinks he is going to act, and asks for his table. It's wonderful how he takes on about that trumperv table ! " Scarcely had she spoken the words when the Chevalier open ?d his eyes, and, by a supreme effort, sat upright in his bed. The cold dew rose upon his brow ; his lips quivered ; he strove to speak, and only an inarticulate cry found utterance. My father flew to his support. "If you have anything to say," he urged earnestly, " try to say it now ! " The dying man trembled convulsively, and a terrible look of despa'v came into his wan fao° c 28 In the Days of my Youth. "Tell—tell " he gasped ; but his voice failed him, and he could get no further. My father laid him gently down. There came an interval of terrible suspense—a moment of sharp agony—a deep, deep sigh—and then silence. My father laid his hand gently upon my shoulder. " It is all over, he said ; " and his secret, if he had one, is in closer keeping than ours. Come away, boy ; this is no place for you." CHAPTER V. IN MEMORIAM, HE poor little Chevalier ? He died and became famous. Births, deaths and marriages are the great events of a country town ; the prime novelties of a country newspaper ; the salt of conversation, and the soul of gossip. An individual who furnishes the community with one or other of these topics, is a benefactor to his species. To be born is much ; to marry is more ; to die is to confer a favour on all the old ladies of the neighbourhood. They love a christening, and caudle—they rejoice in a wedding, and cake—but they prefer a funeral and black kid gloves. It is a tragedy played off at the expense of the few for the gratification of the many—a costly luxury, of which it is pleasanter to be the spectator than the entertainer. Occurring, therefore, at a season when the supply of news was particularly scanty, the death of the little Chevalier was a boon to Saxonholme. The wildest reports were bandied about, and the most extraordinary fictions set on foot respecting his origin and station. He was a Russian spy. He was the unfortunate son of Louis XIV. and Marie Antoinette. He was a pupil of Cagliostro, and the husband of Mdlle. Lenormand. Customers flocked to the tap of the Red Lion as they had never flocked be- fore, unless in election-time; and good Mrs. Cobbe had to repeat the story of the conjuror's illness and death till, like many other reciters, she had told it so often that she began to forget it. As for her husband, he had enough to do to serve the customers and take the money, to say nothing of showing the room, which proved a vast attraction, and remained for more than a week just as it was left on the evening of the performance, 3° In the Days of my Youth. with the table, canopy, and paraphernalia of wizardom still set out upon the platform. In the midst of these things arose a momentous question— what was the religion of the deceased, and where should he be buried ? As in the old miracle plays we find good and bad angels contending for the souls of the dead, so on this occasion did the heads of all the Saxonholme churches, chapels, and meeting-houses contend for the bodv of the little Chevalier. He O j was a Roman Catholic. He was a Dissenter. He was a member of the Established Church. He must be buried in the new Protestant Cemetery. He must lie in the churchyard of the Ebenezer Tabernacle. He must sleep in the* far-away " God's Acre" of Father Daly's Chapel, and have a cross at his head, and masses said for the repose of his soul. The con- troversv ran high. The reverend gentlemen convoked a meet- ing, quarrelled outrageously, and separated in high dudgeon without having arrived at any conclusion. Whereupon arose another question, melancholy, ludicrous, perplexing, and, withal, as momentous as the first—Would the little Chevalier get buried at all ? Or was he destined to remain like Mahomet's coffin, for ever in a state of suspense ? At the last, when Mr. and Mrs. Cobbe despairingly believed that they were never to be relieved of their troublesome guest, a vestry was called, and the churchwardens brought the matter to a conclusion. When he went round with his tickets, the con- juror called first at the Rectory, and solicited the patronage of Doctor Brand. Would he have paid that compliment to the cloth had he been other than a member of that religion " b'y law established ?'' Certainly not. The point was clear—could not be clearer; so orthodoxy and the new Protestant Cemetery carried the day.- The funeral was a great event—not so far as mutes, feathers, and carriages were concerned, for the Chevalier left but little wordly gear, and without hard cash even the most deserving must forego " the trappings and the suits of woe " but it was a great event, inasmuch as it celebrated the victory of the Church, and the defeat of all schismatics. The rector himself, com- placent and dignified, preached the funeral sermon to a crowded congregation, the following Sunday. We almost forgot, in fact, that the little Chevalier had any concern in the matter, and regarded it only as the triumph of orthodoxy. All was not ended, even here. For some weeks our conjuror continued to be the hero of every pulpit round about. He was jited as a shining light, denounced as a vessel of wrath, praised, pitied, and calumniated according to the creed and temper of In Memorial*. 31 each declaimer. At length the controversy languished, died a natural death, and became "alms for oblivion." Laid to rest under a young willow in a quiet corner, with a plain stone at his head, the little Frenchman was himself in course of time forgotten :— lt Alas ! Poor Yorick ! " CHAPTER VI. POLONIUS TO LAERTES. EARS went by. I studied ; outgrew my jackets ; became a young man. It was time, in short, that I walked the hospitals, and passed my examination. I had spoken to my father more than once upon the subject—spoken earnestly and urgently, as one who felt the necessity and justice of his appeal. But he put me off from time to time ; persisted in looking upon me as a boy long after I had become acquainted with the penalties of the razor ; and counselled me to be patient, till patience was well-nigh exhausted. The result of this treatment was that I became miserable and discontented ; spent whole days wandering about the woods ; and degenerated into a creature half idler and half misanthrope. I had never loved the profession of medicine. I should never have chosen it had I been free to follow my own inclinations : but having diligently fitted myself to enter it with credit, I felt that my father wronged me in this delay ; and I felt it perhaps all the more bitterly because my labour had been none of love. Happily for me, however, he saw his error before it was too late, and repaired it generously. " Basil," said he, beckoning me one morning into the consult- ing-room, " I want to speak to you." I obeyed sullenly, and stood leaning up against the window, with my hands in my pockets. " You've been worrying me, Basil, more than enough these last few months," he said, rummaging among his papers, and speaking in a low, constrained voice. " I don't choose to be worried any longer. It is time you walked the hospitals, and— you may go." "To London, Sir?"' "No. I don't intend you to go to London." "To Edinburgh, then, I suppose," said I, in a tone of dis- appointment. " Nor to Edinburgh. You shall go to Paris." Polonius to Laertes. 33 "To Paris !" "Yes—the French surgeons are the most skilful in the world, and Cheron will do everything for you. I know no eminent man in London from whom I should choose to ask a favour; and Chdron is one of my oldest friends—nay, the oldest friend I have in the world, If you have but two ounces of brains, he will make a clever man of you. Under him you will study French practice; walk the hospitals of Paris ; acquire the language and, I hope, some of the polish of the French people. Are you satisfied ?" " More than satisfied, Sir," I replied, eagerly. "You shall not want for money, boy ; and you may start as soon as you please. Is the thing settled ?" " Quite, as far as I am concerned." ■ My father rubbed his head all over with both hands, to^k off his spectacles, and walked up and down the room. By these signs he expressed any unusual degree of satisfaction. All at once he stopped, looked me full in the face, and said :— " Understand me, Basil. I require one thing in return." " If that thing be industry, Sir, I think I may promise that you shall not have cause to complain." My father shook his head. "Not industry," he said; "not industry alone. Keep good company, my boy. Keep good hours. Never forget that a gentleman must look like a gentleman, dress like a gentleman, frequent the society of gentlemen. To be a mere bookworm is to be a drone in the great hive. I hate a drone—as I hate a sloven." " I understand you, father," I faltered, blushing. " I know that of late I—I have not " My father laid his hand suddenly over my mouth. " No confessions—no apologies," he said hastily. " We have both been to blame in more respects than one, and we shall both know how to be wiser in the future. Now go, and consider all that you may require for your journey." Agitated, delighted, full of hope, I ran up to my own room, locked the door, and indulged in a delightful reverie. What a prospect had suddenly opened before me ! What novelty! what adventure! To have visited London would have been to fulfill all my desires ; but to be sent to Paris was to receive a passport for Fairyland! That day, for the first time in many months, I dressed myself carefully, and went down to dinner with a light heart, a cheerful face, and an unexceptionable neck-cloth. As I took my place at the table, my father looked up cheerily and gave me a pleased nod of recognition. 34 In the Days of my Youth. Our meal passed off very silently. It was my father's maxim that no man could do more than one thing well at a time especially at table ; so we had contracted a habit which to strangers would have seemed even more unsociable than it really was, and gave to all our meals an air more penitential than convivial. But this day was, in reality, a festive occasion, and my father was disposed to be more than usually agreeable. When the cloth was removed, he flung the cellar key at my head and exclaimed in a burst of unexampled good- humour :— " Basil, you dog, fetch up a bottle of the particular port! " Now it is one of my theories that a man's after-dinner talk takes much of its weight, colour, and variety from the quality of his wines. A generous vintage brings out generous sentiments. Good fellowship, hospitality, liberal politics, and the milk oi human kindness, may be uncorked simultaneously with a bottle of old Madeira ; while a pint of thin Sauterne is productive only of envy, hatred, malice, and all uncharitableness. We grow sententious on Burgundy—logical on Bordeaux—senti- mental on Cyprus—maudlin on Lagrima Christo—and witty on Champagne. Port was my father's favourite wine. It warmed his heart, cooled his temper, and made him not only conversational, but expansive. Leaning back complacently in his easy-chair, with the glass upheld between his eye and the window, he discoursed to me of my journey, of my prospects in life, and of all that I should do and avoid, professionally and morally. "Work," he said, "is the panacea for every sorrow—the plaister for every pain—your only universal remedy. Industry, air, and exercise are our best physicians. Trust to them, boy ; but beware how you publish the prescription, lest you find your occupation gone. Remember, if you wish to be rich, you must never seem to be poor; and as soon as you stand in need of your friends, you will find yourself with none left. Be discreet of speech, and cultivate the art of silence. Above all things, be truthful. Hold your tongue as long as you please, but never open your lips to a lie. Show no man the contents of your purse—he would either despise you for having so little, or try to relieve you of the burden of carrying so much. Above all, never get into debt, and never fall in love. The first is disgrace, and the last is the devil 1 Respect yourself, if you wish others to respect you ; and bear in mind that the world takes you at your own estimate. To dress well is a duty one owes to society. The man who neglects his own appearance not only degrades himself to the level of his inferiors, but puts an affront upon his friends and acquaintances." Polonius to Laertes. 35 " I trust, Sir," I said in some confusion, " that I shall never incur the last reproach again." " I hope not, Basil," replied my father, with a smile. " I hope not. Keep your conscience clean and your boots blacked, and I have no fear of you. You are no hero, my boy, but it depends upon yourself whether you become a man of honour or a scamp ; a gentleman or a clown. You have, 1 see, registered a good resolution to-day. Keep it ; and remember that Pandemonium will get paved without your help. There would be no industry, boy, if there was no idleness, and all true progress begins with —Reform." CHAPTER VII. AT THE CHEVAL BLANC. Y journey, even at this distance of time, appears to me like an enchanted dream. I observed, yet scarcely remembered, the scenes through which I passed, so divided was I between the novelty of travelling and the eagerness of anticipation. Provided with my letters of introduction, the sum of one hundred guineas English, and the enthusiasm of twenty years of age, I fancied myself endowed with an immortality of wealth and happiness. The Brighton coach passed through our town once a week; so I started for Paris without having ever visited London, and took the route by Newhaven and Dieppe. Having left home on Tuesday morning, I reached Rouen in the course of the next day but one. At Rouen I stayed to dine and sleep, and so made my way to the Cheval Blanc, a grand hotel on the quay, where I was received by an aristocratic elderly waiter who sauntered out from a side office, surveyed me patronisingly, entered my name upon a card for a seat at the table d'hote, and, having rung a feeble little bell, sank exhausted upon a seat in the hall. " To number seventeen, Marie," said this majestic personage, handing me over to a pretty little chamber-maid who attended the summons. " And, Marie, on thy return, my child, bring me an absinthe." We left this gentleman in a condition of ostentatious langour, and Marie deposited me in a pretty room overlooking an exquisite little garden set. round with beds of verbena and scarlet geranium, with a fountain sparkling in the midst. This garden was planted in what had once been the courtyard of the building. The trees nodded and whispered, and the windows at the opposite side of the quadrangle glittered like burnished gold in the sunlight. I threw open the jalousies, plucked one of the white roses that clustered outside, and drank in with delight the sunny perfumed air that played among the leaves, and scattered the waters of the fountain. I could not long rest thus however. At the Cheval Blanc. 37 I longed to be out and about; so, as it was now no more than half-past three o'clock, and two good hours of the glorious midsummer afternoon yet remained to me before the hotel dinner-hour, I took my hat, and went out along the quays and streets of this beautiful and ancient Norman city. Under crumbling archways ; through narrow alleys where the upper storeys nearly met overhead, leaving only a bright strip of dazzling sky between ; past quaint old mansions, and sculptured fountains, and stately churches hidden away in all kinds of strange forgotten nooks and corners, I wandered, wondering and unwearied. I saw the statue of Jeanne d'Arc ; the chateau of Diane de Poitiers; the archway carved in oak where the founder of the city still, in rude effigy, presides ; the museum rich in mediaeval relics ; the market-place crowded with fruit-sellers and flower-girls in their high Norman caps. Above all, I saw the rare old Gothic Cathedral, with its wondrous wealth of antique sculpture ; its iron spire, destined, despite its traceried beauty, to everlasting incompleteness; its grass-grown buttresses, and crumbling pinnacles, and portals crowded with images of saints and kings. I went in. All was grey, shadowy, vast ; dusk with the rich gloom of painted windows ; and so silent that I scarcely dared disturb the echoes by my footsteps. There stood in a corner near the door, a triangular iron stand stuck full of votive tapers that flickered and sputtered and guttered dismally, shedding showers of penitential grease-drops on the paved floor below ; and there was a very old peasant woman on her knees before the altar. I sat down on a stone bench and fell into a long study of the stained oriel, the light o'erarching roof, and the long perspective of the pillared aisles. Presently the verger came out of the vestry-room, followed by two gentlemen. He was short and plump, with a loose black gown, slender black legs, and a pointed nose—like a larger species of raven. "Bo7i jour, M'sleur" croaked he, laying his head a little on one side, and surveying me with one glittering eye. " Will M'sieur be pleased to see the treasury ? " " The treasury !" I repeated. " What is there to be seen in the treasury ?" " Nothing, Sir, worth one sou of an Englishman's money," said the taller of the gentlemen. "Tinsel, paste, and dusty bones—all humbug and extortion." Something in the scornful accent and deep voice aroused the suspicions of the verger, though the words were spoken in, English. " Our treasury, M'sieur," croaked he, more ravenly than ever " is rich—rich in episcopal jewels ; in relics—inestimable relics. Tickets, two francs each." 38 In the Da> / of my Youth. Grateful, however, for the timely caution, I acknowledged my countryman's courtesy by a bow, declined the proffered invest- ment, and went out again into the sunny streets. At five o'clock I found myself installed near the head of an immensely long dinner-table in the salle a manger of the Cheval Blanc. The salle a manger was a magnificent temple radiant with mirrors, and lustres, and panels painted ,in fresco. The dinner was an imposing rite, served with solemn ceremonies by ministering waiters. There were about thirty guests seated round, in august silence, most of them very smartly dressed, and nearly all English. A stout gentleman, with a little knob on the top of his bald head, a buff waistcoat, and a shirt amply frilled, sat opposite to me, flanked on either side by an elderly daughter in green silk. On my left I was supported by a thin young gentle- man with fair hair, and blue glasses. To my right stood a vacant chair, the occupant of which had not yet arrived ; and at the head of the table sat a spare pale man dressed all in black, who spoke to no one, kept his eyes fixed upon his plate, and was served by the waiters with especial servility. The soup came and went in profound silence. Faint whispers passed to and fro with the fish. It was not till the roast made its appearance that anything like conversation broke the sacred silence of the meal. At this point the owner of the vacant chair arrived, and took his place beside me. I recognised him immediately. It was the Englishman whom I had met in the Cathedral. We bowed, and presently he spoke to me. In the meantime, he had every foregone item of the dinner served to him as exactly as if he had not been late at table, and sipped his soup with perfect deliberation while others were busy with the sweets. Our con- versation began, of course, with the weather and the place. " Your first visit to Rouen, I suppose ?" said he. " Beautiful old city, is it not ? Garcon, a pint of Bordeaux—Leoville." I modestly admitted that it was not only my first visit to Rouen, but my first to the Continent. " Ah, you may go further than Rouen, and fare worse," said he. " Do you sketch ? Ndi?, That's a pity, for it's deliciously picturesque—though, for my own part, I am not enthusiastic about gutters and gables, and I object to a population composed exclusively of old women. I'm glad, by the way, that I preserved you from wasting your time among the atrocious lumber of that so-called treasury." " The treasury !" exclaimed my slim neighbour with the blue glasses. " Beg your p—p—pardon, Sir, but are you speaking of the Cathedral treasury ? Is it worth v—v—visiting ? " " Singularly so," replied he to my right. " One of the rarest collections of'authentic curiosities in France. They have the At the Ciievat Blanc. 39 snuff-box of Clovis, the great toe of St. Helena, and the tongs wi':h which St. Dunstan took the devil by the nose." "Up—p—pon my word, now, that's curious," ejaculated the thin tourist, who had an impediment in his speech. " I must p—p—put that down. Dear me ! the snuff-box of King Clovis ! I must see these relics to-morrow." " Be sure you ask for the great toe of St. Helena," said my right hand companion, proceeding imperturbably with his dinner. " The saint had but one leg at the period of her martyrdom, and that great toe is unique." "G—g—good gracious !" exclaimed the tourist, pulling out a gigantic note-book, and entering the fact upon the spot. "A saint with one leg—and a lady, too ! Wouldn't m—m—miss that for the world ! " I looked round, puzzled by the gravity of my new acquaint- ance. " Is this all true?" I whispered. " You told me the treasury was a humbug." 'And so it is." u But the snuff-box of Clovis, and " " Pure inventions ! The man's a muff, and on muffs I have no mercy. Do you stay long in Rouen ?" "No, I go on to Paris to-morrow. I wish I could remain longer." " I am not sure that you would gain more from a long visit than from a short one. Some places are like some women, charming, en passant, but intolerable upon close acquaintance. It is just so with Rouen. The place contains no fine galleries, and no places of public entertainment ; and though exquisitely picturesque, is nothing more. One cannot always be looking at old houses, and admiring old churches. You will be delighted with Paris." " B—b—beautiful city," interposed the stammerer, eager to join our conversation whenever lm could catch a word of it. " I'm going to P—P—Paris myself." "Then, Sir, I don't doubt you wdl do ample justice to its attractions," observed my right hand neighbour. " From the size of your note-book, and the industry with which you ac- cumulate useful information, I should presume that you are a conscientious observer of all that is recondite and curious." " I asp—p—pire to be so," replied the other, with a blush and a bow. " I m—m—mean to exhaust P—P—Paris. I'm going to write a b—b—book about it, when I get home." My friend to the right flashed one glance of silent scorn upon the future author, drained the last glass of his Bordeaux Leoville, pushed his chair impatiently back, and said ;— " This 40 In the Days,of my Youth. place smells like a kitchen. Will you come out and have a cigar ?" So we rose, took our hats, and in a few moments were strolling under the lindens on the Quai de Corneille. I, of course had never smoked in my life ; and, humiliating though it was, found myself obliged to decline a ''prime Havanah," proffered in the daintiest of embroidered cigar cases. My companion looked as if he pitied me. " You'll soon learn," said he, " a man can't live in Paris without tobacco. Do you stay there many weeks ?" " Two years, at least," I replied, registering an inward resolution to conquer the difficulties of tobacco without delay. "I am going to study medicine under an eminent French surgeon." " Indeed i Well, you could not go to a better school, or em- brace a nobler profession. I used to think a soldier's life the grandest under heaven ; but curing is a finer thing than killing, after all! What a delicious evening, is it not ? If one were only in Paris, now, or Vienna, " " What, Oscar Dalrymple !" exclaimed a voice close beside us. " I should as soon have expected to meet the great Panjan- drum himself !" " — With the little round button at top," added my -com- panion, tossing away the end of his cigar, and shaking hands heartily with the new-comer. " By Jove, Frank, I'm glad to see you ! What brings you here ?" " Business—confound it ! And not pleasant business either. A profs which my father has instituted against a great manu- facturing firm here at Rouen, and of which I have to bear the brunt. And you ? " "And I, my dear fellow? Pshaw ! what should I be but an idler in search of amusement ?" " Is it true that you have sold out of the Enniskillens ?" "Unquestionably. Liberty is sweet; and who cares to carry a sword in time of peace? Not I, at all events." While this brief greeting was going forward, I hung somewhat in the rear, and amused myself by comparing the speakers. The new-comer was rather below than above the middle-height, fair.haired and boyish, with a smile full of mirth and an eye full of mischief. He looked about two years my senior. The other was much older—two or three and thirty, at the least—dark, tall, powerful, finely built ; his wavy hair clipped close about his sun- burnt neck ; a thick moustache of unusual length ; and a chest that looked as if it would have withstood the shock of a batter- ing-ram. Without being at all handsome, there was a look of brightness, and boldness, and gallantry about him that arrested At the Cheval Blanc. 41 one's attention at first sight. I think I should have taken him for a soldier, had I not already gathered it from the last words of their conversation. " Who is your friend ?" I heard the new-comer whisper. To which the other replied :—" Haven't the ghost of an idea." Presently he took out his pocket-book, and, handing me a card, said : — "We are under the mutual disadvantage of all chance ac- quaintances. My name is .Dalrymple—Oscar Dalrymple, late of the Enniskillen Dragoons. My friend here is unknown to fame as Mr. Frank Sullivan ; a young gentleman who has the good- fortune to be a younger partner in a firm of merchant princes, and the bad taste to dislike his occupation." How I blushed as I took Captain Dalrymple's card, and stammered out my own name in return ! I had never possessed a card in my life,'nor needed one, till this moment. I rather think that Captain Dalrymple guessed these facts, for he shook hands with me at once, and put an end to my embarrass- ment by proposing that we should take a boat, and pull a mile or two up the river. The thing was no sooner said than done. There were plenty of boats below the iron bridge ; so we chose one of the cleanest, and jumped into it without any kind of re- ference to the owner, whoever he might be. " Batelier, Messieurs ? Batelier ?" cried a dozen men at once, rushing down to the water's edge. But Dalrymple had already thrown off his coat, and seized the oars. " Batelier, indeed ! " laughed he, as with two or three powerful strokes he carried us right into the middle of the stream. " Trust an Oxford man for employing any arms but his own, when a pair of sculls are in question !" CHAPTER VIII. THE ISLAND IN THE RIVER. T was just eight o'clock when we started, with the twi- light coming on. Our course lay up the river, with a strong current setting against us so we made but little way, and enjoyed the tranquil beauty of the evening. The sky was pale and clear, somewhat greenish over- head and deepening along the line of the horizon into amber and rose. Behind us lay the town with every brown spire articulated against the sky, and every vane glittering in the last glow that streamed up from the west. To our left rose a line of steep chalk cliffs, and before us lay the river, winding away through meadow lands fringed with willows and poplars, and inter- spersed with green islands wooded to the water's edge. Presently the last flush faded, and one large planet, splendid and solitary, like the first poet of a dark century, emerged from the deepen- ing grey. My companions were in high spirits. They jested ; they laughed ; they hummed scraps of songs ; they had a greeting for every boat that passed. By-and-by, we came to an island with a little landing-place where a score or two of boats were moored against the alders by the water's edge. A tall flag-staff gay with streamers peeped above the tree-tops, and a cheerful sound of piping and fiddling, mingled with the hum of many voices, came and went with the passing breeze. As Dalrymple rested on his oars to listen, a boat which we had outstripped some minutes before, shot past us to the landing-place, and its occupants, five in number, alighted. " Bet you ten to one that's a bridal-party," said Mr. Sullivan. " Say you so ? Then suppose we follow, and have a look at the bride !" exclaimed his friend. "The place is a public garden." The proposition was carried unanimously, and we landed, having first tied the.boat to a willow. We found the island laid out very prettily j intersected by numbers of little paths, The Island hi the River. with rustic seats here and there among the trees, and variegat lamps gleaming out amid the grass, like parti-coloured glow- worms. Following one of these paths, we came presently to an open space, brilliantly lighted and crowded by holiday- makers: Here were refreshment stalls, and Russian swings, and queer-looking merry-go-rounds, where each individual sat on a wooden horse and went gravely round and round with a stick in his hand, trying to knock off a ring from the top of a pole in the middle. Here, also, was a band in a gaily decorated orchestra ; a circular area roped off for dancers ; a mysterious tent with a fortune-teller inside ; a lottery stall resplendent with vases and nick-nacks, which nobody was ever known to win ; in short, all kinds of attractions, stale enough, no doubt, to my companions, but sufficiently novel and amusing to me. We strolled about for some time among the stalls and pro- menaders, and amused ourselves by criticising the company, which was composed almost entirely of peasants, soldiers, arti- sans in blue blouses, and humble tradespeople. The younger women were mostly handsome, with high Norman caps, white kerchiefs, and massive gold ear-rings. Many, in addition to the ear-rings, wore a gold cross suspended round the neck by a piece of black velvet; and some had a brooch to match. Here, sitting round a table under a tree, we came upon a family group, consisting of a little plump, bald-headed bourgeois with his wife and two children—the wife stout and rosy ; the children noisy and authoritative. They were discussing a dish of poached eggs and a bottle of red wine, to the music of a polka close by. " I should like to dance," said the little girl, drumming with her feet against the leg of the table, and eating an egg with her fingers. " I may dance presently with Philippe,may I not, papa?" " I won't dance," said Philippe, sulkily. " I want some oysters." " Oysters, mon enfant / I have told you twice already that no one eats oysters in July," observed his mother. " I don't care for that " said Philippe. " It's my fete day, and Uncle Jacques said I was to have whatever I fancied ;—I want some oysters." "Your Uncle Jacques did not know what an unreasonable boy you are," replied the father angrily. "If you say another word about oysters, you shall not ride in the manege to-night." Philippe thrust his fists into his eyes, and began to roar—so we walked away. In an arbour, a little further on, we saw two young people whispering earnestly, and conscious of no eyes but each ether's. " A pair of lovers," said Sullivan. ■ 44 In the Days of my Yotllh. " And a pair that seldom get the chance of meeting? if we may judge by their untasted omelette," replied Dalrymple. "But where's the bridal party ? " " Oh, we shall find them presently. You seem interested." " I am. I mean to dance with the bride, and n/ake the bride- groom jealous." We laughed and passed on, peeping into every arbour, ob- serving every group, and turning to stare at every pretty girl we met. My own aptitude in the acquisition of these arts of gal- lantry astonished myself. Now, we passed a couple of soldiers playing at dominoes ; now a noisy party round a table in the open air covered with bottles ; now an arbour where half a dozen young men and three or four girls Avere assembled round a bowl of blazing punch. The girls were protesting they dared not drink it, but were drinking it, nevertheless, with exceeding gusto. " Grisettes and commis voyageurs /" said Dalrymple*, con- temptuously. " Let us go and look at the dancers." We went on, and stood in the shelter of some trees near the orchestra. The players consisted of three violins, a clarionette, and a big drum. The big drum was an enthusiastic performer. He belaboured his instrument as heartily as if it had been his worst enemy, but with so much independence of character that he never kept the same time as his fellow-players for two minutes together. They were playing a polka for the benefit of some twelve or fifteen couples, who Avere dancing with all their might in the space before the orchestra. On they came, round and round and never Aveary, two at a time—a mechanic and a gri- sette, a rustic and a Normandy girl, a tall soldier and a short widow, a fat tradesman and his wife, a couple of milliners' assis- tants who preferred dancing together to not dancing at all, and so forth. "'How I wish somebody would ask me, ma mere /" said a coquettish brunette, close by, with a sidelong glance at our- selves. " You shall dance with your brother Paul, my dear, as soon as he comes," replied her mother, a stout bourgeoise with a green fan. " B_i it is such dull work to dance with one's brother !" pouted the brunette. " If it were one's cousin, even, it would be dif- ferent." Mr. Frank Sullivan flung away his cigar, and began buttoning up his gloves. " I'll take that damsel out immediately," said he. "A girl who objects to dance with her brother deserves encourage- ment." So aAvay he went with his hat inclining jauntily on one side, The Island in the River. 4S and, having obtained the mother's permission, whirled away with the pretty brunette into the very thickest of the throng. "There they are !" said Dalrymple, suddenly. "There's the wedding party. Per Bacco ! but our little bride is charming !" " And the bridegroom is a handsome specimen of rus- ticity." "Yes—a genuine pastoral pair, like a Dresden china shepherd and shepherdess. See, the girl is looking up in his face—he shakes his head. She is urging him to dance, and he refuses ! Never mind, ma belle—you shall have your valse, and Corydon may be as cross as he pleases ! " " Don't flatter yourself that she will displease Corydon to dance with your lordship !" I said, laughingly. " Pshaw ! she would displease fifty Corydons, if I chose to make her do so," said Dalrymple, with a smile of conscious power. "True ; but not on her wedding day." "Wedding day or not, I beg to observe that in less than half- an-hour you will see me whirling along with my arm round little Phillis's dainty waist. Now come, and see how I do it." He made his way through the crowd, and I, half curious, half abashed, went with him. The party was five in number, con- sisting of the bride and bridegroom ; a rosy, middle-aged pea- sant woman, evidently the mother of the bride ; and an elderly couple who looked like humble townsfolk, and were probably related to one or other of the newly-married pair. Dalrymple opened the attack by stumbling against the mother, and then overwhelming her with elaborate apologies. " In these crowded places, Madame," said he, in his fluent French, " one is scarcely responsible for an impoliteness. I beg ten thousand pardons, however. I hope I have not hurt you ?" " Ma foi ! no, M'sieur. It would take more than that to hurt me !" "Nor injured your dress, I trust, Madame ! " Ah, par exemple J do I wear muslins or gauzes that they should not bear touching ? No, no, no, M'sieur—thanking you all the same." " You are very amiable, Madame, to say so." " You are very polite, M'sieur, to think so much of a trifle." " Nothing is a trifle, Madame, where a lady is concerned. At least, so we Englishmen consider." " Bah ! M'sieur is not English?" " Indeed, Madame, I am." " Mais, mon Dieu ! dest incroyable. Suzette—brother Jacques —Andrd, do you hear this? M'sieur, hete, swears that he is 46 In the Days of my Youth. English, ai;d yet be speaks French like one of ourselves ! Ah, what a fine thing learning is ! " " I may say with truth, Madame, that I never appreciate the advantages of education so highly, as when they enable me to converse with ladies who are not my own countrywomen," said Dalrymple, carrying on the conversation with as much studied politeness as if his interlocutor had been a duchess. " But— excuse the observation—you are here, I imagine, upon a happy occasion ?" The mother laughed and rubbed her hands. " Dame / one may see that," replied she, " with one's eyes shut ! Yes, M'sieur,—yes—their wedding day, the dear chil- dren—their wedding day ! They've been betrothed these two years." " The bride is very like you, Madame," said Dalrymple, gravely. "Your younger sister, I presume ?" " Ah, quel farceur! He takes my daughter for my sister ! Suzette, do you hear this ? M'sieur is killing me with laugh- ter !" And the good lady chuckled, and gasped, and wiped her eyes, and dealt Dalrymple a playful push between the shoulders, which would have upset the balance of any less heavy dragoon. "Your daughter, Madame ! " said he. " Allow me to congra- tulate you. May I also be permitted to congratulate the bride?" And with this he took off his hat to Suzette, and shook hands with Andre, who looked not overpleased, and, proceeded to intro- duce me as his friend Monsieur Basil Arbuthnot, "a young Eng- lish gentleman, tres distingue, The old lady then said her name was Madame Roquet, and that she rented a small farm about a mile and a half from Rouen ; that Suzette was her only child; and that she had lost her " blessed man " about eight years ago. She next introduced the elderly couple as her brother Jacques Robineau and his wife, and informed us that Jacques was a tailor, and had a shop oppo- site the church of St. Ma-clou, u let das." To judge of Monsieur Robineau's skill by his outward ap- pearance, I should have said that he was professionally unsuc- cessful, and supplied his own wardrobe from the misfits returned by his customers. He wore a waistcoast which was considerably too long for him, trousers which were considerably too short, and a green cloth coat with a high velvet collar which came up nearly to the tops of his ears. In respect of personal charac- teristics, Monsieur Robineau and his wife were the most admir- able contrast imaginable. Monsieur Robineau was short; Madame Robineau 'i/as tall. Monsieur Robineau was as plump and rosy as a robin; Madame Robineau was pale and bony to The Island in the River. 47 behold. Monsieur Robineau looked the soul of good nature ready to chirrup over his grog-au-vin, to smoke a pipe with his neighbour, to cut a harmless joke or enjoy a harmless frolic, as cheerfully as any little tailor that ever lived ; Madame Robineau, on the contrary, preserved a dreadful dignity, and looked as if she could laugh at nothing on this side of the grave. Not to consider the question too curiously, I should have said, at first sight, that Monsieur Robineau stood in no little awe of his wife, and that Madame Robineau was the very head and front of their domestic establishment. It was wonderful and delightful to see how Captain Dalrymple placed himself on the best of terms with all these good people—■ how he patted Robineau on the back and complimented Madame, banished the cloud from Andre's brow, and summoned a smile to the pretty cheek of Suzette. One would have thought he had known them for years already, so thoroughly was he at home with every member of the wedding party. Presently, he asked Suzette to dance. She blushed scarlet, and cast a pretty appealing look at her husband and her mother. I could almost guess what she whispered to the former by the motion of her lips. " Monsieur Andre will, I am sure, spare Madame for one galop," said Dalrymple, with that kind ol courtesy which accepts no denial. It was quite another tone, quite another manner. It was no longer the persuasive suavity of one who is desirous only to please, but the politeness of a gentleman to an in- ferior. The cloud came back upon Andre's brow, and he hesitated ; but Madame Roquet interposed. u Spare her !" she exclaimed. "Dame! 1 should think so ! She has never left his arm all day. Here, my child, give me your shawl while you dance, and take care not to get too warm, for the evening air is dangerous." And so Suzette took off her shawl, and Andre was silenced, and Dalrymple, in less than the half hour, was actually whirling away with his arm round little Phillis's dainty waist. 1 am afraid that I proved a very indifferent locum tenens for my brilliant friend, and that the good people thought me exceed- ingly stupid. I tried to talk to them, but the language tripped me up at every turn, and the right words never would come wnen they were wanted. Besides, 1 felt uneasy without knowing exactly why. I could not keep from watching Dalrymple and Suzette. 