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 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 FISST VOLUME.
 
 LOXDON* : PRINTED BT 
 
 SPOTTIS^VOODK AND CO., NEW-STREET SQUABE 
 
 AXD PARLIAMENT STREET
 
 ANGELA PISANI: 
 
 A NO VEL. 
 
 BY THE LATE 
 
 HON. OEOEOE SYDNEY -SMYTHE, 
 
 SEVENTH VISCOUNT STRANGFORD, 
 WITH A BRIEF MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 
 
 ' You will have children who must either be base or unhappy 
 choose them imhappy.'— Leopard: to his Sister on her Marriage. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1875. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 V.rL 
 
 GEOEGE SYDNEY-SMYTHE. 
 
 A SKETCH. 
 
 The manuscript of this book was found a few 
 years after the death of the Author; but as 
 it appeared, after only a hasty examination, to be 
 but a fragment, it was laid aside with a number 
 of other scattered writings by the same hand. 
 In the spring of last year, however, the return 
 to power of tlie Conservative party, under Mr. 
 Disraeli, recalled to the minds of many the 
 episode of the ' Young England Triumvirate ; ' 
 and, naturally, several allusions, both public and 
 private, were made to the most cliaracteristic 
 figure ■ in that group — George Smyth e. Those 
 who had known and loved him spoke together of 
 the early promise he had given, of the unfulfilled 
 hopes and tlie incompleted work, of the things 
 lie had done and the things he had left undone
 
 vi A Brief Memoir of 
 
 in the life so prematurely closed. Some of those 
 who remembered him best asked after the novel 
 he was known to have been engaged in writing ; 
 and one among his intimate friends, Mr. Disraeli, 
 warmly expressed a hope that enough had been 
 completed to make it fit for publication. 
 
 Whether this is the case or not the public 
 must decide for themselves. A more careful 
 stud)^ was made of the manuscript — which had 
 been left in the greatest confusion, and some of 
 it nearly illegible — and it then appeared that it 
 had reached a far more advanced stage than had 
 been thouglit at first. The plot of the story, 
 indeed, although it was doubtless quite finished in 
 the mind of the Author, has not been completely 
 worked out ; for the story has not been composed 
 in regular sequence, but, as artists work in 
 mosaic, bit by bit, in detached pieces ; here a 
 group of flowers or figures, elaborate and highly 
 finished; there the rough ground intervening; 
 and then a delicate border or device, polished 
 and glowing with colour, in strange contrast to 
 the blank gap between. Nevertheless, it seemed 
 to some who read the manuscript that there was 
 more than enough of beauty in the work to out-
 
 George Sydney-Smythe. vii 
 
 balance the want of coliesion and the interrupted 
 flow of the narrative ; and therefore, such as 
 it was left by the Author, with all its faults and 
 all its genius, it is now presented to the public. 
 The editorial task has been limited to verbal cor- 
 rections of the text, and to the introduction of 
 two or three very brief passages which appeared 
 iibsolutely necessary in order to bridge over 
 the wider gaps in the narrative. Let us hope 
 that the weapons of adverse criticism may be 
 blunted by the consideration that most of the 
 faults to be detected in it — and there are many 
 that are patent and glaring — w^ould have been 
 corrected by the Author had he lived to complete 
 his task. 
 
 We have got to live so fast, and the stage of 
 our world is so thickly crowded with the actors 
 in the day's drama, that those among us who fall 
 by the way are too soon forgotten ; the lapse of a 
 few years fills up the blank to most of us, and 
 there is not time to tell those who press on from 
 behind of what they did and were who have gone 
 before. Not thirty years have elapsed since the 
 breaking up of the ' Young England ' party, yet 
 liow few are left to whom the names and prin-
 
 viii A Brief Memoir of 
 
 ciples of that party are familiar, or by wliom 
 one of the most original and picturesque incidents 
 in the socially political history of this century is 
 remembered I It may be as well, therefore, to 
 say something briefly of the career of the Author, 
 
 George Sydney-Smytlie was born at Stock- 
 holm in April 1818, while his father resided 
 there as jNIinister Plenipotentiary. From Eton, 
 where he attracted some attention by his English 
 verse, he went to St. John's College, Cambridge, 
 where he was the companion of the present Lord 
 Lyttelton, Lord Penzance, Lord John Manners, 
 Mr. Beresford Hope, the late Frank Courtenay, 
 etc. He spoke at the ' Union ' with great success. 
 
 His political debut was made in January 1841, 
 when at the age of twenty-three he was returned 
 for the borough he represented for eleven years 
 — Canterbury ; he took his seat in the last session 
 of the Queen's first Parliament. Lord ^Melbourne 
 was then Premier. As his election took place 
 shortly before the meeting of Parliament, when 
 people were weary of the recess, and there was 
 no topic specially occupying public attention, he 
 had the good fortune to attract all eyes to this 
 provincial arena. Just then the Queen, by her
 
 George Sydney-Smyilie. ix 
 
 supposed preference for the Ministerial or Liberal 
 party, was being assailed with the utmost spite 
 and bitterness ; all sorts of blame and slander 
 were, for the moment, levelled at her. George 
 Smythe, with precocious insight, steered clear of 
 this indefensible mistake, although the Opposi- 
 tion he came in to support were declaiming with 
 passionate excitement against her. With perfect 
 assurance he made a most brilliant eloge upon 
 lier Majesty, describing her with great force as 
 combining all the graces and virtues of all the 
 sovereigns in history. The Whigs complained 
 that he had taken the wind out of their sails, and 
 the Tories well understood the lesson which this 
 mere boy had given them. 
 
 This was a good beginning. During this 
 session he had but to show himself to be ap- 
 plauded. He commenced debating as a favourite 
 member in a triumphant Opposition : this was 
 in itself a piece of good fortune — an advantage, 
 however, whicli lie was not completely capable of 
 utilising. He was never a very ready speaker ; 
 lie had to be wound up under the pressure of a 
 high nervous excitement which not only wore 
 him out, but made him far less useful than he
 
 A Brief Memoir of 
 
 would otherwise have been. His speeches were 
 graceful, striking, ricli in imagination and flow ; 
 but he required time to elaborate them, and an 
 effort to overcome his natural or constitutional 
 indolence to deliver them. 
 
 Sir Robert Peel succeeded Lord Melbourne in 
 the month of September. Had George Smythe 
 then come forward and spoken on the discussion 
 wliich ushered in tlie change of Government, had 
 he then but amplified his provincial speeches, 
 giving them more solidity and detail, he would 
 have secured himself some employment in the 
 Conservative administration ; ^ and it is scarcely 
 too mucli to say that all the mistakes and mis- 
 fortunes of his after-life would probably have 
 been avoided. His talent was admitted on all 
 sides ; he was young, bright, and winning; nothing 
 was wanting but that solidity and weight which 
 an official position affords to stir up the power and 
 
 ' It is an interesting fact that Sir Robert consulted 
 Mr. Gladstone as to what member should be chosen to 
 second the Address to the Crown on the opening of Parlia- 
 ment. Mr. Gladstone replied, ' There are two young 
 speakers beyond all others to choose — Jem Bruce and 
 George Smythe.' Mr. Bruce (afterwai*ds Earl of Elgin ) 
 was chosen ; but the anecdote shows how much impression, 
 as a speaker^ George Smythe had made.
 
 George Sydneij-Sniythe. xi 
 
 ability, which incontestably existed, into action. 
 His whole being would have shaped into maturity 
 had he then, at the beginning of his public 
 career, been moulded by the exigencies of Downing 
 Street and bound by the coils of ' red tape.' Sir 
 Eobert Peel detested ' red tape ' and delighted in 
 genius : lie might have made George Smythe the 
 most useful and ornamental of his supporters by 
 judicious training at this moment, but he failed 
 to discern the value of or to encourage the abili- 
 ties of his follower, and the opportunity was lost. 
 Notwithstanding this just regret, it is true that 
 George Smythe's mind was little suited naturally 
 to the character of a statesman. He could not 
 curb his erratic and restless disposition to the 
 trammels and discipline of a party, or sacrifice his 
 poetical theories and the dreams of a vivid imagi- 
 nation at the bidding of official leaders. He had 
 none of the patient habits indispensable for close 
 and solid study, just as he was too impulsive for 
 the sober, steady, untiring round of daily work in 
 public life ; he allowed himself too often to be 
 led, not by the quiet light of calmer and colder 
 minds, but by the flashes of his own genius — for 
 genius he undoubtedly had : and these aberrations.
 
 xii A Brii'f Memoir of 
 
 however hrilliant in themselves, would certainly 
 have prevented his attaininji^ a really high or 
 foremost place in statesmansliip. Indeed, through- 
 out his Parliamentary career, neither friend nor 
 foe could calculate with certainty upon the view 
 he might take or tlie vote lie would give, for his 
 sensitive and higlily strung nature w^as apt to be 
 swayed by influences incomprehensible to more 
 sober minds. Sometimes his over-eagerness made 
 lum mistake a want of clearness of perception for 
 subtlety, sometimes he mistook impulse for in- 
 spiration, and perhaps more than once he laid 
 lumself open to the charge of fickleness, if not of 
 political disloyalty ; but really untruthful he never 
 was, for he thoroughly believed at the moment 
 all tliat his warmth and energy of spirit combined 
 to make him feel, and no one was as much disap- 
 pointed as himself when he awoke to find the 
 dream dispelled, and w^as forced to vanquish the 
 excesses of his own imagination by reasoning and 
 facts. 
 
 So it went on from 1841 to 1845; George 
 Smythe keeping the attitude of a partisan just as 
 much as was necessary, yet often swerving aside 
 from Sir Kobert Peel : laughing openly at his.
 
 Georcje Sj/dnei/-Sniyt/ie. xiii 
 
 mistakes in details : sometimes attacking him in 
 the House : making himself felt by the boldness 
 of his illustrations and the pointed liveliness of 
 his style, but yet gaining nothing in adminis- 
 trative experience or Parliamentary aplomb. 
 
 At this time he allied himself closely with 
 Mr. Disraeli, and in 1844 was immortalised by 
 him in the character of Harry ' Coningsby.' It is 
 possible that ' Coningsby ' was never intended as a 
 portrait of George Smythe, but that it was cur- 
 rently reported to be so was perhaps one of his 
 w^orst misfortunes, for the idealised and glorified 
 picture supposed to be there painted by his friend 
 and master was very unwholesome to a mind that 
 required bracing rather than humouring and 
 panegyrising. 
 
 These were the da3^s of the ' Young England 
 Party,' a little party formed by identity of senti- 
 ment in the very heart of the Conservative ranks. 
 The leader, jMr. Disraeli, no doubt discerned the 
 usefulness of the youngest of tlie three, for he 
 describes him ^ (nearly thirty years later) as not 
 only ' remarkable for his infiuence over youth,' 
 but also as having a great power of ' promulgating 
 1 See Preface to ' Lotbair.' 1870.
 
 xiv A Brief Memoir of 
 
 a new faith with graceful enthusiasm.' The 
 triumvirate, however, liad not enough political 
 principle in common to keep them long together ; 
 George Smythe was too Liberal to agree with 
 them in most things ; tliey were for Protection, 
 and he for Corn Law Kepeal. It was because Sir 
 Robert Peel appeared to him to promise to 
 pursue a policy of enlightened Conservatism that 
 he foscinated his follower at the first. It was 
 because his mind yearned for a revival of liberal 
 sentiments and policy, such as illumined the early 
 speeches of Pitt, — because he revolted from the 
 commercialism of Peel and was won over by the 
 mediaeval halo cast over politics as well as reli- 
 gion, that he joined the ' Young England ' party. 
 In fact the aspirations and sweetnesses of 
 this school were entirely in harmony with the 
 romantic turn of his mind. Romance tinged 
 equally his politics and his religion. He loved 
 to recall the grandeur of the ancient nobility of 
 England and of France, to sing the days of 
 chivalry, of Catholic kings and cavaliers, of tlie 
 picturesque splendour of ecclesiastical ceremonial ; 
 writing many polished and beautiful verses upon
 
 George Sydney-SmytJie. xv 
 
 these subjects while yet he turned almost as 
 warmly to throw the halo of poetry over 'the 
 merchants of Old England ; ' and together with 
 his friend Lord John Manners, he dreamed of a 
 powerful aristocracy and an almsgiving Church 
 protecting and cultivating the affections of a 
 dependent peasantry. The interests that bound 
 these two together have been swept away by 
 time ; but death has not severed the tie of love 
 and friendship between them. 
 
 Besides these tender dreams and friendships, 
 another triumvirate arose, wrapped in poetic clouds 
 of that religious fervour wliich ever and anon 
 took possession of Greorge Smythe's mind when 
 in company with two beloved college friends — • 
 Frederick (afterwards Father) Faber, and Thomas 
 Whytehead, who ended his brief life as a mission- 
 ary in New Zealand. For many years these three 
 were constantly interchanging poems, of which 
 only a very few have been published. 
 
 In tliis same year of 1844 he published a 
 \ oliime called ' Historic Fancies ; ' a tnekmrjc of 
 politics and romance, pliilosopliy and rhapsody ; 
 fome of it weak and trifling, all of it graceful
 
 xvi A Brief Memoir of 
 
 and polished. It contained a number of ad- 
 mirably written historical sketches of the chief 
 actors in tlie French Revolution : tliese sketches 
 are brief, but they show most careful study of 
 tlie nice sliades of distinction between the men, 
 with great power of observation and critical skill ; 
 they are full of noble tliouglits, striking pictures, 
 and perfect language. A good judge has remarked, 
 ' It is unfortunate that many of George Smythe's 
 best writings never passed beyond tlie circle of 
 his intimate friends ; but in his "Historic Fancies'' 
 he displays a degree of refined scholarship and 
 thoughtfulness, of wit and irony, of playfulness 
 and poetical sentiment, rarely combined within 
 the compass of one small volume.' This book is 
 dedicated to Lord John Planners, with an affec- 
 tionate allusion to tlie Sydney blood that flowed 
 in both their veins. 
 
 AVe may here also mention two articles written 
 by George Smytlie in the 'Oxford and Cambridge 
 Keview,' in 1845 ; one on Earl Grey, the other on 
 George Canning; both of them written with 
 great ability and much charm of language. 
 
 The most prominent feature th.at recurs to 
 those who recall George Smythe to memory is
 
 George Sydney-Smythe. xvii 
 
 probably his speaking.^ He was fluent, graceful, 
 and persuasive ; he had the gift of a clear, sweet 
 voice and a good manner. It is said that his 
 oratory was brilliant rather than effective, and 
 that he shone more out of the House of Commons 
 than within it. One of his best speeches is well 
 remembered to this day by all who heard it, and 
 perhaps few speeches have ever produced at the 
 moment a greater or more heart-stirring effect. 
 Tt was delivered at Manchester on the evening of 
 October 3, 1844, in the Athenoeum, or, as it was 
 then called, the Free Trade Hall, when, to use 
 the words of Lord Houghton (in the same place, 
 January 22, 1875), 'George Smythe astonished 
 liis Conservative friends by his avowal of the 
 principles of Free Trade, and Mr. Disraeli uttered 
 those sentences of weight and eloquence which 
 inaugurated his great career.' Every part of the 
 vast hall was crammed with listeners, and the 
 platform was crowded with celebrities, very many 
 
 * One of his speeches, made at an election dinner at 
 Canterbury, was warmly praised by the lirst Lord Abinger 
 — himself the most severe of critics, uniting in his memory 
 the speeches of Erskine, Sheridan, Pitt, Fox, and Canning. 
 
 VOL. L a
 
 xviii A Brirf JLnnoir of 
 
 of whom liave already passed away. He said : - 
 
 ' Men of jNIanchester, you have arisen to do honour 
 to letters in a land where too httle lionour has heen 
 done to letters. "With a spirit worthy of a younger and 
 freer age, you have resolved to offer to the author and 
 the man of letters a reward of a simpler and less sordid 
 character than the mere hire of this newspaper, or tlie 
 pay of that review ; or, with intentions yet more far- 
 sighted and profound, you may have resolved to correct 
 some of these, the anomalies of a country which is 
 governed by its journals, but where the names of its 
 journalists are never mentioned ; of a country where, 
 by the most unhappy of inversions, it is the invention 
 which makes the fortune and the inventor who starves ; 
 of a country where, if the men of science aspire to the 
 highest honours which you have to bestow — tlie suf- 
 frages of their fellow- citizens — those men of science will 
 poll by units where mere politicians will poll by hun- 
 dreds. It seems to me, men of ^Manchester, especially 
 meet and right and fitting that you should redress 
 these evils, because there is an old, an intimate, and a 
 natural alliance between literature and commerce. You 
 know what is passing among foreigners : you regard 
 -with sympathy the honours which abroad are paid to 
 literature. The very Ambass;\dors now sent to us from 
 foreign courts are so many reproaches for our neglect 
 of letters. AVho is the Ambassador from Ixussia ? — a 
 man who has risen by his pen. Who is the Ambas-
 
 George Sydney-Smythe. xix 
 
 sador from Sweden ? — an author and an historian of 
 British India. Who is the Ambassador from Prussia ? 
 ■ — an author and a professor. Who is the Ambassador 
 from Belgium ? — again a man who has risen by litera- 
 ture. Who is the Ambassador from France ? — an 
 author and an historian. Who is the Ambassador 
 from, I had almost said our fellow-countrymen, in 
 America ? — again, an author and professor. I will 
 venture to predict for the literature that shall result 
 from such a meeting as this — that shall be fostered and 
 encouraged by such sympathies as yours — a destiny yet 
 more lasting and auspicious, because it will not lean 
 upon the reed of patronage, it will not be patronised by 
 monarchs, it wdll not be flishioned by nobles, it will 
 not be confined to classes: it shall be free, independent, 
 imiversal and tolerant commerce. ... It is impossible 
 for anyone to have studied the history of the last half- 
 century without perceiving that INIanchester has ahvays 
 been foremost in the great work of national advance- 
 ment. You represent a great necessity ; I believe 
 there is a great work to do, and I believe that you will 
 do it. You have already carried your material triumphs 
 to the remotest corners of the earth ; you have also 
 remembered there was still another world to conquer. 
 Nor will your triumphs in this spiritual world be loss 
 remarkable because the same creative power which in 
 the world of action is called invention, and which aids 
 and serves and ministers to man — that same creative 
 power in the world of thought is called Genius, and
 