1 could not help noticing how closely he held her; how he never ceased talking to her; and how the smiles and blushes chased each other over her pretty face. That 1 should have had wit enough to observe these things proved that my 48 In the Days of my Youth. education was progressing rapidly ; but then, to be sure, I was studying under an accomplished teacher. They danced for a long time. So long, that Andrd became uneasy, and my available French was quite exhausted. I was heartily glad when Dalrymple brought back the little bride at last, flushed and panting, and (himself as cool as a diplomatist) assisted her with her shawl and resigned her to the protection of her husband. "Why hast thou danced so long with that big Englishman ?" murmured Andre, discontentedly. " When / asked thee, thou wast too tired, and now " " And now I am so happy to be near thee again," whispered Suzette. Andrd softened directly. " But to dance for twenty minutes " began he.^ " Ah, but he danced so well, and I am so fond of waltzing, Andre !" The cloud gathered again, and an impatient reply was coming, when Dalrymple opportunely invited the whole party to a bowl of punch in an adjoining arbour, and himself led the way with Madame Roquet. The arbour was vacant, a waiter was placing the chairs, and the punch was blazing in the bowl. It had evidently been ordered during one of the pauses in the dance, that it might be ready to the moment—a little attention which called forth exclamations of pleasure from both Madame Roquet and Monsieur Robineau, and touched with something like a gleam of satisfaction even the grim visage of Monsieur Robineau's wife. Dalrymple took the head of the table, and stirred the punch into leaping tongues of blue flame till it looked like a miniature Vesuvius. " What diabolical-looking stuff! " I exclaimed. " You might, to all appearance, be Lucifer's own cup-bearer.'' " A proof that it ought to be devilish good," replied Dalrymple, ladling it out into the glasses. " Allow me, ladies and gentle- men, to propose the health, happiness, and prosperity of the bride and bridegroom. May they never die, and may they be remembered for ever after !" We all laughed as if this was the best joke we had heard in our lives, and Dalrymple filled the glasses up again. " What, in the name of all that's mischievous, can have become of Sullivan ?" said he to me. " I have not caught so much as a glimpse of him for the last hour." " When I last saw him, he was dancing." " Yes, with a pretty little dark-eyed girl in a blue dress. By Jove ! that fellow will be getting into trouble if left to himself I» The Island in the River. 49 " But the girl has her mother with her ! " " All the stronger probability of a scrimmage," replied Dal- rymple, sipping his punch with a covert glance of salutation at Suzette. " Shall I see if they are among the dancers ?" " Do—but make haste ; for the punch is disappearing fast." I left them, and went back to the platform where the inde- fatigable public was now engaged in the performance of quad- rilles. Never, surely, were people so industrious in the pursuit of pleasure ! They poussetted, bowed, curtsied, joined hands, and threaded the mysteries of every figure, as if their very lives depended on their agility. " Look at Jean Thomas," said a young girl to her still younger companion. " He dances like an angel !" The one thus called upon to admire, looked at Jean Thomas, and sighed. "He never asks me, by any chance," said she, sadly, "al- though his mother and mine are good neighbours. I suppose I don't dance well enough—or dress well enough," she added, glancing at her friend's gay shawl and coquettish cap. " He has danced with me twice this evening," said the first speaker, triumphantly; " and he danced with me twice last Sunday at the Jardin d'Armide. Elise says " Her voice dropped to a whisper, and I heard no more. It was a passing glimpse behind the curtain—a peep at one of the many dramas of real life that are being played for ever around us. Here were "all the elements of romance—love, admiration, vanity, envy. Here was a hero in humble life—a lady-killer in his own little sphere. He dances with one, neglects another, and multi- plies his conquests with all the heartlessness of a gentleman. I wandered round the platform once or twice, scrutinising the dancers, but without success. There was no sign of Sullivan, or of his partner, or of his partner's mother, the bourgeoise with the green fan. I then went to the grotto of the fortune-teller, but it was full of noisy rustics; and thence to the lottery hall, where there were plenty of players, but not those of whom I was in search. "Wheel of fortune, Messieurs et Mesdames," said the young lady behind the counter. " Only fifty centimes each. All prizes, and no blanks—try your fortune, Monsieur le Capitaine ! Put in once, Monsieur le Capitaine ; once for yourself, and once for madame. Only fifty centimes each, and the certainty of win- ning !" Monsieur le Capitaine was a great, raw-boned corporal, with a pretty little maid-servant on his arm. The flattery was not very delicate; but it succeeded. He threw down a franc. The wheel In the Days of my Youth. flew round, the papers were drawn, and the corporal won a needle-case, and the maid-servant a cigar-holder. In the midst of the laugh to which this distribution gave rise, I walked away in the direction of the refreshment stalls. Here were parties supping substantially, dancers drinking orgeat and lemonade; and little knots of tradesmen and mechanics sipping beer ridiculously out of wine-glasses to an accompaniment of cakes and sweet-biscuits. Still I could see no trace of Mr. Frank Sullivan. • At length I gave up the search in despair, and on my way" back encountered Master Philippe leaning against a tree, and looking exceedingly helpless and unwell. " You ate too many eggs, Philippe," said his mother. " I told you so at the time." " It—it wasn't the eggs," faltered the wretched Philippe. " It was the Russian swing." " And serve you rightly, too," said his father, angrily. " I wish with all my heart that you had had your favourite oysters as well !" When I came back to the arbour, I found- the little party immensely happy, and a fresh bowl of punch just placed upon the table. Andrd was sitting next to Suzette, as proud as a king. Madame Roquet, volubly convivial, was talking to every one. Madame Robineau was silently disposing of all the biscuits and punch that came in her way. Monsieur Robineau, with his hat a little pushed back and his thumb in the arm-hole of his waist- coat, was telling a long story to which nobody listened : while Dalrymple, sitting on the other side of the bride, was gallantly doing the duties of entertainer. He looked up—I shook my head, slipped back into my place, and listened to the tangled threads of conversation going on around me. " And so," said Monsieur Robineau, proceeding with his story, and staring down into the bottom of his empty glass, " and so I said to myself, ' Robineau, jnon ami, take care. One honest man is better than two rogues; and if thou keepest thine eyes open, the devil himself stands small chance of cheating thee !' So I buttoned up my coat—this very coat I have on now, only that I have re-lined and re-cuffed it since then, and changed the buttons for brass ones ; and brass buttons for one's holiday coat, you know, look so much more comme il faut—and I said to the landlord " "Another glass of punch, Monsieur Robineau," interrupted Dalrymple. " Thank you, M'sieur, you are very good; well, as I was saying " The Island in the Riven. uAh, bah, brother Jacques!'' exclaimed Madame Roquet, impatiently, "don't give us that old story of the miller and the grey colt this evening ! We've all heard it a hundred times already. Sing us a song instead, mon ami/" " I shall be happy to sing, sister Marie," replied Monsieur Robineau, with somewhat husky dignity, " when I have finished my story. You may have heard the story before. So may Andrd—so may Suzette—so may my wife. 1 admit it. But these gentlemen—these gentlemen who have never heard it, and who have done me the honour " "Not to listen to a word of it," said Madame Robineau, sharply. "There, you are answered, husband. Drink your punch, and hold your tongue." Monsieur Robineau waved his hand majestically, and assumed a parliamentary air. " Madame Robineau," he said, getting more and more husky, "be so obliging as to wait'till I ask for your advice. With re- gard to drinking my punch, I have drunk it —" and here he again stared down into the bottom of his glass, which was again empty—" and with regard to holding my tongue, that is my business, and—and " "Monsieur Robineau," said Dalrymple, " allow me to offer you some more punch." "Not another drop, Jacques," said Madame, sternly. "You have had too much already." Poor Monsieur Robineau, who had put out his glass to be re- filled, paused and looked helplessly at his wife. "Ma chere ange, " he began ; but she shook her head in- flexibly, and Monsieur Robineau submitted with the air of a man who knows that from the sentence of the supreme court there is no appeal. "Dame/" whispered Madame Roquet, with a confidential attack upon my ribs that gave me a pain in my side for half an hour after, "my brother has the heart of a rabbit. He gives way to her in everything—so much the worse for him. My blessed man, who was a saint of a husband, would have broken the bowl over my ears if I had dared to interfere between his glass and his mouth !" Whereupon Madame Roquet filled her own glass and mine, and Madame Robineau, less indulgent to her husband than herself, followed our example. Just at this moment, a confused hubbub of voices, and other sounds expressive of a fracas, broke out in the direction of the trees behind the orchestra. The dancers deserted their polka, the musicians stopped fiddling, the noisy supper-party in the next arbour abandoned their cold chicken and salad, and every- 52 In ike Days of my Youth. body ran to the scene of action. Dalrymple was on his feet in a moment; but Suzette held Andrd back with both hands and implored him to stay. u Some mauvais sujets, no doubt, who refuse to pay the score," suggested Madame Roquet. " Or Sullivan, who has got into one of his infernal scrapes," muttered Dalrymple, with a determined wrench at his mous- tache. " Come on, anyhow, and let us see what is the matter." So we snatched up our hats and ran out, just as Monsieur Robineau seized the opportunity to drink another tumbler of punch when his wife was not looking. Following in the direction of the rest, we took one of the paths behind the orchestra, and came upon a noisy crowd gathered round a wooden summer-house. "It's a fight," said one. " It's a pickpocket,'' said another. " Bah ! it's only a young fellow who has been making love to a girl," exclaimed a third. We forced our'way through, and there we saw Mr. Frank Sullivan with his hat off, his arms crossed, and his back against the wall, presenting a dauntless front to the gesticulations and threats of an exceedingly enraged young man with red hair, who was abusing him furiously. The amount of temper dis- played by this young man was something unparallelled. He was angry in every one of his limbs. He stamped, he shook his fists, he shook his head. The very tips of his ears looked scar- let with rage. Every now and then he faced round to the spec- tators, and appealed to them—or to a stout woman with a green fan, who was almost as red and angry as himself, and who always rushed forward when addressed, and shook the green fan in Sullivan's face. "You are an aristocrat!" stormed the young man. "A pampered, insolent aristocrat ! A dog of an Englishman ! A scilerat / Don't suppose you are to trample upon us for no- thing ! We are Frenchmen, you beggarly islander—French- men, do you hear?" A growl of sympathetic indignation ran through the crowd, and "a bas les aristocrats—a bas les Anglais /" broke out here and there. " In the devil's name, Sullivan," said Dalrymple, shouldering his way up to the object of these agreeable menaces, " what have you been after, to bring this storm about your ears ? " " Pshaw ! nothing at all," replied he with a mocking laugh and a contemptuous gesture. " I danced with a pretty girl, and treated her to champagne afterwards. Her mother and brother hunted us out, and spoiled our flirtation. That's the whole story." The Island in the River. 53 Something in the laugh and gesture—something, too, perhaps in the language which they could not understand, appeared to give the last aggravation to both of Sullivan's assailants. I saw the young man raise his arm to strike—I saw Dalrymple fell him with a blow that would have stunned an ox—I saw the crowd close in, heard the storm break out on every side, and, above it all, the deep strong tones of Dalrymple's voice, saying :— "To the boat, boys ! Follow me." In another moment he had flung himself into the crowd, dealt one or two sounding blows to left and right, cleared a pas- sage for himself and us, and sped away down one of the narrow walks leading to the river. Presently, having taken one or two turnings, none of which seemed to lead to the spot we sought, we came upon an open space full of piled-up benches, pyramids of empty bottles, boxes, baskets, and all kinds of lumber. Here we paused to listen and take breath. We had left the crowd behind us, but they were still within hearing. " By Jove !" said Dalrymple, " I don't know which way to go. I believe we are on the wrong side of the island." "And I believe they are after us," added Sullivan, peering into the baskets. " By all that's fortunate, here are the fire- works ! Has anybody got a match? We'll take these with us, and go off in a blaze of triumph ! " The suggestion was no sooner made than adopted. We filled, our hats and pockets with crackers and Catherine-wheels, piled the rest into one great heap, threw a dozen or so of lighted fusees into the midst of them, and just as the voices of our pursuers were growing momentarily louder and nearer, darted away again down a fresh turning, and saw the river gleaming at the end of it. "Hurrah! here's a boat," shouted Sullivan, leaping into it, and we after him. It was not our boat, but we did not care for that. Ours was at the other side of the island, far enough away, down by the landing-place. Just as Dalrymple seized the oars, there burst forth a tremendous explosion. A column of rockets shot up into the air, and instantly the place was as light as day. Then a yell of discovery broke forth, and we were seen almost as soon as we were fairly out of reach. We had secured the only boat on that side of the island, and three or four of Dalrymple's powerful strokes had already carried us well into the middle of the stream. To let off our own store of fireworks—to pitch tokens of our regard to our friends on the island in the shape of blazing crackers, which fell sputtering and fizzing into the water half-way between the boat and the shp*«—to stand up in the 54 In the Days of my Youth. stern and bow politely—finally, to row away singing " God Save the Queen," with all our might, were feats upon which we prided ourselves' very considerably at the time, and the recollection of which afforded as infinite amusement all the way home. That evening we all supped together at the Cheval Blanc, and of what we did or said after supper, I have but a confused remembrance. I believe that I tried to smoke a cigar; and it is my impression that I made a speech, in which I swore eternal friendship to both of my new friends; but the only circumstance about which I cannot be mistaken is, that I awoke next morning with the worst specimen of headache that had yet come within the limits of my experience. CHAPTER IX. DAMON AND PYTHIAS. LEFT Rouen the day after my great adventure on the river, and Captain Dalrymple went with me to the station. "You have my Paris address upon my card," he said, as we walked to and fro upon the platform. " It's just a bachelor's den, you know—and I shall be there in about a fort- night or three weeks. Come and look me up." To which I replied that I was glad to be allowed to do so, and that I should "look him up" as soon as he came home. And so, with words of cordial good-will and a hearty shake of the hand, we parted. Having started late in the evening, I arrived in Paris between four and five o'clock on a bright midsummer Sunday morning. I was not long delayed by the Customs' officers, for I carried but a scant supply of luggage. Having left this at an hotel, I wandered about till it should be time for breakfast. After breakfast, I meant to dress and call upon Dr. Cheron. The morning air was clear and cool. The sun shone bril- liantly, and was reflected back with dazzling vividness from long vistas of high white houses, innumerable windows, and gilded balconies. Theatres, shops, cafes, and hotels, not yet opened, lined the great thoroughfares. Triumphal arches, columns, parks, palaces, and churches succeeded one another in ap- parently endless succession. I passed a lofty pillar crowned with a conqueror's statue—a palace tragic in history—a modern Parthenon surrounded by columns, peopled with sculptured friezes, and approached by a flight of steps extending the whole width of the building. I went in; for the doors had just been opened, and a white-haired sacristan was preparing the seats for matin service. There were acolytes decorating the altar with fresh flowers, and early devotees on their knees before the shrine of the Madonna. The gilded ornaments, the tapers 56 In the Days of my Youth. winking in the morning light, the statues, the paintings, the faint clinging odours of incense, the hushed atmosphere, the devo- tional silence, the marble angels kneeling round the altar, au united to increase my dream of delight. I gazed and gazed again; wandered round and round ; and at last, worn out with excitement and fatigue, sank into a chair in a distant corner of the church, and fell into a heavy sleep. How long it lasted I know not; but the voices of the choristers and the deep tones of the organ mingled with my dreams. When I ^ awoke, the last worshippers were departing, the music had died into silence, the wax-lights were being extinguished, and the service was ended. Again I went out into the streets; but all was changed. Where there had been the silence of early morning, there was now the confusion of a great city. Where there had been closed shutters and deserted thoroughfares, there was the bustle of life, gaiety, business and pleasure. The shops blazed with jewels and merchandise; the stone-masons were at work on the new buildings; the lemonade vendors, with their gay reservoirs upon their backs, were plying a noisy trade; the bill-stickers were papering hoardings and lamp-posts with variegated adver- tisements; the charlatan, in his gaudy chariot, was selling pen- cils and penknives to the accompaniment of a hand-organ; soldiers were marching to the clangour of military music ; the merchant was in his counting-house, the stock-broker at" the Bourse, and the lounger whose name is legion, was sitting in the open air, outside his favourite cafe, drinking chocolate, and yawning over the Charivari. I thought I must be dreaming. I scarcely believed the evi- dence of my eyes. Was this Sunday ? Was it possible that in our own little church at home—in our own little church, where we could hear the birds twittering outside in every interval of the quiet service—the old familiar faces, row beyond row, were even now upturned in reverent attention to the words of the preacher? Prince Bedreddin, transported in his sleep to the gates of Damascus, could scarcely have opened his eyes upon a foreign city and a strange people with more incredulous amazement. I can now scarcely remember how that day of wonders went by. I only know that I rambled about as in a dream, and am vaguely conscious of having; wandered through the gardens of the Tuileries; of having found the Louvre open, and of losing myself among some of the upper galleries; of lying exhausted upon a bench in the Champs Elvsdes; of returning by quays lined with palaces and spanned by noble bridges; of pacing round and round the enchanted arcades of the Palais Royal; Damon and Pythias. 5 7 of wondering how and where I should find my hotel, and of deciding at last that I could go no further without dining some- how. Wearied and half stupefied I ventured, at length, into one of the large restaurants upon the Boulevards. Here I found spacious rooms lighted by superb chandeliers, which were again reflected in mirrors that extended from floor to ceil- ing. Rows of small tables ran round the rooms, and a double line down the centre, each laid with its snowy cloth and glitter- ing silver. It was early when I arrived; so I passed up to the top of the room, and appropriated a small table commanding a view of the great thoroughfare below. The waiters were slow to serve me; the place filled speedily; and by the time I had finished my soup, nearly all the tables were occupied. Here sat a party of officers, bronzed and mustachioed ; yonder a group of laugh- ing girls; a pair of provincials; a family party, children, gover- ness and all; a stout capitalist, solitary and self-content; a quatuor of rollicking commis-voyageurs; an English couple, perplexed and curious. Amused by the sight of so many faces, listening to the hum of voices, and watching the flying waiters, bearing all kinds of mysterious dishes, I loitered over my lonely meal, and wished that this delightful whirl of novelty might last for ever. By-and-by a gentleman entered, walked up the whole length of the room in search of a seat, found my table occupied by only a single person, bowed politely, and drew his chair opposite mine. He was a portly man of about forty-five or fifty years of age, with a broad, calm brow; curling light hair, somewhat worn upon the temples ; and large blue eyes, more keen than tender. His dress was scrupulously simple, and his hands were im- maculately white. He carried an umbrella little thicker than a walking-stick, and wrote out his list of dishes with a massive gold pencil. The waiters bowed down before him, as if he were an habitud of the place. It was not long before we fell into conversation. I do not remember which spoke first; but we talked of Paris—or rather, I talked, and he listened ; for, what with the excitement and fatigue of the day, and what with the half bottle of champagne which I had magnificently ordered, I found myself gifted with a sudden flood of words, and ran on, I fear, not very discreetly. A few civil rejoinders, a smile, a bow, an assent, a question implied rather than spoken, sufficed to draw from me the parti- culars of my journey. I told everything, from my birthplace and education to mv future plans and prospects ; and the stranger, with a frosty "humour twinkling about his eyes, listener politely. He was himself particularly silent; but he had the art 58 In the Days of my Youth. of provoking conversation while quietly enjoying his own dinner. When this was finished, however, he leaned back in his chair, sipped his claret, and talked a little more freely. " And so," said he, in very excellent English, " you have come to Paris to finish your studies. But have you no tear, young gentleman, that the attractions of so gay a city may divert your mind from graver subjects ? Do you think that, when every pleasure may be had for the seeking, you will be content to devote yourself to the dry details of an uninteresting pro- fession ?" " It is not an uninteresting profession," I replied. " I might perhaps have preferred the church, or the law ; but having em- barked in the study of medicine, I shall do my best to succeed in it." The stranger smiled. " I am glad," he said, " to see you so ambitious. ' I do not doubt that you will become a shining light in the brotherhood of Esculapius." " I hope so," I replied, boldly. " I have studied closer than most men of my age, already." He smiled again, coughed doubtfully, and insisted on-filling my glass from his own bottle. " I only fear," he said, "that you will be too diffident of your own merits. Now, when you call upon this Doctor—what did you say was his name ? " " Chdron," I replied, huskily. " True, Cheron. Well, when you meet him for the first time, you will, perhaps, be timid, hesitating, and silent. But, believe, me, a young man of your remarkable abilities should be self- possessed. You ought to inspire him from the beginning with a suitable respect for your talents." " That's precisely the line I mean to take," said I, boastfully. " I'll—I'll astonish him. I'm afraid of nobody—not I !" The stranger filled my glass again. His claret must have been very strong, or my head very weak, for it seemed to me, as he did so, that all the chandeliers were in motion. "Upon my word," observed he, "you are a young man of infinite spirit." "And you," I replied, making an effort to bring the glass steadily to my lips, " you are a capital fellow—a clearsighted, sensible, capital fellow. We'll be friends." He bowed, and said somewhat coldly, " I have no doubt that we shall become better acquainted." "Better acquainted, indeed!—we'll be intimate!" I ejaculated, affectionately. " I'll introduce you to Dalrymple—you'll like him excessively. Just the fellow to delight you." Damon and Pythias. 59 " So I should say," observed the stranger, drily. " And as for you and myself,—we'll be Damon and what's the other one's name ? " " Pythias/' replied my new acquaintance, leaning back in his chair, and surveying me with a peculiar and very deliberate stare. " Exactly so—Damon and Pythias ! A charming arrange- ment." "Bravo! Famous! And now we'll have another bottle of wine.*' " Not on my account, I beg," said the gentleman, firmly. "My head is not so cool as yours." Cool indeed, and the room whirling round and round, like a teetotum ! " Oh, if you won't, I won't," said I confusedly; " but I—I could drink my share of another bottle, I assure you, and not —feel the slightest " " I have no doubt on that point," said my neighbour, gravely; "but our French wines are deceptive, Mr. Arbuthnot, and you might possibly suffer some inconvenience to-morrow. You, as a medical man, should understand the evils of dyspepsia." " Dy—dy—dyspepsia be hanged," I muttered, dreamily. " Tell me, friend—by-the-bye, I forget yeur name. Friend what ?" "Friend Pythias," returned the stranger, drily. "You gave me the name yourself." " Ay, but your real name ? " He shrugged his shoulders. " One name is as good as another," said he, lightly. " Let it be Pythias, for the present. But you were 'about to ask me some question ? " " About old Chdron," I said, leaning both elbows on the table, and speaking very confidentially. "Now tell me, have you— have you any notion of what he is like ? Do you—know—know anything about him ? " " I have heard of him," he replied, intent for the moment on the pattern of his wine-glass. " Clever ? " " That is a point upon which I could not venture an opinion. You must ask some more competent judge." " Come now," said I, shaking my head and trying to look knowing ; " you—you know what I mean, well enough. Is he a grim old fellow ? A—a—griffin, you know ! Come, is he a gr—r—r—riffin ?'' My words had by this time acquired a distressing, self-pro- pelling tendency, and linked themselves into compounds of twenty and thirty syllables. My vis-a-vis smiled, bit his lip, then laughed a dry, short laugh. E 6o Tn the Days of my Youth. " Really," he said, " I am not in a position to reply to your question ; but upon the whole, I should say that Dr. Chdron was not quite a griffin. The species, you see, is extinct." I roared with laughter ; vowed I had never heard a better joke in my life; and repeated his last words over and over, like a degraded idiot as I was. All at once, a sense of deadly faint- ness came upon me. I turned hot and cold by turns, and lifting my hand to my head, said, or tried to say :— " Room's—'bominably—close !" " We had better go," he replied promptly. "The air will do you good. Leave me to settle for our dinners, and you shall make it right with me by-and-by." He did so, and we left the room. Once out in the open air. I found myself unable to stand. He called a fiacre j almost lifted me in ; took his place beside me ; and asked the name of my hotel. I had forgotten it; but I knew that it was opposite the railway station, and that was enough. When we arrived, I was on the verge of insensibility. I remember that I was led up-stairs by two waiters, and that the stranger saw me to my room. Then ail was darkness and stupor. CHAPTER X. THE NEXT MORNING. '' Oh, my Christian ducats ! "—Merchant of Venice. ONE !—gone !—both gone!—my new gold watch, and my purse full of notes and Napoleons! I rang the bell furiously. It was answered by a demure-looking waiter, with a face like a parroquet. " Does Monsieur please to require anything? " " Require anything ! " I exclaimed, in the best French I could muster. " I have been robbed !" " Robbed, Monsieur ?" " Yes, of my watch and purse !" " Tiens! Of a watch and purse?" repeated the parroquet, lifting his eyebrows with an air of well-bred surprise. " C'est drole." " Droll ! " I cried furiously. " Droll, you scoundrel! I'll let you know whether I think it droll! I'll complain to the author- ities ! I'll have the house searched ! I'll—I'll " I rang the bell again. Two or three more waiters came, and the master of the hotel. They all treated my communication in the same manner—coolly! incredulously ; but with unruffled politeness. " Monsieur forgets," urged the master, " that he came back to the hotel last night in a state of absolute intoxication. Monsieur was accompanied by a stranger, who was gentlemanly, it is true ; but since Monsieur acknowledges that that stranger was per- sonally unknown to him, Monsieur may well perceive it would be more reasonable if his suspicions first pointed in that direction." Struck by the force of this observation, I flung myself into a chair and remained silent. " Has Monsieur no acquaintances in Paris to whom he may apply for advice ?" enquired the landlord. " None," said I, moodily ; " except that I have a letter of in" troduction to one Dr. Chdron." The landlord and his waiter exchanged glances. 62 In the Days of my Youth. " I would respectfully recommend Monsieur to present his letter immediately," said the former. " Monsieur le Docteur Chdron is a man of the world—a man of high reputation and sagacity. Monsieur could not do better than advise with him." " Call a cab for me," said I, after a long pause. " I will go." The determination cost me something. Dismayed by the ex- tent of my lost, racked with headache, languid, pale, and full of remorse for last night's folly, it needed but this humiliation to complete my misery. What! appear^before my instructor for the first time with such a tale ! I could have bitten my lips through with vexation. The cab was called. I saw, but would not see, the winks and nods exchanged behind my back by the grinning waiters. I flung myself into the vehicle, and soon was once more rattling through the noisy streets. But those brilliant streets had now lost all their charm for me. I admired nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing on the way. I could think only of my father's anger and the contempt of Dr. Charon. Presently the cab stopped before a large wooden gate with two enormous knockers. One half of this,gate was opened by a servant in a sad-coloured livery. I was shown across a broad courtyard up a flight of lofty steps, and into a spacious salon plainly furnished. " Monsieur le Docteur is at present engaged," said the servant with an air of profound respect. "Will Monsieur have the goodness to be seated for a few moments." I sat down. I rose up. I examined the books upon the table, and the pictures on the walls. I wished myself " any- where, anywhere out of the world," and more than once was on the point of stealing out of the house, jumping into- my cab, and making off without seeing the doctor at all. One consideration alone prevented me. I had lost all my money, and had not even a franc left to pay the driver. Presently the door again opened, the grave footman reappeared, and I heard the dreaded announcement :—" Monsieur le Docteur will be happy to receive Monsieur in his consulting room." I followed mechanically. We passed through a passage thickly carpeted, and paused before a green baize door. This door opened noiselessly, and I found myself in the great man's presence. "It.gives me pleasure to welcome the son of my old friend John Arbuthnot," said a clear, and not unfamiliar voice. I started, looked up, grew red and white, hot and cold, and had not a syllable to utter in reply. In Doctor Chdron, I recognised Pythias ! CHAPTER XI. MYSTERIOUS PROCEEDINGS. HE doctor pointed to a chair, looked at his watch, ar.d said :— " I hope you have had a pleasant journey. Arrived this morning ?" There was not the faintest gleam of recognition on his face. Not a smile ; not a glance ; nothing but the easy politeness of a stranger to a stranger. "N-not exactly," I faltered. "Yesterday morning, Sir." " Ah, indeed ! Spent the day sight-seeing, I dare say. Admire Paris ? " Too much astonished to speak, I took refuge in a bow. "Not found any lodgings yet, I presume ?" asked the doctor, mending a pen very deliberately. " N—not yet, Sir." " I concluded so. The English do not seek apartments on Sunday. You observe the day very strictly, no doubt?" Blushing and confused, I stammered some incoherent words and sat twirling my hat, the very picture of remorse. " At what hotel have you put up ? " he next enquired, without appearing to observe my agitation. " The—the Hotel des Messageries." " Good, but expensive. You must find a lodging to-day." I bowed again. " And, as your father's representative, I must take care that you procure something suitable, and are not imposed upon. My valet shall go with you." He rang the bell, and the sad-coloured footman appeared on the threshold. " Desire Brunet to be in readiness to walk out with this gen- tleman," he said briefly, and the servant retired. " Brunet," he continued, addressing me again, "is faithful and sagacious. He will instruct you on certain points indispensable to a resident in Paris, and will see that you are not ill-accom- 64 In the Days of my Youth. modated or overcharged. A young man has few wants, and I should infer that a couple of rooms in some quiet street will be all that you require ?" " I—I am very grateful." He waved down my thanks with an air of cold but polite authority; took out his note-book and pencil; (I could have sworn to that massive gold pencil!) and proceeded to question me. "Your age, I think," said he, " is twenty-one ?" "Twenty, Sir." "Ah—twenty. You desire to be entered upon the list of visiting students at the Hotel Dieu, to be free of the library and lecture rooms, and to be admitted into my public classes !" " Yes, Sir." "Also, to attend here in my house for private instruction." " Yes, Sir." He filled in a few words upon a printed form, and handed it to me with his visiting card. " You will present these, and your passport, to the secretary at the hospital," said he " and will receive in return the requisite tickets of admission. Your fees have already been paid in, and your name has been entered. You must see to this matter at once, for the bureau closes at two o'clock. You will then require the rest of the day for lodging-seeking, moving, ^nr1 cr> forth. T o-morrow morning, at nkur^cTdck', I "shall expect you here. " Indeed, Sir," I murmured, " I am more obliged than " " Not in the least," he interrupted decisively; "your father's son has every claim upon me. I object to thanks. All'that I require from you are habits of industry, punctuality, and respect. Your father speaks well of you, and I have no doubt I shall find you all that he represents. Can I do anything more for you this morning ?" I hesitated ; could not bring myself to utter one word of that which I had come to say ; and murmured— " Nothing more, I thank you, Sir." He looked at me piercingly, paused an instant, and then rang the bell. " I am about to order my carriage," he said ; " and, as I am going in that, direction, I will take you as far as the H6tel Dieu." " But—but I have a cab at the door," I faltered, remembering, with a sinking heart, that I had not a sou to pay the driver The servant appeared again. " Let the carriage be brought round immediately, and dismiss this gentleman's cab." The man retired, and I heaved a sigh of relief. The doctor Mysterious Proceedings. 65 bent low over the papers on his desk, and I fancied for the moment that a faint smile flitted over his face. Then he took up his hat, and pointed to the door. "Now, my young friend," he said authoritatively, "we must be gone. Time is gold. After you." I bowed and preceded him. Hi's very courtesy was sterner than the displeasure of another, and I already felt towards him a greater degree of awe than I should have quite cared to confess. The carriage was waiting in the courtyard. I placed myself with my back to the horses; Dr. Cheron flung himself upon the opposite seat ; a servant out of livery sprang up beside the coachman ; the great gates were flung open ; and we glided away on the easiest of springs and the softest of cushions. Dr. Cheron took a newspaper from his pocket, and began to read ; so leaving me to my own uncomfortable reflections. And, indeed, when I came to consider my position I was almost in despair. Moneyless, what was to become of me ? Watchless and moneyless, with a bill awaiting me at my hotel, and not a stiver in my pocket wherewith to pay it Miserable pupil of a stern master ! luckless son of a savage father! to whom could I turn for help? Not certainly to Dr. Cheron, whom I had been ready to accuse, half an hour ago, of having stolen my watch and purse. Petty larceny and Dr. Cheron ! how ludicrously incongruous ! And yet, where was my property ? Was the Hotel des Messageries a den of thieves ? And again, how was it that this same Dr. Cheron and looked, spoke, and acted, as if he had never seen me in his life till this morning? Was I mad, or dreaming, or both? The carriage stopped and the door opened. " Hotel Dieu, M'sieur," said the servant, touching his hat. Dr. Chdron just raisedTfis eyes from the paper. "This is your first destination," he said. " I would advise you on leaving here, to return to your hotel. There may be letters awaiting you. Good morning." With this he resumed his paper, the carriage rolled away, and I found myself at the Hotel Dieu, with the servant out of livery standing respectfully behind me. Go back to my hotel ! Why should I go back? Letters there could be none, unless at the Poste Restante. I thought this a very unnecessary piece of advice, rejected it in my own mind, and so went into the hospital Bureau, and transacted my busi- ness. When I came out again, Brunet took the lead. He was an elderly man with a solemn countenance and a mysterious voice. His manner was oppressively respectful; his address diplomatic ; his step stealthy as a courtier's. When we came to a crossing he bowed, stood aside, and followed me; Tn the Days of my Youth. then took the lead again ? and so on, during a brisk walk of about half an hour. All at once, I found myself at the Hotel des Messageries. " Monsieur's hotel," said the doctor's valet, touching his hat. "You are mistaken," said I, rather impatiently. "I did not ask to be brought here. My object this morning is to look for apartments." " Post in at mid-dav, Monsieur," he observed, gravely. " Monsieur's letters may have arrived." " I expect none, thank you." " Monsieur will, nevertheless, permit me to enquire," said the persevering valet, and glided in before my eyes. The thing was absurd ! Both master and servant insisted that I must have letters, whether I would, or no ! To my amazement, however, Brunet came back with a small sealed box in his hands. "No letters have arrived for Monsieur," he said; "but this box was left with the porter about an hour ago." I weighed it, shook it, examined the seals, and, going into the public room, desired Brunet to follow me. There I opened it. It contained a folded paper, a quantity of wadding, my purse, my roll of bank-notes, and my watch ! On the paper, I read the following words :— " Learn from the events of last night the value of temperance, the wisdom of silence, and the danger of chance acquaintance- ships. Accept the lesson, and he by whom it is administered will forget the error." The paper dropped from my hands and fell upon the floor. The impenetrable Brunet picked it up, and returned it to me. " Brunet! " I ejaculated. " Monsieur?" said he, interrogatively, raising his hand to his forehead by force of habit, although his hat stood beside him on the floor. There was not a shadow of meaning in his face—not a quiver to denote that he knew anything of what had passed. To judge by the stolid indifference of his manner, one might have supposed that the delivery of caskets full of watches and valuables was an event of daily occurrence in the house of Dr. Chdron. His coolness silenced me. I drew a long breath ; hastened to put my watch in my pocket, and lock up my money in my room ; and then went to the master of the hotel, and informed him of the recovery of my property. He smiled and congratulated me ; but he did not seem to be in the least surprised. I fancied, somehow, that matters were not quite so mysterious to him as they had been to me. Mysterious Proceedings. 67 I also fancied that I heard a suspicious roa' of laughter as I passed out into the street. It was not long before I found such apartments as I required. Piloted by Brunet through some broad thoroughfares and along part of the Boulevards, I came upon a cluster of narrow streets branching off through a massive stone gateway from the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. This little nook was called the Citd Bergere. The houses were white and lofty. Some had court- yards, and all were decorated with pretty iron balconies and delicately tinted Venetian shutters. Most of them bore the announcement—"Apartments a louer"—suspended above the door. Outside one of these houses sat two men with a little table between them. They were playing at dominoes, and wore the common blue blouse of the mechanic class. A woman stood by paring celery, with an infant playing on the mat inside the door, and a cat purring at her feet. It was a pleasant group. The men looked honest, the woman good-tempered, and the house exquisitely clean ; so the diplomatic Brunet went forward to negotiate, while I walked up and down outside. There were rooms to be let on the second, third, and fifth floors. The fifth was too high, and the second too expensive; but the third seemed likely to suit me. The suite consisted of a bed-room, dressing-room, and tiny salon, and was furnished with the elegant uncomfortableness characteristic of our French neigh- bours. Here were floors shiny and carpetless ; windows that objected to open, and drawers that refused to shut; mirrors all round the walls ; a set of hanging shelves ; an ormolu time-piece that struck all kinds of miscellaneous hours at unexpected times ; an abundance of vases filled with faded artificial flowers ; insecure chairs of white and gold ; and a round table that had a way of turning over suddenly like a table in a pantomime, if you ventured to place anything on any part but the inlaid star in the centre. Above all, there was a balcony big enough for a couple of chairs and some flower-pots, overlooking the street. I was delighted with everything. In imagination I beheld my balcony already blooming with roses, and my shelves laden with books. I admired the white and gold chairs with all my heart, and saw myself reflected in half a dozen mirrors at once with an innocent pride of ownership which can only be appreciated by those who have tasted the supreme luxury of going into chambers for the first time. " Shall I conclude for Monsieur at twenty francs a week ?" murmured the sagacious Brunet. " Of course," said I, laying the first week's rent upon the table. And so the thing was done, and, brimful of satisfaction, I went off to the hotel for my luggage, and moved in immediately. CHAPTER XII. BROADCLOTH AND CIVILISATION. ||5re||jj LLOWING for my inexperience in the use of the lan- £uaSe> * prospered better than I had expected, and W&Si\2 found, to my satisfaction, that I was by no means SWirjgil behind my French fellow-students in medical know- iedge. I passed through my preliminary examination with credit, and although Dr. Cheron was careful not to praise me too soon, I had reason to believe that he was satisfied with my pro- gress. My life, indeed, was now wholly given up to my work. My country breeding had made me timid, and the necessity for speaking a foreign tongue served only to increase my natural reserve ; so that although I lived and studied day after day in the society of some two or three hundred young men, I yet lived as solitary a life as Robinson Crusoe in his island. No one sought to know me. No one took a. liking for me. Gay, noisy, chattering fellows that they were, they passed me by for a "dull and muddy-pated rogue;" voted me uncompanionable when I was only shy ; and, doubtless, quoted me to each other as a rare specimen of the silent Englishman. I lived, too, quite out of the students' colony. To me the Quartier Latin Cexcept as I went to and fro between the Hotel Dieu and the Ecole de Medi- cine) was a land unknown ; and the student's life—that won- derful Vie de Boheme which furnishes forth half the fiction of the Paris press—a condition of being, about which I had never even heard. What wonder, then, that I never arrived at Dr. Chdron's door five minutes behind time, never missed a lecture, never forgot an appointment ? What wonder that, after dropping moodily into one or two of the theatres, I settled down quite quietly in my lodgings ; gave up my days to study; sauntered about the lighted alleys of the Champs Elysees in the sweet spring evenings ; and, going home betimes, spent an hour or two with my books, and kept almost as early hours as in my father's house at Saxonholme ? After I had been living thus for rather longer than three weeks, Broadcloth and Civilisation. 69 I made up my mind one Sunday morning to call at Dalrympie's rooms, and inquire if he had yet arrived in Paris. It was about eleven o'clock when I reached the Chaussee d'Antin, and there learned that he was not only arrived, but at home. Being by this time in possession of the luxury of a card, I sent one up, and was immediately admitted. I found breakfast still upon the table ; Dalrymple sitting with an open desk and cash-box before him ; and, standing somewhat back, with his elbow resting on the chimney-piece, a gentleman smoking a cigar. They both looked up as I was announced, and Dalrymple, welcoming me with a hearty grasp, introduced this gentleman as Monsieur de Simoncourt. M. de Simoncourt bowed, knocked the ash from his cigar, and looked as if he wished me at the Antipodes. Dalrymple was really glad to see me. " I have been expecting you, Arbuthnot," said he, " for the last week. If you had not soon beaten up my quarters, I should have tried, somehow, to find out yours. What have you been about all this time? Where are you located? What mischief have you been perpetrating since our expedition to the gain- gette on the river ? Come, you have a thousand things to tell me!" M. de Simoncourt looked at his watch—a magnificent affair § o decorated with a costly chain, and a profusion of pendant trifles —ana. tnre w'LirtVaaAiMf- af his cigar into the fireplace. "You must excuse me, mon cherg saikw " 1 have at least a dozen calls to make before dinner." Dalrymple rose, readily enough, and took a roll of bam notes from the cash-box. " If you are going," he said, " I may as well hand you over ti^ price of that Tilbury. When will they send it home?" "To-morrow, undoubtedly." " And I am to pay fifteen hundred francs for it?" "Just half its value!" observed M. de Simoncourt, with a shrug of his shoulders. Dalrymple smiled, counted the notes, and handed them to his friend. " Fifteen hundred may behalf its cost," said he ; "but I doubt if I am paying much less than its full value. Just see that these are right." M. de Simoncourt ruffled the papers daintily over, and con- signed them to his pocket-book. As he did so, I could not help observing the whiteness of his hands and the sparkle of a huge brilliant on his little finger. He was a pale, slender, olive-hued man, with very dark eyes, and glittering teeth, and a black moustache inclining superciliously upwards at each corner; 7° In the Days of my Youth. somewhat too nonchalant, perhaps, in his manner, and some- what too profuse in the article of jewellery ; but a very elegant gci-tleman, nevertheless. "Bon!" said he. " I am glad you have bought it. I would have taken it myself, had the thing happened a week or two earlier. Poor Duchesne! To think that he should have come to this, after all!" " I am sorry for him," said Dalrymple; " but it is a case of wilful ruin. He made up his mind to go to the devil, and went accordingly. I am only surprised that the crash came no sooner." M. de Simoncourt twitched at the supercilious moustache. " And you think you would not care to take the black mare with the Tilbury ?" said he, negligently. " No—I have a capital horse already." "Hah!—well—'tis almost a pity. The mare is a dead bar- gain. Shouldn't wonder if I buy her, after all." " And yet you don't want her," said Dalrymple. " Quite true ; but one must have a favourite sin, and horse- flesh is mine. I shall ruin myself by it some day —mortde ma vie / By the way, have you seen my chestnut in harness ? No ? Then you will be really pleased. Goes delightfully with the grey, and manages tandem to perfection. Parbleu J I was forgetting —do we meet to-night ?" "Where?" "At ChardonniePs." Dalrymple shook his head, and turned the key in his cash-box. "Not this evening," he replied. "I have other engage- . ——=— ments " ... —— - - " Bah! ppd-^'prtSmTsed to go, believing you were sure to be of the party. St. Pol, I know, will be there, and De Brdzy also*' * ChardonniePs parties are charming things in their way," "said Dalrymple, somewhat coldly, " and no man enjoys Burgundy and lansquenet more heartily than myself; but one might grow to care for nothing else, and I have no desire to fall into worse habits than those I have contracted already." M. de Simoncourt laughed a dry, short laugh, and twitched again at the supercilious moustache. " I had no idea you were a philosopher," said he. " Nor am I. I am a mauvaissujet—mauvais enough, already, without seeking to become worse." "Well, adieu—I will see to this affair of the Tilbury, and desire them to let you have it by noon to-morrow." " A thousand thanks. I am ashamed that you have so much trouble in the matter. Au revoir." Broadcloth and Civilisation. "Au revoirC Whereupon M. de Simoncourt honoured me with a passing bow, and took his departure. Being near the window, I saw him spring into an elegant cabriolet, and drive off with the showiest of high horses and the tiniest of tigers. He was no sooner gone than Dalrymple took me by the shoulders, placed me in an easy chair, poured out a couple of glasses of hock, and said :— "Now, then, my young friend, } xir news or your life ! Out with it, every word, as you hope to be forgiven!" I had but little to tell, and for that little found myself, as I had anticipated, heartily laughed at. My adventure at the restaurant, my unlucky meeting with Dr. Cheron, and the his- tory of my interview with him next morning delighted Dalrymple beyond measure. Nothing would satisfy him after this, but to call me Damon, to tease me continually about Doctor Pythias, and to re- mind me at every turn of the desirableness of Arcadian friend- ships. " And so, Damon," said he, " you go nowhere, see nothing, and know nobody. This sort of life will never do for you! 1 must take you out—introduce ycu—get you an entree into society, before I leave Paris." " I should be heartily glad to visit at one or two private houses," I replied. "To spend the winter in this place without knowing a soul, would be something frightful." Dalrymple looked at me half laughingly, half compassionately. " Before I do it, however," said he, " you must look a little less like a savage, and more like a tame Christian. You must have your hair cut, and learn to tie your cravat properly. Do you possess an evening suit ?" Blushing to the tips of my ears, I not only confessed that I was destitute of that desirable outfit ; but also that I had never yet in all my life had occasion to wear it. " I am glad of it; for now you are sure to be well fitted. Your tailor, depend on it, is your great civiliser, and a well made suit of clothes is in itself a liberal education. I'll take you to Michaud—my own especial purveyor. He is a great artist. With so many yards of superfine black cloth, he will give you the tone of good society and the exterior of a gentleman. In short, he will do for you in eight or ten hours more than I could do in as many years." " Pray introduce me at once to this illustrious man," I ex- claimed laughingly, " and let me do him homage!" " You will have to pay heavily for the honour," said Dalrymple. u Of that I give you notice." 7 2 In the Days of my Youth. "No matter. I am willing to pay heavily for the tone of good society and the exterior of a gentleman." "Very good. Take a book, then, or a cigar, and amuse your- self for five minutes while I write a note. That done, you may command me for as long as you please." I took the first book that came, and finding it to be a history of the horse, amused myself, instead, by observing the aspect of Dalrymple's apartment. Rooms are eloquent biographies. They betray at once if the owner be careless or orderly, studious or idle, vulgar or refined. Flowers on the table, engravings on the walls, indicate refine- ment and taste ; while a well filled book-case says more in favour of its possessor than the most elaborate letter of recommendation. Dalrymple's "room was a monograph of himself. Careless, luxurious, disorderly, crammed with all kinds of costly things, and characterised by a sort of reckless elegance, it expressed, as I interpreted it, the very history of the man. Rich hangings; luxurious carpets; walls covered with paintings ; cabinets of bronze and rare porcelain ; a statuette of Rachel beside a bust of Homer; a book-case full of French novels with a sprinkling of Shakespeare and Horace ; a stand of foreign arms ; a lamp from Pompeii; a silver casket full of cigars ; tables piled up with newspapers, letters, pipes, riding- whips, faded bouquets, and all kinds of miscellaneous rubbish— such were my friend's surroundings ; and such, had I speculated upon them beforehand, I should have expected to find them. Dalrymple, in the meanwhile, despatched his letter with cha- racteristic rapidity. His pen rushed over the paper like a dragoon charge, nor was once laid aside till both letter and address were finished. Just as he was sealing it, -a note was brought to him by his Sv want—a slender, narrow, perfumed note, written on creamy paper, and adorned on the envelope with an elaborate cypher in gold and colours. Had I lived in the world of society for the last hundred seasons, I could not have interpreted the appearance of that note more sagaciously. " It is from a lady," said I to myself. Then seeing Dalrymple tear up his own letter immediately after reading it, and begin another, I added, still in my own mind—"And it is from the lady to whom he was writing." Presently he paused, laid his pen aside, and said :— " Arbuthnot, would you like to go with me to-morrow evening to one or two soiries f" " Can your Civiliser provide me with my evening suit in time ? " " He ? The great Michaud ? Why, he would equip you far this evening, if it were necessary 1' Broadcloth and Civilisation. 73 " In that case, I shall be very glad." "Bon / I will call for you at ten o'clock ; so do not forget to leave me your address." Whereupon he resumed his letter. When it was written, he returned to the subject. " Then I will take you to-morrow night," said he, " to a reception at Madame Rachel's. Hers is the most beautiful house in Paris. I know fifty men who would give their ears to be admitted to her salons." Even in the wilds of Saxonholme I had heard and read of the great tragediemie whose wealth vied with the Rothschilds, and whose diamonds might have graced a crown. I had looked forward to the probability of beholding her from afar off, if she was ever to be seen on the boards of the Theatre Frangais ; but to be admitted to her presence—received in her house—intro- duced to her in person—\t seemed ever so much too good to be true! Dalrymple smiled good-naturedly, and put my thanks aside. " It is a great sight*" said he, " and nothing more. She will bow to you—she may not even speak; and she would pass you the next morning without remembering that she had ever seen you in her life. Actresses are a race apart, my dear fellow, and care for no one who is neither rich nor famous." "I never imagined," said I, half annoyed, " that she would take any notice of me at all. Even a bow from such a woman is an event to be remembered." "Having received that bow then," continued Dalrymple, " and having enjoyed the ineffable satisfaction of returning it, you can go on with me to the house of a lady close by, who receives every Monday evening. At her soirees you will meet pleasant and refined people, and having been once introduced by me, you will, I have no doubt, find the house open to you for the future." "That would, indeed, be a privilege. Who is this lady ?" " Her name," said Dalrymple, with an involuntary glance at the little note upon his desk, " is Madame de Courcelles. She is a very charming and accomplished lady." I decided in my own mind that Madame de Courcelles was the writer of that note. "Is she married ?" was my next question. " She is a widow," replied Dalrymple. " Monsieur de Cour- celles was many years older than his wife, and held office as a Cabinet Minister during the greater part of the reign of Louis Philippe. He has been dead these four or five years." " Then she is rich ? " " No—not rich ; but mfficientlv independent." " And handsome ?" In the Days of my Youth. " Not handsome, either; but graceful, and very fascinating." Graceful, fascinating, independent, and a widow! Coupling these facts with the correspondence which I believed I had detected, I grouped them into a little romance, and laid out my friend's future career as confidently as if it had depended only on myself to marry him out of hand, and make all parties happy. Dalrymple sat musing for a moment, with his chin resting on his hands and his eyes fixed on the desk. Then shaking back his hair as if he would shake back his thoughts with it, he started suddenly to his feet and said laughingly :— " Now, young Damon, to Michaud's—to Michaud's, with what speed we may ! Farewell to ' Tempe and the vales of Arcady,' and hey for civilisation, and a swallow-tailed coat !" I noticed, however, that before we left the room, he put the little note tenderly away in a drawer of his desk, and locked it with a tiny gold key that hung upon his watch-chain. CHAPTER XIII. I MAKE MY DEBUT IN SOCIETY, ten o'clock on Monday evening, Dalrymple called for me, and by ten o'clock, thanks to the great Michaiifll and other men of genius, I presented a faultless exterior. My friend walked round me with a candle, and then sat down and examined me critically. " By Jove ! " said he, " I don't believe I should have known you ! You are a living testimony to the science of tailoring. I shall call on Michaud to-morrow, and pay my tribute of admiration ! "4 " I am very uncomfortable," said I, ruefully. "Uncomfortable! nonsense—Michaud's customers don't know the meaning of the word." " But he has not made me a single pocket !" "And what of that? Do you suppose the great Michaud would spoil the fit of a masterpiece for your convenience ? " " What am I to do with my pocket handkerchief?" " Michaud's customers never need pocket-handkerchiefs." " And then my trousers " " Unreasonable Juvenile, what of the trousers?" " They are so tight that I dare not sit down in them." " Barbarian ! Michaud's customers never sit down in society." " And my boots are so small that I can hardly endure them." " Very becoming to the foot," said Dalrymple, with exaspera- ting indifference. " And my collar is so stiff that it almost cuts my throat." " Makes you hold your head up," said Dalrymple, " and leaves you no inducement to commit suicide." I could not help laughing, despite my discomfort. "Job himself never had such a comforter!" I exclaimed. " It would be a downright pleasure to quarrel with you." " Put on your hat instead, and let us delay no longer," replied my friend. " My cab is waiting,." F 76 In the Days of my Youth. So we went down, and in another moment were driving through the lighted streets. I should hardly have chosen to confess how my heart beat when, on turning an angle of the Rue Trudon, our cab fell into the rear of three or four other carriages, passed into a courtyard crowded with arriving and departing vehicles, and drew up before an open door, whence a broad stream of light flowed out to meet us. A couple of footmen received us in a hall lighted by torches and decorated with stands of antique armour. From the centre of this hall sprang a Gothic staircase, so light, so richly sculptured, so full of niches and statues, slender columns, foliated capitals, and delicate ornamentation of every kind, that it looked a very blossoming of the stone. Following Dalrymple up this superb staircase and through a vestibule of carved oak, I next found myself in a room that might have been the. scene of Plato's symposium. Here were walls painted in classic fresco ; windows curtained with draperies of chocolate and amber; chairs and couches of ebony, carved in antique fashion; Etruscan amphorae ; vases and paterae of terra-cotta; exquisite lamps, statuettes and candelabra in rare green bronze ; and curious parti-coloured busts of philosophers and heroes, in all kinds of variegated marbles. Powdered footmen serving modern coffee seemed here like anachronisms in livery. In such a room one should have been waited on by boys crowned with roses, and have partaken only of classic dishes—of Venafran olives or oysters from the Lucrine lake, washed down with Massic, or Chian, "or honeyed Ealernian. Some half-dozen gentlemen, chatting over their coffee, bowed to Dalrymple when he came in. They were talking of the war in Algiers, and especially of the gallantry of a certain Vicomte de Caylus, in whose deeds they seemed to take a more than ordinary interest. " Rode single-handed right through the enemy's camp," said a bronzed, elderly man, with a short, grey beard. " And escaped without a scratch," added another, with a tiny red ribbon at his button-hole. " He comes of a gallant stock," said a third. " I remember his father at Austerlitz—literally cut to pieces at the head of his squadron." "You are speaking of De Caylus," said Dalrymple. "What news of him from Algiers ? " " This—that having volunteered to carry some important despatches to head-quarters, he preferred riding by night through Abdel-KadeFs camp, to taking a detour by the mountains," replied the first speaker. "A wild piece of boyish daring," said Dalrymple, some' I Make my Debut in Society. 77 what drily. " I presume he did not return by the same road ?" " I should think not. It would have been certain death a second time !" " And this happened how long since ?" " About a fortnight ago. But we shall soon know all par- ticulars from himself." " From himself ?" "Yes, he has obtained leave of absence—is perhaps, by this time, in Paris." Dalrymple set down his cup untasted, and turned away. " Come, Arbuthnot," he said hastily, " I must introduce you to Madame Rachel." We passed through a small ante-chamber, and into a brilliant salon the very reverse of antique. Here all was light and colour. Here were hangings of flowered chintz; fantastic divans; lounge-chairs of every conceivable shape and hue ; great Indian jars ; richly framed drawings ; stands of exotic plants ; Chinese cages, filled with valuable birds from distant climes ; folios of engravings ; and above all, a large cabinet in marqueterie, crowded with bronzes, Chinese carvings, pastille burners, fans, medals, Dresden groups, Sevres vases, Venetian glass, Asiatic idols, and all kinds of precious trifles in tortoise- shell, mother-o;-pearl, malachite, onyx, lapis lazuli, jasper, ivory, and mosaic. In this room, sitting, standing, turning over engravings, or grouped here and there on sofas and divans, were some twenty-five or thirty gentlemen, all busily engaged in conversation. Saluting some of these by a passing bow, my friend led the way straight through this salon and into a larger one immediately beyond it. " This," he said, " is one of the most beautiful rooms in Paris. Look round and tell me if you recognise, among all her votaries, the divinity herself." I looked round, bewildered. " Recognise !" I echoed. " I should not recognise my own father at this moment. I feel like Abon Hassan in the palace of the Caliph. " Or like Christopher Sly, when he wakes in the nobleman's bed-chamber," said Dalrymple; " though I should ask your pardon for the comparison. But see what it is to be an actress with forty-two thousand francs of salary per week. See these panels painted by Miiller—this chandelier by Deniere, of which no copy exists—this bust of Napoleon by Canova—these hang- ings of purple and gold—this ceiling all carved and gilded, than which Versailles contains nothing more elaborate. Allons donci have you nothing to say in admiration of so much splendour ?w In the Days of my Youth. I shook my head. " What can I say ? Is this the house of an actress, or the palace of a prince ? But stay—that pale woman yonder, all in white, with a plain gold circlet on her head—who is she ?" " Phddre herself," replied Dalrymple. "Follow me, and be introduced." She was sitting in a large fauteuil of purple velvet. One foot rested on a stool richly carved and gilt; one arm rested.negli- gently on a table covered with curious foreign weapons. In her right hand she held a singular poignard, the blade of which was damascened with gold, while the handle, made of bronze and exquisitely modelled, represented a tiny human skeleton. With this ghastly toy she kept playing as she spoke, apparently uncon- scious of its grim significance. She was surrounded by some ten or a dozen distinguished-looking men, most of whom were profusely decore. They made way courteously*at our approach. Dalrymple then presented me. I made my bow, was graciously received, and dropped modestly into the rear. " I began to think that Captain Dalrymple had forsworn Paris," said Rachel, still toying with the skeleton dagger. " It is surely a year since I last had this pleasure ?" " Nay, Madame, you flatter me," said Dalrymple. " I have been absent only five months." " Then, you see, I have measured your absence by my loss." Dalrymple bowed profoundly. Rachel turned to a young man behind her chair. " Monsieur le Prince," said she, " do you know what is rumoured in the foyer of the Frangais ? That you have offered me your hand !" " I offer you both my hands, in applause, Madame, every night of your performance," replied the gentleman so addressed. She smiled and made a feint at him with the dagger. " Excellent !" said she. " One is not enough for a tragedian. But where is Alphonse Karr ?" " I have been looking for him all the evening," said a tall man, with an iron-grey beard. "He told me he was coming; but authors are capricious beings—the slaves of the pen." "True; he lives by his pen—others die by it," said Rachel, bitterly. " By the way, has any one seen Scribe's new Vaudc- ville ?" " I have," replied a bald little gentleman with a red and green ribbon in his button-hole. " And your verdict ? ' " The plot is not ill-conceived; but Scribe is only godfather to the piece. It is almost entirely written by Duverger. his colla- borateur " I Make my Dehit in Society. 79 " The life of a collaborateur," said Rachel, " is one long act of self-abnegation. Another takes all the honour—he all the labour. Thus soldiers fall, and their generals reap the glory." " A collaborateur," said a cynical-looking man who had not yet spoken, " is a hackney vehicle which one hires on the road to fame, and dismisses at the end of the journey." " Sometimes without paying the fare," added a gentleman who had till now been examining, weapon by weapon, all the curious poignards and pistols on the table. " But what is this singular ornament ?" And he held up what appeared to be a large bone, perforated in several places. The bald little man with the red and green ribbon uttered an exclamation of surprise. " It is a tibia !" said he, examining it through his double eye- glass. "And what of that?" laughed Rachel. " Is it so wonderful to find one leg in a collection of arms ? However, not to puzzle you, I may as well acknowledge that it was brought to me from Rome by a learned Italian, and is a curious antique. The Romans made flutes of the leg-bones of their enemies, and this is one of them." " A melodious barbarism !" exclaimed one. " Puts a ' stop,' at all events, to the enemy's flight !" said another. " Almost as good as drinking out of his skull," added a third. " Or as eating him, tont de bon," said Rachel. " There must be a certain satisfaction in cannibalism," ob- served the cynic who had spoken before. " There are people upon whom one would sup willingly." " As, for instance, critics, who are our natural enemies," said Rachel. " C'est a dire, if critics were not too sour to be eaten." " Nay, with the sweet sauce of vengeance ?" "You speak feelingly, Monsieur de Musset. I am almost sorry, for your sake, that cannibalism is out of fashion ! " " It is one of the penalties of civilisation," replied De Musset, with a shrug. " Besides, one would not wish to be an epicure." Dalrymple, who had been listening somewhat disdainfully to this skirmish of words, here touched me on the arm and turned away. "Don't you hate this sort of high-pressure talk?" he said, impatiently. " I was just thinking it so brilliant." " Pshaw !—conversational fireworks—every speaker bent on eclipsing every other speaker. It's an artificial atmosphere, my dear Damon—a sort of forcing-house for good things; and I 8o In the Days of my Youth. hate forced witticisms, as I hate forced peas. But have you had enough of it ? Or has this feast of reason taken away your appetite for simpler fare ?" " If you mean, am I ready to go with you to Madame de Courcelles'—yes." " A la bonne heure / " " But you are not going away without taking leave of Madame Rachel ? '' " Unquestionably. Leave-taking is a custom more honoured in the breach than the observance." " But isn't that very impolite ?" " Ingenu / Do you not know that society ignores everything disagreeable ? A leave-taker sets an unpleasant example, dis- turbs the harmony of things, and reminds others of their watches. Besides, he suggests unwelcome possibilities. Perhaps he finds the party dull, or, worse still, he may be going to one that is pleasanter." By this time we were again rattling along the Boulevard. The theatres were a-blaze with lights. The road was full of carriages. The trottoir was almost as populous as at noon. The idlers outside the cafes were still eating their ices and sipping their eau-sucre as though, instead of being past eleven at night, it was scarcely eleven in the morning. In a few minutes, we had once more turned aside out of the great thoroughfare, and stopped at a private house in a quiet street. A carriage driving off, a cab drawing up behind our own, open windows with drawn blinds upon which were profiled passing shadows of the guests within, and the ringing tones of a soprano voice accompanied by a piano, gave sufficient indication of a party, and had served to attract a little crowd of soldiers and gamins about the door- way. Having left our over-coats with a servant, we were ushered up-stairs, and, as the song^was not yet ended, slipped in unan- nounced and stationed ourselves just between two crowded drawing-rooms, where, sheltered by the folds of a muslin curtain, we could see all that was going on in both. I observed at a glance, that I was now in a society altogether unlike that which I had just left. At Rachel's there were present only two ladies besides herself, and those were members of her own family. Here I found at least an equal proportion of both sexes. At Rachel's a princely magnificence reigned. Here the rooms were elegant, but simple; the paintings choice but few; the ornaments costly, but in no unnecessary profusion. " It is just the difference between taste and display," said Dalrymple. " Rachel is an actress, and Madame cie "'"'rcelles I Make my Debut in Society. 81 is a lady. Rachel exhibits her riches as an Indian chief exhibits the scalps of his victims—Madame de Courcelles adorns her house with no other view than to make it attractive to her friends." " As a Greek girl covers her head with sequins to show the amount of her fortune, and an English girl puts a rose in her hair for grace and beauty only," said I, fancying that I had made rather a clever observation. I was therefore considerably disappointed when Dalrymple merely said, "Just so." The lady in the larger room here finished her song and returned to her seat, amid a shower of bravas. " She sings exquisitely," said I, following her with my eyes. " And so she ought," replied my friend. " She is the Countess Rossi, whom you may have heard of as Mademoiselle Sontag." "What ! the celebrated Sontag !" I exclaimed. " The same. And the gentleman to whom she is now speak- ing is no less famous a person than the author of PelhamS I was as much delighted as a rustic at a menagerie, and Dalrymple, seeing this, continued to point out one celebrity after another, till I began no longer to remember which was which. Thus Lamartine, Horace Vernet, Scribe, Baron Humboldt, Miss Bremer, Arago, Auber, and Sir Edwin Landseer, were succes- sively indicated, and I thought myself one of the most fortunate fellows in Paris, only to be allowed to look upon them. " I suppose the spirit of lion-hunting is an original instinct," I said, presently. " Call it vulgar excitement, if you will; but I must confess that to see these people, and to be able to writo about them to my father, is just the most delightful thing that has happened to me since I left home." " Call things by their right names, Damon," said Dalrymple, good-naturedly. " If you were a parvenu giving a party, and wanted all these fine folks to be seen at your house, that would be lion-taming; but being whom and what you are, it is hero- worship—a disease peculiar to the young; wholesome and in- evitable, like the measles." " What have I done," said a charming voice close by, " that Captain Dalrymple will not even deign to look upon me ? " The charming voice proceeded from the still more charming lips of an exceedingly pretty brunette in a dress of light green silk, fastened here and there with bouquets of rosebuds. Plump, rosy, black-haired, bright-eyed, bewilderingly coquettish, this lady might have been about thirty years of age, and seemed by no means unconscious of her powers of fascination. " I implore a thousand pardons, Madame " began my friend. In the Days of my Youth. " Comment! A thousand pardons for a single offence !" ex* claimed the lady. " What an unreasonable culprit! " To which she added quite audibly, though behind the temporary shelter of her fan :— "Who is this beati gargon. whom you seem to have brought with you ? " I turned aside, affecting not to hear the question; but could not help listening, nevertheless. Of Dalrymple's reply, however, I caught but my own name. " So much the better," observed the lady. " I delight in civilising handsome boys. Introduce him." Dalrymple tapped me on the arm. " Madame de Marignan permits me to introduce you, mon ami'" said he. " Mr. Basil Arbuthnot—Madame de Marignan." I bowed profoundly—all the more profoundly because I felt myself blushing to the eyes, and would not for the universe have been suspected of overhearing the preceding conversation ; nor was my timidity alleviated when Dalrymple announced his intention of going in search of Madame de Courcelles, and of leaving me in the care of Madame de Marignan. "Now, Damon, make the most of your opportunities," whispered he as he passed by. " Vogtie la galere / " Vogue la galere, indeed ! As if I had anything to do with the galere, except to sit down in it, the most helpless of galley- slaves, and blindly submit to the gyves and chains of Madame de Marignan, who, regarding me as the lawful captive of her bow and spear, carried me off at once to a vacant causeuse in a distant corner. To send me in search of a footstool, to make me hold her fan, to overwhelm me with questions and bewilder me with a thousand coquetries, were the immediate proceedings of Madame de Marignan. A consummate tactician, she succeeded, before a quarter-of-an-hour had gone by, in putting me at my ease, and in drawing from me everything that I had to tell—all my past; all my prospects for the future ; the name and condition of-my father, a description of Saxonholme, and the very date of my birth. Then she criticised all the ladies in the room, which only drew my attention more admiringly upon herself; and she quizzed all the young men, whereby I felt indirectly flattered without exactly knowing why; and she praised Dalrymple in terms for which I could have embraced her on the spot had she been ten times less pretty, and ten times less fascinating. I was an easy victim, after all, and scarcely worth the powder and shot of an experienced franc-tireur; but Madame de Marignan, according to her own confession, had a taste for civilising " handsome boys," and as I may, perhaps, have come 1 make my Debut in Society. 83 under that category a good many years ago, the little victory amused her ! By the time, at all events, that Dalrymple re- turned to tell me it was past one o'clock in the morning, and I must be introduced to the mistress of the house before leaving, my head was as completely turned as that of old Time himself. "Past one!" I exclaimed. "Impossible! We cannot have been here half-an-hour." At which neither Dalrymple nor Madame de Marignan could forbear smiling. " I hope our acquaintance is not to end here, Monsieur," said Madame de Marignan. " I live in the Rue Castellane, and am at home to my friends every Wednesday evening." I bowed almost to my boots. " And to my intimates, every morning from twelve to two," she added very softly, with a dimpled smile that went straight to my heart, and set it beating like the paddle-wheels of a steamer. I stammered some incoherent thanks, bowed again, nearly upset a servant with a tray of ices, and, covered with confusion, followed Dalrymple into the further room. Here I was introduced to Madame de Courcelles, a pale, aristocratic woman some few years younger than Madame de Marignan, and received a gracious invitation to all her Monday receptions. But I was much less interested in Madame de Courcelles than I should have been a couple of hours before. I scarcely looked at her, and five minutes after I was out of her presence, could not have told whether she was fair or dark, if my life had depended on it. "What say you to walking home?" said Dalrymple, as we went down-stairs. " It is a superb night, and the fresh air would be delightful after these hot rooms." I assented gladly ; so we dismissed the cab, and went out, arm-in-arm, along a labyrinth of quiet streets lighted by gas- lamps few and far between, and traversed only by a few home- ward-bound pedestrians. Emerging presently at the back of the Madeleine, we paused for a moment to admire the noble building by moonlight; then struck across the Marcht: aux FLurs and took our way along the Boulevard. " Are you tired, Damon ? " said Dalrymple presently. " Not in the least," I replied, with my head full of Madame de Marignan. " Would you like to look in at an artist's club close by here, where I have the entree ?