 XX A Brief Memoir of 
 
 governs and provides for man. But in either sphere, 
 be it of thought or of action, your object is ever the 
 same ; it is yonr high and holy mission to benefit man- 
 kind. There is nothing small, there is nothing exclu- 
 sive, there is nothing partial, nothing sectarian, in the 
 spirit of British Commerce. It was out of a temper a3 
 catholic, as universal, that the humanities first sprang ; 
 it Avill be out of a temper as catholic that here in the 
 metropolis of English enterprise great things will again 
 be done. . . . Out of the impulse given [by the founda- 
 tion of the Rhenish and the Hanseatic Leagues], out of 
 the spirit thus awakened, out of free commerce there 
 sprang free letters. ... It was the destruction of 
 monopolies in trade that proved the destruction of 
 monopolies in knowledge ; the emancipation of the one 
 proved the emancipation of the other. Here, then, in 
 a country as free .... with merchant princes ani- 
 mated with a munificence as large .... there shall be 
 to Manchester a renown as great as that of ^layence. 
 I speak not of your local munificence, but I see your 
 argosies and vessels daily laden, not with bales of 
 cottons and silks, but with goods which have no de- 
 clared or official value : they are laden with truths 
 borne from this free island which tend to elevate the 
 character of man ; they are laden with principles which 
 tend to unite all men in one fair confraternity of re- 
 ciprocal assistance. And when out of a spirit so 
 catholic, a power so universal, the old world shall have 
 again received one o£ those moral shocks which, like
 
 George Sydney -Smythe. xxi 
 
 printing or steam, throw it one stage forward on its 
 •career, when civilisation shall be one hour nearer its 
 meridian, you will remember that this meeting too had 
 some share in the work of progress ; because here 
 this very hour v;e are proclaiming the banns of a 
 marriage which represents the primeval alliance be- 
 tween the spirit and matter ; a marriage between the 
 industry which has conquered the world and overspread 
 it " as the waters cover the sea," and an intellect which 
 is young, of the people, and which by God's help shall 
 ■continue free.^ 
 
 Another remarkable speech, that may be read 
 even now with pleasure, was delivered in the 
 House of Commons upon the Maynooth Grant 
 in April 1845, when he launched forth in an 
 epigrammatic and elaborate composition. It was 
 full of raillery, at once fine and effective, remark- 
 able indeed as coming from so young an orator. 
 This speech, which was of the highest practical 
 importance, renewed the old links between the 
 speaker and Sir Eobert Peel. Tlie transition of 
 December 1845 occasioned a scarcity of col- 
 leagues, and Sir Robert was too glad to offer the 
 Under-Secretaryship for Foreign Affairs to George 
 Smythe. Unfortunately he lost it in the follow-
 
 XXI i A Biief Memoir of 
 
 ing June by the retirement of Sir R. Peel. As 
 we have said before, he was not made of the stuff 
 that can become a steady ofiBcial servant, and in 
 his short tenure of office he did not exert himself 
 much. As the late Under-Secretary he might 
 after this have taken a prominent position as the 
 critic on every question of foreign policy in the 
 new Government. Many opportunities occurred 
 of which he might have availed himself with 
 advantage had he so willed. It seemed evident 
 that he was conscious of his inability to endure 
 the hard work, the roughness, the noise of the 
 British debating-house. Xo doubt physical weak- 
 ness had much to do with his inactivity and 
 apparent indifference, and perhaps more than 
 helped him to become so sensitive to the opinions 
 of others and so discontented with his o^vn position 
 that he allowed himself to sink into almost com- 
 plete silence. He did, however, deliver, early in 
 the session of 1847, a very fine speech upon the 
 conduct of Austria and Russia in the annexation 
 of Cracow, that was full of bold and forcible 
 images, and brilliant passages. 
 
 We will quote but one more of his speeches ; 
 one delivered on July C, 1847, at Canterbury,
 
 George Sydney-Smytlie. xxiii 
 
 when he presented himself for the third time 
 before the electors, and met with his habitual 
 success. 
 
 He began by regretting that a section of his 
 constituents had withdrawn their confidence from 
 him because of his votes in favour of religious 
 toleration (referring to his votes in favour of the 
 Maynooth Grant and the removal of Jewish 
 disabilities, and against the Ecclesiastical Titles 
 Bill), and said that perhaps tliese men would go 
 so far as their forefathers, who, according to the 
 records of the Canterbiay corporation, had in 
 1535 paid 14s. ScZ. for the expenses of bringing a 
 heretic from London, wdth 2iL for wood to burn, 
 \d» for gunpowder, and Sd. for a stake and 
 staple : — 
 
 ' But there is this diiFerence between the two cases : 
 whereas the victim of former days suffered for a creed 
 to which he heroically witnessed, the victim of these 
 days suffers for a creed which he does not, cannot, will 
 not entertain. Nay, I venture to believe that when 
 the religious heats of the election shall have passed 
 away, my opponents will doubt whether I am not the 
 l)etter Protestant in the inmost and truest sense of the 
 word — I, who against such odds, assert the right of 
 private judgment.'
 
 xxiv A Brief Memoir of 
 
 With regard to the charge of liaving deserted 
 the Tory party : — 
 
 * I desert the Tory party ? Why, my sole regret is 
 for the youth, the earnestness, the enerp:}', and the 
 passion with Avhich as a mere boy I asserted before you 
 the seeming paradox that the Tory party was the party 
 of progress and of tlie people ! I>ut Avhat is this Tory 
 party ? What are its principles, its traditions, its illus- 
 trations, its oracles ? Is it a mere chorus of whiners, 
 who in all times, all places, all seasons, have whined 
 and whimpered, and canted and cried for a yesterday ? 
 Are the principles of the Tory party to be reduced to 
 the negation of the " No Popery " cry ? Are the tradi- 
 tions of the Tory party the traditions of Titus Gates, 
 or even of Sacheverell ? Is its illustration the flame 
 of Lord George Gordon's mob ? Are its oracles the 
 echo speech upon Penenden Heath, or the hiccoughs 
 of Pitt Clubs ? Or is the Tory party a succession of 
 heroic spirits, beautiful and swift, ever in the van and 
 foremost of their age — Hobbes and Bolingbroke, Hume 
 and Adam Smith, Wyndham and Cobham, Pitt and 
 Grenville, Canning and Huskisson ? Are the principles 
 of the Tory party those popular rights which men like 
 WifFen and Hynde Cotton flung in the face of an alien 
 monarch and liis mushroom aristocracy ? -^Vre the tradi- 
 tions of the Tory party thenoblest pedigree in the world, 
 that long line of democratic measures which begin with 
 the Habeas Corpus Act and end with Corn Law repeal ?
 
 Geon/e Srjd.neij-Smytlie. xxv 
 
 Are the illustrations that glorious martyrology which 
 opens with the name of Falkland and closes with the 
 name of Canning ? . . . . "When I am accused of 
 having departed from true Toryism, I claim asylum, I 
 take sanctuary in the tomb of William Pitt — not the 
 Pitt of mythology and of Pitt Clubs, but the Pitt of 
 history, the Pitt of immortality. He defeated, if he 
 could not conquer, a narrow, a selfish, a grasping, and 
 a monopolising aristocracy ; he raised the commercial 
 class to those high places Avhich in a commercial 
 country are their heritage ; he enacted those measures 
 of free trade which he had inherited in theory from 
 Adam Smith and in practice from Bolingbroke ; he 
 sympathised with those great spirits in 1780 in France, 
 whose production still governs the world, and M'hose 
 memory still fills it ; he forecast a large measure of 
 conciliation to Ireland ; and when, defeated by bigotry 
 in high places, he was prevented from enforcing it, he 
 resigned. Such were the principles of that great 
 master. I learned them in the story of his life, and by 
 a diligent study of his speeches ; and if I am wrong, I 
 can only say that I would rather be wrong with Pitt 
 than right with those who profane his memory and 
 blaspheme his great name.' 
 
 On the subject of his opposition to Sir Robert 
 Peel, he says : — 
 
 * I came in with others, full of liot thoughts and
 
 xxvi A Brief Memoir of 
 
 ardent speculations, and we sat by men "who, forsooth, 
 are now patriots, but who then liad but one rule, Avhich 
 adapted itself to all tilings, to all measures, to all 
 debates, to all votes — the will of the sole minister. 
 When persons were thus substituted for principles, 
 personalities became a duty with those who wished to 
 substitute principles for persons. " I am no more 
 ashamed of having been a republican," said Mr. Southey, 
 " than of having been a boy ; " and I am no more 
 ashamed of having used strong language against the 
 Minister than I am of having been young. But now 
 that I appear before you to render an account of my 
 parliamentary conduct, I would fain take this oppor- 
 tunity of making an apology to a great man — a great 
 man who has since shown that his heart was all tlie 
 while with the people. But if I now regret this strong 
 language — now here before you — I do not regret its 
 occasion, for it was always used in defence of English 
 liberties.' 
 
 Of Lord John Eussell be says : — 
 
 * Notwithstanding the greatness of his position, and 
 the still greater greatness within himself, I may perhaps 
 be permitted to say — I who have that Sydney blood in 
 my veins which was shed on the same scaffold with his 
 Ivussell blood in defence of the liberties of England — 
 that he remembers too much and too often that he is a 
 Kussell and a Whig, and too little and too late that he
 
 George Sydney-Smythe. xxvii 
 
 is the Prime Minister of a country •which is most 
 heartily and thoroughly sick of the barren inanities of 
 party.' 
 
 He hinted in this speech at his intention of 
 becoming a journalist ; an intention which he 
 put into execution in the following year. To-day 
 this seems a most natural and ordinary occupa- 
 tion ; but in those days, not thirty years ago, it 
 was quite extraordinary : in fact George Smythe 
 was the first member of the aristocracy who be- 
 came a steady contributor to the press ; the first 
 man of rank who became definitely and habitually 
 connected with a daily newspaper. The friends 
 of Sir Kobert Peel had bought the ' Morning 
 Chronicle ' as their organ, and from this time for 
 two or three years its columns bristled with the 
 coruscations of George Smythe and Mr. A. 
 Hayward. Mr. Disraeli regretted or appeared to 
 regret deeply this misplaced industry, for un- 
 happily from 1847 to 1852 his old friend and 
 pupil committed a sort of Parliamentary suicide, 
 and but rarely rose in his place to speak. 
 
 In 1852 the Whigs succumbed to a compli- 
 cation of adverse circumstances, and the Govern-
 
 xxviii A Brief Memoir of 
 
 ment of Lord Derby liad recourse to a dissolution 
 at the end of the summer. After a great deal of 
 unfortunate excitement, resulting in a duel,* about 
 which vastly too much was said, George Smythe 
 and his colleague both lost their elections, and 
 his career in the House of Commons terminated. 
 One more opportunity of retrieving the mistakes of 
 his past life then occurred to him — Lord Aberdeen, 
 in January 1853, offered liim a place in his 
 Government. The fatal, because now irreparable 
 error, was again, and for the last time, committed : 
 in accepting office he would have avoided the 
 abyss of inaction, so inevitably destructive to a 
 temperament such as his. Whether from an 
 increase of the indolence which was natiu-al to his 
 hereditarily weak constitution, or from the dying 
 out of the ambition which enriched and elevated 
 his earlier years, he declined to take office, and 
 his public and political life was henceforth at an 
 end. It had begun full of promise, — it ended 
 
 ^ The duel was fought at 'Weybridge, and was rendered 
 ridiculous by some absurd attendant circumstances. It is 
 only remarkable as having been about the last duel fought 
 in England.
 
 George Sydney-Smythe. xxix 
 
 bare of fruits. Perhaps the best summing up of 
 his life is the expression used by one of the most 
 worthy and now distinguished of his college 
 friends : ' G-eorge Smythe was a splendid failure.^ 
 There is but little more to be told. When a 
 man's ambition is dead, he has ceased to believe 
 in himself, and the rest is but the gloaming of 
 evening, to be passed in the pleasures of society 
 and friendship. These, indeed, were not wanting 
 to Greorge Smythe : few men have ever been more 
 loved and delighted in than he. His quick sym- 
 pathies and sensitive nature, his extensive though 
 superficial knowledge, and his ready flow of con- 
 versation made him tlie pleasantest of com- 
 panions : there are those of his friends yet left 
 behind who speak of how he would keep them in 
 talk till they utterly forgot how time had slipped 
 away, and found the minutes they thought had 
 elapsed had changed into hours. ]Mr. Disraeli, 
 with the pen of a partial friend, writing of liim 
 several years after his death, still describes him 
 as ' a man of brilliant gifts, of dazzling wit, infi- 
 nite cidture, and fa-cinating manners.' There 
 was a briglit, deferential sweetness of manner
 
 XXX A Brief Memoir of 
 
 :about him wliich conveyed at once and equally 
 the idea of his wish to please his companions, and 
 of tlieir power to please him. Yet with all this, 
 and witli a stronof fibre of love and tenderness in 
 his heart, there was an underlying current of 
 bitterness within, wliich he either would not or 
 perhaps could not control. He had more wit than 
 humour, and a natural gift of satire that he 
 inherited had been assiduously cultivated by his 
 fatlier. Too much so ; for at any time, when the 
 spirit seized him, he would turn his nearest and 
 dearest friend roimd upon the spit of his ridicule, 
 while yet, all the time, he was adoring that friend 
 in his heart. He loved many, and was loved by 
 more, for he was irresistibly winning and charm- 
 ing, and those who loved him were often blind to 
 his sliortcomings, forgave him his many faults, 
 and mourn him yet as tenderly as when first he 
 passed away from their companionship. 
 
 Born of a delicate family, his constitution too 
 soon gave way imder the wear and tear of a 
 restless and irregular life. When lie was called 
 to the House of Lords in May 185.5, he was 
 already failing in licalth ; and although it was 
 at one time hoped tl.at tlie progress of the disease
 
 George Sijdney-Smythe. 
 
 XXXI 
 
 (consumption) which overtook him might l)e 
 arrested by travelling and change of climate, it 
 was found that no remedy could avail, and he 
 died in England November 23, 1857. 
 
 E. Straxgford. 
 
 10 Chapel Street, Pakk Laxe.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 PEOLOGUE I. 
 
 1755. 
 
 There are but two events in History : the Siege of Troy 
 and the French Eevolution. — Disraeli. 
 
 NUN kneeling and weej^ing within 
 an Oratory. Ilonester and bit- 
 terer tears were never shed, for 
 they are over charms which have ceased 
 to conquer and for a beauty which has lost 
 its fascination. Our story, at any rate, 
 opens with a truth. In the whole category 
 of human vanity, what grief more sincere 
 shall be found than that provoked by ' the 
 sere and yellow leaf of a woman's attrac- 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 tions ? Yet, in all time, of all that paintiDg 
 and sculpture, poetry, love-song, romance, or 
 history have handed down, it would not be 
 easy to recall lineaments so severely fiiult- 
 less, eyes so languidly winning, hand and 
 foot as perfect, small ways as graceful, and 
 a grand manner as superb as those of 
 Madame de Pompadour. Something of 
 Aphrodite and something of Eve she 
 sug-orests. A little still of the one wdth the 
 apple in her hand, spiting two goddesses, 
 and breakini? (Enone's heart ; but far more 
 of the otlier with the taste of the apple 
 still upon her lips, looking back wistfully 
 to Paradise, and seeing the flaming sword 
 which menaces her away. 
 
 Are her features wan and w^oru by 
 ceaseless vigil? arc her lips white by 
 constant pressure of those pearl-like teeth 
 to make them rose-red for a satiated Lord ?
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 Yet tlie idolatry of art itself refines, the 
 worship of the beautiful renders beautiful. 
 Weep, poor Marquise ! If you have one sin 
 upon your soul which divines anathematize 
 -and moralists rebuke, many a man of 
 letters is there in his garret, many an artist 
 in his sordid studio, poor men of genius, 
 'to whose creations your taste has given life, 
 in whose hearts your sympathy has inspired 
 courage, to whose homes your cliarity has 
 administered bread. 
 
 Weep, poor Marquise ! though born in 
 the middle class, and therefore still unfor- 
 given of the highest, because you broke 
 through their monopoly of giving mistresses 
 to kings, you loved and cherished the 
 lowest, when, true to nature, it sought to 
 aspire. For therein lay a sympatliy. Did 
 not you, too, hold the scales of the European 
 balance with those white hands on whicli 
 B 2
 
 ANGELA riSAXI. 
 
 Maria Theresa so often, not without object, 
 kissed cousinly caresses ? ^Yeep, poor 
 Marquise ! And do not you, reader ! 
 either laugh or plume yourself in Phari- 
 saical reproof, if living in a far more 
 hypercritical age, you refuse to understand 
 the motives of her genuine and natural 
 distress. 
 
 Broken by melodious sobbing, her wail 
 ran incoherently thus : — 
 
 ' !N'o, no, I can no longer deceive my- 
 self ; 'tis not a question of costume. What 
 can be so beautiful as the proud array of a 
 secular of Eemiremont, the noblest of 
 orders? The plaited diadem, the dark 
 ermine-doubled mantle, tlie white cincture, 
 the azure robe adorn me unhappiest, and all 
 in vain ! Yet Louis is a judge ! when fii^st 
 he surprised me as a Jacobinc, with the 
 fawn-streaked stole upraised to show an
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 ankle hymned in so many madrigals ; and 
 tlien in all the grand Dominican antithesis 
 of Avhite and black. I succeeded as a 
 Feuillantine, too, in my dark grey dress, 
 with the ebon edgings, and the silver cross 
 in tissue in a bower at Versailles ! Ah, how 
 I hate the very name of Feuillants and of 
 Jacobins now : may their curse lie heavy on 
 his children's children as they do on my 
 poor heavy heart ! 
 
 ' As a Miramione, too, but a year ago, 
 with tlie long dark dress, the darker 
 kerchief, and the snow-white lappets ! — 
 never since the first days, he said, had he 
 thought me so perfectly divine ; and then 
 in the auburn gown, with the shadowy 
 coiffure of the haughty order, how could I 
 have failed as a Lady of Fontevrault ? 
 
 ' Alas, alas, my many failures ! As a 
 Xun of tlie Ten Virtues, in the gorgeous
 
 38 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 — rolling her head round like a ma^nad^ 
 -with the glare of a tigress in lier eye — she 
 rushed upon Sophie Momoro and placed a 
 pistol to lier forehead. 'One step more, 
 one liand u[)on me, and I Ijlow out the 
 brains of this dainty quean I ' 
 
 The boldest recoiled in horror. 
 
 ' Right, quite right, my masters ! A 
 pretty morsel isn't she — l^rave Odalisques- 
 all — beautiful to look upon. Ha ! wliere 
 is Eose Lacombe ? Avhere is Aspasie Carle- 
 megelie ? And not to have asked poor 
 Theroigne de Mericourt. Great lords — high 
 seigneurs as you are, you liave no taste, 
 you are but food for the galleys, the bagnio, 
 and tlic prison, where you have been, 
 Gracchus ! And you, Collot ! Ila, lia, ha 1 
 EoG^ues all ! rocjues all ! 
 