—queer place enough, but amusing to a stranger." " Yes, very much." " Come along, then; but first button up your overcoat to the throat, and tie this coloured scarf round your neck. See, I do the same. Now take off your gloves—that's it. And give your hat In the Days of my Youth. the least possible inclination to the left ear. You may turn up the bottoms of your trousers, if you like, —anything to look a little slangy." " Is that necessary ? " "Indispensable—at all events in the honourable society of Les Chicards." " Les Chicards/" I repeated. "What are they ?" " It is the name of the club, and means—heaven only knows what ! for Greek or Latin root it has none, and record of it there exists not, unless in the dictionary of Argot. And yet if you were an old Parisian and had matriculated for the last dozen years at the Bal de POpdra, you would know the illustri- ous Chicard by sight as familiarly as Punch, or Paul Pry, or Pierrot. He is a gravely comic personage with a bandage over one eye, a battered hat considerably inclining to the back of his head, a coat with a high collar and long tails, and a tout ensemble indescribably seedy—something between a street preacher and a travelling showman. But here we are. Take care how you come down, and mind your head." Haying turned aside some minutes before into the Rue St. Honord, we had thence diverged down a narrow street with a guttei running along the middle and no foot pavements on either side. The houses seemed to be nearly all shops, some few of which, for the retailing of charbonnerie, stale vegetables, uninviting cooked meats, and so forth, were still open ; but that before which we halted was closely shuttered up, with only a private door open at the side, lighted by a single oil-lamp. • Following- my friend, for a couple of yards along the dim passage within, I became aware of strange sounds, proceeding apparently from the bowels of the earth, and found myself at the head of a steep staircase, down which it was necessary to proceed with my body bent almost double, in consequence of the close proximity of the ceiling and the steps. At the foot of this stair- case came another dim passage and another oil-lamp over a low door, at which Dalrymple paused a moment before entering. The sounds which I had heard above now resolved themselves into their component parts, consisting of roars of laughter, snatches of songs, clinkings of glasses, and thumpings of bottles upon tables, to the accompaniment of a deep bass hum of con- versation, all of which prepared me to find a very merry company within. CHAPTER XIV. THE HONOURABLE SOCIETY OF LES CHICARDS. "' When a set of men find themselves agree in any particular, though never so trivial, they establish themselves into a kind of fraternity, and meet once or twice a week."—Spectator. T was a long, low room lighted by gas, with a table reaching from end to end. Round about this table, in various stages of conviviality and conversation, were seated some thirty or forty men, capped, bearded, and eccentric-looking, with all kinds of queer blouses and wonderful heads of hair. Dropping into a couple of vacant chairs at the lower end of this table, we called for a bottle of Chablis, lit our cigars, and fell in with the general business of the evening. At the top, dimly visible through a dense fog of tobacco smoke, sat a stout man in a green coat fastened by a belt round the waist. He was evidently the President, and, instead of a hammer, had a small bugle lying by his side, which he blew from time to time to enforce silence. Somewhat perplexed by the general aspect of the club, I turned to my companion for an explanation. " Is it possible," I asked, " that these amazing individuals are all artists and gentlemen ? " "Artists, every one," replied Dalrymple ; "but as to their claim to be gentlemen, I won't undertake to establish it. After all, the Chicards are not first-rate men." " What are they then ? " " Oh, the Helots of the profession—hewers of wood-engravings and drawers of water-colours, with a sprinkling of daguerre- otypists, and academy students. But hush—somebody is going to sing !" And now, heralded by a convulsive flourish from the Presi- dent's bugle, a young Chicard whose dilapidated outer man sufficiently contradicted the burthen of his song, shouted with 86 In the Days of my Youth. better will than skill, a chanson of Beranger's, every verse of which ended with :— "J'ai cinquante egus, J'ai cinquante e5us, J'ai cinquante e9us de rente ! " Having brought this performance to a satisfactory conclusion, the singer sat down amid great clapping of hands and clatter- ing of glasses, and the President, with another flou-ris'h on the bugle, called upon one Monsieur Tourterelle. Monsieur Tour- terelle was a tall, gaunt, swarthy personage, who appeared to have cultivated his beard at the expense of his head, since the former reached nearly to his waist, while the latter was as bare as a billiard-ball. Preparing himself for the effort with a wine- glass full of raw cognac, this gentleman leaned back in his chair, stuck his thumbs into the armholes of his waiscoat, fixed his eyes on the ceiling, and plunged at once into a doleful ballad about one Mademoiselle R.osine, and a certain village aupres dc la mer, which seemed to be in an indefinite number of verses, and amused no one but himself. In the midst of this ditty, just as the audience had begun to testify their impatience by much whispering and shuffling of feet, an elderly Chicard, with a very bald and shiny head, was discovered to have fallen asleep in the seat next but one to my own; whereupon my nearest neighbour, a merry-looking young fellow with a profusion of rough light hair surmounted by a cap of scarlet cloth, forthwith charred a cork in one of the candles, and decorated the bald head of the sleeper with a comic countenance and a pair of huge mustachios. An uproarious burst of laughter was the immediate result, and the singer, interrupted somewhere about his eighteenth verse, sub- sided into offended silence. " Monsieur Miiller is requested to favour the honourable society with a song," cried the President, as soon as the tumult had somewhat subsided. My red-capped neighbour, answering to that name, begged to be excused, on the score of having pledged his ut de poitrine a week since at the Mont de Pidtd. without yet having been able to redeem it. This apology was received with laughter, hisses, and general incredulity. " But," he added, " I am willing to relate an adventure that happened to myself in Rome two winters ago, if my honourable brother Chicards will be pleased to hear it." An immense burst of approbation from all but Monsieur Tourterelle and the bald sleeper, followed this announcement; and so, after a preliminary grog au vin and another explosive The Honourable Society of Les Chicards. 87 demonstration on the part of the chairman, Monsieur Miiiler thus begun :— THE STUDENT'S STORY. " When I was in Rome, I lodged in the Via Margutta, which, for the benefit of those who have not been there, may be de- scribed as a street of studios and stables, crossed at one end by a little roofed gallery with a single window, like a shabby ' Bridge of Sighs.' A gutter runs down the middle, interrupted occasion- ally by heaps of stable-litter ; and the perspective is damaged by rows of linen suspended across the street at uncertain intervals. The houses in this agreeable thoroughfare are dingy, dilapidated and comfortless, and all which are not in use as stables, are occupied by artists. However, it was a very jolly place, and I never was happier anywhere in my life. I had but just touched my little patrimony, and I was acquainted with plenty of pleasant fellows who use to come down to my rooms at night from the French Academy where they had been studying all day. Ah, what evenings those were ! What suppers we used to have in from the Lepre / What lots of Orvieto we drank ! And what a mountain of empty wicker bottles had to be cleared away from the little square yard with the solitary lemon-tree at the back of the house !" " Come, Miiiler—no fond memories !" cried a student in a holland blouse. " Get on with the story." " Ay, get on with the story ! " echoed several voices. To which Miiiler, who took advantage of the interruption to finish his grog au vin, deigned no reply. " Well," he continued, '• like a good many other fellows who, having everything to learn and nothing to do, fancy themselves great geniuses only because they are in Rome, I put a grand brass plate on the door, testifying to all passers-by that mine was the STUDIO DI Herr Franz MiiLLER ; and, having done this, I believed, of course, that my fortune was to be made out of hand. Nothing came of it, however. People in search of Dessou- lavy's rooms knocked occasionally to ask their way, and a few English and Americans dropped in from time to time to stare about them, after the free-and-easy fashion of foreigners in Rome ; but for all this, I found no patrons. Thus several months went by, during which I studied from the life, worked hard at the antique, and relieved the monotony of study with occasional trips to Frascati or supper parties at the Cafe Greco." '• The story ! the story ! " interrupted a dozen impatient voices. " All in good time," said Miiiler, with provoking indifference. " We are now coming to it." 88 In the Days of my Youth. And assuming an attitude expressive of mystery, he dropped his voice, looked round the table and proceeded :— " It was on the last evening of the Carnival. It had been raining at intervals during the day, but held up for a good hour just at dusk, as if on purpose for the moccoli. Scarcely how- ever, had the guns of St. Angelo thundered an end to the frolic, when the rain came down again in torrents, and put out the last tapers that yet lingeredalong the Corso. Wet, weary, and splashed from head to foot with mud and tallow, I came home about seven o'clock, having to dine and dress before going to a masked ball in the evening. To light my stove, change my wet clothes, ana make the best of a half-cold trattore dinner, were my first proceedings ; after which, I laid out my costume ready to put on, wrapped myself in a huge cloak, swallowed a tumbler full of hot cognac and water, and lay down in front of the fire, determined to have a sound nap and a thorough warming, be- fore venturing out again that night. I fell asleep, of course, and never woke till roused by a tremendous peal upon the studio-b.ell, about two hours and a half afterwards. More dead than alive, I started to my feet. The fire had gone out in the stove ; the room was in utter darkness ; and the bell still pealed loud enough to raise the neighbourhood. " ' Who's there ?' I said, half opening the door, through which the wind and rain came rushing. 4 And what, in the Aame of ten thousand devils, do you want ?' '"1 want an artist,' said my visitor, in Italian. 4 Are you one ?" " 41 flatter myself that I am,' replied I, still holding the door tolerably close. "4 Can you paint heads ?' "'Heads, figures, landscapes—anything,' said I, with my teeth chattering like castanets. "The stranger pushed the door open, walked in without further ceremony, closed it behind him, and said in a low, dis- tinct voice :— " 'Could you take the portrait of a dead man ?' " ' Of a dead man ?' I stammered. ' I—I Suppose I strike a light ?' " The stranger laid his hand upon my arm. •"' Not till you have given me an answer,' said he. ' Yes, or no ? Remember, you will be paid well for your work.' 44 ' Well, then—yes,' I replied. "' And can you do it at once ?' " ' At once ?' " ' Ay, Signore, will you bring your colours, and coir^e with meethis instant—or must I seek some other painter?' " I thought of the masked-ball, and sighed ; but the promise The Honourable Society of Les Chicards. 89 of good payment, and, above all, the peculiarity of the adven- ture determined me. •" Nay, if it is to be done,' said I, 'one time is as good as another. Let me strike a light, and I will at once pack up my colours and come with you.' " ' Bene /' said the stranger. ' But be as quick as you can Signore, for time presses." " I was quick, you may be sure, and yet not so quick but that I found time to look at my strange visitor. He was a dark, elderly man dressed in a suit of plain black, and might have been a clerk, or a tradesman, or a confidential servant. As soon as I was ready, he took the lead ; conducted me to a carriage which was waiting at the corner of a neighbouring street; took his place respectfully on the opposite seat; pulled down both the blinds, and gave the word to drive on. I never knew by what streets we went, or to what part of Rome he took me ; but the way seemed long and intricate. At length, we stopped and alighted. The night was pitch-dark, and still stormy. I saw before me only the outline of a large building, indistinct and gloomy, and a small open door dimly lighted from within. Hurried across the strip of narrow pavement, and shut in immediately, I had no time to identify localities—no choice, except to follow my conductor and blindly pursue the adventure to its close. Having; entered by a back door, we went up and down a labyrihth of staircases and passages, for the mere purpose, as it seemed, of bewildering me as much as possible—then paused before an oaken door at the end of the corridor. Here my conductor signified by a gesture, that I was to precede him. " It was a large, panelled chamber, richly furnished. A wood fires mouldered on the hearth—a curtained alcove to the left partly concealed a bed—a corresponding alcove to the right, fitted with altar and crucifix, served as an oratory. In the centre of the room stood a table covered with a cloth. It needed no second glance to tell me what object lay beneath that cloth, uplifting it in ghastly outline ! My conductor pointed to the table, and asked if there was anything I needed. To this I replied that I must have more light and more fire, and so proceeded to disem- barrass myself of my cloak, and prepare my palette. In the meantime, he threw on a log and some pine-cones, and went to fetch an additional lamp. " Left alone with the body and impelled by an irresistible im- pulse, I rolled back the cloth and saw before me the corpse of a young man in a fancy dress—amagnificent fellow, cast inthevery mould of strength and grace, and measuring his six feet, if an inch. The features were singularly handsome ; the brow open and reso- 00 In the Days of my Youth. lute; the hair dark, and crisp with curls. Looking more closely, 1 saw that a lock had been lately cut from the right temple, and found one of .the severed hairs upon the cheek, where it had fallen. The dress was that of a jester of the middle ages, half scarlet and half white, with a rich belt round the waist. In this belt, as if in horrible mockery of the dead, was stuck a tiny baton sur- mounted by a fool's cap, and hung with silver bells. Looking down thus upon the body—so young, so beautiful, so evidently unprepared for death—a conviction of foul play flashed upon me with all the suddenness and certainty of revelation. Here were no appearances of disease and no signs of strife. The expression was not that of a man who had fallen weapon in hand. Neither, however, was it that of one who had died in the agony of poison. The longer I looked, the more mysterious it seemed ; yet the more I felt assured that there was guilt at the bottom of the mystery. "While I was yet under the first confused and shuddering impression of this doubt, my guide came back with a powerful solar lamp,' and, seeing me standing besides the body, said sharply :— "' Well, Signor, you look as if you had never seen a dead man before in all your life !' " {I have seen plenty,' I replied;' but never one so young and so handsome.' " ' He dropped down quite suddenly,' said he, volunteering the information,' and died in a few minutes.' Then finding that I remained silent, added :— "' But I am told that it is always so in cases of heart-disease.' " I turned away with out replying, and, having placed the lamp to my satisfaction, began rapidly sketching in my subject. My instructions were simple. I was to give the head only ; to produce as rapid an effect with as little labour as possible ; to alter nothing, to add nothing; and, above all, to be ready to leave the house before day-break. So I set steadily to work, and. my conductor, establishing himself in an easy-chair by the fire, watched my progress for some time, and then, as the night ad- vanced, fell profoundly asleep. Thus, hour after hour went by, and, absorbed in my work, I painted on unconscious of fatigue— I might almost say with something of a morbid pleasure in the task before me. The silence within ; the raving of the wind and rain without; the solemn mystery of death, and the still more solemn mystery of crime which, as I followed out train after train of wild conjectures, grew to still deeper conviction, had each and all their own gloomy fascination. Was it not possible, I asked myself, by mere force of will to penetrate the secret ? Was it not possible to study that dead face till the springs of thought so The Honourable Society of Les Chicards, 91 lately stilled within the stricken brain should vibrate once more if only for an instant, as wire vibrates to wire, and sound to sound ? Could I not, by long studying of the passive mouth, compel some sympathethic revelation of the last word that it uttered, though that revelation took no outward form, and were communicable to the apprehension only? Pondering thus, I lost myself in a labyrinth of fantastic reveries, till the hand and the brail} worked independently of each other—the one swiftly reproducing upon canvas the outer lineaments of the dead ; the other labouring to retrace foregone facts of which no palpable evidence remained. Thus my work progressed ; thus the night waned ; thus the sleeper by the fireside stirred from time to time, or moaned at intervals in his dreams. " At length, when many hours had gone by and I began to be conscious of the first languor of sleeplessness, I heard, or fancied I heard, a light sound in the corridor without. I held my breath and listened. As I listened, it ceased—was renewed —drew nearer—paused outside the door. Involuntarily, I rose and looked round for some means of defence, in case of need. Was I brought here to perpetuate the record of a crime, and was I, when my task was done,to be silenced in a dungeon, or a grave ? This thought flashed upon me almost before I was conscious of the horror it involved. At the same moment, I saw the handle of the door turned slowly and cautiously—then held back—and then, after a brief pause, the door itself gradually opening." Here the student paused as if overcome by the recollection of that moment, and passed his hand nervously across his brow. I took the liberty of pushing our bottle of Chablis towards him, for which he thanked me with a nod and a smile, and filled his glass to the brim. "Well ? " cried two or three voices eagerly ; my own being one of them. "The door opened—what then ?" " And a lady entered," he continued. " A lady dressed in black from head to foot, with a small lamp in her hand. Seeing me, she laid her finger significantly on her lip, closed the door as cautiously as she had opened it, and, with the faltering, un- certain steps of one just risen from a sick bed, came over to where I had been sitting, and leaned for support against my chair. She was very pale, very calm, very young and beautiful, with just that look of passive despair in her face that one sees in Guido's portrait of Beatrice Cenci. Standing thus, I ob- served that she kept her eyes turned from the corpse, and her attention concentrated on the portrait. So several minutes passed, and neither of us spoke nor stirred. Then, slowly, shud- deringly, she turned, grasped me by the arm, pointed to the dead form stretched upon the table, and, less with her breath G 92 In the Days of my Youth. than by the motion of her lips, shaped out the one word :— Murdered! " Stunned by this confirmation of my doubts, I could only clasp my hands in mute horror, and stare helplessly from the lady to the corpse, from the corpse to the sleeper. Wildly, feverishly, with all her calmness turned to eager haste, she then bent over the body, tore open the rich doublet, turned back the shirt, and, without uttering one syllable, pointed to a tiny puncture just above the region of the heart—a spot so small, so insig- nificant, such a mere speck upon the marble, that but for the pale violet discolouration which spread round it like a halo, I could scarcely have believed it to be the cause of death. The wound had evidently bled inwardly, and, being inflicted with some singularly slender weapon, had closed again so com- pletely as to leave an aperture no larger than might have been caused by the prick of a needle. While I was yet examining it, the fire fell together, and my conductor stirred uneasily in his sleep. To cover the body hastily with the cloth and resume my seat, was, with me, the instinctive work of a moment; but he was quiet again the next moment, and breathing heavily. With trembling hands, my visitor next re-closed the shirt and doublet, replaced the outer covering, and bending down till her lips almost touched my ear, whispered, " You have seen it. If called upon to do so, will you swear it?' ' " I promised. "' You will not let yourself be intimidated by threats ? nor bribed by gold ? nor lured by promises V "' Never, so help me heaven.' " She looked into my eyes, as if she would read my very soul; then, before I knew what she was about to do, seized my hand, and pressed it to her lips. "4 I believe you,' she said. 'I believe, and I thank you. Not a word to him that you have seen me '—here she pointed to the sleeper by the fire. 4 He is faithful; but not to my interests alone. I dare tell you no more—at all events, not now. Heaven bless and reward you. In this portrait you give me the only treasure—the only consolation of my future life!' " So saying, she took a ring from her finger, pressed it, with- out another word, into my unwilling hand ; and with the same passive dreary look that her face had worn on first entering, took up her lamp again, and glided from the room. " How the next hour, or half hour, went by, I know not— except that I sat before the canvas like one dreaming. Now and then I added a few touches; but mechanically, and as it were, in a trance of wonder and dismay. I had, however, made The Hotiourable Society of Les Chicards. 93 such good progress before being interrupted, that when my companion woke and told me it would soon be day, and I must make haste to be gone, the portrait was even more finished than I had myself hoped to make it in the time. So I packed up my colours and palette again, and, while I was doing so, ob- served that he not only drew the cloth once more over the features of the dead, but concealed the likeness behind the altar in the oratory, and even restored the chairs to their old positions against the wall. This done, he extinguished the solar lamp ; put it out of sight ; desired me once more to follow him ; and led the way back along the same labyrinth of staircases and corridors by which he brought me. It was grey dawn as he hurried me into the coach. The blinds were already down— the door was instantly closed—again we seemed to be going through an infinite number of streets—again we stopped, and I found myself at the corner of the Via Margutta. " 'Alight, Signore,' said the stranger, speaking for the first time since we started. ' Alight—you are but a few yards from your own door. Here are a hundred scudi ; and all that you have nowdo do, is to forget your night's work as if it had never been.' " With this he closed the carriage door, the horses dashed on again, and before I had time even to see if any arms were bla- zoned on the panels, the whole equipage had disappeared. "And here, strange to say, the adventure ended. I never was called upon fbr evidence. I never saw anything more of the stranger, or the lady. I never heard of any sudden death or accident, or disappearance having taken place about that time; and I never even obtained any clue to the neighbourhood of the house in which these things took place. Often and often afterwards, when I was strolling by night along the streets of Rome, I lingered before some old palazzo, and fancied that I recognised the gloomy outline that caught my eye in that hur- ried transit from the carriage to the house. Often and often I paused and started, thinking that I had found at last the very side-door by which I entered. But these were mere guesses after all. Perhaps that house stood in some remote quarter of the city where my footsteps never went again—perhaps in some neighbouring street or piazza, where I passed it every day ! At all events, the whole thing vanished like a dream, and, but for the ring and the hundred scudi, a dream I should by this time believe it to have been. The scudi, I am sorry to say, were spent within a month—the ring I have never parted from, and here it is." Hereupon the student took from his finger a superb ruby set between two brilliants of inferior size, and allowed it to pass 94 In the Days of my Youth. from hand to hand all round the table. Exclamations of sur- prise and admiration, accompanied by all sorts of conjectures and comments, broke from every lip. " The dead man was the lady's lover," said one. " That is why she wanted his portrait." "Of course, and her husband had murdered him," said another. "Who, then, was the man in black ?" asked a third. " A servant, to be sure. She said, if you remember, that he was faithful; but not devoted to her interests alone. That meant that he would obey her to the extent of procuring for her the portrait of her lover; but that he did not choose to be- tray his master, even though his master was a murderer." "But if so, where was the master?" said the first speaker. " Is it likely that he would have neglected to conceal the body during all these hours ? " " Certainly. Nothing more likely, if he were a man of the world, and knew how to play his game out boldly to the end. Have we not been told that it was the last night of the Carnival, and what better could he do to avert suspicion, than show him- self at as many balls as he could visit in the course of the even- ing? But really, this ring is magnificent!" „ " Superb. The ruby alone must be worth a thousand francs." "To say nothing of the diamonds, and the setting," observed - the next to whom it was handed. At length, after having gone nearly the round of the table, the ring came to a little dark, sagacious-looking man, just one seat beyond Dalrymple's, who peered at it suspiciously on every side, breathed upon it, rubbed it bright again upon his coat- sleeve, and, finally, held the stones up sideways between his eyes and the light. " Bah! " said he, sending it on with a contemptuous fillip of the forefinger and thumb. " Glass and paste, mon ami. Not worth five francs of anybody's money." Miiller, who had been eyeing him all the time with an odd smile lurking about the corners of his mouth, emptied his last drop of Chablis, turned the glass over on the table, bottom up- wards, and said very coolly, "Well, I'm sorry for that; because I gave seven francs for it myself this morning, in the Palais Royale." " You!" " Seven francs !" " Bought in the Palais Royale !" " What does he mean ?" " Mean ?" echoed the student, in reply to this chorus of exclamations. "I mean that I bought it this morning, and The Honourable Society of Les Chicards. 95 gave seven francs for it. It is not every morning of my life, let me tell you, that I have seven francs to throw away on my personal appearance." " But then the ring that the lady took from her finger ?" " And the murder ?" " And the servant in black ? " " And the hundred scudi ?" " One great invention from beginning to end, Messieurs les Chicards, and being got up expressly for your amusement, I hope you liked it. Garqon !—another grog an vin, and sweeter than the last !" It would be difficult to say whether the Chicards were most disappointed or delighted at this denoinnent—disappointed at its want of fact, or delighted with the story-weaving power of Herr Franz M tiller. They expressed themselves, at all events, with a tumultuous burst of applause, in the midst of which we rose and left the room. When we once more came out into the open air, the stars had disappeared, and the air was heavy with the damps of approaching daybreak. Fortunately, we caught an empty fiacre in the next street, and, as we were nearer the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre than the Chaussee d'Antin, Dalrymple set me down first. " Adieu, Damon," he said, laughingly, as we shook hands through the window. " If we don't meet before, come and dine with me next Sunday at seven o'clock—and don't dream of dreadful murders, if you can help it !" I did not dream of dreadful murders. I dreamt, instead, of Madame de Marignan, and never woke the next morning till eleven o'clock, just two hours later than the time at which 1 should ha "e presented myself at Dr. Charon's. CHAPTER XV. WHAT IT IS TO BE A .CAVALIERE SERVENTE. '' Everye white will have its blacke, And everye sweet its sowre." Old Ballad, jepo|railEITHER the example of Oscar Dalrymple nor the broadcloth of the great Michaud, achieved half so much for my education as did the apprenticeship I Was destined to serve to Madame de Marignan. Having once made up her mind to civilise me, she spared no pains for the accomplishment of that end, cost what it might to herself—or me. Before I had been for one week her subject, she taught me how to bow ; how to pick up a pocket-handker- chief; how to present a bouquet; how to hold a fan; how to pay a compliment; how to turn over the leaves of a music-book —in short, how to obey and anticipate every imperious wish ; and how to fetch and carry, like a dog. My vassalage began from the very day when I first ventured to call upon her. Her house was small, but very elegant, and she received me in a delicious little room overlooking the Champs Elysdes—a very nest of flowers, books, and birds. Before I had breathed the air of that fatal boudoir for one quarter-of-an-hour, I was as abjectly her slave as the poodle with the rose-coloured collar which lay curled upon a velvet cushion at her feet. " I shall elect you my cavaliere servente" said she, after I had twice nervously risen to take my leave within the first half-hour, and twice been desired to remain a little longer. " Will you accept the office?" I thought it the greatest privilege under heaven. Perhaps I said so. " The duties of the situation are onerous," added she, " and I ought not to accept your allegiance without setting them before you. In the first place, you will have to bring me every new novel of George Sand, Flaubert, or About, on the day of nub- lication." A Cavaliere Servente. 97 " I will move heaven and earth to get them the day before, if that be all !" I exclaimed. Madame de Marignan nodded approvingly, and went on telling off my duties, one by one, upon her pretty fingers. " You will have to accompany me to the Opera at least twice a week, on which occasions you will bring me a bouquet—camelias being my favourite flowers." " Were they the flowers that bloom but once in a century," said I, with more enthusiasm than sense, "they should be yours!" Madame de Marignan smiled'and nodded again. " When I drive in the Bois, you will sometimes take a seat in my carriage, and sometimes ride beside it, like an attentive cavalier." I was just about to avow that I had no horse, when I remem- bered that I could borrow Dalrymple's or hire one, if necessary; so I checked myself, and bowed. " When I go to an exhibition," said Madame de Marignan, " it will be your business to look out the pictures in the catalogue •—when I walk, you will carry my parasol—when I go into a shop, you will take care of my dog— when I embroider, you will wind off my silks, and look for my scissors—when I want amuse- ment, you must make me laugh—and when I am sleepy, you must read to me. In short, my cavaliere servente must lie my shadow." " Then, like your shadow, Madame," said I, " his place is ever at your feet, and that is all I desire ! " Madame de Marignan laughed outright, and showed the loveliest little double row of pearls in all the world. " Admirable !" said she. " Quite an elegant compliment, and worthy of an accomplished lady-killer ! A lions! you are a pro- mising scholar." " In all that I have dared to say, Madame, I am, at least, sincere," I added, abashed by the kind of praise. " Sincere ? Of course you are sincere. Who ever doubted it? Nay, to blush like that is enough to spoil the finest compli- ment in the world. There—it is three o'clock, and at half-past I have an engagement, for which I must now make my toilette. Come to-morrow evening to my box at the Italiens, and so adieu. Stay—being my cavalier'e, I permit you, at part- ing, to kiss my hand." Trembling, breathless, scarcely daring to touch it with mine, I lifted the soft little hand to my lips, stammered something which was, no doubt, sufficiently foolish, and hurried away, as if I were treading on air and breathing sunshine. All the rest of that day went by in a kind of agreeable 9« hi the Days of my Youth. delirium I walked about, almost without knowing where T went. 1 talked, without exactly knowing what I said. I have some recollection of marching to and fro among the side alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, which at that time was really a woody park, and not a pleasure garden—of lying under a tree, and listening to the birds overhead, and indulging myself in some idiotic romance about love, and solitude, and Madame de Marignan—of wandering into a restaurant somewhere about seven o'clock, and sitting down to a dinner for which 1 had no appetite—of going back, some time during the evening, to the Rue Castellane, and walking to and fro on the opposite side of the way, looking up for ever so long at the darkened windows .where my divinity did not show herself—of coming back to my lodgings, weary, dusty, and not a bit more sober, somewhere about eleven o'clock at night, driven to bed by sheer fatigue, and, even then, too much in love to go to sleep ! The next day I went through my duties at Dr. Cheron's, and attended an afternoon lecture at the hospital ; but mechanically, like one dreaming. In the evening, I presented myself at the Opera, where Madame de Marignan received me very graciously, and deigned to accept a superb bouquet for which I had paid sixteen francs. I found her surrounded by elegant men, who looked upon me as nobody, and treated me accordingly. Driven to the back of the box where I could neither speak to her, nor see the stage, nor achieve even a glimpse of the house, I spent an evening which, certainly, fell short of my anticipations. I had, however, the gratification of seeing my bouquet thrown to Grisi at the end of the second act, and was permitted the privilege of going in search of Madame de Marignan's carriage, while somebody else handed her down-stairs and assisted her with her cloak. A whispered word of thanks, a tiny pressure of the hand, and the words " come early to-morrow," compen- sated me, nevertheless, for every disappointment, and sent me home as blindly happy as ever. The next day I called upon her, according to command, and was transported to the seventh heaven by receiving permission to accompany her to a morning concert, whereby I missed two lectures, and spent ten francs. On the Sunday, having hired a good horse for the occasion, I had the honour of riding beside her carriage till some better mounted acquaintance came to usurp my place and her attention; after which I was forced to drop behind and bear the eclipse of my glory as philosophically as I could. Thus day after day went by-, and, for the delusive sake of Madame de Marignan's bright eyes, I-neglected my studies, spent my money, wasted my time, and incurred the displeasure A Cavaliere Servente. 99 of Dr. Charon. Led on from folly to folly, I was perpetually buoyed up by coquetries which meant nothing, and as perpetually mortified, disappointed, and neglected. I hoped ; I feared \ I fretted ; I lost my sleep and my appetite ; I felt dissatisfied with all the world, sometimes blaming myself, and sometimes her— yet ready to excuse and forgive her at a moment's notice. A boy in experience even more than in years, I loved with a boy's headlong passion, and suffered with all a boy's acute sus- ceptibility. I was intensely sensitive—abashed by a slight, humbled by a glance, and so easily wounded that there were often times when, seeing myself forgotten, I could with difficulty drive back the tears that kept rising to my eyes. On the other hand, I was as easily elated. A kind word, an iencouraging smile, a lingering touch upon my sleeve, was enough at any time to make me forget all my foregone troubles. How often the mere gift of a flower sent me home rejoicing ! How the tiniest show of preference set my heart beating ! How proud I was if mine was the arm chosen to lead her to her carriage ! How more than happy, if allowed for even one half hour in the whole evening to occupy the seat beside her own ! To dangle after her the whole day long—to traverse all Paris on her errands—to wait upon her pleasure like a slave, and this, too, without even expecting to be thanked for my devotion, seemed the most natural thing in the world. She was capricious ; but caprice became her. She was exacting ; but her exactions were so coquettish and attractive, that one would not have wished her more reasonable. She was, at least, ten or twelve years my senior; but boys proverbially fall in love with women older than themselves, and this one was in all respects so charming, that I do not, even now, wonder at my infatuation. After all, there are few things under heaven more beautiful, or more touching, than a boy's first love. Passionate is it as a man's—pure as a woman's—trusting as a child's—timid, through the very excess of its unselfishness— chivalrous, as though handed down direct from the days of old romance—poetical beyond the utterances of the poet. To the boy-lover, his mistress is only something less than a divinity. He believes in her truth as in his own ; in her purity, as in the sun at noon. Her practised arts of voice and manner are, in his eyes, the unstudied graces that spring as naturally from her beauty as the scent from the flower. Single-hearted himself, it seems impossible that she whom he adores should trifle with the most sacred sentiment he has ever known. Conscious of his own devotion, he cannot conceive that his wealth is poured forth in vain, amd that he is but the plaything of her idle hours. Yet it is so. The boy's first love is almost always misplaced ; seldom JOO In the Days of my Youth. rated at its true value ; hardly ever productive of anything but disappointment. Aspirant of the highest mysteries of the soul, he passes through the ordeal of fire and tears, happy if he keep his faith unshaken and his heart pure, for the wiser worship hereafter. We all know this ; and few know it better than my- self. Yet, with all its suffering, which of us would choose to obliterate all record of his first romance ? Which of us would be without the memory of its smiles and tears, its sunshine and its clouds ? Not I for one. CHAPTER XVI. A CONTRETEMPS IN A CARRIAGE. jjwnresalY slavery lasted somewhat longer than three weeks, □ an<^ ^ess t^ian a month 5 and was brought, oddly | enough, to an abrupt conclusion. This was how it jaassZjtfal happened. I had, as usual, attended Madame de Marignan one evening to the Opera, and found myself, also as usual, neglected for a host of others. There was one man in particular whom I hated, and whom (perhaps because I hated him) she distinguished rather more than the rest. His name was Delaroche, and he called himself Monsieur le Comte Delaroche. Most likely he was a Count—I have no reason to doubt his title ; but I chose to doubt it for mere spite, and because he was loud and conceited, and wore a little red and green ribbon in his button- hole. He had, besides, an offensive sense of my youth and his own superiority, which I have never forgiven to this day. On the particular occasion of which I am now speaking, this person had made his appearance in Madame de Marignan's box at the close of the first act, established himself in the seat behind hers, and there held the lists against all comers during the remainder of the evening. Everything he said, everything he did, aggravated me. When he looked through her lorgnette, I loathed him. When he admired her fan, I longed to thrust it down his throat. When he held her bouquet to his odious nose (the bouquet that I had given her !) I felt it would have been justifiable manslaughter to take him up bodily, and pitch him over into the pit. At length the performance came to a close, and M. Delaroche, having taken upon himself to arrange Madame de Marignan's cloak, carry Madame de Marignan's fan, and put Madame de Marignan's opera-glass into its morocco case, completed his officiousness by offering his arm and conducting her into the lobby, whilst I, outwardly indifferent but inwardly boiling, dropped behind, and consigned him silently to all the torments of the seven circles. 102 In the Days of my Youth. It was an oppressive autumnal night without a star in the sky, and so still that one might have carried a lighted taper through the streets. Finding it thus warm, Madame de Marignan pro- posed walking down the line of carriages, instead of waiting till her own came up ; and so she and M. Delaroche led the way and I followed. Having found the carriage, he assisted her in, placed her fan and bouquet on the opposite seat, lingered a moment at the open door, and had the unparallelled audacity to raise her hand to his lips at parting. As for me, I stood proudly back, and lifted my hat. " Comment! " she said, holding out her hand—the pretty, un- gloved hand that had just been kissed—"is that your good night ? " I bowed over the hand. I would not have touched it with my lips at that moment for all the wealth of Paris. "You are coming to me to-morrow morning at twelve?" she murmured tenderly. " If Madame desires it." " Of course I desire it. I am going to Auteuil, to look at a house for a friend—and to Pignot's for some flowers—and to Lubin's for some scent—and to a host of places. What should I do without you ? Nay, why that grave face ? Have I done anything to offend you ?" "Madame, I—I confess that " "That you are jealous of that absurd Delaroche, who is so much in love with himself that he has no place in his heart for any one else J Fi done / I am ashamed of you. There—adieu, twelve to-morrow ! " And with this she laughed, waved her hand, gave the signal to drive on, and left me looking after the carriage, still irritated, but already half consoled. I then sauntered moodily on, thinking of my tyrant, and her caprices, and her beauty. Her smile, for instance ; surely it was the sweetest smile in the world—if only she were less lavish of it! Then, what a delicious little hand—if mine were the only lips permitted to kiss it ! Why was she so charming?—or why, being so charming, need she prize the attentions of every flaneur who had only enough wit to admire her? Was I not a fool to believe that she cared more for my devotion than for another's ! Did I believe it? Yes—no—sometimes. But then that " sometimes" was only when under the immediate influence of her presence. She fascinated me, but she would fascinate a hundred others in precisely the" same way. It was true that she accepted from me more than devotion, more worship, more time, more outward and visible homage than from any other. Was I not her Cavaliere Servente ? Did A Contretemps hi a Carriage. 103 she not accept my bouquets ? Did she not say the other day when I gave her that volume of Tennyson, that she loved all that was English for my sake ? Surely, I was worse than un- grateful, when, having so much, I was still dissatisfied ! Why was I not the happiest fellow in Paris ? Why My meditations were here interrupted by a sudden flash of very vivid lightning, followed by a low muttering of distant thunder. I paused, and looked round. The sky was darker than ever, and though the air was singularly stagnant, I could hear among the uppermost leaves of the tall trees that stealthy rustling that generally precedes a storm. Unfortunately for myself, I had not felt disposed to go home at once 011 leaving the theatre; but being restless alike in mind and body, had struck down through the Place Vendome and up the Rue de Rivoli, intending to come home by a circuitous route. At this precise moment I found myself in the middle of the Place de la Concorde, with Cleopatra's needle towering above my head, the lamps in the Champs Elysees twinkling in long chains of light through the black darkness before me, and no vehicle anywhere insight.- To be caught in a heavy shower was not, certainly, an agreeable prospect for one who had just emerged from the opera in the thinnest of boots, and the lightest of folding hats, with neither umbrella nor paletot of proof, so, having given a hasty glance in every direction from which a cab might be expected, I took valiantly to my heels, and made straight for the Madeleine. Long before I had accomplished half the distance, however, another flash announced the quick coming of the tempest, and the first premonitory drops began to plash down heavily upon the pavement. Still I ran on, thinking that I should find a cab in the Place de la Madeleine, but the Place de la Madeleine was empty. Even the caffi at the corner was closed. Even the omnibus office was shut up, and the red lamp above the door extinguished. What was I to do now? Panting and breathless, I leaned up against a doorway, and resigned myself to fate. Stay, what was that file of carriages, dimly seen through the rain which was now coming down in earnest? It was in a private street opening off at the back of the Madeleine—a street in which I could remember no public stand. Perhaps there was an even- ing party at one of the large houses lower down, and, if so, I might surely find a not wholly incorruptible cabman, who would consent, for a liberal pour-boire to drive me home and keep his fare waiting, if need were, fo.r one little half hour ! At all events it was worth trying for, so away I darted again, with the wind whistling about my ears, and the rain driving in my face. 104 In the Days of my Youth. But my troubles were not to be so speedily ended. Among the ten or fifteen equipages which I found drawn up in file, there was not one hackney vehicle. They were private carriages, and all, therefore, inaccessible. Did I say inaccessible ? A bold idea occurred to me. The rain was so heavy that it could scarcely be expected to last many minutes. The car- riage at the very end of the line was not likely to be the first called ; and, even if it were, one could spring out in a moment, if necessary. In short, the very daring of the deed was as at- tractive as the shelter. I made my way swiftly down the line. The last carriage was a neat little brougham, and the coachman, with his hat pulled down over his eyes, and his collar drawn up about his ears, was too much absorbed in taking care of him- self and his horses to pay much attention to a foot-passenger. I passed boldly by—doubled back stealthily on my own steps— looked round cautiously—opened the door, and glided in. It was a delightfully comfortable little vehicle—cushioned, soft, yielding, and- pervaded by a delicate perfume of eglantine. Wondering who the owner might be—if she was young—if she was pretty—if she was married, or single, or a widow—I settled myself in the darkest corner of the carriage, intending only to remain there till the rain had abated. Thus I fell, as fate would have it—first into a profound reverie, and then into a still pro- founder sleep. How long this sleep may have lasted I know not. I only remember becoming slowly conscious of a gentle movement, which, without awaking, partly roused 'me ; of a check to that movement which brought my thoughts suddenly to the surface ; of a stream of light—of an open door—a crowded hall—a lady waiting to come out, and a little crowd of attentive beaux surrounding her ! I comprehended my position in an instant, and the impossi- bility of extricating myself from it. To get out next the house was to brave detection ; whilst at the other side I found myself blocked in by carriages. Escape was now hopeless ! I turned hot and cold ; I shrank back ; I would have gone through the bottom of the carriage, if I could. At this moment, to my horror, the footman opened the door. I gave myself up for lost, and in a sudden access of desperation, was on the point of rushing out, coute que coute, when the lady ran forward ; sprang lightly in ; recoiled, and uttered a little breathless cry of sur- prise and apprehension ! " Mon Dieu, Madame ! what is it ? Are you hurt ?" cried two or three of the gentlemen, running out, bareheaded to her assistance. But to my amazement, she unfastened her cloak, and threw A Contretemps in a Carriage. it over me in such a manner as to leave me completely hidden beneath the folds. " Oh, nothing, thank you !—I only caught my foot in my cloak. I am really quite ashamed to have alarmed you. A thousand thanks —good night." And so, with something of a slight tremor in her voice, the lady drew up the window. The next instant the carriage moved on. And now, what was to be done ? I blessed the accident which rendered me invisible ; but at the same time asked my- self how it was to end. Should I wait till -she reached her own door, and then, still feigning sleep, allow myself to be discovered ? Or should I take the bull by the horns, and reveal myself? If the latter, would she scream, or faint, or go into hysterics ? Then again, supposing she resumed her cloak a cold damp broke out upon my forehead at the mere thought! All at once, just as these questions flashed across my mind, the lady drew the mantle aside, and said, " How imprudent of you to hide in my carriage !" I could not believe my ears. " Suppose any of those people had caught sight of you—• why, it would have been all over Paris to-morrow ! Happily, I had the presence of mind to cover you with my cloak, other- wise but there, Monsieur, I have a great mind to be very angry with you !" It was now clear that I was mistaken for some one else. Fortunately, the carriage lamps were unlit, the windows still blurred over, and the night intensely dark ; so, feeling like a wretch reprieved on the scaffold, I shrank further and further into the corner, glad to favour a mistake which promised some hope of escape. "EhbienJ" said the lady half tenderly, half reproachfully; "have you nothing to say to me?" Say to her, indeed ! What could I say to her? Would not my voice betray me directly ? " Ah," she continued, without waiting for a reply; "you are ashamed of the cruel scene of this morning ! Well, since you have not allowed the night to pass without seeking a reconcilia- tion, I suppose I must forgive you !" I thought at this point, that I could not do better than press her hand, which was exquisitely soft and small—softer and smaller than even Madame de Marignan's. " Naughty Hippolyte ! " murmured my companion. " Confess now, that you were unreasonable ! " I sighed heavily, and caressed the little hand with both of mine. io6 Tn the Days of my Youth,. " And are you very penitent ?" I expressed my penitence by another prodigious sigh, and ventured, this time, to kiss the tips of the dainty fingers. "Ciel 1" exclaimed the lady. "You have shaved off your beard ! What can have induced you to do such a thing ? " My beard, indeed ! Alas ! I would have given any money for even a moustache ! However, the fatal moment was come when I must speak. " Mon cher angeI began, trying a hoarse whisper, " I—I— the fact is—a bet " " A bet indeed ! The idea of sacrificing such a handsome beard for a mere bet! I never heard of anything so foolish. But how hoarse you are, Hippolyte ! " " All within the last hour," whispered I. " I was caught in the storm, just now, and " " And have taken cold for my sake ! Alas ! my poor dear friend, why did you wait to speak to me ? Why did you not go home at once, and change your clothes ? Your sleeve, I declare, is still quite damp ! Hippolyte, if you fall ill, I shall never for- give myself !" I kissed her hand again. It was much pleasanter than whispering, and expressed all that was necessary. " But you have not once asked after poor Bibi!" exclaimed my companion, after a momentary silence. " Poor, dear Bibi, who has been suffering from a martyrdom with her cough all the afternoon !" Now, who the deuce was Bibi? She might be a baby. Or, —who could tell ?—she might be a poodle ! On this point, however, I was left uninformed ; for my unknown friend, who luckily, seemed fond of talking, and had a great deal to say, launched off into another topic immediately. " After all," said she, " I should have been wrong not to go to the party. My uncle was evidently pleased with my com- pliance ; and it is not wise to vex one's rich uncles, if one can help it—is it, Hippolyte ?" I pressed her hand agair,. " Besides, Monsieur Delaroche was not there. He was not even invited ; so you see how far they were from laying match- making plots, and how groundless were all your fears and reproaches! " Monsieur Delaroche ! Could this be the Delaroche of my special aversion ? I pressed her hand again, more closely, more tenderly, and listened for what might come next. " Well, it is all over now ! And will you promise never, never, never to be jealous again ? Then to be jealous of such a crea- ture as that ridiculous Delaroche—a, man who knows nothing— A Contretemps in a Carriage. 107 who can think and talk only of his own absurd self!—a man who has not even wit enough to see that every one laughs at him!" I was delighted. I longed to embrace her on the spot ! Was there ever such a charming, sensible, lively creature ? " Besides, the coxcomb is just now devoting himself, body and soul (such as they are !) to that insufferable little intriguante, Madame de Marignan. He is to be seen with her in every drawing-room and theatre throughout Paris. For my part, I am amazed that a woman of the world should suffer herself to be compromised to that extent—especially one so experienced in these affaires du cceur." Madame de Marignan ! Compromised—experienced—in- triguante ! I felt as if I were choking. "To be sure, there is that poor English lad whom she drags about with her, to play propriety," continued she ; " but do you suppose the world is blinded by so shallow an artifice ? " "What English lad?" I asked, startled out of all sense of precaution, and desperately resolved to know the worst. " What English lad ? Why Hippolyte, you are more stupid than ever! I pointed him out to you the other night at the Comedie Frangaise—a pale, handsome boy, of about nineteen or twenty, with brown curling hair, and very fine eyes which were rivetted on Madame de Marignan the whole evening. Poor fel- low! I cannot help pitying him." " Then—then, you think she really does not love him ?'' I said. And this time my voice was hoarse enough, without any need of feigning. " Love him ? Ridiculous ! What does such a woman un- derstand by love ? Certainly neither the sentiment nor the poetry of it! Tush, Hippolyte! I do not wish to be censorious; but everyone knows that ever since M. de Marignan has been away in Algiers, that woman has had, not one devoted admirer, but a dozen ; and now that her husband is coming back " " Coming back ! her husband! " I echoed, half rising in my place, and falling back again, as if stunned. " Good hea- vens! is she not a widow ? " It was now the lady's turn to be startled. "A widow!" she repeated. "Why, you know as well as I that Dieu / To whom am I speaking? " " Madame," I said, as steadily as my agitation would let me, " I beg you not to be alarmed. I am not, it is true, the person whom you have supposed ; but—Nay, I implore you " She here uttered a quick cry, and darted forward for the check- string. Arresting her hand half way, respectfully but firmly, I went on:— H io8 In the Days of my Youth. "How I came here, I will explain presently. I am a gentle- man ; and upon the word of a gentleman, Madame, am innocent of any desire to offend or alarm you. Can you—will you—hear me for one moment ?" " I appear, Sir, to have no alternative," replied she, trembling like a caged bird. " I might have left you undeceived, Madame. I might have extricated myself from this painful position undiscovered—but for some words which just escaped your lips; some words so nearly concerning the—the honour and happiness of—of— in short, I lost my presence of mind. I now implore you to tell me if all that you have just been saying of Madame de Marignan is strictly true." "Who are you, Sir, that you should dare to surprise confi- dences intended for another, and by what right do you question me ? " said the lady, haughtily. " By no right, Madame," I replied, fairly breaking into sobs, and burying my face in my hands. " I can only appeal to your compassion. 1 am that Englishman whom—whom " For a moment there was silence. My companion was the first to speak. " Poor boy!" she said ; and her voice, now, was gentle and compassionate. " You have been rudely undeceived. Did Madame de Marignan pass herself off upon you for a widow ?" " She never named her husband to me—I believed that she was free. I fancied he had been dead for years. She knew that was my impression." "And you would have married her — actually married her ?" " I—I hardly dared to hope " " del / it is almost beyond belief. And you never inquired into her past history ?" " Never. Why should 1 ?" " Monsieur de Marignan holds a government appointment in Algiers, and has been absent more than four years. He is, I understand, expected back shortly, on leave of absence." I conquered my agitation by a supreme effort. " Madame," I said, " I thank you. It now only remains for me to explain my intrusion. I can do so in half a dozen words. Caught in the storm and unable to find a conveyance, I sought shelter in this carriage, which being the last on the file, offered the only refuge of which I could avail myself unobserved. While waiting for the tempest to abate, I fell asleep; and but for the chance which led you to mistake me for another, I must have been discovered when you entered the carriage." " Then, finding yourself so mistaken, Monsieur, would it not A Contretemps in a Carriage. 109 have been more honourable to undeceive me than to usurp a conversation which " " Madame, I dared not. I feared to alarm you—I hoped to find some means of escape, and " " Mon Diea / what means ? How are you to escape as it is ? How leave the carriage without being seen by my ser- vants ?" I had not thought of this, nor of the dilemma in which my presence must place her. " I can open the door softly," said I, " and jump out unper- ceived." " Impossible, at the pace we are going ! You would break your neck." I shook my head, and laughed bitterly. " Have no fear of that, Madame," I said. " Those who least value their necks never happen to break them. See, I can spring out as we pass the next turning, and be out of sight in a moment." "Indeed, I will not permit it. Oh, dear! we have already reached the Faubourg St. Germain. Stay—I have an idea! Do you know what o'clock it is ? " " I don't know how long I may have slept, but I think it must be quite three." " Bien / The Countess de Blois has a ball to-night, and her visitors are sure not to disperse before four or five. My sister is there. I will send in to ask if she has yet gone home, and when the carriage stops you can slip out. Here is the Rue de Bac, and the door of her hotel is yet surrounded with equipages." And with this she let down a front window, desired the coach- man to stop, leaned forward so as to hide me completely, and sent in her footman with the message. When the man had fairly entered the hall, she turned to me and said :— " Now, Monsieur, fly ! It is your only chance." "I go, Madame; but before going, suffer me to assure you that I know neither your name, nor that of the person for whom you mistake me—that I have no idea of your place of residence —that I should not know you, if I saw you again to-morrow— in short, that you are to me as entirely a stranger as if this ad- venture had never happened." " Monsieur, I thank you for the assurance; but I see the ser- vant returning. Pray, begone!" I sprang out without another word, and never once looking back, darted down a neighbouring street and waited in the shadow of a doorway till 1 thought the carriage must be out of sight. 110 In the Days of my Youth. The night was now fine, the moon was up, and the sky was full of stars. But I heeded nothing, save my own perplexed and painful thoughts. Absorbed in these, I followed the course of the Rue du Bac till I came to the Pont National. There my steps were arrested by the sight of the eddying river, the long gleaming front of the Louvre, the quaint, glistening gables of the Tuileries, the far-reaching trees of the Champs Elysees all silvered in the soft, uncertain moonlight. It was a most calm and beautiful picture; and I stood for a long time leaning against the parapet of the bridge, and looking dreamily at the scene before me. Then I heard the quarters chime from belfry to belfry all over the quiet city, and found that it was half-past three o'clock. Presently a patrol of gendarrnes went by, and, finding that they paused and looked at me suspiciously, I turned away, and bent my steps homewards. By the time I reached the Cit£ Bergere it was past four, and the early market-carts were already rumbling along the Rue du Faubourg Montmartre. Going up wearily to my apartments, I found a note waiting for me in Dalrymple's hand-writing. It ran thus :— " My dear Damon, " Do you know that it is n-early a month since I last saw you ? Do you know that I have called twice at your lodg- ings without finding you at home ? I hear of you as having been constantly seen, of late, in the society of a very pretty woman of our acquaintance; but I confess that I do not desire to see you go to the devil entirely without the friendly assistance of "Yours faithfully, "Oscar Dalrymple." I read the note twice. I could scarcely believe that I had so neglected my only friend. Had I been mad ? Or a fool ?—or both ? Too anxious and unhappy to sleep, and too tired to sit up, I lit my lamp, threw myself upon the bed, and there lay re- penting my wasted hours, my misplaced love, and my egregious folly, till morning came with its sunshine and its traffic, and found me " a wiser," if not a " better man." "Half-past seven!" exclaimed I to myself, as I jumped up and plunged my head into a basin of cold water. " Dr. Chdron shall see me before nine this morning. " I'll call on Dalrymple at luncheon time; at three, I must get back for the afternoon lecture; and in the evening—in the evening, by Jove! Madame de Marignan must be content with her adorable Delaroche, for the deuce a bit of her humble servant will she ever seox at the Italiens, and rapidly weighing the chances for and against the possibility of recognition. " At the first they sing in French—at the last, in Italian." "Ah, bah ! I should prefer the French," replied she, falling at once into the snare. " When shall it be—this week ?" " Ye—es ; one evening this week." " What evening ?" "Well, let me see—we had better wait, and consult the advertisements." "Dame! never mind the advertisements. Let it be Tues- day." " Why Tuesday ? " " Because it is soon ; and because I can get away early on Tuesdays if I ask leave." I had, plainly, no chance of escape. "You would not prefer to see the great military piece at the Porte St. Martin ?" I suggested. " There are three hundred real soldiers in it, and they fire real cannon." " Not I ! I have been to the Porte St. Martin, over and over again. Emile knew one of the scene-painter's assistants, and used to get tickets two or three times a month." "Then it shall be the Opera Comique," said I, with a sigh. "And on Tuesday evening next?" " On Tuesday evening next." At this moment the piping and fiddling broke out afresh, and Josephine, who had scarcely taken the little telescope from her eye all the time, exclaimed that she saw the wedding party going through the market-place of the town. " There they are—the musicians first ; the bride and bride- groom next ; and eight friends, all two and two ! There will be a dance, depend on it! Let us go down to the town, and hear all about it! Perhaps they might invite us to join them —who knows ? " " But you would not dance before dinner?" " Eh, mon Dieu / I would dance before breakfast, if I had the chance. Come along. If we do not make haste we may miss them." I rose, feeling, and I daresay, looking, like am we went down again into the town. There we enquired of the first person who seemed likely to know—he was a dapper hairdresser, standing at his shop-door with his hands in his apron-pockets and a comb behind his ear —and were told that the wedding-party had just passed through the village, on their way to the Chateau of Sainte Aulaire. "The Chateau of Sainte Aulaire !" said Josephine. "What ire they going to do there ? What is there to see ?" 146 In the Days of my Youth. " It is an ancient mansion, Mademoiselle, much visited by strangers/' replied the hairdresser with exceeding politeness. " Worthy of Mademoiselle's distinguished attention — and Monsieur's. Contains old furniture, old paintings, old china— stands in an extensive park—one of the lions of this neighbour- hood, Mademoiselle—also Monsieur." " To whom does it belong ?" I asked, somewhat interested in this account. " That, Monsieur, is a question difficult to answer," replied the fluent hairdresser, running his fingers through his locks and dispersing a gentle odour of rose-oil. " It was formerly the property of the ancient family of Sainte Aulaire. The last Marquis de Sainte Aulaire, with his wife and family, was guillotined in 1793. Some say that the young heir was saved ; and an individual asserting himself to be that heir did actually put forward a claim to the estate, some twenty, or five-and- twenty years ago, but lost his cause for want of sufficient proof. In the meantime, it had passed into the hands of a wealthy republican family descended, it is said, from General Dumouriez. This family held it till within the last four years, when two or three fresh claimants came forward ; so that it is now the object of a law-suit which may last till every brick of it falls to ruin, and every tree about it withers away. At present, a man and his wife have charge of the place, and visitors are permitted to see it any day between twelve and four." " I should like to see the old place," said I. "And I should like to see how the bride is dressed," said Josephine, " and if the bridegroom is handsome." " Well, let us go—not forgetting to thank Monsieur le Perru- quier for his polite information." Monsieur le Perruquier fell into what dancing-masters call the first position, and bowed elaborately. "Most welcome, Mademoiselle—and Monsieur," said he. " Straight up the road—past the church about a quarter of a mile—old iron gates—can't miss it. Good afternoon, Made- moiselle—also Monsieur." Following his directions, we came presently to the gates, which were rusty and broken-hinged, with traces of old gilding still showing faintly here and there upon the battered scrolls and bosses. One of them was standing open, and had evidently been standing so for years ; while the other had as evidently been long closed, so that the deep grass had grown rankly all about it, and the very bolt was crusted over with a yellow lichen. Be- tween the two, an ordinary wooden hurdle had been put up, and this hurdle was opened for us by a little blue-bloused urchin in a pair of huge sabS% who, thinking we belonged to the bridal The Chateau de Sainte Aulaire. 147 bridal party, pointed up the dusky avenue, and said with a grin " Toute droite, M'sieur—its sont passes par Id,!" Par Id, " under the shade of melancholy boughs," we went accordingly. Faraway on either side stretched dim vistas of neglected park-land, deep with coarse grass and weeds, and, where the trees stood thickest, all choked with a brambly under- growtu. After about a quarter of a mile of this dreary avenue, we came to abroad area of several acres laid out in the Italian stj^e with fountains and terraces, at the upper end of which stiod the house—a feudal, vioy en-age French chateau, with irre- guar wings, steep slated roofings, innumerable windows, and fantastic steeple-topped turrets sheeted with lead and capped with grotesque gilded weathercocks. The principal front had been repaired in the style of the Renaissance, and decorated with little foliated entablatures above the doors and windows; whilst a double flight of steps leading up to a grand entrance on the level of the first storey, like the famous double staircase of Fontainebleau, had been patched on in the very centre, to the manifest disfigurement of the building. Most of the win- dows were shuttered up, and as we drew nearer, the general evi- dences of desolation became more apparent. The steps of the terraces were covered with patches of brown and golden moss. The stone urns were some of them fallen in the deep grass, and some broken. There were gaps in the rich balustrade here and there ; and the two great fountains on either side of the lower terrace had long since ceased to fling up their feathery columns towards the sun. In the middle of one a broken Pan, noseless and armless, turned up a stony face of mute appeal, as if im- ploring us to free him from the parasitic jungle of aquatic plants which flourished rankly round him in the basin. In the other, a stalwart river-god with his finger on his lip seemed listening for the music of those waters which now scarcely stirred amid the tangled weeds that clustered at his feet. Passing all these, passing also the flower-beds choked with brambles and long waving grasses, and the once quaintly- clipped myrtle and box trees, all flinging out fantastic arms of later growth, we came to the upper terrace, which was paved in curious patterns of stars and arabesques, with s'tones alternately round and flat. Here a good-humoured, cleanly peasant-woman came clattering out in her sabots from a side-door, key in hand, preceded us up the double flight of steps, unlocked the great door, and admitted us. The interior, like the front, had been modernised about a hundred and fifty years before, and'resembled a little formal Ver- sailles or miniature Fontainebleau. Dismantled halls paved 148 in the Days of my Youth. with white marble; panelled ante-chambers an inch deep in dust; dismal salons adorned with Renaissance arabesques and huge looking-glasses, cracked and mildewed, and mended with pasted seams of blue paper ; boudoirs with faded Watteau panellings; corridors with painted ceilings where mythological divinities, marvellously foreshortened on a sky-blue ground, were seen sur- rounded by rose-coloured Cupids, and garlanded with ribbons and flowers; innumerable bed-rooms, some containing grim catafalques of beds with gilded cornices and funereal plumes, some empty, some full of stored-up furniture fast going to decay —all these in endless number we traversed, conducted by the good-tempered conqierge, whose heavy sabots awakened ghostly echoes from floor to floor. At length, through an ante-chamber lined with a double file of grim old family portraits—some so blackened with age and dust as to be totally indistinguishable, and others bulging hideously out of their frames—we came to the library ; a really noble room, lofty, panelled with walnut wood, floored with polished oak, and looking over a wide expanse of level country. Long ranges of empty book-shelves fenced in with broken wire-work ran round the walls. The painted ceiling represented, as usual, the heavens and some pagan divinities. A dumb old time-piece, originally constructed to tell the months, the days of the year, and the hours, stood on a massive corner bracket near the door. Long antique mirrors in heavy black frames reached from floor to ceiling between each of the windows ; and in the centre of the room, piled all together and festooned with a thick drapery of cobwebs, stood a dozen or so of old carved chairs, screens, and footstools, rich with velvet, brocade, and gilded leather, but now looking as if a touch would crumble them to dust. Over the great carved fire-place, however, hung a painting upon which my attention became rivetted as soon as I entered the room—a painting yellow with age; covered with those minute cracks which are like wrinkles on the face of antique art; coated with dust; and yet so singularly attractive that, having once noticed it, I looked at nothing else. It was the half-length portrait of a young lady in the costume of the reign of Louis XVI. One hand rested on a stone urn ; the other was raised to her bosom, holding a thin blue scarf that seemed to flutter in the wind. Her dress was of white satin, cut low and square, with a stomacher of lace and pearls. She also wore pearls in her hair, on her white arms, and on her whiter neck. Thus much for the mere adjuncts; as for the face—ah, how can I ever describe that pale, perfect, tender face, with its waving brown hair and soft brown eyes, and that stedfast perpetual smile that seemed to light the eyes from within, and to dwell in the Ths Chateau de Sainte Anlaire. 149 Corners of the lips without parting or moving them? It was like a face seen in a dream, or the imperfect image which seems to come between us and the page when we read of Imogen asleep. " Who was this lady ? " I asked eagerly. The conqieige nodded and rubbed her hands. "Aha! M'sieur," said she, " 'tis the best painting in the cha- teau, as folks tell me. M'sieur is a connoisseur." " But do you know whose portrait it is ? " "To be sure I do, M'sieur. It's the portrait of the last Mar- quise—the one who was guillotined, poor soul, with her husband, in—let me see—in 1793!" "What an exquisite creature! Look, Josephine, did you ever see anything so beautiful ?" "Beautiful!" repeated the grisette, with a sidelong glance at one of the mirrors. " Beautiful, with such a coiffure-and such a boddice ! del! how tastes differ!" " But her face, Josephine!" " What of her face ? I'm sure it's plain enough." " Plain ! Good heavens ! what " But it was not worth while to argue upon it. I pulled out one of the old chairs, and so climbed near enough to dust the surface of the painting with my handkerchief. " I wish I could buy it !" I exclaimed. Josephine burst into a loud laugh. "Grand Dieu/" said she, half pettishly, "if you are so much in love with it as all that, I dare say it would not be difficult!" The conqierge shook her head. " Everything on this estate is locked up," said she. " Nothing can be sold, nothing given away, nothing even repaired, till the proqes is ended." I sighed, and came down reluctantly from my perch. Josephine was visibly impatient. She had seen the wedding-party going down one of the walks at the back of the house; and the con- cierge was waiting to let us out. I drew her aside, and slipped a liberal gratuity into her hand. " If I were to come down here some day with a friend of mine who is a painter," I whispered, " would you have any objection, Madame, to allow him to make a little sketch of that portrait ? " The co7iqierge looked into her palm, and seeing the value of the coin, smiled, hesitated, put her finger to her lip, and said :— " Ma foi, M'sieur, I believe I have no business to allow it; but—to oblige a gentleman like you—if there was nobody about " £ jO tn thi Days of my Youth. I nodded. We understood each other sufficiently, and no more was needed. Once out of the house, Mademoiselle Josephine pouted, and took upon herself to be sulky—a disposition which was by no means lessened when, after traversing the park in various direc- tions in search of the bridal company, we found that they had gone out long ago by a gate at the other side of the estate, and were by this time piping, most probably, in the adjoining parish. It was now five o'clock ; so we hastened back through the village, cast a last glance at the grim old tower on its steep soli- tude, consigned ourselves to the yellow omnibus, and in due time were once more flying along the iron road towards Paris. The rapid motion, the dignity of occupying a first-class seat, and, above all, the prospect of an excellent dinner, soon brought my fair companion round again, and by the time we reached the Moulin Rouge, she was all vivacity and good temper. The less I say about that dinner the better. I am humiliated when I recalled all that I suffered, and all that she did. I blush even now when I remember how she blew upon her soup, put her knife in her mouth, and picked her teeth with her shawl-pin. What possessed her that she would persist in calling the waiter ci Monsieur" ? And why, in heaven's name, need she have clapped her hands when I ordered the champagne ? To say that I had no appetite—that I wished myself at the antipodes— that I longed to sink into my boots, to smother the waiter, or to do anything equally desperate and unreasonable, is to express but a tithe of the anguish I endured. I bore it, however, in silence, little dreaming what a much heavier trial was yet in store for me. CHAPTER XXI. i FALL A SACRIFICE TO MRS. GRUNDY. WORD with you, if you please, Basil Arbuthnot," said Dr. Chdron, "when you have finished copying those prescriptions Dr. Cheron was standing with his feet firmly planted in the tiger-skin rug, and his back to the fireplace. I was busy writing at the study table, and glancing anxiously from time to time at the skeleton clock upon the chimney-piece ; for it was getting on fast towards five, and at half-past six I was to take Josephine to the Opera Comique. As perverse fortune would have it, the Doctor had this afternoon given me more desk-work than usual, and I began to doubt whether I should be able to dine, dress, and reach the theatre in time if he detained me much longer. " But you need be in no haste," he added, looking at his watch. " That is to say, upon my account." I bowed nervously—I was always nervous in his presence— and tried to write faster than ever; but, feeling his cold blue eye upon me, made a blot, smeared it with my sleeve, left one word out, wrote another twice over, and was continually tripped up by my pen, which sputtered hideously and covered the page with florid passages in little round spots, which only needed tails to become crotchets apd quavers. At length, just as the clock struck the hour, I finished my task and laid aside my pen. Dr. Chdron coughed preparatorily. "It is some time," said he, "since you have given me any news of your father. Do you often hear from him ?" "Not very often, Sir," I replied. "About once in every three weeks. He dislikes letter-writing." Dr. Charon took a packet of papers from his breast-pocket, and ruffling them over, said somewhat indifferently :— " Very true—very true. His notes are brief and few ; but always to the purpose. I heard from him this morning." " Indeed, Sir ?" 152 In the Days of my Youth,. " Yes—here is his letter. It encloses a remittance of seventy- five pounds ; fifty of which are for you. The remaining twenty- five being reserved for the defrayal of your expenses at' the Ecole de Medicine and the Ecole Pratique." I was delighted. " Both are made payable through my banker," continued Dr. Chdron," and I am to take charge of your share till you require it; which cannot be just yet, as I understand from this letter that your father supplied you with the sum of one hundred and five pounds on leaving England." My delight went down to zero. " Does my father say that I am not to have it now, Sir?'' I asked hesitatingly. " He says, as I have already told you, that it is to be yours when you require it." "And if I require it very shortly, Sir—in fact, if I require it now ?" " You ought not to require it now," replied the Doctor, with a cold scrutinising stare. "You ought not to have spent one hundred and five pounds in five months." I looked down in silence. I had more than spent it long Since ; and I had to thank Madame de Marignan for the facility with which it had flown. It was not to be denied that my course of lessons in practical politeness had been somewhat expensive. " How have you spent it ?" asked Dr. Chdron, never remov- ing his eyes from my face. I might have answered, in bouquets, opera stalls, and riding horses ; in dress coats, tight boots, and white kid gloves ; in new books, new music, bon-bons, cabs, perfumery, and the like in- excusable follies. But I held my tongue instead, and said nothing. Dr. Chdron looked again at his watch. " Have you kept any entries of your expenses since you came to Paris ? " said he "Not with—with any regularity, Sir," I replied. He took out his pencil-case and pocket-book. " Let us try, then," said he, " to make an average calculation of what they might be in five months." I began to feel very uncomfortable. " I believe your father paid your travelling expenses ? " I bowed affirmatively. " Leaving you the clear sum of one hundred and five pounds." I bowed again. "Allowing, then, for your rent, which is, I believe, twenty francs per week," said he, entering the figures as he went on, I Fall a Sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 153 " there will be four hundred francs spent in five months. For your living, say thirty francs per week, which makes six hundred. For your clothing, seventy-five per month, which makes three hundred and seventy-five , and ought to be quite enough for a young man of moderate tastes. For your washing and fire- wood, perhaps forty per month, which makes two hundred—and for your incidental expenses, say fifteen per week, which makes three hundred. We thus arrive at a total of one thousand eight hundred and seventy-five francs, which, reduced to English money at the average standard of twenty-five francs to the sovereign, represents the exact sum of seventy-five pounds. Do I make myself understood ? " I bowed, for the third time. " Of the original one hundred and five pounds, we now have thirty not accounted for. May I asked how much of that surplus you have left ?" " About—not more than—than a hundred and twenty francs," I replied, stripping the feathers off all the pens in succession, without knowing it. " Have you any debts ? " " A—a few. "Tailor's bills?" Vpc "What others?" A—a couple of months' rent I believe, Sir." "Is that all?" " N—not quite." Dr. Chdron frowned, and looked again at his watch. " Be good enough, Mr. Arbuthnot," he said, " to "spare me this amount of useless interrogation by at once stating the nature and amount of the rest." " I—I cannot positively state the amount Sir," I said, absurdly trying to get the paper-weight into my waistcoat pocket, and then putting it down in great confusion. " I—I have an account at Monceau's in the Rue Duphot, and " " I beg your pardon," interrupted Dr. Chdron : " but who is Monceau ?" " Monceau's—Monceau's livery-stables, Sir." Dr. Chdron slightly raised his eye-brows, and entered the name. " And at Lavoisier's, on the Boulevard Poissoni£re " "What is sold, pray, at Lavoisier's ?" " Gloves, perfumes, hosiery, ready-made linen " " Enough—you can proceed.' " I have also a bill at—at Barbet's, in the Passage de l'Opera." " And Barbet is ?" 