 ' To think that I Avas once better than 
 any of yon idols ; ay, better,' she muttered,
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 with a flash of happy memories awhile 
 softening her seamed, haggard, bloated and 
 horrible features, 'better, better! when I 
 said my prayers night and morning at my 
 mother's knee — for I was once religious — 
 which you are not, my Sophie, or you would 
 not have been married as you were. And 
 then all the young men's homage to the 
 beautiful Walloon ! And the golden sun 
 in the valley of the Meuse, with the sweet 
 companionship of untranslated thoughts and 
 venial vanities, and maiden shame, shame : 
 do ye hear it, shameless ? 
 
 ' And then the silver moon and summer 
 shade, with the loved one by ; and the long 
 resistance, and false aversion, and faint nays, 
 and ardent love vows. You have all known 
 that. And the two white arms convulsive 
 round his neck, tighter and tighter — sham 
 type of illusive eternity — in vain ! And
 
 ANGELA PISANI, 
 
 ' Etiennette and Anais, you may retire ! 
 Send me my doctor.' 
 
 The attendants liad scarcely time to 
 withdraw before Madame de Pompadour's 
 physician, tlie celebrated Quesnoy, entered. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' he asked with charac- 
 teristic rudeness, but with a real sympathy 
 in his tone. 
 
 ' Ah, Doctor,' said the Marquise, who 
 iiad no secrets from him, ' another fiasco ! ' 
 And the tears again raced fast and freely 
 down, as she held out a white arm (which did 
 not want it) for the slightest breath oipoudre 
 a Vlmpiratrice to l)e blown upon it, while she 
 at the same time economised in motion by 
 offering her pulse to her physician. And as 
 he looked enquiringly, and not without solici- 
 tude, on her Hushed brow jmd fevered colour- 
 ing, like all women when man's love is ebb- 
 ing from them, she turned back to the past.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 ' Do you remember that night, Doctor, 
 when you and I and Hausset saved his life ; 
 when he was at the last gasp ; Avhen he 
 fainted five times before we could brincj him 
 to himself, when his hrst words on wak- 
 ing were, " Ah, Toinette ! " and his first 
 wish that he might be well for my 
 sake ! Alas, alas ! it is the exact opposite 
 now ! ' 
 
 ' Poverina I ' said Quesnoy, with the 
 familiarity of an elder brotlier. 
 
 ' But what am I to do ? ' asked the 
 Marquise. 
 
 ' Philtres are gone out since Madame do 
 Brinvilliers,' answered the Doctor ; ' I can 
 do nothing.' 
 
 " A has le matter — away with your pro- 
 fession. I ask your advice as a man of 
 sense — for you are one, in s})ite of all your 
 crotchets ; ' and Madame de Pompadour put
 
 10 ANGELA PISAM. 
 
 a small taper hand upon Quesnoy's black 
 riband of St. Michel: 'You are a man of 
 sense.' 
 
 Still preserving his ' Peasant of the Da- 
 nube ' manner, abusing all tliose privileges 
 whicli an original always loves to parade, 
 the physician took a pinch of very strong 
 snuff, and asked his patient in a gruff and 
 artificially brutal voice, ' Shall I tell you m}' 
 mind ? ' 
 
 'Why not?' 
 
 Shaking three or four grains of Spanish 
 mixture from liis contraband ruffles, M. 
 Quesnoy began, much in the fashion of the 
 most renowned of recent English statesmen, 
 ' You have three courses to pursue.' 
 
 Madame la Marquise lifted up her e3'e- 
 brows. ' But three ! Go on. Monsieur.' 
 
 This time she beat the ground with feet 
 whicli (if those of Thetis were of silver)
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 11 
 
 should have been modelled in gold to make 
 posterity despair. 
 
 ' You can go into devotion,' said Ques- 
 noy. 
 
 'Thank you ! I have twenty years before 
 me ; besides, I have no intention of taking- 
 Heaven for a tliird iuisband, hke Madame 
 de Maintenon, or for a second, like Madame 
 de Mailly.' 
 
 ' Madame de Maill}-,' repeated the phy- 
 sician, with severe sadness. The Marquise 
 understood a reproacli which was meant 
 to convey a possibility of prophecy ; and 
 for a moment on either side there was 
 silence. 
 
 ' Perhaps my second prescription may suit 
 you better : take a lover ; make him jealous.' 
 
 'Whom shall I take?' 
 
 ' Come with me and Hausset there to the 
 most voluptuous of Courts ; and if Augustus
 
 12 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 tlic Third lias a spark of his father's spirit, 
 your beauty ^vill be more extravagantly 
 celebrated than was ever that — if that is 
 possible — of Aurora of Koeiiigsmark.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ! Did you ever hear what 
 was rather blasphemously said by tlie Em- 
 peror Maximihan ? That if he was God the 
 Father, and had two sons, the eldest should 
 succeed him in heaven : but that the second 
 should be King of France. Now, I am 
 much of the German's opinion about Trance/ 
 
 ' Take a Frenchman, then, Choiseul, De 
 Berni, Lauragnais, Bernard Mole the actor, 
 anybody ? ' 
 
 ' Connii.^,' said Madame de Pompadoiu', 
 with half a smile and half a si^-h I ' Thev 
 are of no use. Besides, Louis can't be jea- 
 lous : he was spoilt too early by women 
 making love to him ; it is onl}' men who 
 make love to Avomen who are jealous.'
 
 ANGELA riSAXI. 13 
 
 'Madame, yon speak frankly. May I 
 speak as frankly ? ' 
 
 The great lady bowed licr bcautifid 
 liead. 
 
 ' My third conrse is grave, and if I 
 did not really believe yon, Madame, as 
 great as Semiramis, and greater than Zeno- 
 bia (I am talking like yonr own charlatan 
 Voltaire!), I shonld not ventnre upon it. 
 You put me in mind of some favoured and 
 fertile land which pines and languishes for a 
 particular merchandise ; but governed by 
 wrong commercial principles, you never will 
 attaiji the object you have in view.' 
 
 ' Ah, there you are Avith those wondcr- 
 fnl free-trade theories of yours which no- 
 body but yourself and that semi-Italian of a 
 Mirabeau can possibly understand.' 
 
 ' Like a country,' pursued Quesuoy, im- 
 perturbably, ' on Colbert's absurd system,
 
 14 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 you think only of imports. Leave the im- 
 ports to take care of tliemselves.' 
 
 ' Wliat oiic^^ht I to care for ? ' 
 
 ' Exports ! You want a special article, 
 the love of Louis Quinze ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, bah ! you are getting really stupid.' 
 
 ' His treasure ? ' 
 
 Madame de Pompadour laughingly shook 
 her head. There was a pause. 
 
 ' Listen, Monsieur. If Louis were in 
 exile, poor, living from hand to mouth, like 
 those miserable Stuarts, I — you know me — 
 could be i]^rand as Ao'ues Sorel, heroic as 
 Jeanne d'Arc. But he is the first monarch 
 in Europe, and you ask me if I want liis 
 purse — I ! Eead that letter. I have just 
 refused, you see, to buy the Principality of 
 Neuchatel, because I love France, I live 
 with France, I govern France, I am France ! 
 
 ' Look at that picture I it represents a
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 15 
 
 Cardinal in liis culmination of authority. 
 How modest and quiet Fleury appears, al- 
 most feminine, an Agnes — is it not so ? But 
 look above, and you will see the fausse 
 Agnes. See how admirably that drapery is 
 disposed — who can mistake those folds — 
 who cannot distinsjuish that crown ^ of 
 France which for so many years he actually 
 wore? My petticoats are worth a Cardinals.* 
 
 ' Are they ? ' said Quesnoy, drily ; ' then 
 remember what I never cease to remind you 
 of, the state paper of Cardinal Dubois.' 
 
 ' What ! that the convocation of States 
 General means a Eevolution ? - I read it 
 once a month to Louis XV. While I live I 
 will guarantee its counsel.' 
 
 ' Madame,' said Quesnoy, with real ad- 
 
 ' This picture is now in tlie Esterbazy Gallery at 
 Vienna. 
 
 '^ The State paper exists.
 
 10 ANGELA PISAXI 
 
 miration of tliat daugliter of the Middle 
 Class, who took such pains to tliwart its in- 
 terest, ' You arc in love with power. Listen 
 to me.' And lie continued, as full of his 
 theory as the lady of her sorrow : ' A 
 country should not care for its imports ; 
 your whole energy, mind, soul, Madame, 
 have been employed in importing power 
 from Louis the Fifteenth.' 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' You should look with the same vigi- 
 lance to your exports.' 
 
 ' Wliat can I export,' said Madame de 
 Pompadour, ' but myself — myself — myself?' 
 
 ' Toiijours jyerdriv. Here is a glut in 
 tlie market ; you want a parricidar article ; 
 rich as you are, in so many ways of export, 
 'tis a certainty that the suppl}^ will meet 
 your demand. If you want white port wine 
 you will have it, even if it should eventually
 
 ANGELA PISANI. if 
 
 arrive in the course of exchange from China 
 or Timbuctoo. Export ! — gently force your 
 market — not directly, but indirectly. You 
 will get your power ! ' 
 
 In speaking thus, in energetic talk, the 
 Marquise and the physician had approached 
 the window. Her incomparably superb ho- 
 tel ^ (the Hotel d'Evreux) looked over the 
 present Champs-Elysees. Both speakers 
 were for the moment absorbed by a very 
 pretty spectacle before them. A young 
 Seigneur of the Court, especially attached to 
 the service of the Marquise de Pompadour, 
 Prince Martial de Serisy, was leisurely em- 
 ployed in flinging cherries into the pretty 
 mouth of one of the most perfectly beautiful 
 maidens of fifteen it was possible to see. 
 If you belong to the North (gentle or un- 
 
 * Now the Elys6e. 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 ANGELA PISANI, 
 
 gentle reader) believe her seventeen. Ques- 
 noy and Madame de Pompadour had time 
 to examine her animated features, all intent 
 upon her game. Both of them, experienced 
 judges of physiology, were struck by the 
 fact that they were in tlie presence of a capo 
 d opera of Nature ; but of Xature ^^'ith her 
 eyes downwards, thinking of earth and not 
 of Heaven. With her saucy little air, the 
 very smallest of jaunty heads, crowned by 
 hair as black as tlie Erebus at which her 
 eyes were demoniacally lit, a nose the most- 
 delicately impertinent, a mouth arched and 
 disdainful as that of Venus when lookini:^ at 
 her husband, tlie shortest of petticoats, 
 clocked green stockings, with a broad rose 
 stripe, and the beginnings of a leg to charm 
 a cenobite, — she looked like tlie incarnation 
 of a naughty song of Parry, or a naughtier 
 picture of Greuze.
 
 AXGELA PISANI. 19 
 
 ' That is wliat you must export, Madame/ 
 said Quesnoy. 
 
 Madame de Pompadour smiled ; she Avas 
 artist enough to love to look on beauty, and 
 liow could she, who had moderated Europe, 
 be jealous of a child ? 
 
 ' Martial,' she called from tlie window, 
 ' come here.' 
 
 When the young ehevau-leger was in 
 the apartment, she asked, carelessly, ' Whence 
 did you fish that chef-d'oeuvre of the Devil ? ' 
 
 'Madame,' said the Prince Martial, in- 
 clining far lower to the Queen of Art than 
 lie would have done to his own Polish Queen 
 (from whom the Bourbons have derived all 
 their bad blood, half their fat, and half their 
 misfortunes), ' she comes from your estate of 
 Menars.' 
 
 ' Show her in.' 
 
 The young peasant knelt down upon
 
 20 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 entering, and covered her eyes in unfeigned 
 admiration, Slie held a bouquet of ^vhite 
 lilies in her hand, and tendered it in vassal 
 homage to the Marquise. Madame de Pom- 
 padour, always calm, collected, and the 
 model of a great lady, thanked her pretty 
 vilaine, but she beckoned to Hausset, who 
 took the flow^ers from the room. 
 
 'That child has begun badly,' thought 
 the waiting- woman, 'she has not borne to 
 look upon such a present since that atro- 
 cious epigram of de Maurepas.' 
 
 But Madame Hausset thought like a 
 waiting-woman. Nothing could be kinder 
 to her little guest than Madame de Pompa- 
 dour ; she encoiuraged by her voice, and won 
 by her eye. 
 
 'Wliat have you come for, ma miuf- 
 nonne ? ' 
 
 * You are,' said the prettiest of beggar-
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 maids, reading from a very dirty scroll, ' the 
 most liigli, most puissant, and most illustri- 
 ous Princess, Jeanne Antoinette, Ducliesse a 
 brevet^ a Grandee of Spain, first lady in wait- 
 ing to the Queen, Marchioness of Pompa- 
 dour, Countess of Menars, Baroness of Bret, 
 High Justiciary of Malvoisins, of St. Cyr, of 
 La Eoche, de la Eiviere, Saint Elve and 
 other places, Seigneur of Crecy, and St. 
 Ouen on the Seine.' 
 
 ' I believe I am all this,' said Madame 
 de Pompadour, laughing. 
 
 ' Well, Madame, may I marry Eobin ? ' 
 
 ' Why not, petite ? ' 
 
 ' Ah, dear Madame, you are the Seig- 
 neur of Crecy, but you are a woman, eh ? ' 
 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 'Well, your intendant M. Sanson de- 
 clares that as you are a woman, he has a 
 right to the Seigneur's right.'
 
 22 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Quesnoy and Madame de Ilausset ex- 
 changed smiles. 
 
 ' Ma toute-belle,' said Madame de Pom- 
 padour, ' I take the Seigneur's right to my- 
 self. Sit down on that tabouret there, like a 
 little duchess. So you love Eobin veiymuch?^ 
 
 ' Oh, very much.' 
 
 ' Then, what were you doing just now 
 with Martial de Serisy ? ' 
 
 'The officer in blue?' 
 
 ' Yes, the officer in blue.' 
 
 ' He promised me if I would catch ten 
 cherries in ten minutes, he would present me 
 to 3^our highness.' 
 
 ' Why do you love Eobin so nnich ? ' 
 asked Madame de Pompadour, with a very 
 feminine instinct. 
 
 After thinkiuG^ a little while, the m-aceful 
 rustic answered with admirable frankness — 
 for in a crisis human nature is generally
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 frank, unless it has too much to lose by it, 
 and she felt that she was at the crisis of her 
 destiny — ' Because Jeanne loves him, Colette 
 loves him, Margot loves him, the g entitle 
 Margot ! ' 
 
 'Ah?' 
 
 ' Because he dances better than Pierre 
 le Sauteur, and beat Jacques Grosse Tete at 
 the wrestling revel.' 
 
 ' Ma belle,' said the Marquise, coming to 
 the point, ' what do you think of the officer 
 in blue ? ' 
 
 The charming peasant grew red as one 
 of the cherries which she had whilom played 
 with, and if she had told her secret thoughts 
 might have confessed that ' Beautiful Paris, 
 evil-hearted Paris ' within four and twenty 
 hours had worked wonders of vicissitude. 
 But women are rarely frank in two successive 
 conjunctures — so she was quite silent.
 
 24 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' Here,' said Madame de Pompadour, ' are 
 a pair of pretty ear-rings, instead of those 
 horrors. I will put them in myself Ah,' 
 she continued, as she caressed the beautiful 
 and blushing face, ' that is worth a thousand 
 Eobins. What is your name ? ' 
 
 ' Lisette.' 
 
 ' And your mother's ? ' 
 
 ' Lisette.' 
 
 ' And your father's ? ' 
 
 'Eh?' 
 
 There had been three generations of 
 Lisettes without a father. This may have 
 accounted for the peasant's marvellous 
 beauty. Three generations of combined love 
 and discretion. 
 
 The poison of the great lady's speech 
 had entered into Lisette's soul, and she 
 smiled when Madame de Pompadour said, 
 
 ' Lisette, you belong to me.'
 
 ANGELA PISAM. 
 
 Tlie maiden curtsied, not too clumsily 
 but very low, and received in her little hand 
 a purse whicli might have bought half the 
 domain of Menars. 'You will go into a 
 very dull and sombre room (the Doctor here 
 will conduct you), and you will there find a 
 very handsome Prince yawning terribly. 
 And you will say that I have sent you to 
 teach him to play at Bob Cherry.' 
 
 It happened as Madame de Pompadour 
 designed. Lisette, like a little demon, 
 thoroughly mischievous and self-possessed, 
 entered the cabinet of Louis Quinze. She 
 found him (all the Bourbons are possessed 
 of the conscience of affairs) toiling, in hard 
 struggle with his Epicm^ean nature, over an 
 English report of Monsieur d'Eon. 
 
 ' I am sent by the Marquise,' faltered out 
 Lisette, but her very wicked eyes belied her 
 affected diffidence.
 
 26 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 Louis X^^ was so accustomed to surprises 
 tliat tlie moment lie heard a female voice 
 he cast down his eyes, and summoned back, 
 in acting, all the natural timidity of his 
 earher years. He thought it might be 
 Madame de Mirepoix or Madame de 
 Gramont over and over again. The great 
 ladies of his Court were as much in the 
 habit of playing the part of Sextus 
 Tarquinius as the Preobeajenski guards of 
 Catherine the Great. 
 
 Little Lisette, not disconcerted, pulled 
 out of her peasant pocket a silver piece, 
 and began to laugh, first of all quietly, then 
 innnoderately. 
 
 No man, even a king, can long stand 
 beincj lauulied at. 
 
 'What is the matter?' he asked, and 
 fixing his eyes on Lisette, he felt that he 
 had never seen more diabolic beauty
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 27 
 
 enhanced by all the charms of angelic 
 youth. 
 
 ' You are as like this livre as two drops 
 of water,' said Lisette, still laughing, her teeth 
 ghstening between her lips, like the froth 
 of summer waves w^hen they half blush 
 and half chafe beneath the sun's looking on. 
 
 ' If I am like that livre, you are hke half 
 a million,' said the most generous of kings. 
 
 The beautiful peasant taught Louis 
 Quinze ' Bob Cherry,' and the result was that 
 the Pare aux Cerfs began with Lisette. 
 Eleven months afterwards a little boy was 
 born, and Madame de Pompadour tossed 
 up with Louis Quinze the identical livre 
 which had inaugurated his infidelities whether 
 the young demi-louis should be called 
 Denain or Fontenoy. The choice of 
 victories was not great with the King of 
 France and Navarre.
 
 28 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' Heads for Fontenoy, tails for Denain.' 
 The coin span higli, quivered in the air, 
 
 fell on its edge, and rolling long on its sharp 
 
 silver rim, at last came up Fontenoy. 
 