154 In the Days of my Youth. " A—a florist !" I replied very reluctantly. " Humph !—a florist!" observed Dr. Chdron, again transfix- ing me with the cold, blue eye. "To what amount do you suppose you are indebted to Monsieur Barbet ?" I looked down, and became utterly unintelligible. " Fifty francs ? " " I—fear, more than—than " " A hundred ? A hundred and fifty ? Two hundred ? " " About two hundred, I suppose, Sir," I said desperately. " Two hundred francs—that is to say, eight pounds English— to your florist! Really, Mr. Arbuthnot, you must be singularly fond of flowers !" I looked down in silence. " Have you a conservatory attached to your rooms ?" The skeleton clock struck the half hour. " Excuse me, Sir," I said, driven now to the last extremity, "but—but I have an engagement which—in short, I will, if you please, make out a list of—of these items,—ascertaining the correct amount of each ; and when once paid, I will endeavour—I mean, it is my earnest desire, to—to limit my expenditure strictly to— in short, to study economy for the future. If, in the meantime, you will have the goodness to excuse me " " One word, young man. Will the fifty pounds cover your debts ?" " Quite, Sir, I am confident." "And leave you something in hand for your current ex- penses !" " Indeed., I fear very little." " In that case what will you do ?" This was a terrible question, and one for which I could find no answer. " Write to your father for another remittance—eh? " " I—upon my word, I dare not, Sir," I faltered. " Then you would go in debt again ?" " I really fear—even with the strictest economy—I " " Be so obliging as to let me have your seat," said Dr. Chdron, thrusting the obnoxious note-book into his pocket and taking my place at the desk, from which he brought out a couple of cards, and a printed paper. " This ticket," said he, " admits the holder to the anatomical course for the term now beginning, and this to the lectures at the Ecole Pratique. Both are in my gift. The first is worth two hundred francs, and the second two hundred and fifty. I ought, perhaps, in strict justice, to bestow them upon some needy and deserving individual: however, to save you from debt, or a very unpleasant alternative, I will fill them in with your name, I Fall a Sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 155 and, when you bring me all your bills receipted, I will transfer to your account the four hundred and fifty francs which I must, otherwise, have paid for your courses out of the remittance forwarded by your father for that purpose. Understand, how- ever, that I must first have the receipts, and that I expect you, on the word of a gentleman, to commit no more follies, and to contract no more debts." " Oh, Sir ! " I exclaimed, " how can I ever " "No thanks, I beg," interposed Dr. Chdron. "Prove your gratitude by your conduct; do not trouble yourself to talk about it." " Indeed, Sir, you may depend " " And no promises either, if you please. I attach no kind of value to them. Stay—here is my cheque for the fifty pounds forwarded by your father. With that sum extricate yourself from debt. You know the rest. Hereupon Dr. Chdr.on replaced the cards and the printed form, double-locked his desk, and, with a slight gesture of the hand, frigidly dismissed me. I left the house quite chopfallen. I was relieved, it is true, from the incubus of debt ; but then how small a figure I had cut in the eyes of Dr. Cheron ! Besides, I was small for the second time—reproved for the second time—lectured, helped, put down, and pooh-poohed, for the second time ! Could I have peeped at myself just then through the wrong end of a telescope, I vow I could not have looked smaller in my own eyes. I had no time to dine ; so I despatched a cup of coffee and a roll on my way home, and went hungry to the theatre. Josephine was got up with immense splendour for this occasion ; greatly to her own satisfaction and my disappoint- ment. Having hired a small private box in the least con- spicuous part of the theatre, I had commited the cowardly mis- take of endeavouring to transform my grisette into a woman of fashion. I had bought her a pink and white opera cloak, a pretty little fan, a pair of white kid gloves, and a bouquet. With these she wore a decent white muslin dress furnished out of the limited resources of her own wardrobe, and a wreath of pink roses, the work of her own clever fingers. Thus equipped, she was far less pretty than in her coquettish little every-day cap, and looked, I regret to say, more like an ouvriere than ever. Aggravating above all else, however, was her own undisguised delight in her appearance. "Are my flowers all right? Is my dress tumbled? Is the hood of my cloak in the middle of my back ?" were the questions she adiressedto me every moment. In the ante-room she L In the Days of my Youth. took advantage of each mirror we passed. In the lobby I caught her trying to look"at her own back. When we reached our box she pulled her chair to the very centre of it, and sat there at if she expected to be admired by the whole audience. " My dear Josephine," I remonstrated, " sit back here, facing the stage. You will see much better—besides, it is your proper seat, being the only lady in the box." " Ah, mon Dieu I then I cannot see the house—and how pretty it is ! Ever so much prettier than the Gaidtd, or the Porte St. Martin ! " "You can see the house by peeping behind the curtain." " As if I were ashamed to be seen ! Par exemple /'' " Nay, as you please. I only advise you according to custom and fashion." Josephine pouted, and unwillingly conceded a couple of inches. " I wish I had brought the little telescope you gave me last Sunday," said she, presently. " There is a gentleman with one down there in the stalls." " A telescope at the opera—the gods forbid ! Here, however, is my opera-glass, if you like to use it." Josephine turned it over curiously, and peeped first through one tube, and then through the other. " Which ought I to look through ?" asked she. " Both, of course." " Both ! How can I ?" " Why thus—as you would look through a pair of spectacles." "Ciel! I can't manage that ! I can never look through any- thing without covering up one eye with my hand." " Then I think you had better be contented with your own charming eyes, ma belief said I, nervously. " How do you like your bouquet ?" Josephine sniffed at it as if she were taking snuff, and pro- nounced it perfect. Just then the opera began. I withdrew into the shade, and Josephine was silenced for a while in admiration of the scenery and the dresses. By-and-by, she began to yawn. "Ah, mon Dieu!" said she, "when will they have done singing ? I have not heard a word, all this time." " But everything is sung, ma chere, in an opera." " What do you mean ? Is there no play ?" " This is the play ; only instead of speaking their words, they sing them." Josephine shrugged her shoulders. "Ah, bah!" said she. "How stupid! I had rather have seen the Closerit let Genets at the Gaidtd, if that is to be the 1 Fall a Sacrifice to Mrs. Grundy. 157 case the whole evening. Oh, dear ! there is such a pretty lady come into the opposite box, in such a beautiful blue glad trimmed with black velvet and lace !" " Hush I you must not talk while they are singing !" " Tiens I it is no pleasure to come out and be dumb. But do just see the lady in the opposite box ? She looks exactly as if she had walked out of a fashion-book." "My dear child, I don't care one pin to look at her," said I, preferring to keep as much out of sight as possible. " To admire your pretty face is enough for me." Josephine squeezed my hand affectionately. " That is just as Emile used to talk to me," said she. I felt by no means flattered. " Regardes done / " said she, pulling me by the sleeve just as I was standing up, a little behind her chair, looking at the stage. " That lady in the blue glacd never takes her eyes from our box ! She points us out to the gentleman who is with her—do look !" I turned my glass in the direction to which she pointed, and recognised Madame de Marignan ! I turned hot and cold, red and white, all in one moment, and shrank back like a snail that has been touched, or a sea- anemone at the first dig of the naturalist. " Does she know you ?" asked Josephine. " I—I—probably—that is to say—I have met her in society." " And who is the gentleman ?" That was just what I was wondering. It was not Delaroche. It was no one whom I had ever seen before. It was a short, fat, pale man, with a bald head, and a ribbon in his button-hole. " Is he her husband ?" pursued Josephine. The suggestion flashed upon me like a revelation. Had I not heard that M. de Marignan was coming home from Algiers ? Of course it was he. No doubt of it. A little vulgar, fat, bald man Pshaw ! just the sort of husband that she deserved ! " How she looks at me !" said Josephine. I felt myself blush, so to speak, from head to foot. " Good heavens ! my dear girl," I exclaimed, " take your elbows off the front of the box !" Josephine complied, with a pettish little grimace. " And, for mercy's sake, don't hold your head as if you feared it would tumble off !" " It is the flowers," said she. " They tickle the back of my neck, whenever I move my head. I am much more comfortable in my cap." s " Never mind. Make the best of it, and listen to this song." ' It was the great tenor ballad of the evening. The house was profoundly silent ; the first wandering chords of a harp were ISB hi the Days of my Youth. heard behind the scenes; and Duprez began. In the very midst of one of his finest and tenderest sostenuto passages, Josephine sneezed—and such a sneeze ! you might have heard it out in the lobbies. An audible titter ran round the house. I saw Madame de Marignan cover her face with her handkerchief, and yield to an irrepressible fit of laughter. As for the tenor, he cast a withering glance up at the box, and made a marked pause before resuming his song. Merciful powers ! what crime had I committed that I should be visited with such a punishment as this ? " Wretched girl !" I exclaimed, savagely, " what have you done?" "Done, mon ami!" said Josephine, innocently. "Why, I fear I have taken cold." I groaned aloud. "Taken cold!" I muttered to myself. "Would to heaven you had taken prussic acid !" " Qu'est ce que dest ? " asked she. But it was not worth while to reply. I gave myself up to my fate. I determined to remonstrate no more. I flung myself on a seat at the back of the box, and made up my mind to bear all that might yet be in store for me. When she openly ate a stick of sucre d'orge after this, I said nothing. When she applauded with both hands, I endured in silence. At length the perform- ance came to a close and the curtain fell. Madame de Marignan had left before the last act, so I ran no danger of encountering her on the way out; but I was profoundly miserable, neverthe- less. As for Josephine, she, poor child, had not enjoyed" her evening at all, and was naturally out of temper. We quarrelled tremendously in the cab, and parted without having made it up. It was all my own fault. How could I be such a fool as to sup- pose that, with a few shreds and patches of finery, I could make a fine lady of a grisette ? CHAPTER XXII. HIGH ART IN THE QUARTIER LATIN. UT, my dear fellow, what else could you have expected ? You took Mam'selle Josephine to the Opera Comique. Eh bien! you might as well have taken an oyster up Mount Vesuvius. Our fair friend was out of her element Voild tout" " Confound her and her element !" I exclaimed, with a groan. " What the deuce is her element—the Quartier Latin ?" " The Quartier Latin is, to some extent, her habitat—but then Mam'selle Josephine belongs to a genus of which you, cher Monsieur Arbuthnot, are deplorably ignorant—the genus grisette. The grisette from a certain point of view is the chef cPceuvre of Parisian industry ; the bouquet of Parisian civilisation. She is indigenous to the mansarde and th.e pave—bears no transplanta- tion—flourishes in the premiere ba.lconie, the suburban guingette^ and the Salle Valentinois ; but degenerates at a higher eleva- tion. To improve her is to spoil her. In her white cap and muslin gown, the Parisian grisette is simply delicious. In a smart bonnet, a Cashmere and a brougham, she is simply detest- able. Fine clothes vulgarise her. Fine surroundings demoralise her. Lodged on the sixth storey, rich in the possession of a cuckoo-clock, a canary, half-a-dozen pots of mignonette, and some bits of cheap furniture in imitation mahogany, she has every virtue and every fault that is charming in woman—child- like gaiety; coquetry ; thoughtless generosity; the readiest laugh, the readiest tear, and the warmest heart in the world. Transplant her to the Chaussee d'Antin, instil the taste for diamonds, truffles, and Veuve Clicquot, and you poison her whole nature. She becomes false, cruel, greedy, prodigal of your money, parsimonious of her own—a vampire—a ghoul— the hideous thing we call in polite parlance a Fille de Marbred Thus, with much gravity and emphasis, spoke Herr Franz Miiller, lying on his back upon a very rickety sofa, and smoking like a steam-engine. A cup of half-cold coffee and a bottle of ft ft 160 Ifi the Days of my Yotith. rum three-parts emptied stood beside him on the floor. These ■were the remains of his breakfast; for it was yet early in the morning of the day following my great misadventure at the Opera Comique, and I had sought him out at his lodgings in the Rue Clovis at an hour when the Quartier Latin was for the most part in bed. "Josephine, at all events, is not of the stuff that Filles dc. Marbre are made of," I said, smiling. " Perhaps not—mais, que voulez vous? We are what we are. A grisette makes a bad fine lady. A fine lady would make a still worse grisette. The Archbishopric of Paris is a most respectable and desirable preferment; but your humble servant, for instance, would hardly suit the place." " And the moral of this learned and perspicuous discourse ?" " Tiens! the moral is—keep our fair friend in her place. Remember that a dinner at thirty sous in the Palais Royale, or a fete with fireworks at Mabille, will give her ten times more pleasure than the daintiest repast you could order at the Maison Dorde, or the choicest night of the season at either opera house. And how should it be otherwise ? One must understand a thing to be able to enjoy it; and I'll be' sworn Mam'selle Josephine was infinitely more bored last night than yourself." Our conversation, or rather his monologue, was here inter- rupted by the ringing of the outer bell. The artist sat up, took his pipe from his lips, and looked con- siderably disturbed. " Mille tonnerres!" said he, in a low tone. " Who can it be ?—so early in the day—not yet ten o'clock—it is very mysteri- ous." " It is only mysterious," said I, " as long as you don't open the door. Shall I answer the bell ?" "No—yes—wait a moment—suppose it is that demon, my landlord, or that arch-fiend, my tailor—then you must say—holy St. Nicholas ! you must say I am in bed with small-box, or that I've broken out suddenly into homicidal delirium, and you're my keeper." " Unfortunately, I should not know either of your princes of darkness at first sight." " True—and it might be Dupont, who owes me thirty francs, and swore by the bones of his aunt (an excellent person, who keeps an estaminet in the Place St. Sulpice) that he would pay me this week. Dia!le ! there goes the bell again." "It would perhaps be safest," I suggested, " to let M. or N. ring on till he is tired of the exercise." " But conceive the horrid possibility of letting thirty francs ring themselves out of patience ! No, mon ami—I will dare the> High Art in the Quartier Lathi. l6l worst that may happen. Wait here for me—I will answer the door myself." Now, it should be explained that Midler's apartments con- sisted of three rooms. First, a small outer chamber which he dignified with the title of Salle d'Attente, but which, as it was mainly furnished with old boots, umbrellas and walking-sticks, and contained, by way of accommodation for visitors only a three-legged stool and a door-mat, would have been more fitly designated as the hall. Between this Salle d'Attente and the den in which he slept, ate, smoked, and received his friends, lay the studio—once a stately salon, now a wilderness of litter and dilapidation. On one side you beheld three windows closely boarded up, with strips of newspaper pasted over the cracks to exclude every gleam of day. Overhead yawned a huge, dusty skylight, to make way for which a fine old painted ceiling had been ruthlessly knocked away. On the walls were pinned and pasted all sorts of rough sketches and studies in colour and crayom In one corner lolled a despondent-looking lay figure in a moth-eaten Spanish cloak ; in another lay a heap of plaster casts, gigantic hands and feet, broken-nosed masks of the Apollo, the Laocoon, the Herculese Farnese, and other foreigners of distinction. Upon the chimney-piece were dis- played a pair of foils, a lute, a skull, an antique German drinking mug, and several very modern empty bottles. In the middle of the room stood two large easels, a divan, a round table, and three or four chairs ; while the floor was thickly strewn with empty colour-tubes, bits of painting-rag, corks, cigar-ends, and all kinds of miscellaneous litter. All these things I had observed as I passed in ; for this, be it remembered, was my first visit to Mfiller in his own territory. I heard him go through the studio and close the door behind him, and then I heard him open the door upon the public stair- case. Presently he came back, shutting the door behind him as before. " My dear fellow," he exclaimed, breathlessly, " you have brought luck with you ! What do you think ? A sitter— positively, a sitter ! Wants to be sketched in at once—Vive la France ! " " Man or woman ? Young or old ? Plain or pretty ?'' "Elderly half-length, feminine gender—Madame Tapotte. They are both there, Monsieur and Madame. Excellent couple —redolent of the country—husband bucolic, adipose, auriferous —wife arrayed in all her glory, like the Queen of Sheba. I left them in the Salle d'Attente—told them I had a sitter—time immensely occupied—half-lengths furiously in demand -—- 162 In the Days of my Youth. Will you oblige me by performing the part for a few minutes, just to carry out the idea ?" " What part ? " " The part of sitter." " Oh, with pleasure," I replied, laughing. " Do with me what you please." " You don't mind ? Come ! you are the best fellow in the world. Now, if you'll sit in that arm-chair facing the light — head a little thrown back, arms folded, chin up Capital ! You don't know what an effect this will have upon the provincial mind !" " But you're not going to let them in ! You have no portrait of me to be at work upon !" " My dear fellow, I've dozens of half-finished studies, any one of which will answer the purpose. Voila ! here is the very thing." And snatching up a canvas that had been standing till now with its face to the wall, he flourished it triumphantly before my eyes, and placed it on the easel. " Heavens and earth !" I exclaimed, " that's a copy of the Titian in the Louvre—the 'Young Man with the Glove !'" " What of that ? Our Tapottes will never find out the difference. By the way, I told them you were a great English Milord, so please keep up the character." " I will try to do credit to the peerage." " And if you would not mind throwing in a word of English every now and then—a little Goddam, for instance—eh ?" I laughed and shook my head. " I will pose for you as Milord with all the pleasure in life," I said; "only I cannot undertake to pose for the traditional Milord of the Bouffes Parisiens ! However, I will speak some English, and, if you like, I'll know no French." " No, no—diable ! you must know a little, or I can't exchange a word with you. But very little—the less the better. And now I'll let them in." They came ; Madame first—tall, buxom, large-featured, fresh- coloured, radiant in flowers, lace, and Palais Royal jewelry ; then Monsieur—short, fat, bald, rosy and smiling, with a huge frill to his shirt-front and a nankeen waistcoat. Miiller introduced them with much ceremony and many apologies. " Permit me, milord," he said, " to present Monsieur and Madame Tapotte—Monsieur and Madame Tapotte; Milord Smithfield." I rose and bowed with the gravity becoming my rank. " I have explained to milord," continued Miiller, addressing' High Art in the Quartier Latin. 163 himself partly to the new-comers, partly to me, and chiefly to the study on the easel, " that, having- no second room in which to invite Monsieur and Madame to repose themselves, I am compelled to ask them into the studio—where, however, his lord- ship is so very kind as to say that they are welcome." (Here- upon Madame Tapotte curtsied again, and Monsieur ducked his bald head, and I returned their salutations with the same dignity as before.) " If Monsieur and Madame will be pleased to take seats, however, his lordship's sitting will be ended in about ten minutes. Mille pardons, the face, milord, a little more to the right. Thank you—thank you very much. And if you will do me the favour to look at me—for the expression of the eye—, just so—thank you ! A most important point, milord, is the expression of the eye. When I say the expression, I mean the fire, the sparkle, the liquidity—enfin, the expression !" Here he affected to put in some touches with immense delicacy —then retreated a couple of yards, the better to contemplate his work—pursed up his mouth—ran his fingers through his hair— shaded his eyes with his hand—went back and put in another touch—again retreated—again put in a touch ; and so on some three or four times successively. Meanwhile Monsieur and Madame Tapotte were fidgetting upon their chairs in respectful silence. Every now and then they exchanged glances of wonder and admiration. They were evidently dying to compare my august features with my portrait, but dared not take the liberty of rising. At length the lady's curiosity could hold out no longer. "Ah, mon Dieu!" she said ; "but it must be very fatiguing to sit so long in the same position. And to paint—Ciel! what practice ! what perseverance ! what patience ! Avec permission, M'sieur '' And with this she sidled up to Midler's elbow, leaving Mon- sieur Tapotte thunderstruck at her audacity. Then for a moment she stood silent ; but during that moment the eager, apologetic smile vanished suddenly out of her face, and was succeeded by an expression of blank disappointment. " Tiens ! " she said bluntly. " I don't see one bit of likeness." I turned hot from head to foot, but Midler's serene effrontery was equal to the occasion. " I daresay not, Madame," he replied, coolly. " I daresay not. This portrait is not intended to be like." Madame Tapotte's eyes and mouth opened simultaneously. " Comment ! " she exclaimed. " I should be extremely sorry," continued Midler, loftily, " and his lordship would be extremely sorry, if there were too much resemblance." T64 In the Days oj my Youth. " But a—a likeness—it seems to me, should at all events be—^ like," stammered Madame Tapottc, utterly bewildered. " And if M'sieur is to paint my wife," added Monsieur Tapotte, who had by this time joined the group at the easel, " I—I— DAme ! it must be a good deal more like than this !" Miiller drew himself up with an air of great dignity. " Sir," he said, " if Madame does me the honour to sit to me for her portrait—for her own portrait, observe—I flatter myself the resemblance will be overwhelming. But you must permit me to inform you that Milord Smithfield is not sitting for his own portrait." The Tapottes looked at each other in a state bordering on stupefaction. " His lordship," continued Miiller, "is sitting for the portrait of one of his illustrious ancestors—a nobleman of the period of Queen Elizabeth." Tapotte mari scratched his head, and smiled feebly. " Parbleu ! " said he, " mais dest bien drole, ga ! " The artist shrugged his shoulders. " It so happens," said he, " that his lordship's gallery at Smith- field Castle has unhappily been more than half destroyed by fire. Two centuries of family portraits reduced to ashes ! Terrible misfortune! Only one way of repairing the loss—that is, of partially repairing it. I do my best. I read the family records — I study the history of the period—his lordship.sits to me daily —I endeavour to give a certain amount of family likeness ; sometimes more, you observe, sometimes less — enormous responsibility, Monsieur Tapotte !" " Oh, enormous ! " " The taste for family portraits," continued Miiller, still touch- ing up the Titian, " is a very natural one—and is on the increase. Many gentlemen of—of somewhat recent wealth, come to me for their ancestors." "No!" "Foi clhonneur. Few persons, however, are as conscientious as his lordship in the matter of family resemblance. They mostly buy up their forefathers ready-made — adopt them, christen them, and ask no questions." Monsieur and Madame Tapotte exchanged glances. " Tiens, mon ami, why should we not have an ancestor or two as well as other folks," suggested the lady, in a very audible whisper. Monsieur shook his head and muttered something about the expense. "There is no harm, at all events," urged Madame, "ia asking the price." High Art in the Qnartier Latin. 165 " My charge for gallery portraits, Madame, varies from sixty to a hundred francs," said Miiller.. " Heavens ! how dear ! Why, my own portrait is to be only fifty." " Sixty, Madame, if we put in the hands and the jewelry," said Miiller blandly. " Eh bien !—sixty. But for these other things—bah ! ils sont fierement chers." " Pardon, Madame ! The elegancies and superfluities of life are, by a just rule of political' economy, expensive. It is right that they should be so ; as it is right that the necessaries of life should be within the reach of the poorest. Bread, for instance, is strictly necessary, and should be cheap. A great-grandfather, on the contrary, is an elegant superfluity, and may be put up at a high figure." " There is some truth in that," murmured Monsieur Tapotte. " Besides, in the present instance, one also pays for antiquity." " Cest juste-—Cest juste." "At the same time," continued Miiller, "if Monsieur Tapotte were to honour me with a commission for, say, half a dozen family portraits, I would endeavour to put them in at forty francs a-piece—including, at that very low price, a Revolutionary Deputy, a beauty of the Louis Quinze period, and a Marshal of F ranee." " Tiens / that's a fair offer enough," said Madame. " What say you, mon frmi ?" But Monsieur Tapotte, being a cautious man, would say nothing hastily. He coughed, looked doubtful, declined to commit himself to an opinion, and presently drew off into a corner for the purpose of holding a whispered consultation with his wife. Meanwhile Miiller laid aside his brushes and palette, informed me with a profound bow that my lordship had honoured him by sitting as long as was strictly necessary, and requested my opinion upon the progress of the work, I praised it rapturously. You would have thought, to hear me, that for drawing, breadth, finish, colour, composition, chiaros- euro, and every other merit that a painting could possess, this particular chef-d'ceu-vre excelled all the masterpieces of Europe. Miiller bowed, and bowed, and bowed, like a Chinaman at a visit of ceremony. He was more than proud; he was over- whelmed, accable, et csetera, et caetera. The Tapottes left off whispering, and listened breathlessly. "He is evidently a great painter,nofjeune homme!" said Madame in one of her large whispers. In the Days of my Youth. To which Monsieur replied as audibly :—se voit, ma femme—sacre nom dun pipe" " Milord will do me the favour to sit again on Friday ?" said Mi.iller.as I took up my hat and gloves, I replied with infinite condescension that I would endeavour to do so. I then made the stiffest of stiff bows to the excellent Tapottes, ad ushered to the door by Miiller, took my departur majestically in the character of Lord Smithfield. CHAPTER XXIII. THZ QUARTIER LATIN. E^WSlHE dear old Quartier Latin of my time—the Quartiei Latin of Balzac, of Beranger, of Henry Murger—the ilfsfKul Quartier Latin where Franz Midler had his studio ; where Messieurs Gustave, Jules, and Adrien gave their unparellelled soirees dans antes j where I first met my ex- flame Josephine—exists no longer. It has been improved off the face of the earth, and with it such a gay, bizarre, im- provident world of youth and folly as shall never again be met together on the banks of the Seine. Ah me ! how well I remember that dingy, delightful Arcadia— the Rue de la Vieille Boucherie, narrow, noisy, crowded, with pro- jecting upper storeys and Gothic penthouse roofs—the Rue de la Parcheminerie, unchanged since the Middle Ages—the Rue St. Jacques, steep, interminable, dilapidated ; with its dingy cabarets, its brasseries, its cheap restaurants, its grimy shop windows filled with coloured prints, with cooked meats, with tobacco, old books, and old clothes ; its ancient colleges and hospitals, time-worn and weather-beaten, frowning down upon the busy thoroughfare and breaking the squalid line of shops ; its grim old hotels swarming with lodgers, floor above floor, from the cobblers in the cellars to the grisettes in the attics ! Then again, the gloomy old Place St. Michel, its abundant fountain ever flowing, ever surrounded by water-carts and water carriers, by women with pails, and bare-footed street urchins, and thirsty drovers drinking out of iron cups chained to the wall. And then, too, the Rue de la Harpe I close my eyes, and the strange, precipitous, picturesque, decrepit old street, with its busy, surging crowd, its street-cries, its street-music, and its indescribable union of gloom and gaiety, rises from its ashes. Here, grand old dilapidated man- sions with shattered stone-carvings, delicate wrought-iron balconies all rust-eaten and broken, and windows in which every other pane is cracked or patched, alternate with more i68 In the Days of my Youth. modern but still more ruinous houses, some leaning this way some that, some with bulging upper storeys, some with door- ways sunk below the level of the pavement. Yonder, gloomy and grim, stands the College of Saint Louis. Dark alleys open off here and there from the main thoroughfare, and narrow side streets, steep as flights of steps. Low sheds and open stalls cling, limpet-like, to every available nook and corner. An endless procession of trucks, waggons, water-carts and fiacres rumbles perpetually by. Here people live at their windows and in the doorways—the women talking from balcony to balcony, the men smoking, reading, playing at dominoes. Here too are more cafes and cabarets, open-air stalls, for the sale of fried fish, and cheap restaurants for workmen and students where, for a sum equivalent to sevenpence half-penny English, the Quartier Latin regales itself upon meats and drinks of dark and enigmatical origin. Close at hand is the Place and College of the Sorbonne—silent in the midst of noisy life, solitary in the heart of the most crowded quarter of Paris. A sombre medi- aeval gloom pervades that ancient quadrangle ; scant tufts of sickly grass grow here and there in the interstices of the pave- ment; the dust of centuries crust those long rows of windows never opened. A little further on is the Rue des Gres, narrow, crowded, picturesque, one uninterrupted perspective of book- stalls and book-shops from end to end. Here the bookseller occasionally pursues a two-fold calling, and retails not only literature but a cellar of petit vin bleu; and here, overnight, the thirsty student exchanges for a bottle of Macon the " Code Civile " that he must perforce buy back again at second-hand in the morning. A little further on, and we come to the College Saint Louis, once the old College Narbonne ; and yet a few yards more, and we are at the doors of the Theatre du Pantheon, once upon a time the Church of St. Benoit, where the stage occupies the site of the altar, and an orchestra stall in what was once the nave may be had for seventy-five centimes. Here, too, might be seen the shop of the immortal Lesage, renowned throughout the Quartier for the manufactui-e of a certain kind of transcendental ham-patty peculiarly beloved by student and grisette ; and here, clustering within a stone's throw of each other, were to be found those famous Restaurants, Pompom, Viot, Flicoteaux, and the " Bceuf Enrag^," where, on gala days, many an Alphonse and Fifine, may a Thdophile and Cerisette, were wont to hold high feast and festival —terms seven-pence-halfpenny each, bread at discretion, water gratis, wine and tooth-picks extra. But it was in the side streets, courts, and impasses that branched oft" to the left an a right of the main arteries, that one Th-e Quarlicr Latin. 169 Came upon the very heart of the old Pays Latin; for the Rue St. Jacques, the Rue de la Harpe. the Rue des Gres, narrow, steep, dilapidated though they might be, were in truth the leading thoroughfares—the "Boulevards, so to speak—of the Student Quartier. In most of the side alleys, however, some of which dated back as far, and further, than the fifteenth century, there was no foot-way for passengers, and barely space for one wheeled vehicle at a time. A filthy gutter invariably flowed down the middle of the street. The pavement, as it peeped out here and there through a moraine of super-imposed mud and offal, was seen to consist of small oblong stones, like petrified kidney potatoes. The houses, some leaning this way, some that, with projecting upper storeys and overhanging gable- roofs, nodded together overhead, leaving but a narrow strip of sky down which the sunlight strove in vain to struggle. Long poles upon which were suspended old clothes hung out to air, and ragged linen to dry, stood out like tattered banners from the attic windows. Here, too, every ground-floor was a shop, open, unglazed, cavernous, where the dealer lay perdu in the gloom of midday, like a spider in the rnidst of his web, surrounded by piles of old bottles, old iron, old clothes, old furniture, or what • ever else his stock in trade might consist of. Of such streets—less like streets, indeed, than narrow, over- hanging gorges and ravines of damp and mouldering stone—of such streets, I say, intricate, winding, ill-lighted, unventilated, pervaded by an atmosphere compounded of the fumes of fried fish, tobacco, old leather, mildew, and dirt, there were hundreds in the Quartier Latin of my time :—streets to the last degree unattractive as places of human habitation, but rich, neverthe- less, in historic associations, in picturesque detail, and in archaeological interest. Such a street, for instance, was the Rue de la Fouarre (scarcely a feature of which has been modernised to this day), where Dante, when a student of theology in Paris, attended the lectures of one Sigebert, a learned monk of Gem- blours, who discoursed to his scholars in the open air, they sitting round him the while upon fresh straw strewn upon the pavement. Such a street was the Rue des Cordiers, close ad- joining the Rue des Gres, where Rousseau lived und wrote; and the Rue du Dragon, where might then be seen the house of Bernard Palissy ; and the Rue des Magons, where Racine lived; and the Rue des Marais, where Adrienne Lecouvreur—poor, beautiful, generous, ill-fated Adrienne Lecouvreur!—died. Here, too, in a blind alley opening off the Rue St. Jacques, yet stands part of that Carmelite Convent in which for thirty years Madame de la Valikre expiated the solitary frailty of her life. And so at every turn ! Not a gloomy bye- 17 In the Days of my Youth. street, not a dilapidated fountain, not a grim old college fagade but had its history, or its legend. Here the voice of Abelaiv* thundered new truths, and Rabelais jested, and Petrarch dis- coursed with the doctors. Here, in the Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie, walked the shades of Racine, of Moliere, of Corneille, of Voltaire. Dear, venerable, immortal old Quartier Latin ! Thy streets were narrow, but they were the arteries through which, century after ceniury, circulated all the wisdom and poetry, all the art, and science, and learning of France ! Their gloom, their squalor, their very dirt, was sacred. Could I have had my will, not a stone of the old place should have been touched, not a pavement widened, not a landmark effaced. , Then beside, yet not apart from, all that was mediaeval and historic in the Pays Latin, ran the gay, effervescent, laughing current of the life of the jeunesse cfaujourdhui. Here beat the very heart of that rare, that immortal, that unparalleled vie de Boh£me,th.Q vagabond poetry of which possesses such an inexhaus- tible charm for even the soberest imagination. What brick and mortar idylls, what romances au cinquiime, what joyous epitha- lamiums, what gay improvident ?nenages, what kisses, what laughter, what tears, what lightly-spoken and lightly-broken vows those old walls could have told of ! Here, apparelled in all sorts of unimaginable tailoring, in jaunty coloured cap or flapped sombrero, his pipe dangling from his button-hole, his hair and beard displaying every eccentricity under heaven, the Paris student, the Pays Latiniste fitir sangt lived and had his being. Poring over the bookstalls in the Place du Pantheon or the Ruedes Gres—hurrying along towards this or that college with a huge volume under each arm, about nine o'clock in the morning—haunting the cafes at mid-day and the restaurants at six—swinging his legs out of upper windows and smoking in his shirt-sleeves in the summer even- ings—crowding the pit of the Odeon and every part of the Theatre du Pantheon—playing wind instruments at dead of night to the torment of his neighbours, or, in vocal mood, traversing the Quartier with a select society of musical friends about the small hours of the morning—getting into scuffles with the gendarmes —flirting, dancing, playing billiards and the deuce ; falling in love and in debt; dividing his time between Aristotle and Made- moiselle Mimi Pinson—here, and here only, in all his phases at every hour of the day and night, he swarmed ubiquitous. And here, too (a necessary sequence), flourished the fair and frail grisette. Her race, alas ! is now all but extinct—the race of Fr^tillon, of Frangine, of Lisette, Musette, Rosette, and all the rest t>f that too-fascinating terminology—the race immortal- The Quartict Jai; n. 171 ised again and again by Beranger, Gavarni, Balzac, De Mussct ; sketched by a hundred pencils and described by a hundred pens ; celebrated in all manner of metres and set to all manner of melo- dies ; now caricatured and now 'canonised ; now painted wholly en noir?a\& now all couleur de rose; yet however often described, however skilfully analysed, remaining for ever indescribable, and for ever defying analysis ! " De tous les produits Parisiens," says Monsieur Jules Janin (himself the quintessence of everything most Parisian), " le produit le plus Parisien, sans contredit, e'est lagrisette." True ; but our epigrammatist should have gone a step further. He should have added that the grisette pur sang is to be found no- where except in Paris; and (still a step further) nowhere in Paris save between the Pont Neuf and the Barri£re d'Enfer. There she reigns; there (ah ! let me use the delicious present tense—let me believe that I still live in Arcadia !)—there she lights up the old streets with her smile; makes the old walls ring with her laughter; flits over the crossings like a fairy ; wears the most coquettish of litde caps and the daintiest of little shoes ; rises to her work with the dawn ; keeps a pet canary ; trains a nasturtium round her window; loves as heartily as she laughs, and almost as readily; owes not a sou, saves not a centime ; sews on Adolphe's buttons like a good neighbour ; is never so happy as when Adolphe in return takes her toTivoli or the JardinTurc ; adores galette, sucre d'orge, and Frederick Lemai'tre ; and looks upon a masked ball and a debardeur dress as the summit of human felicity. Vive lagrisette! Shall I not follow many an illustrious example and sing my modest paean in her praise ? Frown not, august Britannia ! Look not so severely askance upon my poor little heroine of the Quartier Latin ! Thinkest thou becau se thou art so eminently virtuous that she who has many a. serviceable virtue of her own, shall be debarred from her share in this world's cakes and ale ? Vive la grisette! Let us think and speak no evil of her. " Elle ne tient au vice que par un rayon, et s'en dloigne par les mille autres points de la circonference sociale." The world sees only her follies, and sees them at first sight ; her good qualities lie hidden in the shade. Is she not busy as a bee, joyous as a lark, helpful, pitiful, unselfish,'industrious, contented? How often has she not slipped her last coin into the alms-box at the hospital gate, and gone supperless to bed? Plow often sat up all night, after a long day's toil in a crowded work-room, tc nurse Victorine in the fever ? How often pawned her Sunday gown and shawl, to redeem that coat without which Adolphe cannot appear before the examiners to-morrow morning ? Granted, if M 172 In the Days of my Youth. you will, that she has an insatiable appetite for sweets, cigarettes, and theatrical admissions—shall she not be welcome to her tastes ? And is it her fault if her capacity in the way of miscellaneous refreshments partakes of the nature of the miraculous—somewhat to the inconvenience of Adolphe, who has overspent his allowance ? Supposing even that she may now and then indulge (among friends) in a very modified can- can at the Chaumi£re—what does that prove, except that her> heels are as light as her heart, and that her early education has been somewhat neglected ? But I am writing of a world that has vanished as completely as the lost Pleiad. The Quartier Latin of my time is no more. The Chaumiere is no more. The grisette is fast dying out. Of the Rue de la Harpe not a recognisable feature is left. The old Place St. Michel, the fountain, the Theatre du Panthdon are gone as if they had never been. Whole streets, I might say whole parishes, have been swept away—whole chapters erf mediaeval history erased for ever. Well, I love to close my eyes from time to time, and evoki the dear old haunts from their ruins ; to descend once mere the perilous steeps of the Rue St. Jacques, and to thread the labyrinthine bye-streets that surround the Ecole de Medicine. I see them all so plainly ! I look in at the familiar print- shops—I meet many a long-forgotten face—I hear many a long forgotten voice. I am twenty years of age and a student again ! Ah me ! what a pleasant time, and what a land of enchant- ment! Dingy, dilapidated, decrepit as it was, that graceless old Quartier Latin, believe me, was paved with roses and lighted with laughing gas. CHAPTER XXIV. THE FETE AT COURBEVOIE. ALTE Id ! I thought I should catch you about this time! They've been giving you unconscionable good measure to-day, though, haven't they? I thought Bollinet's lecture was always over by three; and here I've been moralising on the flight of Time for more than twenty minutes." So saying, Miiller, having stopped me as I was coming down the steps of the Hotel Dieu, linked his arm in mine, drew me into a shady angle under the lee of Notre Dame, and, without leaving me time to reply, went on pouring out his light, eager chatter as readily as a mountain-spring bubbles out its waters. I thought you'd like to know about the Tapottes, you see— and I was dying to tell you. I went to your rooms last night between eight and nine, and you were out; so I thought the only sure way was to come here—I know you never miss Bollinet's Lectures. Well, as I was saying, the Tapottes—oh, 111011 cher / I am your debtor for life in that matter of Milord Smithfield. It has been the making of me. What do you think? Tapotte is not only going to sit for a companion half- length to Madame's portrait, but he has given me a commission for half-a-dozen ancestors. Fancy—half-a-dozen illustrious dead- and-gone Tapottes ! What a scope for the imagination ! What a bewildering vista of billets de banque ■' I feel—ah, man ami J I feel that the wildest visions of my youth are about to be realised, and that I shall see my tailor's bill receipted before I die !» " I'm delighted," said I, " that Tapotte has turned up a trump card." " A trump card ? Say a California—a Pactolus—a Golden Calf. Nay, hath not Tapotte two golden calves ? Is he not of the precious metal all compact ? Stands he not, in the amiable ripeness of his years, a living representative of the Golden Age I ' O bella eld del oro /'" m In the Days of my Youth. And to my horror, he then and there executed a frantic pas seul. " Gracious powers ! " I exclaimed. " Are you mad ?" " Yes—raving mad. Have you any objection ? " " But, my dear fellow—in the face of day—in the streets of Paris ! We shall get taken up by the police !" " Then suppose we get out of the streets of Paris ! I'm tired enough, Heaven knows, of cultivating the arid soil of the Pavd. See, it's a glorious afternoon. Let's go somewhere." " With all my heart. Where ?" "Ah,mon Dieu ! cela m'est egal. Enghien—Vincennes—St. Cloud—Versailles—anywhere you like. Most probably there's a fete going on somewhere, if we only knew where." " Can't we find out ? " " Oh, yes—we can drop into a Cafd and look at the Petites Ajfckesj only that entails an absinthe ; or we can go into the nearest Omnibus Bureau and see the notices on the walls, which will be cheaper." So we threaded our way along the narrow thoroughfares of the lie de la Citd, and came presently to an Omnibus Bureau on the Quai de l'Horloge, over-looking the Pont Neuf and the river. Here the first thing we saw was a flaming placard setting forth the pleasures and attractions of the great annual fete at Courbevoie ; a village on the banks of the Seine, a mile or two beyond Neuilly. " Voila notre affaire/" said Miiller, gaily. "We can't do better than steer straight for Courbevoie." Saying which, he hailed a passing fiacre and bade the coach- man drive to the Embarcadere of the Rive Droite. " We shall amuse ourselves famously at Courbevoie," he said, as we rattled over the stones. " We'll dine at the Toison d'Or— an excellent little restaurant overlooking the river ; and if you're fond of angling, we can hire a punt and catch our own fish for dinner. Then there will be plenty of fiddling and dancing at the guingettes and gardens in the evening. By the way, though, I've no money ! That is to say, none worth speaking of—vot&l / one franc, one piece of fifty centimes, another of twenty centimes, and some sous. I hope your pockets are better lined than mine." " Not much, I fear, I replied, pulling out my porte-monnaie, and emptying the contents into my hand. They amounted to nine francs and seventy-five centimes. " Parbleu ! we've just eleven francs and a half between us," said Miiller. " A modest sum-total; but we must make it as elastic as we can. Let me see, there'll be a franc for the fiacre, four francs for our return tickets, four for our dinner, and two The Fete at Courbevoie. *75 and a half to spend as we like in the fair. Well, we can't commit any great extravagance with that amount of floating capital." " Better turn back and go to my rooms for some more money !" I exclaimed. " I've two Napoleons in my desk." " No—no—we should miss the the three-fifty train, and not get another till between five and six." " But we shall have no fun if we have no money !" " I dissent entirely from that proposition, Monsieur English- man. I have always had plenty of fun, and I have been short of cash since the hour of my birth. Come, it shall be my proud task to-day to prove to you the pleasures of im- pecuniosity !" So with our eleven francs and a half, we went on to the station, and took our places for Courbevoie. We travelled, of course, by third class in the open wagons ; and it so happened that in our compartment we had the company of three pretty little chattering grisettes, a fat countrywoman with a basket, and a quiet-looking elderly female with her niece. These last wore bonnets, and some kind of slight mourning. They belonged evidently to the small bourgeoise class, and sat very quietly in the corner of the carriage, speaking to no one. The three grisettes, however, kept up an incessant fire of small talk and squabble. " I was on this very line last Sunday," said one. " I went with Julie to Asnieres, and we were so gay ! I wonder if it will be very gay at Courbevoie." " Je vien doute" replied another, whom they called Lolotte. " I came to one of the Courbevoie fetes last spring, and it was not gay at all. But then, to be sure, I was with Edouard, and he is as dull as the first day in Lent. Where were you last Sunday, Adele?" " I did not go beyond the barriers. I went to the Cirque with my cousin, and we dined in the Palais Royale. We enjoyed ourselves so much ! You know my cousin ?" "Ah! yes—the little fellow with the curly hair and the whiskers, who waits for you at the corner when we leave the work-shop." "The same—Achille." "Your Achille is nice-looking," said Mademoiselle Lolotte, with a somewhat critical air. "It is a pity he squints." "He does not squint, Mam'selle." " Oh, ma chere ! I appeal to Caroline." " I am not sure that he actually squints," said Mam'selle Caroline, speaking for the first time ; " but he certainly has one eye larger than the other, and of quite a different colour." 176 In the Days of my Youth. " Tiens, Caroline—it seems to me that you look very closely into the eyes of young men," exclaims Adele, turning sharply upon this new assailant. " At all events you admit that Caroline is right!" cries Lolotte triumphantly. " I admit nothing of the kind. I say that you are both very ill-natured, and that you say what is not true. As for you, Lolotte, I don't believe you ever had the chance of seeing a young man's eye turned upon you, or you would not be so pleased with the attentions of an old one." " An old one ! " shrieked Mam'selle Lolotte. "Ah, mon Dieu! Is a man old at forty-seven ? Monsieur Durand is in the prime of life, and there isn't a girl in the Quartier who would not be proud of his attentions ! " f "He's sixty, if an hour," said the injured Adele. "And as or you, Caroline, who have never had a beau in your life " " del! what a calumny !—I—never had a Holy Saint Genevieve ! why, it was only last Thursday week " Here the train stopped at the Asnieres station, and two pri- vates of the Garde Impdriale got into the carriage. The horizon cleared as if by magic. The grisettes suddenly forgot their differences, and began to chat quite amicably. The soldiers twirled their mustachios, listened, smiled, and essayed to join in the conversation. In a few minutes all was mirth and flir- tation. Meanwhile Miiller was casting admiring glances on the young girl in the corner, whilst the fat countrywoman, pursing up her mouth, and watching the grisettes and soldiers, looked the image of offended virtue. " Dame ! Madame," she said, addressing herself to the old lady in the bonnet, " girls usen't to be so forward in the days when you and I were young!" To which the old lady in the bonnet, blandly smiling, re- plied :— " Beautiful, for the time of year." " Eh ? For the time of year? Dame ! I don't see that the time of year has anything to do with it," exclaimed the fat coun- trywoman. Here the young girl in the corner, blushing and smiling very sweetly, interposed with—" Pardon, Madame—my aunt is some- what deaf. Pray excuse her." Whereupon the old lady, watching the motion of her niece's lips, added • "Ah, yes—yes ! I am a poor, deaf old woman—I don't un- derstand what you say. Talk to my little Marie here—she can answer you." The Fete at Courbevoie. 177 "I, for one, desire nothing better than permission to talk to Mademoiselle," said Miiller, gallantly. " Mais, Monsieur " " Mademoiselle, with Madame her aunt, are going to the fete at Courbevoie ?" "Yes, Monsieur." " The river is very pretty thereabouts, and the walks through the meadows are delightful." " Indeed, Monsieur!" " Mademoiselle does not know the place ? "No, Monsieur." " Ah, if I might only be permitted to act as guide ! I know every foot of the ground about Courbevoie." Mademoiselle Marie blushed again, looked down, and made no reply. " I am a painter," continued Miiller ; " and I have sketched all the windings of the Seine from Neuilly to St. Germains. My friend here is English—he is a student of medicine, and speaks excellent French." " What is the gentleman saying, mon enfant ? " asked the old lady, somewhat anxiously. " Monsieur says that the river is very pretty about Cour- bevoie, ma tante," replied Mademoiselle Marie, raising her voice. " Ah! ah ! and what else ? " "Monsieur is a painter." "A painter? Ah, dear me! it's an unhealthy occupation. My poor brother Pierre might have been alive to this day if he had taken to any other line of business ! You must take great care of your lungs, young man. You look delicate." Miiller laughed, shook his head, and declared at the top of his voice that he had never had a day's illness in his life. Here the pretty niece again interposed. "Ah, Monsieur," she said, "my aunt does not understand. My—my uncle Pierre was a house-painter." "A very respectable occupation, Mademoiselle," replied Miiller, politely. " For my own part, I would sooner paint the insides of some houses than the outsides of some people." At this moment the train began to slacken pace, and the steam was let off with a demoniac shriek. " Tiens, mon enfant," said the old lady, turning towards her niece with affectionate anxiety. " I hope you have not taken cold." The excellent soul believed that it was Mademoiselle Marie who sneezed. And now the train had stopped—the porters were running along the platform, shouting, " Courbevoie ! Courbevoie! "—the 17 8 In the Days of my Youth. passengers . were scrambling out en masse—and beyowd the barrier one saw a confused crowd of charrette and omnibus drivers, touters, fruit-sellers, and idlers of every description. Miiller handed out the old lady and the niece ; the fat country- woman scrambled up into a kind of tumbril driven by a boy in sabdts; the grisettes and soldiers walked off together; and the tide of holiday-makers, some on foot, some in hired vehicles, set towards the village. In the meanwhile, what with the crowd on the platform and the crowd outside the barrier, and what with the hustling and pushing at the point where the tickets were taken, we lost sight of the old lady and her niece. "What the deuce has become of ma tante?" exclaimed Miiller, looking round. But neither ma tante nor Mademoiselle Marie were anywhere to be seen. I suggested that they must have gone on in the omnibus or taken a charrette, and so have passed us unper- ceived. " And after all," I added, " we didn't want to enter upon an indissoluble union with them for the rest of the day. Ma tante's deafness is not entertaining, and la petite Marie has nothing to say." " La petite Marie is uncommonly pretty, though," said Miiller. " I mean to dance a quadrille with her by-and-by, I promise you." " A la bonne heiire ! We shall be sure to chance upon them again before long." We had come by this time to a group of pretty villa-resi- dences with high garden walls and little shady side-lanes leading down to the river. Then came a church and more houses; then an open Place; and suddenly we found owselves in the midst of the fair. It was just like any other of the hundred and one fetes that take place every summer in the environs of Paris. There was a merry-go-round and a greasy pole ; there was a juggler who swallowed knives and ribbons; there were fortunetellers without number; there were dining-booths and drinking-booths and dancing-booths ; there were acrobats, organ-boys with monkeys, and Savoyards with white mice ; there were stalls for the sale of cakes, fruit, sweetmeats, toys, combs, cheap jewellery, glass, crockery, boots and shoes, holy-water vessels, rosaries, medals, and little coloured prints of saints and martyrs; there were brass bands, and stringed bands, and ballad-singers everywhere; and theie was an atmosphere compounded of dust, tobacco- smoke, onions, musk, and every objectionable perfume under heaven. " Dine at the Restaurant de l'Empire, Messieurs," shouted * The Fete at Ccurbevcue. 179 shabby touter in a blouse, thrusting a greasy card into our faces* " Three dishes, a dessert, a half-bottle, and a band of music, for one franc-fifty. The cheapest dinner in the fair!" " The cheapest dinner in the fair is at the Belle Gabrielle !" cried another. " We'll give you for the same money, soup, fish, two dishes, a dessert, a half-bottle, and take your photograph into the bargain ! " , " Bravo ! nion vieux—you first poison them with your dinner, and then provide photographs for the widows and children,'* retorts touter number one. " That's justice, anyhow." Whereupon touter number two shrieks out a torrent of abuse, and we push on, leaving them to settle their differences after their own fashion. At the next booth we are accosted by a burly fellow daubed to the eyes with red and blue paint, and dressed as an Indian chief. "Entrez, entrez, Messieurs et Mesdames," he cries, flourishing a war-spear some nine feet in length. " Come and see the won- derful Peruvian maiden of Tanjore, with webbed fingers and toes, her mouth in the back of her head, and her eyes in the soles or her feet! Only four sous each, and an opportunity that will never occur again !" " Only fifty centimes !" shouts another public orator ; " the most ingenious little machine ever invented ! Goes into the waistcoat pocket—is wound up every twenty-four hours —tells the day of the month, the day of the year, the age of the moon, the state of the Bourse, the bank rate of discount, the quarter from which the wind is blowing, the price of new-laid eggs in Paris and the provinces, the rate of mortality in the Fee-jee Islands, and the state of your sweetheart's affections ! " A little further on, by dint of much elbowing, we made our way into a crowded booth where, for the modest consideration of two sous per head, might be seen a Boneless Youth and an Ashantee King. The performances were half over when we went in. The Boneless Youth had gone through his feats of agility, and was lying on a mat in a corner of the stage, the picture of limp incapability. The Ashantee monarch was just about to make his appearance. Meanwhile, a little man in fleshings and a cocked hat addressed the audience. " Messieurs and Mesdames—I have the honour to announce that Caraba Radokala, King of Ashantee, will next appear before you. This terrific native sovereign was taken captive by that famous Dutch navigator the Mynheer Van Dunk, in his last voyage round the globe. Van Dunk, having brought his pri- soner to Europe in an iron cage, sold him to the English government in 1840; who sold him again to Milord Barnum, In the Days of my Youth. the great American philanthropist, in 1842 ; who sold him again to Franconi.of the Cirque Olympique ; who finally sold him to me. At the time of his capture, Caraba Radokala was the most treacherous, barbarous, and sanguinary monster upon record. He had three hundred and sixty-five wives—a wife, you observe, for every day in the year. He lived exclusively upon human flesh, and consumed, when in good health, one baby per diem. His palace in Ashantee was built entirely of the skulls and leg bones of his victims. He is now, however, much less ferocious; and, though he feeds on live pigeons, rabbits, dogs, mice, and the like, he has not tasted human flesh since his captivity. He is also heavily ironed. The distinguished company need there- fore entertain no apprehensions. Pierre—draw the bolt, and let his majesty loose ! " A savage roar was now heard, followed by a rattling of chains. Then the curtains were suddenly drawn back, and the Ashantee king—crowned with a feather head-dress, loaded with red and blue war-paint, and chained from ankle to ankle—bounded on the stage. Seeing the audience before him, he uttered a terrific howl. The front rows were visibly agitated. Several young women faintly screamed. The little man in the cocked hat rushed to the front, pro- testing that the ladies had no reason to be alarmed. Caraba Radokala, if not wantonly provoked, was now quite harmless— a little irritable, perhaps, from being waked too suddenly— would b"e as gentle as a lamb, if given something to eat:— " Pierre, quiet his majesty with a pigeon ! " Pierre, a lank lad in motley, hereupon appeared with a live pigeon, which immediately escaped from his hands and perched on the top of the proscenium. Caraba Radokala yelled ; the little man in the cocked hat raved ; and Pierre, in default of more pigeons, contritely reappeared with a lump of raw beef, into which his majesty ravenously dug his royal teeth. The pigeon, meanwhile, dressed its feathers and looked complacently down, as if used to the incident. " Having fed, Caraba Radokala will now be quite gentle and good-humoured," said the showman. " If any lady desires to shake hands with him, she may do so with perfect safety. Will any lady embrace the opportunity ? " A faint sound of tittering was heard in various parts of the booth ; but no one came forward. " Will no lady be persuaded ? Well, then, is there any gen- tleman present who speaks Ashantee ? " Miiller gave me a dig with his elbow, and started to his feet. " Yes," he replied, loudly. " I do." The FHe at Courbevoie. Every head was instantly turned in our direction. The showman collapsed with astonishment. Even the cap- live, despite his ignorance of the French tongue, looked con- siderably startled. " Comment / " stammered the cocked hat. " Monsieur speaks Ashantee ?" " Fluently." " Is it permitted to enquire how and when Monsieur acquired this very unusual accomplishment ?'' " I have spoken Ashantee from my infancy," replied Miiller, with admirable aplomb. " I was born at sea, brought up in an undiscovered island, twice kidnapped by hostile tribes before attaining the age of ten years, and have lived among savage nations all my life." A murmur of admiration ran through the audience, and Miiller became, for the time, an object of livelier interest than Caraba Radokala himself. Seeing this, the indignant monarch executed a warlike pas. and rattled his chains fiercely. " In that case, Monsieur, you had better come upon the stage, and epeak to His Majesty," said the showman reluctantly. " With all the pleasure in life." " But I warn you that his temper is uncertain." " Bah !" said Miiller, working his way round through the crowd, " I'm not afraid of his temper." "As Monsieur pleases—but, if Monsieur offends him, I will not be answerable for the consequences." "All right—give u§ a hand up, mon vieux/" And Miiller, having clambered upon the stage, made a bow to the audience, and a salaam to his majesty. " Chickahominy chowdar bang," said he, by way of opening the conversation. The ex-king of Ashantee scowled, folded his arms, and maintained a haughty silence. "Hie hac horum, high cockolorum," continued Miiller, with exceeding suavity. The captive monarch stamped impatiently, ground his teeth, but still made no reply. " Monsieur had better not aggravate him," said the showman. "On the contrary—I am overwhelming him with civilities. Now observe—I condole with him upon his melancholy position . I enquire after his wives and children ; and I remark how un commonly well he is looking." And with this, he made another salaam, smiled persuasively and said— "Alpha, beta, gamma, delta—chin-chin—Potz tausend Erin-go-bragh !" In the Days of my Youth. " Borriobooloobah ! " shrieked his majesty, apparently stung to desperation. " Rocofoco !" retorted Miiller, promptly. But as if this last was more than any Ashantee temper could Jbear, Caraba Radokala clenched both his fists, set his teeth hard, and charged down upon Miiller like a wild elephant. Being met, however, by a well-planted blow between the eyes, he went down like a ninepin—picked himself up—rushed in again, and, being forcibly seized and held back by the cocked hat, Pierre of the pigeons, and a third man who came tumbling up precipitately from somewhere behind the stage, vented his fury, in a torrent of very highly civilised French oaths. " Eh, sacredieu /" he cried, shaking his fist in Midler's face, " I've not done with you yet, diable de galerien / " , Whereupon there burst forth a general roar—a roar like the " inextinguishable laughter " of Olympus. " Tiens ! " said Miiller, " His Majesty speaks French almost as well as I speak Ashantee ! " "Bourreau / Brigand / Assassin /" shrieked his Ferocity, as his friends hustled him off the stage. The curtains then fell together again, and the audience, still laughing vociferously, dispersed with cries of " Vive Caraba Rodokala ! " " Kind remembrances to the Queens of Ashantee ! " " What's the latest news from home ? " " Borriobooloobah—ah —ah ! " Elbowing our way out with the crowd, we now plunged onco more into the press of the fair. Here our old friends the danc- ing dogs of the Champs Elysees, and the familiar charlatan of the Place du Chatelet with his chariot and barrel-organ, trans- ported us from Ashantee to Paris. Next we came to a tempo- rary shooting-gallery, adorned over the entrance with a spirited cartoon of a Tyrolean sharpshooter ; and then to an exhibition of cosmoramas ; and presently to a weighing machine, in which a great, rosy-cheeked, laughing Normandy peasant girl, with her high cap, blue skirt, massive gold cross and heavy ear-rings, was in the act of being weighed. " Tiens! Maidselle est jolimcnt solide J " remarks a saucy bystander as the owner of the machine piles on weight after weight. " Perhaps if I had no more brains than M'sieur, I should weigh as light," retorts the damsel with a toss of her high cap. " Pardon ! it is not a question of brains—it is a question of hearts," interposes an elderly exquisite in a white hat. " Mam'- selle has captured so many that she is completely overweighted." "Twelve stone six ounces," pronounces the owner of the machine, adjusting the last weight. The Fete at Courbevoie. 183 Whereupon there is a burst of ironical applause, and the big paysanne, half laughing, half angry, walks off, exclaiming, " Eh bien 1 tant viieux J I've no mind to be a scarecrow—moi / " By this time we have both had enough of the fair, and are glad to make our way out of the crowd and down to the river side. Here we find lovers strolling in pairs along the towing- path ; family groups pic-nic-ing in the shade ; boats and punts for hire; and a swimming match just coming oft", of which all that is visible are two black heads bobbing up and down along the middle of the stream. " And now, mon ami, what do you vote for ?" asks Midler. " Boating or fishing ? or both ? or neither ? '' " Both, if you like—but 1 never caught anything in my life." " The pleasure of fishing, I take it," says Muller, " is not in the fish you catch, but in the fish you miss. The fish you catch is a poor little wretch, worth neither the trouble of landing, cooking, nor eating ; but the fish you miss is always the finest fellow you ever saw in your life ! v " A lions done! I know, then, which of us two will have most of the pleasure to-day," I reply, laughing. "But how about the expense ?" To which Muller, with a noble recklessness, answers :— " Oh, hang the expense ! Here, boatman ! a boat a quatre rames, and some fishing-tackle—by the hour." Now it was undoubtedly a fine sentiment this of Midler's, and had we but fetched my two Napoleons before starting I should have applauded it to the echo, but when 1 considered that something very nearly approaching to a franc had already filtered out of our pockets in passing through the fair, and that the hour of dinner was looming somewhat indefinitely in the distance, I confess that my soul became disquieted within me. " Don't forget, for heaven's sake," I said, " that we must keep something for- dinner ! " " My dear fellow," he replied, " I have already a tremendous appetite for dinner—that is something." After this, I resigned myself to whatever might happen. 1 We then rowed up the river for about a mile beyond Cour- bevoie, moored our boat to a friendly willow, put our fishing- tackle together, and composed ourselves for the gentle excite- ment that waits upon the gudgeon and the minnow. " I haven't yet had a single nibble," said Muller, when we had been sitting to our work for something less than ten minutes. " Hush ! " I said. " You mustn't speak, you know." "True—I had forgotten. I'll sing instead. Fishes, I have Deen told, are fond of music." 184 In the Days of my Hcufn. Fanfan, je vous aimeraisbien ; Contre vous je n'ai nul caprice ; Vous etes gentil, je'n convien ' " " Come, now! " I exclaimed, pettishly, " this is really too bad. I had a bite—a most decided bite—and if you had only kept quiet " " Nonsense, my dear fellow ! I tell you again—and I ha^e it on the best authority—fishes like music. Did you never hear of Arion ? Have you forgotten about the Syrens ? Believe me, your gudgeon nibbled because I sang him to the surface—-just as the snakes come out for the song of the snake-charmer. I'll try again !" And with this he began, " Jeannette est une brune Qui demeure a Pantin, Ou toute sa fortune Est un petit jardin I" "Well, if you go on like that, all I have to say is that not a fish will come within half a mile of our bait," said I, with tran- quil despair. " Alas ! mon cher, I am grieved to observe in your otherwise estimable character, a melancholy want of faith," replied Miiller. " Without faith, what is friendship ? What is angling ? What is matrimony ? Now, I tell you that with regard to the finny tribe, the more I charm them, the more enthusiastically they will flock' to be caught. We shall have a miraculous draught in a few minutes if you are but patient." And then he began again, " Mimi Pinson est une blonde, Une blonde que l'on connait. Elle n'a qu'une robe au monde, Landerirette ! Et qu'un bonnet." I laid aside my rod, folded my arms, and when he had done, applauded ironically. "Very good," I said. " I understand the situation. We are here, at some—indeed, I may say, considering the state of our exchequer, at a considerable mutual expense, not to catch fish, but to afford the Herr Miiller an opportunity of exercising his extensive memory and his limited baritone voice. The The Fete at Com bevoie. entertainment is not without its agriments, but I find it dear at the price." " Tiens, Arbuthnot ! let us fish seriously. I promise not to open my lips again till you have caught something." " Then, seriously, I believe you would have to be silent the whole night, and all I should catch would be the rheumatism. I am the worst angler in the world, and the most unlucky." " Really and truly ?" " Really and truly. And you ? " " As bad as yourself. If a tolerably large and energetic fish did me the honour to swallow my bait, the probability is that he would catch me. I certainly shouldn't know what to do with him." " Then the present question is—what shall we do with our- selves ?" " I vote that we row up as far as yonder bend in the river, just to see what lies beyond ; and then back to Courbevoie." " Heaven only grant that by that time we shall have enough money left for dinner," I murmured with a sigh. We rowed up the river as far as the first bend, a distance of about half a mile ; and then we rowed on as far as the next bend. Then we turned, and resting on our oars, drifted slowly back with the current. The evening was indescribably brilliant and serene. The sky was cloudless, of a greenish blue, and full of light. The river was clear as glass. We could see the flaccid water-weeds swaying languidly with the current far below, and now and then a shoal of tiny fish shooting along half-way between the weeds and the surface. A rich fringe of purple iris, spear-leafed Sagittarius, and tufted meadow-sweet (each blossom a bouquet on a slender thyrsus) bordered the towing- path and filled the air with perfume. Here the meadows lay open to the water's edge ; a little further on they were shut off by a close rampart of poplars and willows, whose leaves, already yellowed by autumn, were now fiery in the sunset. Joyous bands of gnats, like wild little intoxicated maenads, circled and hummed about our heads, as we drifted slowly on ; while far away, and mqllowed by distance, we heard the brazen music of the fair. We were both silent. Miiller pulled out a small sketch-book, and made a rapid study of the scene—the reach in the river ; the wooded banks ; the green flats traversed by long lines of stunted pollards ; the churchtops and roofs of Courbevoie beyond. Presently, a soft voice singing, broke upon the silence. Miiller stopped involuntarily, pencil in hand. I held my breath, and listened. The tune was flowing and sweet ; and as our boat drifted on, the words of the singer became audible. In the Days of my Youth. " O miroir ondoyant ! Je reve en te voyant Harmonie et lumiere, O ma riviere, O ma belle riviere ! " On voit se reflechir Dans ses eaux les nuages ; Elle semble dorrnir Entre les paturages Ou paissent les grands boeufs Et les grasses genisses. Aux patres amoureux Que ses bords sont propices !" " A woman's voice," said Miiller. " Dupont's words and music. She must be young and pretty—where has she hidden herself ?" The unseen singer, meanwhile, went on with another verse. '' Pres des iris du bord, ' Sous une berge haute, La carpe aux reflets d'or Ou le barbeau ressaute, Les goujons font le guet, L'Ablette qui scintille Fuit le dent du brochet ; Au fond rampe l'anguille ! " O miroir ondoyant ! Je reve en te voyant Harmonie et lumiere, O ma riviere, O ma belle riviere i " " Look !" said Miiller. " Do you not see them yonder—two women under the trees ? By Jupiter ! it's ma tante and la petite Marie ! Saying which, he flung himself upon his oars and began pull ing vigorously towards the shore. CHAPTER XXV. THAT TERRIBLE MuLLER. ■'HHJWJlA PETITE MARIE broke off at the sound of our pars, C BfiST an<^ blushed a becoming rose-colour. I StS " Will these ladies do us the honour of letting us afarrrrJijl row them back to Courbevoie ?" said Miiller, running our boat close in against the sedges, and pulling off his hat as respectfully as if they were duchesses. Mademoiselle Marie repeated the invitation to her aunt, who accepted it at once. "Tres volontiers, ires volontiers, Messieurs," she said, smiling and nodding. " We have rambled out so far—so far!" And I ant not as young as I was forty years ago. Ah, won Dieu J how my old bones ache ! Give me thy hand, Marie, and thank the gentlemen for their politeness." So Mam'selle Marie helped her aunt to rise, and we steadied the boat close under the bank, at a point where the interlacing roots of a couple of sallows made a kind of natural step by means of which they could easily get down. " Oh, dear! dear! it will not turn over, will it, my dear young man? del! I am slipping—Ah, Dieu merci!—Marie, ma chere enfant, pray be careful not to jump in, or you will upset us all!" And ma tante, somewhat tremulous from the ordeal of embark- ing, settled down in her place, while Miiller lifted Mam'selle Marie into the boat, as if she had been a child: I then took the oars, leaving him to steer; and so we pursued our way towards Courbevoie. " Mam'selle has of course seen the fair?" said Miiller, from behind the old lady's back. N 183 In the Days of my Youth. " No, Monsieur." " No ! Is it possible ?" " There was so much crowd, Monsieur, and such a noise—we were quite too much afraid to venture in." " Would you be afraid, Mam'selle, to venture with me ? " " I—I do not know, Monsieur." " Ah, Mam'selle, you might be very sure that I would take good care of you!" " Mais—Monsieur " " These gentlemen, I see, have been angling," said the old lady, addressing me very graciously. - Have you caught many fish?" "None at all, Madame," I replied, loudly. " Tiens ! so many as that ? " "Pardon, Madame," I shouted at the top of my voice. "We have caught nothing—nothing at all." Ma tante smiled blandly. " Ah, yes," she said; " and you will have them cooked presently for dinner, rCest ce fas ? There is no fish so fresh, and so well-flavoured, as the fish of our own catching." " Will Madame and Mam'selle do us the honour to taste our fish and share our modest dinner ?" said Miiller, leaning forward in his seat in the stern, and delivering his invitation close into the old lady's ear. To which ma tante, with a readiness of hearing for which no one would have given her credit, replied: — " But—but Monsieur is very polite—if we should not be incon- veniencing these gentlemen " " We shall be charmed, Madame—we shall be honoured !" "Eh bien ! with pleasure, then—Marie, my child, thank the gentlemen for their amiable invitation." I was thunderstruck. I looked at Miiller to see if he had suddenly gone out of his senses. Mam'selle Marie, however, was infinitely amused. "Fi done! Monsieur," she said. "You have no fish. I heard the other gentleman say so." " The other gentleman, Mam'selle," replied Miiller, " is an Englishman, and troubled with the spleen. You must not mind anything he says." Troubled with the spleen! I believe myself to be as even- tempered and as ready to fall in with a joke as most men ; but I should have liked at that moment to punch Franz Midler's head Gracious heavens ! into what a position he had now brought us ! What was to be done ? How were we to get out of it ?' It was now just sfven ; and we had already been upon the water for That Terrible Miiller. 189 more than an hour. What should we have to pay for the boat ? And when we had paid for the boat, how much money should we have left to pay for the dinner ?- Not for our own dinners— ah, no! For'ma tantds dinner (and ma tante had a hungry eye); and for la petite Marie's dinner; and la petite Marie, plump, rosy, and well-liking, looked as if she might have a capital appetite upon occasion! Should we have as much as two and a-half francs ? I doubted it. And then, in the ab- sence of a miracle, what could we do with two and a-half francs, if we had them ? A miserable sum!—convertible, perhaps, into as much bouilli, bread and cheese, and thin country wine as' might have satisfied our own hunger in a prosaic and commonplace way; but for four persons, two of them women! And this was not the worst of it. I thought I knew Miiller well enough by this time to feel that he would entirely dismiss this minor consideration of ways and means ; that he would order the dinner as recklessly as if we had twenty francs a- piece in our pockets ; and that he would not only order it, but eat it and preside at it with all the gaiety and audacity in life. Then would come the horrible retribution of the bill! I felt myself turn red and hot at the mere thought of it. Then a dastardly idea insinuated itself into my mind. I had my return-ticket in my waistcoat-pocket:—what if I slipped away presently to the station and went back to Paris by the next train, leaving my clever friend to improvise his way out of his own scrape as best h-e could ? In the meanwhile, as I was rowing with the stream, we soon got back to Courbevoie. "Are you mad ?" I said, as, having landed the ladies, Miiller and I delivered up the boat to its owner. " Didn't I admit it, two or three hours ago ?" he replied. " I wonder you don't get tired, mon cher, of asking the same ques- tion so often." "Four francs, fifty centimes, Messieurs," said the boatman, having made fast his boat to the landing-place. " Four francs, fifty centimes!" I echoed, in dismay. Even Miiller looked aghast. " My good fellow," he said, " do you take us for coiners ?" " Hire of boat, two francs the hour. These gentlemen have been out nearly one hour and a half—three francs. Hire of bait and fishing-tackle, one franc fifty. Total, four francs and a-half," replied the boatman, putting out a great brown palm. Miiller, who was acting as cashier and paymaster, pulled out In the Days of my Youth. his purse, deposited one solitary half-franc in the niddle of that brown palm, and suggested that the boatman and he should toss for the remaining four francs—or race for them—or play for them—or fight for them. The boatman, however, indignantly rejected each successive proposal, and, being paid at last, retired with a decrescendo of oaths. "Tiens I" said Miiller, reflectively. "We have but one franc left. One franc, two sous, and a centime. Vive la France " " And you have actually asked that wretched old woman and her niece to dinner!" " And I have actually solicited that excellent and admirable woman, Madame Marotte, relict of the late lamented Jacques Marotte, umbrella maker, of number one hundred and two, Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, and her beautiful and accomplished niece, Mademoiselle Marie Charpentier, to honour us with their company this evening, Dis-donc, what shall we give them for dinner ?" " Precisely what you invited them to, I should guess—the fish we caught this afternoon." " Agreed. And what else ?" " Say—a dish of invisible greens, and a phoenix ct la Marengo." " You are funny, mon cheri " Then, for fear I should become too funny—good afternoon." " What do you mean ? " " I mean that I have no mind to dine first, and be kicked out of doors afterwards. It is one of those aids to digestion that I can willingly dispense with." " But if I guarantee that the dinner shall be paid for—money down!" " Tra la la!" " You don't believe me ? Well, come and see." With this, he went up to Madame Marotte, who, with her niece, had sat down on a bench under a walnut-tree close by, waiting our pleasure. " Would not these ladies prefer to rest here, while we seek for a suitable restaurant and order the dinner ?" said Miiller, in- sinuatingly. The old lady looked somewhat blank. She was not too tired to go on—thought it a pity to bring us all the way back again—would do, however, as " ces ?nessieurs" pleased ; and so was left sitting under the walnut-tree, reluctant and discon- solate. " Tiens ! mon enfant," I heard her say as we turned away, *' suppose they don't come back again!" We had promised to be gone not longer than twenty minutes, That Terrible Mtiller. 