 Therefore, of course, somehow or other, tlie 
 
 child came to be called Denain.
 
 ANGELA PISAM. 29 
 
 PEOLOGUE II. 
 
 >E are in the fall swing of the 
 French Ee volution. There is 
 an immense supper at the 
 Cafe Corazza, then tlie habitual, as since 
 the frequent, resort of democratic agitators. 
 Our time is about tlie hrst anniversary of the 
 Convention; our scene — to judge from the 
 red wine stains upon a cloth glared upon by 
 innumerable lustres — tlie end of a Bacchanal 
 excess. Many notabilities are there. The 
 Girondins have passed away ; some of 
 them to the guillotine, all of them from 
 Paris. The immortal feud between the
 
 30 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 Hebertists and the Dantonists (which 
 Eobespierre so studiously fostered) has 
 begun ; and all tlie metropolitan parties of 
 progress, severally liating each other, are at 
 least externally united. 
 
 At the head of tlic table is seated 
 Ilebert himself, his delicate and almost 
 feminine symmetry of feature singularly 
 contrasting with his atrocious reputation. 
 Among men of blood, this contrast is often 
 found ; the beauty of Dundee was more 
 than womanly, and (always saving the 
 terrible hp) positively girlisli. Voltaire, in 
 ^iceptical derision, asks in the Essai sur les 
 Mceurs how Moses could be called tlie 
 ' meekest of all men ' after what lie is pleased 
 to term these ' astounding butclieries.' 
 The sneer is superficial, and the reasoning 
 illogical. At the foot sat the Marquis do 
 Sade (the last scandal of human nature
 
 .\NGELA PISANI. 31 
 
 rsince the Marshal de Eetz), then a secretary 
 to the Commune, and fully appreciating the 
 liberty which the patriots of '89 and the 
 Ml of the Bastille and its accessory prisons 
 liad restored to him. The names of the 
 Chairman and Vice-chairman suffice to 
 indicate the nature of the feast : it was tiie 
 Great Eevolution materialized into its 
 lowest expression, below Marat — below 
 what recent disclosures have shown to be 
 worse — below Danton. At the outset of 
 the banquet, David and Dubois Crance 
 had played the fine gentleman and had 
 talked costume ; as the wine Avarmed, 
 Gracchus Babeuf (who had been in prison 
 for forgery) had got into an anti-theo- 
 pliilanthropic argument with Lepaux, and 
 ]iad nearly knocked down Momoro for 
 presuming to agree with liim. A cynical 
 paradox was political capital As the
 
 .32 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 evening closed, Collot d'Herbois (like a 
 serpent Avith the hiss within him) had 
 glided into all tlie slime of those sanguinary 
 intentions which he was destined so soon lo 
 execute. 
 
 No ! we are not wrong — to have given 
 precedence to tlie men at sucli an enter- 
 tainment! Yet lovelier women — women 
 more chosen for their loveliness — had perhaps 
 never met tog^ether. Four cjoddesses are 
 here — three of Eome, one of Athens. Tliat 
 Juno-like and queenly figure, with a face 
 like Barbara Duchess of Cleveland, and 
 that magnificent amplitude of youthful 
 form, is the Maillard herself, tlie Goddess of 
 Eeason of Notre Dame. She has a purple 
 robe embroidered with the peacocks of her 
 Samian prototype, and the profusion of 
 jewels on her — armlets, anklets, bracelets — 
 might have vied with any the Du Barri or
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 33 
 
 Cleopatra ever wore. She, ignorant of her 
 own hard future, is making love to 
 Chaumette, who was to die before ten 
 months. J^ot far off her is Sophie Momoro 
 with the Phrygian bonnet — the lance — the 
 pose to whicii she was so accustomed — 
 suggesting another English resemblance, 
 that of Miss Stuart, the model on our copper 
 coins of Charles the Second's Britannia. 
 The third cleesse is the celebrated Aubry.' 
 She, too, has chosen the Eoman costume. 
 Her dress is of that diaphanous and mar- 
 vellous silk to which Gibbon has dedicated 
 so many eloquent pages, the ventus texiilis 
 of Petronius. It glistens, gorgeous and 
 alight with golden palm leaves, and might 
 have cost almost as much as the ruby rings 
 upon her diminutive feet. 
 
 But the beauty of the fete was un- 
 doubtedly the deesse of the day, the 
 VOL. L D
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Citoyenne Athenais. In Greek attire, she 
 Avore no adornments but tlie simple gold 
 grasshopper in her braided liair — cinctured, 
 like the first of cities, with a crown of 
 violets. Iler transparent tunic of the 
 lightest batiste allowed those charms to be 
 seen, which she could not otherwise, even 
 with the freedom of that dress, ostensibly 
 display. It was only confined by a narrow 
 ribbon of red cord round her waist to 
 match the scarlet woollen of lier sandal 
 ligatures. She had been married after the 
 fashion of the day — had given another 
 citizen to Paris — and quite naturally was 
 sitting at table with the husband who had 
 abandoned her, the best possible finends in 
 the world. 
 
 The decencies of modern composition for- 
 bid us to lift tlie veil from this, in its time, 
 not exceptionally iiidecent orgie. Suffice it
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 35 
 
 to remark that the heads of the ladies had 
 been turned in the morning, whirled round 
 and round the whole cycle of vanity, and 
 when are ladies more amiable than after 
 such gyrations ? Seated upon four golden 
 thrones, each of them environed by not less 
 than two hundred beautiful nymphs, they 
 had presided in the old churches and 
 cathedrals of the Catholic religion. They 
 had breathed incense, which had been 
 swung before them ; and had heard hymns 
 •chanted in their praise. The sandals of 
 Athena'is had been distributed and devoured 
 by a crowd of idolaters. But as both Coupe 
 (de rOise) and Julien (de Toulouse) 
 happened to be present, it was admitted by 
 the company that Sophie Momoro had 
 enjoyed the greatest triumph. She had 
 been deified at the old chiurch of St. Andre- 
 vdes-Arts, and had administered revolutionary
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 absolution botli to the Protestant and to 
 the Cathoh(; clergymen who had come to 
 her altars. Coupe and Julien had de- 
 clared themselves impostors, had (unlike 
 the Eoman Augurs) laughed in each other's 
 faces, and had solemnly professed that both 
 confessions, Protestant and Cathohc, only 
 subsisted throu^-h the charlatanism and 
 craft of priests ! 
 
 It would have been difficult to match 
 tliis incident in its revolting blasphemy 
 against accepted creeds ; but Athenais w^as 
 preparing to cap it by the narration of 
 what had occurred to herself at St. Eoch, 
 wlien the doors of the cabinet were suddenly 
 thrown open with a roar, as of a ^vild beast 
 breaking from its cage. The creature who 
 bounded into the room, notwithstanding- 
 her attire, which might have belonged to 
 either sex, seemed hardly human. But in
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 spite of the faded finery of her piratical 
 costume, she was a woman stilL Her dress 
 blazoned gorgeously forth the tricolour of 
 the Eevolution : a jacket of blue velvet, 
 a broad white scarf at the waist, and 
 trowsers of scarlet cloth tight tied above 
 the hottine ; two pistols conspicuous in lier 
 girdle, and a sabre clashing at her side. 
 Curiously enough, however, tlie hat was a 
 la Henri 7F., with long chivalric plume. 
 
 Her appearance was the signal for a 
 spontaneous storm of yells, howls, hisses, 
 and execrations from the guests assembled. 
 
 ' She-Devil ! ' ' Brute ! ' ' Reactionnaire F 
 ' Girondinel' 'Aristocrat! ' 'Tlieroigne ! ' ' To 
 the cage, to tlie pillory with her ! ' 'A la 
 lanterne — the Federalist ! ' 
 
 The men of tlie party rose from tlieir 
 seats with one impulse to surround and 
 seize her ; but with a wild maniacal laudi
 
 38 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 — rolling her head round like a niosnad^ 
 witli the glare of a tigress in her eye — she 
 rushed upon Sophie Momoro and placed a 
 pistol to lier forehead. ' One step more, 
 one hand u[)on me, and I blow out the 
 brains of this dainty quean I ' 
 
 The boldest recoiled in horror. 
 
 'Eight, quite right, my masters! A 
 pretty morsel isn't she — brave Odalisques. 
 all — beautiful to look upon. Ha ! where 
 is Eose Lacombe ? Avhere is Aspasie Carle- 
 megelie ? And not to have asked poor 
 Theroigne de Mericourt. Great lords — higli 
 seigneurs as you are, you liave no taste, 
 you are but food for the galleys, the bagTiio, 
 and the prison, where you have been^ 
 Gracchus ! And you, Collot I Ila, ha, ha I 
 Eoo^ues all ! roi^ues all ! 
 
 ' To think that I was once better than 
 any of yon idols ; ay, better,' she muttered,
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 89 
 
 witli a flash of happy memories awhile 
 softeniug her seamed, haggard, bloated and 
 horrible feahires, 'better, better! when I 
 said my prayers night and morning at my 
 mother's knee — for I was once rehgious — 
 which you are not, my Sophie, or you would 
 not have been married as you were. And 
 then all the young men's homage to the 
 beautiful Walloon ! And the golden sun 
 in the valley of the Meuse, with the sweet 
 companionship of untranslated thoughts and 
 venial vanities, and maiden shame, shame : 
 do ye hear it, shameless ? 
 
 ' And then the silver moon and summer 
 shade, with the loved one by ; and the long 
 resistance, and false aversion, and faint nays, 
 and ardent love vows. You have all known 
 that. And the two white arms convulsive 
 round his neck, tighter and tighter — sham 
 type of illusive eternity — in vain ! And
 
 40 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 then — everybody — Legion — the Devil and 
 all his courtiers ; but better than you, Chau- 
 mette — and you, Citoyen Xain, who be- 
 trayed Athenais, as I was betrayed. For 
 you are tlie Nadir of Hell ! And Pethion 
 and Populus ! Did somebody say Populus ? 
 Guleau said Populus w\as my lover in his 
 scoundrel paper, and where is his head now, 
 and his lieart now ? I stuck them both on 
 one pike — the heart half way down — and 
 bore them before his home's windows. 
 Which of you shall I treat as I did Guleau ? 
 Ha, ha, ha ! Cowards all, cowards all ! ' 
 
 She liad removed her pistol for a minute 
 from Sophie's brow, fixing her nails into 
 her shoulder with her other liand (like a 
 hawk's talons into one of Venus's prettiest 
 birds), while she slowly pointed lier pistol 
 at nearly every man's liead in tlie society. 
 They had spilt too much blood in a cowardly
 
 AXGELA PISAM. 41 
 
 way not to be cowards themselves. With 
 hoarse, hideous, insane triumph Tlieroigne 
 continued, pressing her pistol anew, and yet 
 closer than before, to the throbbing temple 
 of the fainting beauty : — 
 
 ' To-day, on tlie terrace of the Tuileries, 
 where I, the Queen of the Ptevolution, had 
 on the night of August jeered, and spat 
 upon, and flouted the woman Capet ; where 
 I had since paraded heads as fair as yours, 
 my mignonne^ in glorious proof of civisme ; 
 I, the beauty of Flanders, I, the wife of the 
 Eepubhc, I, the mistress of Pethion ! lie,' 
 she lowered her voice to a whisper, while 
 she rambled incoherently on, sobbing, 
 swearing, and shedding mad, miserable tears 
 — 'he lies dead, eaten by wolves; his heart, 
 niT/ heart gnawed out by him, they tell me, 
 kissed by the wolves, not by Theroigne — no, 
 never more. But to-day — on that very
 
 42 ANGELA PIS.IXI. 
 
 terrace — tlie furies, the furies ! — they 
 stripped, and gagged, and jeered, and flouted, 
 and spat on me as a Moderatist and a 
 Girondist. They flogged, and scourged, and 
 branded nie ; tlie stripes are on my body 
 and my soul. And now, you see I have 
 come here for a victim. I^want revenge; 
 I am tliirsty for blood, hungry like the 
 wc^lves — ha, ha, ha ! — which is the most 
 beautiful, my masters? — the most beautiful 
 ought of right to avenge Theroigne de 
 Mericourt ! Choose, my lords — vote, my 
 regicides : I vote for Sophie. But tall 
 Maillard there is very handsome, and black- 
 haired Aubry, and that Ariadne, Athenais 
 — v/hich shall it be ? Vote, Hebert ; good 
 father, Duchesne, vote ! ' 
 
 But she had no time to pursue her 
 savage allocution. A piercing scream, 
 answered by two more, awoke another
 
 ANGELA riSANI. 43 
 
 universal cry of horror. The Marquis de 
 Sacle — true to his infernal instincts — liad 
 stolen up covertly behind her, and had 
 plunged a sliarp instrument "which he always 
 carried, with him into her back. The sight 
 of blood always maddened him, and 
 he flung himself upon her, griping her 
 throat, tearing her hair, trampling on her 
 with the yells and clamours of a maniac. 
 At the same time, the pistol went off, its 
 contents lodging (in its diverted aim) in the 
 inimitable Phryne-like bosom of the Goddess 
 Athenais. A wild impassioned gesture — her 
 two arms flung up heavenwards — a long, 
 deep, terrible shriek, the death-rattle, and 
 all was over. 
 
 Hardly human, as most of the men were 
 assisting at this orgie, the sight of blood 
 bereft them even of their infinitesimal share 
 of humanity. They rushed upon Theroigne
 
 44 ANGELA TISANI. 
 
 witli barbarous blows and bestial injuries. 
 They struck, and trod, and ground her down 
 bencatli their brutish hoofs ; but ever and 
 anon in her insanity she raised herself up, and 
 cursed out from bleeding lips imprecations 
 as horiiblc as those of her assailants. With 
 proud, defiant air she mimicked witli her 
 arm tlie motion of tlie axe, and reminded 
 them of the days that were no more, when 
 she might have sent them all to the guil- 
 lotine. Urged by the report of fire-arms 
 and such a brouhaha of vociferation, the 
 Municipals arrived in time to save her life. 
 They consigned her to that mad-house 
 whence for five-and-twenty years she was 
 never to emerge. 
 
 Yet what Tlu'roigne de Mericourt said 
 was true. There liad been a day when she 
 midit have sent them all to the guillotine. 
 She had been the lashion, slie had enjoyed
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 45 
 
 lier hour of aggression, and had grossly 
 abused it. She had represented an idea. 
 She had seen it prominent in the van of the 
 Eevolution adored like a sacrament ; she had 
 lived to see it also for behind the la^^ofards 
 of the Eevolution, scouted by the very 
 sutlers in the rear. She had haramjued, 
 borne false witness, intrigued, insidted, slain, 
 assassinated as a Eevolutionist : she had 
 now been hissed, scoffed at, outraged, 
 beaten, scourged as a Moderatist. Inc\i- 
 table fate of all political ideas ! Oh ! to 
 teach the lesson to the fanatics of all sides — 
 Absolutists, Constitutionalists, and Socialists. 
 May it never come to that, ye English 
 propagandists (when American principles 
 shall have absorbed you as they must in 
 Europe), that the Anglo-trade idea shall be 
 hissed, derided, laughed at, proscribed and
 
 46 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 persecuted as a Moderatist like Theroigne 
 de Mericourt. 
 
 Xo unapt type of tlie Eevolutioii that 
 supper. For after the madness and the 
 death were to supervene the men of cunning. 
 The two individuals engaged almost alone in 
 conversation belong to Eobespierre. Him- 
 self he never feasted out of doors, he 
 never signed his name if he possibly could 
 help it. One is an ex -regular who was to 
 make some noise in tlie world, the Oratorian 
 Fouche ; the other has already been intro- 
 duced to our readers as the first natural son 
 <3f the Pare aux Cerfs. Prematurely bald, 
 with delicate, refined lineaments, pale face, 
 thin white lips, grey furtive eyes, and a 
 mouth of sarcasm, he seemed to have out- 
 lived the probabiUties of man's trust ; even, 
 if that be possible, the limits of woman's 
 <*redulity. He had just witnessed without
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 47 
 
 one muscle's motion his (civil) wife's assassi- 
 nation, not without thought of the son 
 which she liacl given him, but with an icy 
 smile upon his face. He looked as if he had 
 been quarried out of the hardest part of the 
 Devil's heart, and he did not belie his looks. 
 'No one obeying the laws of an aggressive 
 organisation had ever more successfully 
 traded, during nearly four decades of a life, 
 upon the weaknesses of either sex than Mon- 
 sieur Louis Denain. 
 
 In '89 he had dropped the Louis ; in '90 
 he had banished the de from his name, and 
 had dwarfed himself into plain Citoyen Nain. 
 But in '92, when he had begun to attach 
 himself to the two Eobespierres, he con- 
 ceived a bolder project. Aware of, and 
 profiting by, tlie tenderest part of Maxi- 
 milien's genius, he gave himself out every- 
 where as one of Eousseau's children. Inas-
 
 48 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 much as they liad all been carried to the 
 Foundling Hospital, it was impossible to 
 gainsay his assertion ; and it would be diffi- 
 cult to exaggerate the amount of esteem and 
 ovation to whicli he tints became accredited 
 amonir the inner circles of the Mountain. 
 Citoyen Nain, too, was not tlie man to 
 lose any advantage to be derived from 
 human prejudice. In his earlier years he 
 had obtained througli his royal father's in- 
 fluence the stewardship of a great feudal 
 property in the Avranche ; and owing to 
 this opportunity he liad been nominated by 
 the department of the Manche to the Con- 
 vention. Pleasant, with his peculiar temper, 
 it must have been to tliink that lie owed his 
 seat to Louis XV., and his reputation to 
 Jean Jacques. 
 
 From the earnestness of tone, the avidity 
 of eye, the suppressed excitement in the
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 49 
 
 manner of the two remaining revellers, the 
 rudest student of Lavater's school would 
 have guessed that a crime w\as in meditation. 
 They looked, Avith the sharp thin outlines of 
 their keen features, fit subjects for Giotto's 
 Hell — like medinsval conspirators plotting 
 the poison of some obnoxious prince in the 
 sacramental wafer, or compassing the be- 
 trayal of some free republic to an imperial 
 general. And, indeed, the ruin of a great 
 house w^as consummated in the sullen clink 
 of the two last glasses which were pledged 
 at that hideous revel. And now that Fouche 
 and Citoyen Kain are left quite alone, with 
 a low chuckle and obscene gaiety they seal 
 their sanguinary and sordid bargain. 
 
 A toi, rafTameur ; 
 
 Et a toi, mon accapareiir ! 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 50 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 PROLOGUE III. 
 
 1704. 
 