191 or at most half-an-hour. Mtiller led the way straight to the Poison d'Or. I took him by the arm as we neared the gate. " Steady, steady, mon gaillard" I said. " We don't order our dinner, you know, till we've found the money to pay for it ?" " True—but suppose I go in here to look for it ?" " Into the restaurant garden ?" *' Precisely." CHAPTER XXVI. THE PETIT COURIER ILLUSTRE. HE Toison d'Or was but a modest little establishment as legarded the house, but it was surrounded on three sides by a good-sized garden overlooking the river. Here, in the trellised arbours which lined the lawn on either side, those customers who preferred the open air could take their dinners, coffees, and absinthes al fresco. The scene when we arrived was at its gayest. There were dinners going on in every arbour ; waiters running distractedly to and fro with trays and bottles ; two women, one with a guitar, the other with a tambourine, singing under a tree in the middle of the garden; while in the air there reigned an exhilarating confusion of sounds and smells impossible to describe. We went in. Midler paused, looked round, captured a passing waiter, and asked for Monsieur le propridtaire. The waiter pointed over his shoulder towards the house, and breathlessly rushed on his way. Muller at once led the way into a salon on the ground-floor looking over the garden. Here we found ourselves in a large low room containing some thirty or forty tables, and fitted up after the universal restaurant pattern, with cheap-looking glasses, rows of hooks, and spittoons in due number. The air was heavy with the combined smells of many dinners, and noisy with the clatter of many tongues. Behind the fruits, cigars, and liqueur bottles that decorated the comptoir sat a plump, black-eyed little woman in a gorgeous cap and a red silk dress. This lady welcomed us with a bewitching smile and a gracious inclination of the head. "Ces messieurs," she said, " will find a vacant table yonder, by the window." Miiller bowed majestically. " Madame," he said, " I wish to see Monsieur le proprictaire." The dame de comptoir looked very uneasy. The Petit Courier Illustri. 193 " If Monsieur has any complaint to make," she said, " he can make it to me." " Madame, I have none." " Or if it has reference to the ordering of a dinner " Miiller smiled loftily. " Dinner, Madame," he said with a disdainful gesture, " is but one of the accidents common to humanity. A trifle ! A trifle always humiliating—sometimes inconvenient—occasionally im possible. No, Madame, mine is a serious mission ; a mission of the highest importance, both socially and commercially. May 1 beg that you will have the goodness to place my card in the hands of Monsieur le propridtaire, and say that I request the honour of five minutes' interview." The little woman's eyes had all this time been getting rounder and blacker. She was evidently confounded by my friend's grandiloquence. " Ah / mon Dieu! M'sieur," she said, nervously, " my husband is in the kitchen. It is a busy day with us, you under- stand—but I will send for him." And she forthwith despatched a waiter for " Monsieur Choucru." Miiller seized me by the arm. " Heavens !" he exclaimed, in a very audible aside, " did you hear ? She is his wife ! She is Madame Choucru ! " " Well, and what of that ?" " What of that, indeed ? Mais, mon ami, how can you ask the question? Have you no eyes? Look at her! Such a remarkably handsome woman—such a tournure—such eyes— such a figure for an illustration ! Only conceive the effect of Madame Choucru—in medallion !" "Oh, magnificent!" I replied. "Magnificent—in medallion." But I could not, for the life of me, imagine what he was driving at. " And it would make the fortune of the Toison d'Or" he added, solemnly. To which I replied that it would undoubtedly do so. Monsieur Choucru now came upon the scene ; a short, rosy, round-faced little man in a white flat cap and bibbed apron— like an elderly cherub that had taken to cookery. He hung back upon the threshold, wiping his forehead, and evidently un- willing tc show himself in his shirt-sleeves. " Here, mon bon," cried Madame, who was by this time crimson with gratified vanity, and in a fever of curiosity ; " this day—the gentleman is waiting to speak to you ! " Monsieur the cook and proprietor shuffled his feet to and fro in the doorway, but came no nearer. 194 In the Days of my Youth. " Parbleu ! " he said, " if M'sieur's business is not urgent." " It is extremely urgent, Monsieur Choucru," replied Miiller ; "and, moreover, it is not so much my business as it is yours." " Ah bah ! if it is my business, then, it may stand over till to- morrow," replied the little man, impatiently. " To-day I have eighty dinners on hand, and with M'sieur's permission " But Miiller strode to the door and caught him by the shoulder. "No, Monsieur Choucru," he said sternly, " I will not let you ruin yourself by putting off till to-morrow what can only be done to-day. I have come here, Monsieur Choucru, to offer you fame. Fame and fortune, Monsieur Choucru !—and I will not suffer you, for the sake of a few miserable dinners, to turn your back upon the most brilliant moment of your life !" " Mais, M'sieur—explain yourself," stammered the pro- pridtaire. "You know who I am, Monsieur Choucru?" "No, M'sieur—not in the least." "I am Miiller—Franz Miiller—landscape painter, portrait painter, historical painter, caricaturist, artist en chef to the Petit Courier Illustre." " Hein I M'sieur est peintre / " " Yes, Monsieur Choucru—and I offer you my protection." Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear, and smiled doubtfully. " Now listen, Monsieur Choucru—I am here to-day in the interests of the Petit Courier Illustre. I take the Courbevoie fete for my subject. I sketch the river, the village, the principal features of the scene ; and on Saturday my designs are in the hands of all Paris. Do you understand me ? " " I understand that M'sieur is all this time talking to me of his own business, while mine, Id, has, is standing still !" ex- claimed the proprietaire, in an agony of impatience. " I have the honour to wish M'sieur good day." But Miiller seized him again, and would not let him escape. "Not so fast, Monsieur Choucru," he said; "not so fast! Will you answer me one question before you go ?" " £h, mon Dieu / Monsieur " " Will you tell me, Monsieur Choucru, what is to prevent me from giving a view of the best restaurant in Courbevoie ? " Madame Choucru, from behind the comptoir, uttered a little scream. " A design in the Petit Courier Illustri, I need scarcely tell you," pursued Miiller, "with indescribable pomposity, " is in itself sufficient to make the fortune not only of an establishment, but of a neighbourhood. I am about to make Courbevoie the fashion. The sun of Asni&res, of Montmorency, of Enghien has set—the sun of Courbevoie is about to rise. My sketches The Petit Courier Illustrd 195 will produce an unheard-of effect. All Paris will throng to your fetes next Sunday and Monday—all Paris, with its inexhaustible appetite for bifteck aux pommes frltes—all Paris with its un- quenchable thirst for absinthe and Bavarian beer! Now, Monsieur Choucru, do you begin to understand me ? " "Mais, Monsieur, I—I think " "You think you do, Monsieur Choucru ? Very good. Then will you please to answer me one more' question. What is to prevent me from conferring fame, fortune, and" other benefits too numerous to mention, on your excellent neighbour at the corner of the Place—Monsieur Coquille of the Restraunt Croix de Matte?" Monsieur Choucru scratched his ear again, stared helplessly at his wife, and said nothing. Madame looked grave. " Are we to treat this matter on the footing of a business transaction, Monsieur ?" she asked somewhat sharply. " Because, if so, let Monsieur at once name his price for the " "' Price,' Madame F' interrupted Midler, with a start of horror. " Gracious powers ! this to me—to Franz Midler of the Petit Courier Illustre ! No, Madame—you mistake me—you wound me—you touch the honour of the Fine Arts ! Madame, I am incapable of selling my patronage." Madame clasped her hands ; raised her voice ; rolled her black eyes; did everything but burst into tears. She was shocked to have offended Monsieur! She was profoundly desolated ! She implored a thousand pardons ! And then, like a true Frenchwoman of business, she brought back the con- versation to the one important point:—since money was not in question, upon what consideration would Monsieur accord his preference to the Toison d'Or instead of to the Croix de Matte? Midler bowed, laid his hand upon his heart, and said :— " I will do it, pour les beauxyeux de Madame." And then, in graceful recognition of the little man's rights as owner of the eyes in question, he bowed to Monsieur Choucru. Madame was inexpressibly charmed. Monsieur smiled, fidgetted, and cast longing glances towards the door. " I have eighty dinners on hand," he began again, " and if M'sieur will excuse me —:—" " One moment more, my dear Monsieur Choucru," said Midler, slipping his hand affectionately through the little man's arm. " For myself, as I have already told you, 1 can accept no- thing—but I am bound in honour not to neglect the interests of the journal I represent. You will of course wish to express your sense of the compliment paid to your house by adding your name to the subscription list of the Petit Courier Illustre}" Tn the Days of my Youth. " Oh, by—by all means—with pleasure," faltered the proprid- taire. " For how many copies, Monsieur Choucru ? Shall we say— six?" Monsieur looked at Madame. Madame nodded. Miiller took out his pocket-book, and waited, pencil in hand. " Eh—parbleu /—let it be for six, then," said Monsieur Choucru, somewhat reluctantly. Miiller made the entry, shut up the pocket-book, and shook hands boisterously with his victim. " My dear Monsieur Choucru," he said, " I cannot tell you how gratifying this is to my feelings, or with what disinterested satisfaction I shall make your establishment known to the Parisian public. You shall be immortalised, my dear fellow— positively immortalised !" " Bien obligd, M''sieur —bien obligd. Will you not let my wife offer you a glass of liqueure ? " " Liqueure, mon cher!" exclaimed Miiller, with an outburst of frank cordiality—"hang liqueure !—we'll dine with you!" " Monsieur shall be heartily welcome to the best dinner the Toison cFOr can send up ; and his friend also," said Madame, with her sweetest smile. "Ah, Madame !" " And M'sieur Choucru shall make you one of his famous cheese soufflds. Tiens, mon bon, go down and prepare a cheese souffld for two." Miiller smote his forehead distractedly. "For two !" he cried. "Heaven ! I had forgotten my aunt and my cousin ! " Madame looked up inquiringly. " Monsieur has forgotten something ?" "Two somethings, Madame—two somebodies! My aunt— my excellent and admirable maternal aunt—and my cousin. We left them sitting under a tree by the river-side, more than half- an-hour ago. But the fault, Madame, is yours." "How, Monsieur?" " Yes ; for in your charming society I forget the ties of family and the laws of politeness. But I hasten to fetch my forgotten relatives. With what pleasure they will share your amiable hospitality ! Au revoir, Madame. In ten minutes we shall be with you again !" Madame Chouci-u looked grave. She had not bargained to entertain a party of four ; yet she dared not disoblige the Petit Courier Illustrd. She had no time, however, to demur to the arrangement; for Miiller, ingeniously taking her acquiescence for granted, darted out of the room without waiting for an answer. The Petit Courier Illustre. 197 " Miserable man !" I exclaimed, as soon as we were outside the doors, " what will you do now ?" " Do ! Why, fetch my admirable maternal aunt and my inte- resting consin, to be sure." " But you have raised a dinner under false pretences ! " " I, mon cher ? Not a bit of it." " Have you, then, really anything to do with the Petit Courier Illustre?" " The Editor of the Petit Courier Illustri is one of the best fellows in the world, and occasionally (when my pockets repre- sent that vacuum which Nature very properly abhors) he ad- vances me a couple of Napoleons. I wipe out the score from time to time by furnishing a design for the paper. Now to-day, you see, I'm in luck. I shall pay off two obligations at once— to say nothing of Monsieur Choucru's six-fold subscription to the B.C., on which the publishers will allow me a douceur of thirty francs. Now, confess that I'm a man of genius !" In less than a quarter-of-an-hour we were all four established round one of Madame Choucru's comfortable little dining-tables, in a snug recess at the furthest end of the salon. Here, being well out of reach of our hostess's black eyes, Miiller assumed all the airs of a liberal entertainer. He hung up ma cousine's bonnet; fetched a footstool for ma tante j criticised the sauces ; presided over the wine; cut jokes with the waiter; and pretended to have ordered every dish beforehand. The stewed kidneys with mushrooms were provided especially for Madame Marotte ; the fricandeau was selected in honour of Mam'selle Marie (had he not an innate presentiment that she loved fricandeau ?); and as for the soles au gratin, he swore, in defiance of probability and all the laws of nature, that they were the very fish we had just caught in the Seine. By-and-by came Monsieur Choucru's famous cheese souffld ; and then, with a dish of fruit, four cups of coffee, and four glasses of liqueure, the banquet came to an end. As we sat at dessert, Miiller pulled out his book and pencilled a rapid but flattering sketch of the dining-room interior, develop- ing a perspective as long as the Rue de Rivoli, and a mobilier at least equal in splendour to that of the Trois Freres. At sight of this chef d'ceuvre, Madame Choucru was moved almost to tears. Ah, heaven ! if Monsieur could only figure to himself her admiration for his beau taletit! But alas ! that was impossible—as impossible as that Monsieur Choucru should ever repay this unheard of obligation ! Miiller laid his hand upon his heart, and bowed profoundly. "Ah ! Madame," he said, "it is not to Monsieur Choucru that I look for repayment- it is to you." 198 In the Days of my Youth. "To me, Monsieur? Dieu merci I Monsieur se moque de moi / " And the Dame de Comptoir, entrenched behind her fruits and liqueure bottles, shot a Parthian glance from under her black eyelashes, and made believe to blush. " Yes, Madame, to you. I only ask permission to come again very soon, for the purpose of executing a little portrait of Madame—a little portrait which, alas ! must fail to render adequate justice to such a multitude of charms." And with this choice compliment, Miiller bowed again, took his leave, bestowed a whole franc upon the astonished waiter, and departed from the Toison d'Or in an atmosphere of glory. The fair, or rather that part of the fair where the dancers and diners most did congregate, was all a-blaze with lights and noisy with brass bands as we came out. Ma tante, who was some- what tired, and had been dozing for the last half-hour over her coffee and liqueure, was impatient to get back to Paris. The fair Marie, who was not tired at all, confessed that she should enjoy a waltz above everything. While Miiller, who professed to be an animated time-table, swore that we were just too late for the ten minutes past ten train, and that there would be no other before eleven forty-five. So Madame Marotte was carried off, bon gre\ mat gre, to a dancing-booth, where gentlemen were admitted on payment of forty centimes per head, and ladies went in free. Here, despite the noise, the dust, the braying of an abomi- nable band, the overwhelming smell of lamp-oil, and the clatter, not only of heavy walking-boots, but even of several pairs of sabots upon an uneven floor of loosely-joined planks—ma tante, being disposed of in a safe corner, went soundly to sleep. It was a large booth, somewhat over-full; and the company consisted mainly of Parisian blue-blouses, little foot-soldiers, grisettes (for there were grisettes in those days, and plenty of them), with a sprinkling of farm-boys and dairymaids from the villages round about. We found this select society cara- coling round the booth in a thundering galop, on first going in. After the galop, the conductor announced a valse d deux teinps. The band struck up—one—two—three. Away went some thirty couples—away went Miiller and the fair Marie—and away went the chronicler of this modest biography with a pretty little girl in green boots who waltzed remarkably well, and who deserted him in the middle of the dance for a hideous little French soldier, about four foot and a half high. After this rebuff (having learned, notwithstanding my friend's representations to the contrary, that a train ran from Courbevoie to Paris every half-hour up till midnight) I slipped away, leaving The Petit Courier lllustre. 199 Miiller and ma cousine in the midst of a furious flirtation, and Madame Marotte fast asleep in her corner. The clocks were just striking twelve as I passed under the archway leading to the Cit£ Bergere. " Tiens /" said the fat congierge, as she gave me my key and my candle, " Monsieur has perhaps been to the theatre this evening? No!—to the country—to the fete at Courbevoie ! Ah, then, I'll be sworn that M'sieur has had plenty of fun ! " But had I had plenty of fun ? That was the question. That Miiller had had plenty of flirting and plenty of fun was a fact beyond the reach of doubt. But a flirtation, after all, unless in a one-act comedy, is not entertaining to the mere looker-on; and oh ! must not those bridesmaids who sometimes accom- par^v a happy couple in their wedding- tour, have a dreary time of 2. CHAPTER XXVII THE ECOLE DE NATATION. T seemed to me that I had but just closed my eyes, when I was waked by a hand upon my shoulder and a voice calling me by my name. I started up to the early sunshine pouring in at the window, and Franz Miiller standing by my bedside. " Tiens /" said he. " How lovely are the slumbers of inno- cence ! I was hesitating, mon cher, whether to wake or sketch you." I muttered something between a growl and a yawn, to the effect that I should have been better satisfied if he had left me alone. " You prefer everything that is basely self-indulgent, young man," replied Miiller, making a divan of my bed, and coolly light- ing his pipe under my very nose. " Contrary to all the laws of bon camaraderie, you stole away last night, leaving your unpro- tected friend in the hands of the enemy. And for what ?—for the sake of a few hours' ignominious oblivion ! Look at me— I have not been to bed all night, and I am as lively as a lobster in a lobster-pot." " How did you get home ?" I asked, rubbing my eyes ; " and when ?" " I have not got home at all yet," replied my visitor. " I have come to breakfast with you first. Just at this moment, the. fiendule in the adjoining room struck six. "To breakfast! " I repeated. "At this hour ?—you who never breakfast before midday ! " " True, mon cher j but then you see there are reasons. In the first place, we danced a little too long, and missed the last train, so I was obliged to bring the dear creatures back to Paris in a fiacre. In the second place, the driver was drunk, and the horse was groggy, and the fiacre was in the last stage of dilapidation. The powers below only know how many hours we were on the The Ecole de Natation. Ml road ; for we all fell asleep, driver included, and never woke till we found ourselves at the Barri^re de l'Etoile at dawn of day." " Then what have you done with Madame Marotte and Mademoiselle Marie?" " Deposited them at their own door in the Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, as was the bounden duty of a fireux chevalier. But then, mon cher, I had no money ; and having no money, I couldn't pay for the fiacre ; so I drove on here—and here I am— and number One Thousand and Eleven is now at the door, Waiting to be paid." " The deuce he is !" "So, you see, sad as it was to disturb the slumbers of inno- cence, I couldn't possibly let you go on sleeping at the rate of two francs an hour." " And what is the rate at which you have waked me ?" " Sixteen francs the fare, and something for the driver—say twenty in all." " Then, my dear fellow, just open my desk and take one of the two Napoleons you will see lying inside, and dismiss number One Thousand and Eleven without loss of time; and then " " A thousand thanks ! And then what ? " " Will you accept a word of sound advice ?" " Depends on whether it's pleasant to follow, caro mio." " Go home ; get three or four hours' rest; and meet me in the Palais Royale about twelve for breakfast." " In order that you may turn round and go to sleep again in comfort? No, young man, I will do nothing of the kind. You shall get up, instead, and we'll go down to Molino's. "To Molino's ?" "Yes—don't you know Molino's ?—the large swimming- school by the Pont Neuf. It's a glorious morning for a plunge in the Seine ! A plunge in the Seine! Now, given a warm bed, a chilly autumn morning, and a decided inclination to quote the words of the sluggard, and " slumber again," could any proposition be more inopportune, savage, and alarming ? I shuddered ; I pro- tested ; I resisted ; but in vain. " I shall be up again in less time than it will take to tell your beads, mon gaillard," said Miiller the ferocious, as, having captured my Napoleon, he prepared to go down and liquidate with number One Thousand and Eleven. " And it's of no use to bolt me out, because I shall hammer away till you let me in, and that will wake your fellow-lodgers. So let me find you up, and ready for the fray." in the Days of my Youth. And then, execrating Miiller, and Molino, and Molino's bath, and Molino's customers, and all Molino's ancestors from the period of the deluge downwards, I reluctantly complied. The air was brisk, the sky cloudless, the sun coldly bright ; and the city wore that strange, breathless, magical look so peculiar to Paris at early morning. The shops were closed; the pavements deserted ; the busy thoroughfares silent as the avenues of Pfere la Chaise. Yet how different from the early stillness of London! London, before the world is up and stirring, looks dead, and sullen, and melancholy ; but Paris lies all beautiful, and bright, and mysterious, with a look as of dawning smiles upon her face ; and we know that she will wake presently, like the Sleeping Beauty, to sudden joyousness and activity. Our road lay for a little way along the Boulevards, then down the Rue Vivienne, and through the Palais Royale to the quays ; but long ere we came within sight of the river this magical calm had begun to break up. The shop-boys in the Palais Royale were already taking down the shutters^the great book-stall at the end of the Galerie Vitrde showed signs of wakefulness ; and in the Place du Louvre there was already a detachment of brisk little foot-soldiers at drill. By the time we had reached the open line of the quays, the first omnibuses were on the road ; the water-carriers were driving their carts and blowing their shrill little bugles ; the washerwomen, hard at work in their gay, oriental-looking kiosques,were hammering away, mallet in hand, and chattering like millions of magpies ; and the early matin- bell was ringing to prayers as we passed the doors of St. Ger- main L'Auxerrois. And now we were skirting the Quai de FEcole, looking down upon the bath known in those days as Molino's—a huge, float- ing, quadrangular structure, surrounded by trellised arcades and rows of dressing-rooms, with a divan, a cafe restaurant, and a permanent corps of cooks and hair-dressers on the establish- ment. For your true Parisian has ever been wedded to his Seine, as the Venetian to his Adriatic ; and the Ecole de Nata- tion was then, as now, a lounge, a reading-room, an adjunct of the clubs, and one of the great institutions of the capital. Some bathers, earlier than ourselves, were already sauntering about the galleries in every variety of undress, from the simple cale^on to the gaudiest version of Turkish robe and Algerian kepi. Some were smoking ; some reading the morning papers ; some chatting in little knots ; but as yet, with the exception of two or three school-boys (called in the argdt of the bath, mov tards\ there were no swimmers in the water. The Ecole de Natation. With some of these loungers Miiller exchanged a jiod or a few words as we passed along the platform ; but shook hands cordially with a bronzed, stalwart man, dressed like a Venetian gondolier in the frontispiece to a popular ballad, with white trousers, blue jacket, anchor buttons, red sash, gold ear-rings, and great silver buckles in his shoes. Miiller introduced this romantic-looking person tc me as " Monsieur Barbet." "My friend Monsieur Barbet," said he, "is the prince of swimming-masters. He is more at home in the water than on land, and knows more about swimming than a fish. He will calculate you the specific gravity of the heaviest German meta- physician at a glance, and is capable of floating even the works of Monsieur Thiers, if put to the test." " Monsieur can swim ?" said the master, addressing me with a nautical scrape. " I think so," I replied. " Many gentlemen think so," said Monsieur Barbet, " till they -find themselves in the water." " And many who wish to be thought accomplished swimmers never venture into it on that account," added Miiller. " You would scarcely suppose," he continued, turning to me, " that there are men here—regular habituis of the bath—who never go into the water, and yet give themselves all the airs of practised bathers. That tall man, for instance, with the 'black beard and striped peignoir, yonder—there's a fellow who comes once or twice a week all through the season, goes through the ceremony of undressing, smokes, gossips, criticises, is looked up to as an authority, and has never yet been seen off the platform. Then there's that bald man in the white robe—his name's Giroflet—a retired stockbroker. Well, that fellow robes himself like an ancient Roman, puts himself in classical attitudes, affects taciturnity, models himself upon Brutus and all that sort of thing ; but is as careful not to get his feet wet as a cat. Others, again, come simply to feed. The restaurant is one of the choicest in Paris, with this advantage over Vdfour or the Trois Freres, that it is the only place where you may eat and drink of the best in hot weather, with nothing on but the briefest of calegons.'" Thus chattering, Miiller took me the tour of the bath, which now began to fill rapidly. We then took possession of two little dressing-rooms no bigger than sentry-boxes, and were presently in the water. The scene now became very animated. Hundreds of eccentric figures crowded the galleries—some absurdly fat, some ludi- crously thin ; some old, some young ; some bow-legged, some knock-kneed ; «ome shortj some tall; some brown, some yellow • O 204 In the Days of my Youth. some got up for effect in gorgeous wrappers ; and all mjre 01 less hideous. "An amusing sight, isn't it?" said Miiller, as, having swum several times round the bath, we sat down for a few moments on one of the flights of steps leading down to the water. " It is a sight to disgust one for ever with human-kind," I replied. " And to fill one with the profoundest respect for one's tailor. After all, it's broad-cloth makes the "man." " But these are not men—they are caricatures." " Every man is a caricature of himself when you strip him," said Miiller, epigrammatically. " Look at that scarecrow just opposite. He passes for an Adonis, de ■par le mondeP I looked, and recognised the Count de Rivarol, a tall young man, an elegant of the first water, a curled darling of society, a professed lady-killer, whom I had met many a time in attendance on Madame de Marignan. He now looked like a monkey :— . ... " long, and lank and brown, As in the ribb'd sea sand !" " Gracious heavens ! " I exclaimed, " what would become of the world, if clothes went out of fashion ? " " Humph!—one half of us, my dear fellow, would commit suicide." At the upper end of the bath was a semi-circular platform somewhat loftier than the rest, called the Amphitheatre. This, I learned, was the place of honour. Here clustered the elite of the swimmers ; here they discussed the great principles of their art, and passed judgment on the performances of those less skil- ful than themselves. To the right of the Amphitheatre rose a slender spiral staircase, like an openwork pillar of iron, with a tiny circular platform on the top, half surrounded by a light iron rail. This conspicuous perch, like the pillar of St. Simeon Stylites, was every now and then surmounted by the gaunt figure of some ambitious plunger who, after attitudinising awhile in the pose of Napoleon on the column Vendbme, would join his hands above his head and take a tremendous " header" into the gulf below. When this feat was successfully performed, the elite in the Amphitheatre applauded graciously. And now, what with swimming, and lounging, and looking on, some two hours had slipped by, and w7e were both hungry and tired. Miiller proposed that we should breakfast at the Cafd Procope. " But why not here ?" I asked, as a delicious breeze from the buffet came wafting by " like a stream of rich distill'd perfumes." The Ecole de Natation. 205 " because a breakfast chez Molino costs at least twenty-five francs per head—because I have credit at Procope—because i have not a son in my pocket—and because, Milord Smith- field, I aspire to the honour of entertaining your lordship on the present occasion !" replied Miiller, punctuating each clause of his sentence with a bow. If Miiller had not a sou, I, at all events, had now only one Napoleon ; so the Cafe Procope carried the day. CHAPTER XXVIII. THE RUE DE L'ANCIENNE COMfiDIE AND THE CAFE PROCOPE. HE Rue des Fossds-Saint-Germain des Prds and the Rue de l'Ancienne Comddie are one and the same. As the Rue des Fossds-Saint-Germain des Prds, it dates back to somewhere about the reign of Philippe Auguste ; and as the Rue de FAncienne Comddie it takes its name and fame from the year 1689, when the old Theatre Frangais was opened on the 18th of April by the company known as Moliere's troupe—Moliere being then dead, and Lully having succeeded him at the Theatre du Palais Royal. In the same year, 1689, one Frangois Procope, a Sicilian, conceived the happy idea of hiring a house just opposite the new theatre, and there opening a public refreshment-room, which at once became famous, not only for the excellence of its coffee (then newly introduced into France), but also for being the favourite resort of all the wits, dramatists, and beaux of that brilliant time. Here the latest epigrams were circulated, the newest scandals discussed, the bitterest literary cabals set on foot. Here Jean Jacques brooded over his chocolate ; and Voltaire drank his mixed with coffee ; and Dorat wrote his love- letters to Mademoiselle Saunier ; and Marmontel wrote praises of Mademoiselle Clairon ; and the Marquis de Bidvre made puns innumerable ; and Duclos and Mercier wrote satires, now almost forgotten ; and Piron recited those verses which are at once his shame and his fame ; and the Chevalier de St. Georges gave fencing lessons to his literary friends; and Lamothe, Frdron, D'Alembert, Diderot, Helvetius, and all that wonderful company of wits, philosophers, encyclopaedists, and poets, that lit up as with a dying glory the last decades of the old regime, met daily, nightly, to Write, to recite, to squabble, to lampoon, and sometimes to fight. The year 1770 beheld, in the closing of the Theatre Frangais, the extinction of a great power in the Rue des Fossds-Saint- Germain-des-Prds—for it was not. in fact, till the theatre was The Rue de VAncienne ComMie. loj no more a theatre that the street changed its name, and became the Rue de l'Ancienne Comddie. A new house (to be on first opening invested with the time-honoured title of Theatre Frangais, but afterwards to be known as the Odeon) was now in progress of erection in the close neighbourhood of the Luxem- bourg. The actors, meanwhile, r&paired to the little theatre of the Tuileries. At length, in 1782,° the Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie was one evening awakened from its two years' lethargy by the echo of many footfalls, the glare of many flambeaux, and the rattle of many wheels ; for all Paris, all the wits and critics of the Cafe Procope, all the fair shepherdesses and all the beaux seignieurs of the court of Marie Antoinette and Louis XVI., were hastening on foot, in chairs, and in chariots, to the opening of the new house and the performance of a new play! And what a play! Surely, not to consider it too curiously, a play which struck, however sportively, the key-note of the coming Revolution ;—a play which, for the first time, displayed society literally in a state of bouleversement;—a play in which the greed of the courtier, the venality of the judge, the empty glitter of the crown, were openly held up to scorn a play in which all the wit, audacity, and success are on the side of the canaillej— a play in which a lady's-maid is the heroine, and a valet canes his master, and a great nobleman is tricked, outwitted, and covered with ridicule! This play, produced for the first time under the title of La Folle J our nee, was written by one Caron de Beaumarchais—a man of wit, a man of letters, a man of the people, a man of nothing—and was destined to achieve immortality under its later title of Le Mariage de Figaro. A few years later, and the Rue de l'Ancienne Comddie echoed daily and nightly to the dull rumble of Revolutionary tumbrils, and the heavy tramp of Revolutionary mobs. Danton and Camille Desmoulins must have passed through it habitually on their way to the Revolutionary Tribunal. Charlotte Corday (and this is a matter of history) did pass through it that bright July evening, 1793, on her way to a certain gloomy house still to be seen in the adjoining Rue de l'Ecole de Medicine, where she stabbed Marat in his bath.^ But throughout every vicissitude of time and politics, though fashion deserted the Rue de l'Ancienne Comedie, and actors migrated, and fresh generations of wits and philosophers succeeded each other, the Caf6 Procope still held its ground * 1782 is the date given by M. Hippolyte Lucas. Sainte-Beuve places it two years later. 2o8 In the Days of my Youth. and maintained its ancient reputation. The theatre (closed in less than a century) became the studio first of Gros and then of Gerard, and was finally occupied by a succession of restaura- teurs ; but the Cafe Procope remained the Cafe Procope, and is the Cafe Procope to this day. The old street and all belonging to it—especially and pecu- liarly the Cafe Procope—was of the choicest Quartier Latin flavour in the time of which I write ; in the pleasant, careless, impecunious days of my youth. A cheap and highly popular restaurateur named Pinson rented the old theatre. A costumier hung out wigs, and masks, and debardeur garments next door to the restaurateur. Where the fatal tumbril used to labour past, the frequent omnibus now rattled gaily by; and the pavements trodden of old by Voltaire, and Beaumarchais, and Charlotte Corday, were thronged by a merry tide of students and grisettes. Meanwhile the Cafe Procope, though no longer the resort of great wits and famous philosophers, received within its hospita- ble doors, and nourished with its indifferent refreshments, many a now celebrated author, painter, barrister, and statesman. Y waS the general rendezvous for students of all kinds—poets of the Ecole-de-Droit, philosophers of the Ecole-de-Medicine, critics of the Ecole-des-Beaux Arts. It must however be ad- mitted that the poetry and criticism of these future great men was somewhat too liberally perfumed with tobacco, and that into their systems of philosophy there entered a considerable element of grisette. Such, at the time of my first introduction to it, was the famous Cafe Procope. CHAPTER XXIX. THE PHILOSOPHY OF BREAKFAST. OW this,mon cher? said Miiller taking off his hat with a flourish to the young lady at the comptoir " is the immortal Cafd Procope." I look round, and found myself in a dingy, ordinary sort of cafe, in no wise differing from any other dingy, ordinary sort of cafe in that part of Paris. The decorations were ugly enough to be modern. The ceiling was as black with gas fumes and tobacco-smoke as any other ceiling in any other estaminet in the Quartier Latin. The waiters looked as waiters always look before midday—sleepy, discontented, and un- washed. A few young men of the regular student type werf scattered about here and there at various tables, reading, smok- ing, chatting, breakfasting, and reading the morning papers. In an alcove at the upper end of the second room (for there were two, one opening from the other) stood a blackened, broken-nosed, plaster bust of Voltaire, upon the summit of whose august wig some irreverent customer had perched a particularly rakish-looking hat. Just in front of this alcove and below the bust stood a marble-topped table, at one end of which two young men were playing dominoes to the accompaniment of the matutinal absinthe. "And this," said Miiller, with another flourish, "is the still more immortal table of the still more supremely immortal Voltaire. Here he was wont to rest his sublime elbows and sip his demi-tasse. Here, upon this very table, he wrote that famous letter to Marie Antoinette that Frdron stole, and in revenge for which he wrote the comedy called Id Ecossaise ; but of this admirable satire you English, who only know Voltaire in his Henraide and his History of Charles the Twelfth, have probably never heard till this moment! Eh bien ! I'm not much wiser than you—so never 210 In the Days of my Youth. mind. I'll be hanged if I've ever read a line of it. Anyhow, here is the table, and at this other end of it we'll have our breakfast." It was a large old-fashioned, Louis Quatorze piece of furm- ture, the top of which, formed from a single slab of some kind of grey and yellow marble, was stained all over with the coffee, wine, and ink splashes of many generations of customers. It looked as old—nay, older—than the house itself. The young men who were playing at dominoes looked up and nodded, as three or four others had done in the outer room when we passed through. " Bonjour, I'ami? said the one who seemed to be winning. " Hast thou chanced to see anything of Martial coming along ?" " I observed a nose defiling round the corner of the Rue de Bussy," replied Miiller, " and it looked as if Martial might be somewhere in the far distance, but I didn't wait to see. Are you expecting him ?" " Confound him—yes ! We've been waiting more than half an hour." " If you have invited him to breakfast," said Miiller, "he is sure to come." "On the contrary, he has invited us to breakfast." "Ah, that alters the case," said Miiller philosophically. " Then he is sure not to come. Gargon ! " A bullet-headed, short-jacketted, long-aproned waiter, who looked as if he had not been to bed since his early youth, answered the summons. " M'sieur !" "What have you that you can especially recommend this morning ?" The waiter, with that nasal volubility peculiar to his race rapidly ran over the whole vegetable and animal creation. Miiller listened with polite incredulity. " Nothing else ?" said he, when the other stopped, apparently from want of breath. " Mais oui, M'sieur / " and, thus stimulated, the waiter, having exhausted worlds and then imagined new, launched forth into a second and still more impossible catalogue. Miiller turned to me. " The resources of this establishment, you observe," he said very gravely, " are inexhaustible. One might have a Roc's egg k la Sindbad, for the asking" The waiter looked puzzled, shuffled his slippered feet, and murmured something about "