 IMAGINE to the right acre upon 
 acre of wood and verdure, ' six 
 Richmonds in the field,' all alight 
 with the silver windings of the beautiful Lee, 
 with bright broad estuaries, and flashing lakes, 
 which are ' the glistening eyes of Solitude.' 
 To the left the long level-ribbed and grey 
 sea-sands (the tall moonbeams lying aslant 
 thereon, like jasper columns half up -reared) 
 stretching far away, mile upon mile, to the 
 inimitable ocean. Cutting the glorious 
 prospect far out at sea, like a marine Acro- 
 polis, mid sand and wave, arise the spire-
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 51 
 
 crowned old turrets of Mont St. Michel. 
 In the shades of niglit you may still believe 
 them guarded by the spirits of tlie nine 
 hundred and nineteen l!^orman gentlemen 
 who defended those walls against the strong 
 est forces of King Henry of Agincourt. 
 Like a footstool for a feudal seigneur, there 
 <irouches below, in reverential homage, the 
 little island of Tombelaine. ' The grave of 
 the sun,' say Armorican commentators, as 
 he smiles his last farewell, before he sinks 
 into the western wave, to that Breton race, 
 than whicli he has seen none braver nor 
 more enduring in his universal course. 
 ' The tomb of Ellen,' say the legend-loving 
 peasants, a Celtic Princess, who loved be- 
 neath her, and who drowned herself to hide 
 -Jier shame and sorrow — 
 
 P<ast all dishonour ; 
 Death has left on her 
 Only the beautiful I — 
 E 2 
 
 ^'^'VfRs/ry OF
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ill tlie still l)clicvecl tradition tliat year after 
 year, upon the day of her deatli, a Avhite 
 dove, mateless and forlorn, settles upon the 
 solitary rock. 
 
 The crime whieli was conceived and rati- 
 fied at the Cafe Corazza is now enactinir 
 upon tliis isolated scene. Years after our 
 story — under the Empire — a gang of false 
 coiners were to work ^viih impunity in the 
 islet, so deserted and so savage is the spot. 
 In an arm of the sea, half salt and half lake, 
 between Tombelaine and the land, a small 
 fleet might have been seen of large, heav}% 
 flat-bottomed barges. A score or so of men 
 Avere employed in heaving down into the 
 wide expanse of water large sacks, wdiich nar- 
 row at the top and very bulky downwards, 
 appeared as if they might contain Oriental 
 ladies who had been faithless to their 
 owners, or aristocratic conspirators against a
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 jealous commonweal til. The suspicion of 
 civic Noyades would, however, have proved 
 a wrong conjecture, although the crime ^vas 
 scarcely less heinous. If the Oliristian Eu- 
 charist means, as it does mean, bread for 
 all, the guilt of those employed in waste of 
 rich, ripe, golden corn was assuredly no 
 light sin against the Holy Spirit, which is 
 God's clear truth. It would appear an act 
 beyond tlie reach of iiuman paradox to ex- 
 cuse, or luuuan sophistry to palhate. Yet, 
 in our own country but recently, great 
 statesmen and grave economists have been 
 known to expatiate on the merit of high 
 prices, and the detriment of clieap and abun- 
 dant prodigality of food. 
 
 The very ruffians wlio on that i\\\v au- 
 tumnal evening were laboriously carrying 
 out, all unwittingly, a cardinal tenet of ;in 
 untoward, if honest faith, seemed themselves
 
 54 ANGELA PISAN'I. 
 
 to be aware that their conduct was ahiiost 
 unique in its flagitiousness. 'Xain pays us 
 well,' said a young Italian, Giovanni Einia, 
 to the leader of tlie band, a weather-wea- 
 zened Spaniard, ' but tlie slave trade itself is 
 a joke to this. Many a black have ^ve seen 
 squeezed to death in tlie middle passage, fmr 
 doings enough in the good ships, the Bonne 
 Aventure, and the Faliero, but never so hor- 
 rible an act as this ! How many lives, Manuel, 
 do you think we have murdered to-ni^ht ? ' 
 ' I3oy/ replied Manuel Alvarez, ' Frencli- 
 men and snipes live by suction. This sunny 
 o'rain is all too crood for them.' 
 
 ' The Madonna grant that they may soon 
 suck each other's blood,' said a tall Italian, 
 in the Venetian vernacular ; he wore an im- 
 penetrable mask, and his name was unknown 
 
 to the hireling ^vith whom he was emxafred. 
 m * * *
 
 ANGELA PIS.\NI. 
 
 The Jacobins are full to suffocation. Xo 
 need here, as at Athens, for the Obol to 
 seduce to the peoples' meeting ; no fear of 
 the red-coloured cord to scourge them into 
 politics. Swindlers and divines, advocates 
 and farmers, pig-drivers and Jews, brawny 
 dames from the Halles, coarse sylphs from 
 the opera, and the inevitable Tricoteiises — 
 the re^•olutionary fats — are all here, huddled 
 togetlier without order or arrangement, but 
 to all and each the walls seemed to have 
 inspired something of that sombre spirit of 
 ferocity which the founder, Dominic, had 
 breathed into mediaeval Christianity. About 
 the old Jacobins there was at least the sub- 
 lime recklessness of faith; among the modern 
 Jacobins, with singular exceptions, there was 
 nothing]!: remarkable but tlie vub-ar ritual of 
 fear. Even natures tlie most ovine howled 
 with the wT)lves in panic, lest tliey should be
 
 56 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 taken for tlie slieep which tliey essentially 
 were. 
 
 St. Just is in the chair. It is one of the 
 last acts in the immortal tyranny of Robes- 
 pierre. It was the great and terrible day 
 when he had made up his mind to pair off 
 the sanguinary madmen of the Ilebert school 
 with the less sanguinary, because then panic 
 stricken but more sordid, voluptuaries who 
 followed the lead of Danton. The parties 
 were too strong to be attacked simulta- 
 neously, that he knew, and that they knew, 
 but each party hoped, in their blind hate, to 
 exterminate the other, through his aid and 
 interference. In common parlance, he held 
 the balance, and therefore, hke Austria in 
 all the continental wars, what modern slanir 
 calls, the key of the position. 
 
 Eobespierre's secret intentions are, how- 
 ever, known to few : to St. Just, Lebas,
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 Coutlion, and liis brother. Fouche is away 
 at I^antes ; and if tliey were more generally 
 known, Citoyen Xain {feu Denain) Would not 
 be seated w^here he is, in the very heart of 
 the Hebertist gang, next to Gobel (ex-bisliop 
 of Paris) and Anacharsis Clootz. 
 
 It rained down denunciations, and the 
 occasional restlessness of Maximilien's in- 
 scrutable features appeared to the vulgar a 
 token of sympathetic approbation. Even the 
 Citoyen Nain was deceived, for he has whis- 
 pered to his neighbour the ex-bishop that, 
 for a renegade priest, he has done little of 
 late to prove his patriotism. 
 
 ' Whom shall I accuse ? ' asked Gobel, 
 piteously. 
 
 ' I have Fouche's list in my pocket,' 
 replied Nain ; ' I will lend it to you, as I am 
 as much above suspicion as the Incorruptible 
 himself. But you must find me a wife, say
 
 58 ANGELA PISAXT. 
 
 the little De Champsavoie of St. Cyr, or the 
 best blood you can find me out of one of 
 your old abbayes, for I have just lost my 
 last.' 
 
 With all the nervousness of a recreant 
 conscience, Gobel got directly upon his legs. 
 
 * I denounce Philippe Marie, of old 
 Vidame of Averanche, as starver of the 
 people,' he cxclamied, reading from the 
 paper which had been given him by Citoyen 
 Xain. 
 
 Every eye was turned upon the three 
 principal personages of that historical 
 assembly. It was curious to watch their 
 several attitudes. Couthon agitated his 
 paralytic limbs uneasily. Eobespierre, whom 
 nothing suspicious ever escaped, with a 
 livid look towards the group of Hebertists 
 sittino' to the left, drew forth his tablets and 
 wrote down the name of Louis Xain, with a
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 59 
 
 note of interrogation after it. It was almost 
 equivalent to a warrant for the guillotine. 
 But young St. Just flung liis plumed hat upon 
 his brow, as Ireton might have done during a 
 Genevan sermon, and impatiently exclaimed, 
 'The Citizen Philippe Marie Averanche 
 fought for Liberty in America.' 
 
 ' So did Lafayette,' whispered Louis Nain. 
 
 ' So did Lafayette,' retorted the ex-priest 
 aloud. 
 
 If the name liad been that of Cobourg, 
 Pitt, or Bourbon, it could not have pro- 
 duced greater horror or disgust. Even in 
 '91 Camille Desmoulins had written of the 
 leproserie of Lafayette's school. A nuirmur 
 of loathing repudiation ran like a magnetic 
 shudder through the meeting, llobespicrre — 
 all Feuillant though he had been, was the 
 foremost with hiss and execration. Take 
 warning, O ye simple pioneers, fond
 
 GO ANGELA PISAXI, 
 
 Pharisaical Constitutionalists, who are play- 
 ing in the nineteenth century the game of 
 that sociahst repubhc, which, a hundred- 
 fold more numerous than you, will tread 
 down your brainless skulls in its multi- 
 tudinous advance. 
 
 St.' Just never Retreated in a stru<z^le. 
 
 CO 
 
 ' Where,' he exclaimed in a tone which had 
 dominated the fire of the Austrians, ' where 
 are the witnesses ? ' 
 
 Gobel, disconcerted, wished himself five 
 fathoms imder the earth ; but, to his 
 surprise, two brawny, big-built men of the 
 people, with fox brushes en queue^ stepped 
 forward. 
 
 ' I, Manuel Alvarez, am a witness.' 
 
 ' And I, Giovanni Eima.' 
 
 In a few hot and passionate words they 
 testified to what was true — that they had 
 been employed to throAv (\)rn-sack after
 
 ANGELA nSAXI. Gl 
 
 corn-sack into the Eiver Lee ; but that they 
 liacl recoiled, which was not true, from the 
 accursed function. 
 
 St. Just arose, and, in the hope not 
 only of saving a man's life whom he be- 
 lieved to be innocent, but in inauguration of 
 concerted and decreed resistance to the policy 
 of Eobespierre, his heroic features threw 
 out that peculiar light which only Correggio 
 could have rendered. Brief, energetic, 
 glorious was his inspired apostrophe ; its 
 gist being that upon the word of foreigners 
 it became not Frenclimen to condemn. He 
 had governed France ; not long, but long 
 enouo'h to find out tliC stromrest instinct of 
 its people. But long before he had finished, 
 the Citoyen Nain had turned to his other 
 neighbour, and, in the classic jargon of tlie 
 day, had whispered, 'You, Anacliarsis, are 
 the Patron and the Proxenos of allluuuanitv ;
 
 (52 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 don t allow the brave paupers to be run 
 down because they are in rags.' 
 
 Maddest of all tlie madmen even of 
 those days, Clootz rushed in to take up 
 the gauntlet flung down by St. Just. He 
 jumped up to talk about Payne, the Prince of 
 Hesse, Prussia, Franklin, and to protest, not 
 unjustly, that the French Pievolution knew 
 and recognised no geographical limits. All 
 his eloquence might have proved in vain, 
 but the vast limbs, broad backs, and 
 enormous shoidders of the witnesses, upon 
 Avhom the tables had been turned, and who 
 were in no inconsiderable peril, had produced 
 their effect upon the sympathising Tricoteiises ; 
 and as he concluded his sally, every female 
 thimble rattled and every female heel re- 
 sounded in active aad vigorous a]")plause. 
 Not an Omphale of them all but would have 
 liked cither Hercules with a distalT in his
 
 ANGELA PISANI. (33 
 
 hand and a corner in her heart. Even 
 St. Just gave up a fight against women (his 
 nature did not understand it), and the 
 Vidame of Averanche was condemned by 
 the Jacobins, prosecuted by Fouquier 
 Tinville, sentenced by Yadier, and shortly 
 afterwards executed by Sanson. 
 
 With a voice jubilant, and the air of a 
 priest in holiday, Gobel pursued his re- 
 volutionary rosary. ' I denounce Marguerite 
 d' Averanche, nee Clifford, as an accomplice. 
 This time I hope I shall not be interrupted 
 by my heroic preopinant and glorious 
 friend.' 
 
 ' Your friend, apostate ! ' thundered out 
 St. Just. 
 
 ' Now, by the sacred heart of Marat,' 
 retorted Gobel, ' I do not understand thee, 
 O St. Just. Have I not broken the metro- 
 ])olitan crosier into a thousand fragments to
 
 G4 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 light the pyre of the ancient imposture ? 
 Have I not flung away alb and mitre, ring 
 and dalmatic, into thy pure flame, Liberty 
 divine ? Have I not kissed with my en- 
 franchised lips, not tlie devil's hoof of a 
 Borgia, not tlie putrescent bones of a Gan- 
 ganelli, but, warm with the worship of a 
 thousand votaries, the rose-pink feet of tlie 
 most beautiful of Eeasons ? I was speaking 
 reason, St. Just, for I had inhaled it. I 
 was about to say that this time I should not 
 be opposed by a patriot so distinguished, 
 because the Citoyenne Averanche is a 
 foreigner, an Englishwoman, and therefore 
 an emissary of Pitt the liberticide.' 
 
 Gobel's strong point — his apostasy — 
 brought down upon his speech many rounds 
 and ingeminations of applause, which ought 
 to excite no surprise now-a-days, as we live 
 in an aixe ourselves when such thinirs are
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 65 
 
 popular. If you waut to be a bishop, you 
 must begin by recanting ; and if you wish 
 to be a minister, you must commence by 
 repudiating every variation of every opinion 
 which you ever held before. At least, we 
 have all seen four since 1840, who have thus 
 sacrificially inaugurated their respective 
 systems. 
 
 But St. Just was of another spirit. The 
 fatal shadows of political compromise had 
 never chilled or shaken his self-conscious 
 faith in self-support. He was as obstinate 
 as brave. He demanded a vote. But three 
 hands, those of Couthon, himself, and Eo- 
 bespierre were raised to reclaim the fate 
 and vindicate the innocence of Mars^uerite 
 d'Averanche. It is true that those three 
 hands at that moment siojnified somethmfr 
 very hke France. Like the three legs of 
 Sicily, they might have been her arms. 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Again, but this time in fear and shiver- 
 ing, arose Gobel. ' The wolf-cul) remains,* 
 he said ; ' I denounce Lionel Marie Agenor 
 d'Averanche as an aristocrat.' 
 
 Eobespierre could endure no more ; his 
 long-matured idea of stopping bloodshed 
 was ripe. In a liard, harsh, dry voice he 
 asked the ao'e of the accused. 
 
 There was no answer. 
 
 ' Under ten years ? ' 
 
 There was no reply from the Hebertists, 
 already prescient and aghast. 
 
 The statesman, who during the Con- 
 stituent had proposed the abolition of tlie 
 punishment of death, did not miss the op- 
 portunity thus favourably offered in an 
 infant's person of going back to his inveterate 
 ideas. Strange it is, enough to make any 
 man a Molinist, or at any rate a quietist, 
 and G;o to bed for life, to observe how men
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 67 
 
 of almost illimitable power are thwarted 
 by events. No man w^as ever more in 
 earnest in liis hatred of bloodshed tlian 
 Maximilien Eobespierre ; just as another 
 great philanthropist, Mr. William Wilber- 
 force, was in earnest in his detestation of 
 ■cruelty. Yet, and although both were in 
 love even to madness with their own theories, 
 the one name represents the Eeign of Terror, 
 •and the other the Middle Passage. 
 
 Eobespierre began like an artist by an 
 appeal (which poor Marie Antoinette had 
 made in vain) to every mother listening in 
 the room, and after he had obtained by a 
 unanimous vote the acquittal of little Lionel 
 Averanche, he launched out into that memor- 
 able discourse by which the "world, arrested, 
 was for a while almost driven back from 
 its sanguinary destinies ; by which he con- 
 -demned to the mortal scaiTold and to eternal
 
 OS AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 inftimy botli tlie parties of blood, the mad- 
 men of Ilebert, and tlie ruffians of Dan ton. 
 
 The last lie did not mention — nlentio 
 tramisit. Perhaps he wanted tlieir lielp to 
 crush a much more powerful (at that date)^ 
 more compact, and more desperate part}'. 
 But a fiir less keen observer tlian Citizen 
 Nam midit liave divined that a bridf^e to 
 
 o o 
 
 their immediate exhibition was built in the 
 carcases of the crew wliom tliey had tliem- 
 selves assisted to destroy. So that night he 
 left Paris for Ville Affranchie. 
 
 Lucky, however, was it for him that 
 Eobespierre spoke set speeches and never 
 looked at his notes. Had Eobespierre 
 drawn out his tablets, Citizen Xain would 
 have supped elsewhere than with Fouchc 
 the next week on blackbirds from Corsica^ 
 ortolans from Provence, and muriers from 
 Bordeaux.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. GO. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 ^^^^^HE beginning of our Century was 
 marked at Paris by many a 
 conspiracy. Among those which 
 have found no chronicler was one in a 
 large school, then called, in accordance with 
 the prevailing spirit, the Eleutheria,^ in the 
 very heart of the Eepublican capital. 
 
 A group of schoolboys were whispering 
 together as eagerly, and as mysteriously, as if 
 the matter under discussion had related to 
 the Commonwealth. The eldest of them 
 
 ^ For the anarchy to which all education was reduced 
 in France after the abolition of the University, see M. 
 Thiers' masterly report on secondary instruction to one of 
 fthe last Orleanist chambers of Deputies.
 
 70 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 could not have been more than seventeen ; 
 the youngest was not above eleven. There 
 was a fire, an animation, a spirit in tlie mien 
 of the eldest, which would have distinguished 
 him as their leader, even if his great physical 
 strengtli, the first virtue of boyhood, had 
 been less remarkable. Ilis dark, eloquent 
 eyes, liis swarthy and enthusiastic com- 
 plexion, his long black hair, his thin lips, 
 compressed and determined, a sort of 
 haughty self-respect in his manner, gave 
 token of the character within him and of liis 
 superiority over his listeners. 
 
 His name was Almeric Locart ; he came 
 from the South of France, and tliere flowed 
 witliin his veins the blood of the old Mar- 
 quises of Barcelona, of that name. His 
 language was rapid, irregular, and broken 
 by strong feelings. There was evidently 
 much of sympathy in his listeners : their eyes
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 flashed with his, their angry gestures cor- 
 responded with his own, their excitement 
 was as impetuous and marked. Tlie boy 
 Tribune was proclaiming their wrongs, as 
 well as his own. 
 
 ' It is all very well with Yauriensky and 
 La Meilleraye, and the big fellows in Philo- 
 sophy. They lick us if the night suppers 
 are not ready or if we fall asleep over our 
 watch, while they arc over the wall ; that is 
 all fair. No one complains ; they lick us, 
 and it is all over ; they bully us, but they do 
 it themselves ; they beat us, but they never 
 bait us. I tell you what it is — if you fellows 
 have any pluck at all, if you are not all 
 slaves and cowards, we might prevent this 
 devihsh tyranny. I could stand any thing 
 else, but that we lesser boys should be made 
 to lick one another merely for Denain's 
 pleasure ! And then, that laugh of his after
 
 72 AXGELA- PISANI. 
 
 it ! And all that bitter ridicule, and all 
 those jests at our raws^ and all those jokes 
 about our homes and sisters. I tell you 
 what it is ' 
 
 * What ? ' exclaimed half a dozen im- 
 patient voices. 
 
 ' Why, I have made up my mind. If 
 you fellows will not mutiny, if you won't 
 resist this system of bullying, which goes on 
 morning, noon, and night, I will do it — 
 alone. I should not care so much, I repeat, 
 if it was Philosophy that did it ; but Ehetoric, 
 the second class, it lias no right, and it shall 
 not usurp it. Besides, I will liave my 
 revenge on Charles Denain. Look here — ' 
 and the young schoolboy shpped up his 
 sleeve and showed his arm all black with 
 recent blows. ' Are you prepared to submit 
 to this ? Do you know what this Avas for ? * 
 
 ' What ? ' no'iiin demanded the same
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 73 
 
 voices, and the little mob was as agitated as 
 if they had belonged to the Great City of 
 Mobs, and the wounds had been Pisistratus's. 
 ' Listen. Charles Denain had the Sybarite 
 Club to breakfast this morning in his room ; 
 Lionel Averanche and I were on duty. They 
 had all of them, I suppose, headaches from 
 their orgies last night, for they were in a 
 fiendish humour. " Do you want to see some 
 fun ? " said Denain. " Here is Averanche : 
 he shall charge our glasses and drink to our 
 toast. The health of Fouche I " They all 
 hurrahed and drank, except Averanche. 
 "Why does not he drink?" asked La 
 Meilleraye. " Drink, Averanche," exclaimed 
 Denain. " Never," he answered, very pale 
 and resolute. We were all astounded at his 
 audacity. " Never," he repeated. " Oh, you 
 will not.^" said Denain. "I thouglit as 
 much. Come here, Locart. Get that stic*k
 
 74 ANGELA TISAXI. 
 
 down from its nail on the wall." I went 
 and got it. " Here is one more chance 
 for you, Lionel Averanche. The health of 
 Fouche ; " and he put tlie glass into his hands. 
 Averanche dashed it down and burst out 
 crying, "He murdered my mother." " Come, 
 let him off," said La Meilleraye.' 
 
 ' Ah, that is like La Meilleraye,' in- 
 terrupted little Vincent de Beaumont, who 
 was Averanche's copi — what at Eton they 
 call con., and at Winchester tege — ' he is 
 always so good natured.' 
 
 ' But Denain would not,' pursued Locart. 
 * He said, sneeringly, " What the deuce is 
 Averanche's mother to us ? I know tlie whole 
 story. Fouche was quite in the right : it is 
 all very well for La ^leilleraye, who is an 
 aristocrat liimsclf ; but we, who remember 
 all the poor devils Averanche's ancestors- 
 tortured, oppressed, ground down, starved —
 
 ANGELA PISANl. 7^ 
 
 Ave of the middle class, gentlemen, must 
 sometimes have om^ triumphs. Go on, 
 Locart, till I tell you to stop," he continued 
 to me. Well, I do not know how it was^ 
 but I could not, or would not do it.' 
 
 There was a low murmur of approval, 
 which was very glorious for Locart to hear, 
 among the boys around. 
 
 ' Then,' continued Locart, ' Charles 
 Denain liad the other inferiors called in, and 
 the big Balzac was obliged to perform both 
 on Averanche and myself. He did not 
 spare us ; you have seen the marks. And then 
 Charles Denain said, " I will reduce these 
 lower boys to a proper state of discipline. 
 Like Eussian boors, they ought to thrash and 
 lick each other at their masters' bidding, and 
 leave off with no other feeling than that of 
 satisfaction at having done their duty ! " Now, 
 do you wonder that I have sworn not to
 
 7G ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 put lip with this any longer. I would rather 
 <he than do so. Will you ? ' 
 
 ' Xever ! ' 
 
 ' Are you all agreed ? ' 
 
 ' All, all ! ' 
 
 ' Join hands, then, and swear it.' 
 
 Tlie hands of some twenty boys were 
 instantly clasped together. 
 
 ' I will now tell you my plan.' 
 
 It was soon declared. Locart proposed 
 that when the Ehetoric were in their first 
 sleep, the lesser boys wlio were in the con- 
 spiracy should get up, sit upon them in 
 sober judgment, a sort cf Vehmgericht affair, 
 and afterwards exhaust tlieir revenge. 
 
 ' But we shall all be paid off to-morrow,' 
 objected little Vincent de Beaumont, who, 
 notwithstanding his desire to revenge Ave- 
 ranche, was of a very timid disposition. 
 
 ' No,' answered Locart, ' our retribution
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 77 
 
 Avill make such a sensation, that it will come 
 to the ears of the Proviseur and tutors, and 
 then, happen what will else, this tyranny 
 will be stopped.' 
 
 ' But the Ehetoric will know us,' inter- 
 posed httle De Beamiiont, looking still smaller 
 as he thoudit of the morrow. 
 
 o 
 
 ' That does not follow ; I have provided 
 for all this, if you will only be at my bedside 
 at midnight to-niglit. You had better stay 
 behind, De Beaumont,' Locart added, scorn- 
 fully. 
 
 There was something so sombre, so 
 awful, so appalhng, so really like conspiracy 
 in that word midnight, that, had little De 
 Beaumont consulted his own wishes, he 
 would probably have acquiesced in Locart' s 
 dismissal, but an audil)le titter of ridicule,, 
 that scourge of schoolboys, which went round 
 the circle, confirmed ]nm in the plot.
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' Bye the bye,' exclaimed Locart, ' where 
 is Averanche?' 
 
 'I saw Inin a little while ago,' said De 
 Eeaumont ; ' he rushed past me with a very 
 flushed face, and did not answer when I 
 spoke, so I thought it best to leave him 
 alone.' 
 
 There was much of the woman, some- 
 thing of her tact, as well as her timidity, 
 about little Vincent de Beaumont. 
 
 It will explain a distinction between 
 Looart's nature and Averanche's, that after 
 their beating, one sought action, the other 
 solitude. The one had fiiith in himself, and 
 longed to be revenged ; he was, moreover, 
 endowed with that rare talent, so invaluable 
 in modern societies, the gift of combination ; 
 and he had already organised a conspiracy. 
 The other pined to be alone, and hide his 
 shame, and prey upon himself. There was
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 79 
 
 •a little bench in a secluded part of the 
 playing grounds, which almost overhung the 
 Seine, it was so near to it, and this, a 
 favourite haunt of Averanche, he in his 
 present mood instinctively sought. He lay 
 ■down against it, and he envied it, because it 
 could not feel ; he hid his hot fiice in his 
 hands, and moaned aloud : and tlien, as the 
 sound fell upon his ear, the sense of his own 
 weakness added to his misery. This peculiar 
 sensitiveness, keen, deep, harrowing, intense, 
 betokened the poetic temperament. All the 
 anguish and torture which Averanche was 
 now suffering were lights to see into hnn- 
 self, were aids to know himself, and some 
 day, therefore, it might be, to know others 
 and to govern them. As yet he could only 
 agitate, but not create ; he could dream, but 
 he could not feign ; he could feel, but he 
 could not invent. The time miirlit come
 
 80 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 when that boihnii^ and bubl)lm<^ and restless 
 river of his thoni^jhts should find rest in the 
 Eternal Ocean and carry all things on its 
 bosom. It might be, also, that it would 
 never reach it. Alas for boyhood ! how 
 much that is genial never becomes genius, 
 how much that is passionate in the indi- 
 vidual dies before it can attain the Cathohcl 
 
 The springs of silent thouglit and purpose high 
 Kise at our manhood's threshold ; let us drink 
 Deep ere "we quit them, and Life's sultry skies 
 Have stolen their freshness. 
 
 There was something in young Ave- 
 ranche's looks which announced his peculiar 
 organisation. They were not so much a 
 debateable link between materialism and 
 spiritualism, as between the excess of the 
 one and the excess of the other. They be- 
 tokened a great contest, not between good 
 and evil, but between the genius of good
 
 AXGELA PISANI. 81 
 
 and the genius of evil. Tliey were a battle- 
 field like Almiizaga, where the commanders 
 foudit hand to hand. 
 
 His destiny might, like St. Augustine's, 
 have a double accomplishment — the depths of 
 corruption and the heights of wisdom — but 
 it was written in his aspect that he would 
 always be in extremes. 
 
 There were blue eyes with Heaven in 
 them, which were now dark as the thunder 
 cloud, now pale as tlie morning sky ; there 
 was a small and delicate mouth which 
 changed a million times an hour, irresolute 
 and wavering and melancholy, like Charles 
 tlie First's ; there was light hair, which 
 curled close around his brow, but it was so 
 thin and fine as to augur a want of energy ; 
 there was a skin, transparently, deli- 
 cately white, a complexion 'which he had 
 inherited from an English mother, and which 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 seemed to realise Bernini's remark, ' that 
 cream flowed in the veins of the Saxons 
 instead of blood.' 
 
 With these gifts, and a graceful and 
 active figure, Lionel Averanche was remark- 
 able for his popularity in the school. His 
 looks had attached to him many a friend. 
 Boys act always upon their first impressions, 
 and are won at once, like Polynesian savages, 
 through their eyes. Averanche's appearance, 
 too, was of that delicate character of whicli 
 they always make a fiivourite. 
 
 But it was so fragile, so aerial, so dia- 
 phanous, that it was easy to foresee the world 
 would spoil it, unless he lived in Plato's. 
 Those eyes, would they keep their glory — if 
 he indulged his passions ? That complexion, 
 with all its lacteal transparency — would it 
 stand the crosses and irritations of life ? 
 Those nostrils, now dilated with anger — might
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 8S 
 
 tliey not become distended by natural and 
 more ignoble emotions ? 
 
 It was no vulgar anger, no mere resent- 
 ment, tliat Averanclie was now writhing 
 beneath. It was not the blows he liad 
 received, not the shame of having been 
 beaten before others ; but, strange as it may 
 seem, it was that he passionately loved tlieir 
 inflictor ! 
 
 Charles Denain was three years older 
 than Lionel Averanche. They had always 
 been brought up together, and from tlieir 
 ■earliest years Averanche had ever considered 
 him as his type of the lieroic. 
 
 With his enthusiastic temper he exag- 
 gerated Charles Denain's gifts, his talents, 
 his accomplishments, his w^it, liis grace, liis 
 intellect — and these were all of them ah^eady 
 pre-eminent. They were so unlike each 
 other that this exaggeration, upon the onnw
 
 84 ANGELA riSAXI. 
 
 ignotam principle, was the more natural and 
 the more excessive. 
 
 To Averanclie the character of Charles 
 Denain was a mystery, and worship is made 
 up of mystery. Denain was born a mate- 
 rialist. His fixed idea was pleasure, but he 
 did not run after this, as many do, recklessly 
 and greedily ; but with a deliberate and cau- 
 tious system he laid plans to catch it, to 
 entrap it, to keep it, to enjoy it, to exhaust it 
 to its last supreme essence. 
 
 It was with Charles an aflair of calcula- 
 tion, of method, even of statistics. As his 
 iixtlier said of him, he possessed the organisa- 
 tion of an economist with the appearance of 
 an angel. 
 
 Tlie habits of his mind were so exquisitely 
 analytical that they would have revolted 
 many persons (there is nothing live people 
 hate so much as being dissected), but they
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 85 
 
 were relieved by a fancy which, altJiough it 
 had nothing of genius or imagination about 
 it, was luxurious, capricious, gorgeous, re- 
 fined as a Eoman Emperor's. Even as a 
 schoolboy, too, the charm of his manners, 
 his hardy opinions, his picturesqueness of 
 expression, liis success in all his sports, his 
 fantastic cruelties, the result of his desire to 
 probe and know mankind, or, what is simpler, 
 boy-kind, acquired for liim a renown among 
 his comrades. 
 
 He was generally very popular among 
 his equals and superiors, but eitlier tlie terror 
 or the idol of those below him. It will be 
 seen that the great difference between Lionel 
 Averanclie and Cliarles Denain consisted in 
 this: with tlie first everything was induc- 
 tive ; lie brought everything home to him- 
 self; tried everybody by his OAvn standard; 
 gave credit to coarser natures for his own
 
 80 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 fine feelings, ever judged the universal around 
 him by the particular. With Charles Denain, 
 on the contrar}% everything was deductive : 
 he liad formed definite canons, fixed princi- 
 ples of action out of his own reflection,, 
 reading, experience ; and he estimated men 
 and things far more lightly, perhaps more 
 riglitly, than his younger companion. 
 
 The first in his keen sensitiveness made 
 every little thing a great thing : the last in 
 liis analytic rationalism made every great 
 thino' a little t]iino\ 
 
 Those wlio have suffered wrong at the 
 hands of persons wliom they love will well 
 understand the pangs and tortures endured 
 by the youth who was lying with his hot 
 face buried in the lonu: cool o-rass. 
 
 The intensity of his idolatry for Denain 
 made his present liatred of liim more intense. 
 There is no idea more common or more-
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 87 
 
 false than that reproduced by Lord Byron's 
 lines — 
 
 If the hand tbat I love lay me low, 
 There cannot be pain in the blow. 
 
 Who does not, on the contrary, know 
 that there are no resentments so violent as 
 those which result from inverted affection, 
 from the horrible feeling that you admh^e 
 and adore where you are rejected, despised, 
 insulted, trampled on ? In utter impotence, 
 deserted as it were by himself (that self which 
 was still singing pasans in his secret soul in 
 praise of Charles), it was all in vain for poor 
 Averanche to clench his hands and swear 
 revenge, and imagine wild impossibihties of 
 retribution. Like all those who are endowed 
 with poetic tendencies, he was naturally re- 
 ligious. 
 
 His eyes were caught by a bird which 
 was hovering over the golden waters beneath
 
 88 ANGELA PISAJs'I. 
 
 him. A cliaiige came over his spirit, the 
 softness of nature touched liim to the quick. 
 
 He thought upon that beautiful text, 
 ' Oh that I ]iad the wings of a dove to flee 
 away and be at peace ; ' and he was reheved 
 by v/eeping — long, loud, bitter weeping. 
 
 A kind liand was laid upon his shoulder. 
 He looked up ; it was Locart. He flung 
 himself into his arms and thanked him in- 
 coherently with sobs for his generosity ; he 
 besought his pardon for the outrage of which 
 he had been the cause ; he was pouring out 
 his hot thoughts in sentences wild and pic- 
 turesque, when Locart interrupted him. 
 
 ' No, no, dear Lionel, do not go on so. 
 You and I must ever be friends heucefortli. 
 I wanted to speak with you about something 
 else.' 
 
 He then unfolded to Averanche the plan 
 which had already been resolved on. It
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 80 
 
 was, in its immediate and savage retribution, 
 exactly of the temper to suit Lionel 
 Averanche's present mood. It was received 
 with a transport of passionate sympathy. 
 
 They walked away with their arms in- 
 tertwined, with all boyhood's graceful affec- 
 tion ; and if any one had then met them, he 
 might almost have read their destinies in 
 their glowing faces — in the stern, resolute, 
 energetic, practical enthusiasm of the elder ; 
 in the visionary rehance of the younger, 
 who believed with all a poet's confidence 
 in the Perfect, and who had faith that he 
 should realise even his own wild dreams.
 
 90 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 'FTER his breakfast at the Sybarite 
 Chib — one of tliose mimic clubs 
 wliich tlie youtli of all countries 
 so delight to form, like the Mitre of Oxford^ 
 tlie True Blue of Cambridge, or the Oh- 
 Dear-Cellar of Eton — Charles Denain re- 
 membered that he was engaged to a great 
 passage of arms in the fencing schools. 
 A splendid prize was to be contended for. 
 A magnificent sabre witli a Damascus blade 
 of exquisite temper, on Avliose pale blue 
 sides were inscribed the names of a long 
 line of Arab warriors, which liad been 
 taken among the spoils of tlie victory of
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 01 
 
 the Pyramids, had been sent by Murat to 
 the College. 
 
 It was to belong to its best fencer. 
 Such were among the incentives to gloiy 
 which produced that heroic generation Avho 
 lieshed their maiden swords at Austerlitz or 
 Jena, and who were still under thirty at 
 Waterloo. 
 
 Charles Denain was considered by 
 general estimation as the second best fencer 
 at the Eleutheria ; Alexis Vauriensky, a 
 young Pole, and his elder by about eighteen 
 months, was reckoned the first. But there 
 were not wanting a few of those boys, men- 
 children, who are precociously paradoxical, 
 Avho like an opinion apart, who have a sort 
 of instinct for fashion, and who authorita- 
 tively gave out that Charles Denain was the 
 better swordsman of the two. If Vauriensky, 
 they said, was superior in strength and
 
 «2 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 audacity, Denain more than made up for it 
 by the quickness of ]n*s eye, the coohiess of 
 liis temper, his wariness, liis adroitness, liis 
 ruses, and liis femts. 
 
 The rule of the contest was, that vv-hoevcr 
 touched his adversaiy ten times first was to 
 be considered the victor. It had already 
 commenced wdien Denain sauntered in. St. 
 Lambert — a pale, dissipated, foppish-looking 
 boy; and La Meilleraye, a tall, elegant strip- 
 lini]^, who had outoTown his strength, with a 
 very small aristocratic head, in token alike 
 of a great name, and, as some thought, an in- 
 verse intellect — had been appointed umpires. 
 
 Some half dozen of the competitors had 
 been cleared off by a restless, volatile, frivo- 
 lous Proven^^al with Hashing black eyes and 
 a face frightfully pitted with the small-pox. 
 His name was Gabriel Eoquefort ; he 'was 
 notoriously the greatest sinner in the school,
 
 AXGELA riSAXI. 93 
 
 and by one of those broad coarse travesties, 
 tliose caricatures in fresco, which are the 
 delight of young mobs, he was nicknamed 
 ' the Angel.' 
 
 ' Come,' said Yauriensk}*, ' we must not 
 let Gabriel have it all his own way. Give 
 me my foil there, Balzac' 
 
 One, two, three, quick as lightning, were 
 the successes of Vauriensky. His opponent 
 had touched him but once, Avhen he had 
 achieved his decade of hits. 
 
 Gabriel Eoquefort, who with all t]ie 
 ardour of the south had already seen the 
 ])recious sabre gleaming at his side, could 
 scarcely forbear weeping in his passionate 
 mortification. He would not even wrans^le, 
 a favourite resource of his compatriots, his 
 defeat was so hollow and complete. 
 
 ' Peste ! ' he exclaimed ; 'it's all luck, tlic 
 sun was in my eyes.'
 
 D4 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 'Well, are there any more?' said 
 Vauriensky ; * sa, sa, sa ! ' and he lunged in 
 the air witli a little fanfaronade of affecta- 
 tion, sometliing like walking round one's 
 wicket after having liit a fiver at cricket, 
 or the triumphant look round to tlie Dedas 
 after a force into the winning gallery at 
 tennis. Three more competitors shared the 
 fortune of Eoquefort. 
 
 ' Why do you not come on, Charles ? ' 
 exclaimed Vauriensky, Avitli the shghtest 
 possible inflexion of taunt in his tone, ' or 
 are you too lazy ? ' 
 
 Denain's indolence was a proverb among 
 his comrades. He liad in the meanwhile 
 apparently been engaged in careless conver- 
 sation with a group of admirers around him, 
 throwing out an occasional ' good thing,' 
 at tlie results of Vauriensky 's skill, but in 
 reality lie had watched his rival's triumphs
 
 ANGELA PISANI. ]Dr> 
 
 with considerable interest. He remarked 
 that Alexis, who had drank very deep the 
 night before, was less certain than usual ; 
 his hand shook a little, and there had been 
 something of fever in his rapidity against 
 Eoquefort. Charles Denain thought that, 
 had he been in the Angel's place, he might 
 have made something more out of one or 
 two openings Yauriensky had given him. 
 
 ' I have no chance against you to-day, 
 Alexis,' was Denain's reply, ' but I do not 
 mind if I try.' 
 
 He took his foil out of a little boy's 
 hand, pressed it against the floor, cauglit it 
 by the handle as it sprung upwards, and 
 then, alike contented with his eye and with 
 it, ejaculated those magic words — 
 
 ' What are the odds ? ' 
 
 ' Five to two on Vauriensky,' exclaimed 
 Eoquefort, instantaneously, giving at least
 
 90 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 two points more than the real odds, to gratify 
 liis vanity, and to show that, as lie had been 
 beaten by Yauricnsky, lie was quite sure 
 Denam would be. 
 
 ' Done,' said Denain, ' in gold pieces.' 
 The word ' Louis ' had gone out and the 
 word ' Napoleon ' had not come in. 
 
 This was a large stake for schoolboys, 
 and Eoquefort began to be a little nen'ous. 
 It was, however, too late to retract ; so he 
 said, ' done,' but by no means so loudly as he 
 had offered the odds. 
 
 ' Will anybody give me two to one ? ' 
 continued Denain, to alarm the Angel still 
 more. Tliere was no answer, which greatly 
 increased his mistriving^s. 
 
 ' Three to two ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I will, and I, and I,' three or four 
 voices exclaimed. 
 
 ' Done with you all : stop, I must book
 
 AJS^GELA PISAM. 07 
 
 them — here, De Beaumout, give me that 
 book under your arm.' 
 
 It was a prize Virgil, which Vincent de 
 Beaumont had obtained the term before, and 
 which he naturally valued. 
 
 The reluctance with which he brought it 
 gave a zest to Denain's persecution, just as to 
 a usurer the pang of his victim before pay- 
 ment is a delight, or as the hatred in the 
 dark eyes of a Christian captive was but an 
 attraction tiie more to a conquering Pasha. 
 
 ' Come, this is a good omen,' said Denain, 
 
 as he tore off the fly leaf with the inscription : 
 
 * Vincent de Beaumont, 
 
 ^Honoris Cattsa.' 
 
 ' Honoris causa. I register all bets. Now, 
 Vauriensky, I am ready for you.' 
 
 Their foils crossed. A more fascinating 
 or more animating sight Avas never witnessed 
 even in Hellenic amphitheatres. The youth 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 of the combatants, their singular skill, 
 their grace, their strength, their art, the 
 intense eagerness of the bystanders whose 
 whole heart and soul and purses were in the 
 event ; all these things made a spectacle with 
 whicli no hireling amusement might com- 
 pete. 
 
 ' Bravo, bravo ! ' echoed from all sides, as 
 Vauriensky pressed upon his antagonist with 
 tremendous impetuosity ; while Denain, cool, 
 wily, ever on the alert, but scarcely seeming 
 to move, attacked, even while he only ap- 
 peared to be on the defensive. 
 
 But the applause died away, the interest 
 arose to a pitcli of silence in wliicli tlie very 
 breath was held, when Vaurieusky's last lunge, 
 to which Denain had instantly replied, made 
 the score, Seven all. 
 
 A2:ainthe same result : Vaurienskv's attack 
 was a charge rather than an assault, but it
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 00 
 
 was successful. Deuaiu's pass had, however, 
 followed unerringly. 
 
 Eight all. St. Lambert's and La Meiller- 
 :aye's voices sounded like two clocks striking 
 •double in the hush of ni^'ht. 
 
 Tliere was a long pause and no advant- 
 ■ag^es on either side ; little movement — it was 
 the strategy of fencing. Both parties were 
 manoeuvring, each was intent upon a plan. 
 
 Alexis Yauriensky's was that of Pharsalia. 
 He knew Charles Denain's weakness ; he made 
 a feint at his face so desperate, that it seemed 
 as if the mask would have been crashed to 
 atoms beneath it. 
 
 Denain parried, but instinctively left 
 his breast unguarded. 
 
 'Nine for Vauriensky,' sliouted St. 
 Lambert. Very warily now fenced Denain ; 
 not an opening on either side : it seemed as 
 if the struimle was to be interminable.
 
 100 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Yaiiriensky,lmlf regretting the excitement 
 of being even, in all the chivalry of a gener- 
 ous nature, had almost resolved to throw 
 away a chance, when Denain took it. 
 
 ' Nine for Denain,' said La Meilleraye. 
 
 ' And ten,' exclaimed Denain, as with the 
 rapidity of lightning he followed his advant- 
 age. 
 
 It was all over ; Alexis Yauriensky's 
 instant of generous irresolution had proved 
 fatal to him. Could men unmake themselves 
 or change the immutable law of their natures, 
 it might have been a great lesson to him to 
 profit bv in after life. But the frivincr dis- 
 position will never cease throughout to give 
 nor the taking to take, and Alexis Yauriensky 
 was of the first class, Charles Denain of the 
 hist. 
 
 There arose a Inirrah, long, loud, sus- 
 tained, such a hurrah as there is at Xcw-
 
 ANGELA PISAKI. 101 
 
 market when Lord Exeter wins a race. 
 Yauriensky was more popular than Denain, 
 but a schoolboy rabble, like a Xewmarket 
 rabble, always magnifies what is unexpected. 
 
 And then after the hurrah there came a 
 cheer of deiision for Eoquefort, who was 
 stamping, tearing his hair, swearing, crying, 
 with all the gesticulations proper to his 
 province. 
 
 ' Only fancy, Eoquefort so floored,' 
 laughed La Meilleraye. 
 
 ' A fallen angel ! ' echoed St. Lambert. 
 
 ' Gabriel, you haven't made much by the 
 sword, eh ? ' said De Vassj^, that most detest- 
 xible of all things, a green cynic. 
 
 'Hallo there, Gabriel, notwithstanding 
 your small-pox, and your name, and your 
 country, and your habits, you will ne\'cr be a 
 Mirabeau,' exclaimed the big Balzac, the 
 bully of the lower classes.
 
 103 ANGELA nSAXI. 
 
 ' Xo, nor any otlicr bean,' screamed fat 
 little Theophile Marot. 
 
 ' See, he is crying,' said tall, thin, sallow 
 Do Vegnes, the sneak par ejxellence of all 
 the Eleutheria ; and lie pointed at him with 
 his lean forefinger. 
 
 ' Crying, ha, ha, ha ! — a regular woman ! * 
 said the big Balzac. 
 
 ' La belle Gabrielle ! ' said St. Lambert ; 
 'La belle Gabrielle, ha, ha, ha!' and the 
 spectators dispersed each with a sneer, a jest, 
 or a sarcasm of his own mure or less brutal 
 for poor Eoquefort. 
 
 There are few mobs so unfeeling as a 
 schoolboy mob, so imrelenting, so savage, so 
 fiendish in their ridicule ; and there is no- 
 persecution over which they gloat witli 
 greater relish than that of one in ill-fortunel 
 who has been near good fortune, and pre- 
 sumed on it.
 
 ANGELA PISANT. 103 
 
 As Charles Denaiii was crossing tlie 
 court, in all the exultation of victory, to carry 
 Ills prize to his room, he met Averanche. 
 There is no inspiration like success. It 
 enables you always to do the next thing so 
 well ; and when Charles Denain had the 
 ri^ht thing to do, no one ever did it so 
 prettily or well. There was the least pos- 
 sible cadence of melancholy in his tone, but 
 not enough to compromise his dignity as a 
 Ijig fellow, as he said, — 
 
 ' Here, Lionel, I did you some wrong this 
 morning. Take this foil, and keep it for my 
 sake. I have just won The Sabke with it.'
 
 104 
 
 .\]S'GELA PISANI. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 OOE Averanche! If he had suffered 
 
 anguish in the 
 
 lie 
 
 was now writhing in agonies 
 which were far more poignant. The lower 
 classes were obhged by tlie rules of tlie 
 Eleutheria to go to bed before the bigger 
 boys. 
 
 He had retired to rest, and the lights 
 luid been put out, and the candle been 
 taken away at half-past ten. 
 
 He was now alone, in darkness, and tlie 
 remembrance of Charles Denain's kind 
 words, the thought of his gift, the recollec- 
 tion of his delicate apology and self-reproach, 
 were harrowing his inmost heart.
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 105 
 
 Yor had he not pledged himself to a 
 conspiracy against a friend who had shown 
 himself so generous, against the friend of his 
 childhood, his brother-friend, his hero, and 
 his Cid ? And, within an hour or so, w^ould 
 he not be obhged to join the other muti- 
 neers in Locart's room ? What was he to 
 do ? Which way w^as he to turn ? What al- 
 ternative to take? Could he betray Locart — 
 Locart, wdio had borne blows for him, wdio 
 had undergone shame and scandal, and for his 
 sake ? He flung his bedclothes off him ; the 
 heat of the night seemed to him intolerable ; 
 he paced up and down his little chamber. 
 He moaned aloud. Again he tried to rest. 
 He tossed to and fro. He said m his fever, 
 ' I must act — I must do somethino'.' And 
 then, for the tenth part of an instant, it 
 flashed across him that he might play tlie 
 coward's part — remain quiet, take })ait
 
 100 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Avith neither, and await the result of the 
 morrow. 
 
 But this course, wliich, had he taken it in 
 a dilemma so important — the first crisis of his 
 youth — woidd have betokened a career, and 
 formed a character for certain and rapid 
 success in the world, lie after a moment im- 
 patiently rejected. 
 
 There was more of the Chateaubriand in 
 his beginnings than the Talleyrand. It was 
 impossible for him to choose. 
 
 With the proneness of his peculiar dis- 
 position to enhance and magnify all things 
 personal, he lashed himself into a morbid 
 belief that, whatever line he took, his school 
 career thenceforth was over. 
 
 He would become a scandal and a bye- 
 word among his companions, if he deserted 
 Locart. On tlie other hand, could he ever 
 forgive himself if, ui)on his account, and for
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 107 
 
 liim, Charles Denain was delivered to the 
 vengeance of the conspirators, ardent with 
 youthful passion, and a sense of their ill- 
 treatment. 
 
 He flung himself again upon his bed and 
 tried to come to some determination. Boy 
 as he was, there was a precocious bitterness 
 in his feelings, as he said to himself, ' I have 
 to choose between the parts of Cain or Judas. 
 Shall I sacrifice Locart, who has done so 
 mucli for me, avIio has been to me more than 
 a brother, wlio lias suffered and endured 
 for me? or shall I betray Charles Denain, 
 the companion of my early childhood, so- 
 generous, so delicate, so gracious, whom I 
 so love, so admire, whom every liour I am 
 wishing to follow and imitate?' 
 
 The clock had already sounded the three- 
 quarters past eleven, and Lionel Averanche 
 was still in tlie. same depressed and uncertain
 
 108 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 mood ; but it was now impossibl e for Lim 
 to vacillate any longer, he must come to a 
 decision. Superstitious — wliicli all hoys are — 
 but to no ordinaiy degree, he resolved to 
 be swayed by flite. He would go into Cliarles 
 Denain's room : if he was awake, he would 
 warn him of his danger ; if he was asleep, he 
 would go and join the other insurgents in 
 Locart's room. Providence, in this lefl- 
 lianded and morganatic manner, should de- 
 cide for him. 
 
 He stole softly along the passage, and with - 
 out the slightest noise opened Denain's door. 
 There he lay quietly asleep, in that placid 
 and gentle slumber, the blessing of a ma- 
 terialist temperament undisturbed by the 
 dreams and visitations wliich haunt organisa- 
 tions more susceptible. And as Averanclie 
 gazed upon him, a very natural change took 
 place in tlie plans whicli a moment beforj
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 10^ 
 
 lie had surrendered to Fortune. While 
 Cliarles Denain was lying there in his sleep, 
 so tranquil, serene, and trustful, could he 
 have the heart to give liiin over to liis foes ? 
 
 Tie pressed Denain's arm and awoke 
 him. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Lionel ? ' 
 
 'I am the most distracted, the most 
 miserable of ' 
 
 ' Well, you don't wake me to tell me this, 
 I suppose.' 
 
 Charles Denain seemed astoimded at so 
 little a boy's effrontery. 
 
 ' No, no,' said Averanche, passionately ; 
 and in quick and broken language he in- 
 formed Charles Denain of the plot which 
 Locart had contrived against him, of his own 
 share in it ; and then, in a transport of enthu- 
 siastic affection which showed that it was no 
 mere mean treason of interest or fear which
 
 110 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 brought him to Denain, lie told him how 
 for him lie had sacrificed his name, his 
 lionour, liis popularity, his good repute 
 among liis comrades. 
 
 It was with difficulty that lie kept from 
 sobbing, as lie uttered his last words, which 
 were heroic, ' But I liave saved you, Cliarles.' 
 
 'Well,' said Denain, and his voice was 
 €alm, even, and musical as ever, ' reach mc 
 that dressing-gown.' 
 
 Averanche gave it with a look almost of 
 saddened disgust ; Charles perhaps remarked 
 it, for he added : 
 
 ' I never shall forget this evening, be sure, 
 ilear Lionel.' 
 
 Charles Denain had said the proper thing. 
 He now got out of bed, put on slippers whicli 
 were edged with violet silk, looked in the 
 glass, like Sardanapalus before action, gave 
 his hair the slightest possible wave with an
 
 AXGELA PISANI. Ill 
 
 ivoiy and silver mounted brush, and was 
 going out of the room when Averanche 
 threw liiraself at his feet : 
 
 ' Where are you going, Charles ? Pray, 
 pray do not go to the Proviseur.' 
 
 * Come, come, I have no time for scenes 
 now,' answered Denain. 
 
 Saying this, he glided by Lionel Ave 
 ranche, and passed out of the room. 
 
 What a moment for Lionel! lie knelt 
 down by Denain's bedside and tried to 
 collect his disturbed and ac^itated thouHits. 
 The die was cast ; he had betrayed the con- 
 spirators ; but, in the midst of all his self- 
 reproaches, he was still nerved by a sense 
 that he had acted nobly by Denain. It was 
 a sacrifice, a devotion, even of his honour, for 
 his hero. There was nothing paltry or 
 selfish, nothing of personal advantage or 
 ffiiin or interest in his thouirhts.
 
 112 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 He would remain in the room until 
 Locart came with liis band of mutineers, and 
 dehver himself up to their fury in Denain's 
 stead ; he would not flinch from the en- 
 counter, he would face them, and avow him- 
 self as the informer and betrayer; and if 
 Charles Denain had gone to tell the school 
 authorities, there would be still time for them 
 to make their escape. 
 
 Averanche was still enp^aij^ed in these 
 reflections — every moment seeming an hour 
 — when he heard the trampling of feet, and 
 suppressed voices coming from De Yegnes* 
 room, which was close by. 
 
 It showed him that the work of retribu- 
 tion had already begun : he felt a relief in 
 knowing that liis own turn would soon come ; 
 but by and by he heard some more feet in 
 the passage. 
 
 There was a sudden silence in the adjoin-
 
 ANGELA PTSANI. 113 
 
 iiig room, only broken by the liarsli, thin, 
 grating voice of Senazet, the most unpopular 
 of all the ushers. This man had been a 
 priest before the Eevolution, but had thrown 
 off his cassock and been distinguished for his 
 extravagance during the excesses of Clootz, 
 Chabot, and Gobel. He had been, notwith- 
 standing this, protected and even favoured 
 by Eobespierre in despite of his uncom- 
 promising enmity to the worship of Eeason. 
 They had been schoolfellows together at the 
 college of Louis the Grand, and Senazet had 
 run second to him for a verse prize, a remin- 
 iscence so agreeable to the Dictator's vanity, 
 that it not only saved Senazet's life, but 
 unluckily secured him promotion. Un- 
 luckily! because after the Thermidor and 
 the fall of his patron, he had been dismissed, 
 proscribed, reduced to extreme necessities, 
 and after many vicissitudes in exile, and after 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 his return, had been obliged at last to have 
 recourse to that hardest of all lots — an usher's. 
 He had been four years at the Eleutheria, 
 and each year was more and more liated, 
 not so much for his severity as for his 
 sinister temper, a turn for low intrigue, and 
 a sort of irony which accompanied it. There 
 was a green whiteness, a cloudy fairness 
 about his complexion, which betokened the 
 man. Among the happy and sportive boys 
 around him, he appeared like those sullen, 
 small, black, unruffled pools, which one 
 comes upon in the sunny places of our own 
 lake country. 
 
 As silent and as fearful as a dead man's face. 
 
 His character has been thus particularly- 
 described, because it will account for the 
 chief incident of the evening. 
 
 When Senazet appeai'ed in De Vegnes' 
 room, there could not have been more
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. Hi 
 
 astonishment, not even on that memorable 
 hour of the great fifth form row — how 
 memorable in Etonian annals, 
 
 When Kecate appeared at the dead of night, 
 
 as it was sung afterwards : and the alarm of 
 the couple of hundred mutineers whom he 
 floo;£>;ed at midnight could not have been 
 greater than that of the young rebels of the 
 Eleutheria. 
 
 Locart alone, between whom and Senazet 
 there was that natural and instinctive feud 
 which exists between a fine character and 
 a base one, confronted him undauntedly. 
 
 He was in one of those tremendous 
 crises of passion, which exalt the young far 
 beyond the control of all rules or superiors. 
 
 He was one of those moral Van 
 Amburghs to whom life seems given to lay 
 low and strike down and subjugate the 
 beasts of the earth. 
 
 I 2
 
 IIG ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 He had just that moment satisfied his 
 vengeance upon one of them, long De Yegnes, 
 the sneak of tlie school ; and he stood before 
 the usher with every muscle of liis frame 
 distended, a glorious type of the Eoraan 
 Spartacus defying all authority. 
 
 ' Oh, oh ! this is the way you amuse 
 yourselves at night, is it ? ' exclaimed Senazet, 
 and he walked up to Locart. He put his 
 hand upon his night-dress, with the intention, 
 probably, of dragging him out of the room. 
 
 But Locart had no sooner felt the gripe 
 of Senazet upon his neck, than by an m- 
 stantaneous impulse he felled him to the 
 ground. 
 
 The deed was done. Almeric stood 
 trembling^ like an Arab courser after some 
 liazardous and heroic feat. 
 
 It w\as at this moment that Lionel
 
 AIs^GELA PISAXI. 117 
 
 Averanche entered tlie room. At one 
 glance he comprehended the scene. 
 
 But the truth was ahiiost too horrible 
 for him to believe. He rushed up to Locart. 
 
 ' Say you did not do it — oh, say it wiis 
 somebody else.' 
 
 Locart burst into tears, the soft words 
 of affection were too much for his troubled 
 spirit. He suffered himself to be led like 
 a child by Averanche, who had seized him 
 by the arm, and who hurried him away. 
 
 Averanche stopped at his own room, 
 slammed the door, and threw himself at 
 Locart's feet. 
 
 It was a singular sight, the mixture of 
 the tragic and the burlesque — those two 
 boys in their night-dresses, both animated 
 by feelings which ordinary men in their 
 whole life never feel. 
 
 The scene between them it is needless
 
 118 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 to describe. It Avas a pantomime of passion^ 
 supreme remorse, and forgiveness, not with- 
 out contempt. 
 
 Five minutes afterwards they parted. 
 Locart offered Averanche his hand. He 
 did not dare take it, but he kissed it with 
 feehngs far bitterer than before, for he could 
 .see in Ahneric's melancholy resignation how 
 deeply he had suffered. 
 
 The next day Locart was expelled. The 
 I^roviseur, tutors, all the boys were gathered 
 to£^ether. It was a irreat solemnity, and 
 meant to be an instructive one. How far 
 it answered its purpose may be discovered 
 by the conversation which passed after it 
 between Averanche and Locart. Lionel, ta 
 whose humiliation there seemed to be no 
 end, was thanking him because he had 
 pj-eserved his secret. It Avas believed in. 
 the school that De Vegnes' screams had
 
 AIs^GELA PISANI. 110 
 
 awakened Senazet, whose interference was 
 thus accounted for. Locart, whose whole 
 soul was on fire at the calamity which had 
 just befallen him, the catastrophe of all his 
 young hopes and forecast career, interrupted 
 him. 
 
 ' Pardon me, dear Lionel, I do not mean 
 to give you pain, if I speak of myself, and 
 what has just occurred.' 
 
 There was the delicacy of real greatness 
 in this chance apology — ' Les esprits fins 
 sont toujours les plus indulgents ' — and Aver- 
 anche felt another pang of shame, keener, 
 deeper, and more poignant than any which 
 had gone before. 
 
 ' No, dear Lionel, I may not understand 
 your motives, but I will not love you less ; 
 Init I who in all this have done everything 
 for the best, who have acted from impulses 
 which I know and feel were right and high,
 
 120 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 who bore blows for you, because I scorned to 
 be the instrument of Denain's cruelties, who 
 determined to rise up against the tyrants who 
 were degrading us into grooms and valets, 
 who inflicted upon them the chastisement 
 they deserved, who trod upon the slimy and 
 disgusting reptile whom they summoned to 
 their aid, I — I who feel in all this I have 
 done well and justly, I am branded for life. 
 I go forth to battle with my fellows ; I am 
 treated as the vilest and last of mankind ; I 
 shall meet with contumely, and scorn, and 
 dishonour, and contempt, and disgrace, and 
 wherever I go it w^ill be scoffed at behind 
 my back and whispered to my face — " lie 
 was expelled." ' 
 
 Every syllable was a dagger into Aver- 
 anche. lie threw himself into one of those 
 abrupt paroxysms, those nervous shivers of 
 impatience, which showed far more than
 
 ANGELA riSANI. 121 
 
 words or tears how intense was the torture 
 he endured. 
 
 ' Ah, pardon me again, dear Lionel, this 
 is indeed a moment of selfishness ; but where 
 to look, where to go, what to do, when I am 
 taught thus early that there is no justice 
 upon earth ? ' 
 
 There was a long pause, a dead silence, 
 but each midit have heard the heart's beat- 
 ing of the other. 
 
 ' My career is over,' Locart muttered to 
 himself, almost mechanically. He did not 
 mean Averanche to hear liim. 
 
 ' And mine begun,' said Averanche, almost 
 inarticulate with remorse. ' I have taken 
 my first step in villainy.' 
 
 Locart looked at him. They were at the 
 same place, by the same bench, where they 
 had embraced the day before. The sky was 
 •as bright, the smmner sounds as hap])y, tlie
 
 122 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 sun as joyous, the waters as golden, the 
 scene as radiant as before, but they did not 
 now fling their arms around one another. 
 
 They had both of them learned for the 
 first time life's bitterest lesson — that however 
 true, or honest, or genuine, or sincere are 
 youth's vows, you cannot trust them !
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 12; 
 
 CHAPTEE ly. 
 
 And other secrets too he could declare 
 
 From patterns all divine; 
 His earthly creed retouching here and there 
 
 And deepening every line. — Dk. Neaymax. 
 
 'OCAET was alone. It was the 
 morrow of his expulsion. The 
 weather, charged with thunder 
 black, sombre, and tempestuous, was such 
 as suited his mood. His was a temper 
 which rarely surrendered to reverie ; there 
 was something in it soft, and suave, and ener- 
 vating, which his manly nature was revolted 
 at. There was even now in his solitude a 
 Avild desire to do something, to be up and 
 stirring and in action. lie boldly looked
 
 124 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 face to face at his despair, and wrestled witli 
 it ; he sought none of tliose sliifts and evasions 
 by whicli less resolute cliaracters gain a 
 momentary anod3'ne. He deteiTnined to 
 give battle to his black tlioughts, and if they 
 conquered him, he would yield and die ; lie 
 would scorn to compromise and cheat his 
 existence, and live on at their mercy in more 
 or less of misery. 
 
 Yet, sooth to say, there was more than 
 enough in his prospects to have dismayed 
 and daunted far older, more experienced, 
 more seared, more callous hearts. He was 
 tlie last male of his race. His mother, her- 
 self a scion of the great southern liouse of 
 Cosse Brissac, had indulged in the most glo- 
 rious aspirations for her son's career. It was 
 scarcely possible to see him, without feeling 
 that tliere was much in his appearance to 
 justify tliem.
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 125 
 
 There was a dasli of tlie Moor in liis 
 clear swarthiness, in liis fiery eye, in his silent 
 ways, in his intrepid pursuits. Even Charles 
 Denain had been aroused to enthusiasm, in 
 some boyish sport, about him, and had called 
 him, in his half-flippant way, a stately animal. 
 lie was one of those fiery children of the 
 South, of that hot metal whom St. Dominic 
 had moulded into so fiery a brand for heretics 
 and Albigenses. If Locart had lived in the 
 twelfth century, he might have been as fana- 
 tical a persecutor as his ancestor the Lord of 
 Barcelona. He would have charged with 
 Simon de Montfort, and kissed his cross-hilted 
 sword, as it reeked witli the blood of Vaudois 
 and Paulicians. 
 
 As it was he had been cradled in com- 
 motions. He had heard cannon firino- at 
 four years old, and been told that the naughty 
 people had pulled down the good king's
 
 12G ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 great prison — tlie Bastille. Aftenvards he 
 liad seen liis mother weeping, and he knew 
 Ijy instinct, as mucli as if he had himself 
 seen their blood, that it was for his father 
 and her brothers that she wept. 
 
 Heir to great names and to larger pos- 
 sessions, 
 
 Witli a spirit set on fire 
 
 At the fount of ancient clays ; ' 
 
 nursed in all his mother's ancestral and here- 
 ditary lore, as a boy he was an ardent aris- 
 tocrat. His mother had never emigrated. 
 
 She had passed through the Eeign of 
 Terror in safety, and, in a quieter time, had 
 sent her only child to a school, which a priest 
 still confessed, and to the name of which she 
 was first reconciled by this religious fi\ct. 
 Anduowhcwas to w to Toulouse. his mother's 
 natal place, and inform her that he was 
 expelled. To tell her that this disgrace
 
 AXGELA PISANI. 127 
 
 had fallen upon his father's name — to her 
 who had never put off mournmg for him — 
 to tell her, who with all a Frenchwoman's 
 23ride, careless of governments, Directories, 
 or consulships, had loved to give in to fond 
 dreams, and to connect her son's renown with 
 all the glories of French conquest. Alas ! 
 alas ! would he not bring her grey hairs in 
 sorrow to the grave ? 
 
 These reflections filled Locart with the 
 bitterest despair. He had strayed he knew 
 not whither in his feverish rapidit}^, and he 
 found himself already far from the capital. 
 He was close to a burying-ground. It was 
 the notorious Cemetery of Clamart, the last 
 earthly home of criminals, the lowest, the 
 vilest, the most depraved, tlie receptacle into 
 which Mirabeau's ashes had been flun<i- in 
 political contempt. He felt in all the exag- 
 geration of self-reproach that it was a meet
 
 128 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 place for himself; he walked into it, and took 
 a strange pleasure, a fantastic sympathy, in 
 looking^ at the f^raves. Distorted as all his 
 views were by the injustice he had just 
 suffered, he exonerated the dead around him 
 from crime. They had waged, so he per- 
 versely thought in his diseased temper, an 
 unequal war, at fearful odds against the trans- 
 cendental lie which men call morals, and, 
 like himself, they had fallen martyrs to their 
 cold and calculating tyranny. Usurpers are 
 always cruel, and none more cruel, he argued, 
 than those forms and formulas wliich, like an 
 Oriental succession, had killed, annihilated, 
 poisoned the parent spirit which begot them, 
 and which a decrepid civilisation acknow- 
 ledges in trembling and bows down to in 
 slavish and complaisant unreason. 
 
 The world, great, overgrown, cowardly 
 bully as it is, ever striking the weak and
 
 ANGELA PISAM. 129 
 
 ■sparing tlie strong, had branded tliem its 
 •victims, their hves, their memories, then- 
 children, tlieir children's children, as it had 
 done him ; yet their consciences, like his 
 own, might perhaps have protested, all the 
 while, stainless and indignant. 
 
 Conscience, the voice of God! He 
 looked up to the Heavens. They were as 
 black as his own despair, save where the 
 lightning raced for a moment with the 
 driving clouds and disappeared. It seemed 
 to Locart as if even from Heaven there was 
 no hope for him, as if he were crushed by 
 a Fate like that of the antique Labdacida3, 
 as if God Himself was trampling upon him. 
 He did what many had done before, in the 
 insane impotence of their isolated and for- 
 lorn despair. He hardened himself in his 
 hopelessness, he gave himself up to be pos- 
 sessed l)y the Demon, who has ever scoffed 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 in his spiritual pride since the world began. 
 He hurled back defiance to tlie Gods. 
 
 It was a time when the teaching of the 
 eighteenth century was abroad, ' when the 
 rich said to themselves, " There is nothing 
 true but riches ; all the rest is a dream : let 
 us enjoy ourselves and die ; " — when the 
 poor said to themselves, " There is nothing 
 true but misery ; all the rest is a dream : let 
 us blaspheme and die.'" 
 
 And Locart called upon the lightning to 
 blast him where he stood; he raved his 
 wild menaces, lie shouted out his frenzied 
 challenge, he mocked, and derided, and in- 
 sulted, he cursed in answer to the roar of 
 the elements. Blame him not, ye Phari- 
 sees ! Judge him not in your finite judg- 
 ment, ye hypocrites hedged in by 
 spirit-deadened forms ! \Ylio knows but in 
 the eye of the Infinite these very curses
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 131 
 
 were not prayers? that that real cry of 
 intolerable ans^uish was not a confession of 
 weakness and an intercession for support, a 
 cry for mercy akin to Heaven in its loathing 
 of earth's impostures and oppressions ? 
 
 There appeared to him, while the echoes 
 of his frantic cries were yet ringing in his 
 ears, a form so thin, so meagre, so emaciated, 
 so pale, that had it not been for a priestly 
 soutane and for the funeral wreath he car- 
 ried in his hand, Locart might have believed 
 him to have been tlie denizen of another 
 world. 
 
 'What clo you want here?' exclaimed 
 Locart, with irritable and abrupt impatience. 
 
 ' Nay, these are scenes which it is our 
 duty to frequent.' 
 
 And the Priest glanced at his dress, and 
 the mournful garland which he had rever- 
 ently placed upon a gravestone. 
 
 £2
 
 132 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' What do you here, my son, I should 
 rather ask ? is it meet that you should blas- 
 pheme God in ground sacred to Him ? ' 
 
 ' Ay, ay, that's it, always a formula,' said 
 Locart, bitterly. 
 
 ' Yes, a formula, if you will. I put it to 
 you merely as a matter of taste,' said tlie 
 stranger, gently. 
 
 Locart looked surprised. The stranger 
 probably read his thoughts, for he said in 
 the same low winning voice : — 
 
 ' Why put a truth before you ? you 
 would only have sinned the more in insult- 
 ing it.' 
 
 Tliere was notliing of bigotiy, nothing 
 harsh, nothing arrogant in the Priest's 
 manner. Locart determined to leave the 
 burying ground ; he bowed respectfully and 
 low, and with the natiural feeling of a gentle- 
 man could not forbear saying : —
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 133 
 
 ' I beg your pardon.' 
 
 ']^ay, do not beg my pardon, Almeric 
 Locart.' ^ 
 
 ' How ? — you know my name ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and all that has happened to you, 
 all that is passing within you at tliis hour.' 
 
 ' I hope not, you will be revolted.' 
 
 The Priest smiled sadly. 
 
 ' It is my profession to know men ; ' and 
 he added in a lower tone, as if he was afraid 
 of offending Locart, ' and to serve them if 
 possible.' 
 
 Almeric Locart drew up with all the 
 
 ^ See the account in the Abbe de la Eoche-Arnaud's 
 second pamphlet of his visit to his grandfather's tomb. Sir 
 Henry Bulwer, in a book which playful as Voltaire's is 
 scarcely less profoundly suggestive, attributes the Ilevolu- 
 tion of 1830 in no little measure to works such as that just 
 quoted, — the colour of which may be seen by its motto : 
 
 * Di, quibus imperium est animarum, umbrroque silentes ; 
 Et Chaos, et Phlegethon, loca nocte silentia late, 
 Sit mihi fas audita loqui,' &c. &c. Sec.
 
 134 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 pride of his independent race ; he sahited 
 his companion and would have departed. 
 
 ' Nay, do not be so impatient of a suffer- 
 ing fellow's counsel. I cannot wish to harm 
 you, I desire but to benefit you.' 
 
 ' Your name. Sir,' said Locart, with 
 marked derision in his manner 
 
 ' I have none.' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! I am in no mood, now and 
 here, for jugglery or imposture.' 
 
 The shghtest flush passed over the 
 Priest's wan features at the word impostiure, 
 but he answered simi)ly, ' I had one, once ; it 
 was borne by him wlio rests witliin this 
 grave : I liave none now.' 
 
 Almeric Locart looked away, with a 
 natural delicacy, that he might not seem to 
 perceive the shame which tliis avowal of 
 connection with some criminal lie doubted 
 not would cause ; but, on the contrary, there
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 135 
 
 ^yas no expression save of a passionless 
 repose in the attenuated and worn linea- 
 ments of liis companion. 
 
 'You call yourself?' enquired Lo- 
 cart 
 
 ' Jerome/ 
 
 'Nothing else.' 
 
 ' It is too much as it is. Is it not more than 
 we now know of saints and sages, confessors 
 and martyrs, of cenobites and anchorites, 
 above all of Benedictines, and the preaching 
 order of those who gave us arts and humani- 
 ties, letters and civilities ? Those grey old 
 cathedrals, our pyramids, the miracles of 
 yoiu" own Norman ancestors who built them, 
 who adorned them, wlio painted them, who, 
 I ask you, gave tlie idea and tlie spirit from 
 which they sprung ? 
 
 ' You are fresh, for instance, from tliose 
 classics whose preservation you owe to 
 monks. Take tlie mystic warning which
 
 13G ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 tliey give. Eemcmber that tlieir greatest 
 man, tlieir Socrates, affixed that name to no- 
 thing, left no work behind liim, scorned to 
 claim as liis that which belonged to God, of 
 whom he was but the instrument and the tool. 
 How poor a lie is individual fame! You 
 shake your head. It is difficult, I know, to 
 persuade you. You are still possessed by 
 the lust of individual selfishness ; you are 
 emulous, ambitious, about to run the evil 
 race of competition ; you are still of those 
 who go forth into the world, to profit by the 
 misadventures of their fellows. You are in- 
 spired by that influence of egotism and sepa- 
 ration whicli never did a great thing. You 
 are of those who would leave great names 
 and do little tilings ; I am of those who are 
 en<]jaged in a izTcat tliimx, and would leave 
 no name.' 
 
 'Oh barbarous sacrifice/ answered Lo-
 
 AXGELA PISANI. 137 
 
 cart with all the generous enthusiasm of a 
 boy ; ' you would, then, crush all the higli 
 impulses within you, the love of honour and 
 of glory, of fame and of good report. How 
 savage is your superstition ! what a Jugger- 
 naut you make of your devotion ! bear with 
 me a little : I too have thouirht of these 
 things, although I am so young. 
 
 ' I have read my Montaigne, and know 
 what he says of competitions, of })hysician. 
 lawyer, soldier, merchant, statesman, living, 
 profiting, making a trade by their neigh- 
 bours' ills. 
 
 ' I know I do not underrate the bless- 
 ings of association, the only and sole correc- 
 tive of this terrible system. But there is an 
 association at our hands, a dispensation 
 which is meant to temper all the harshnesses 
 of emulation, an incitement to enterprise, a 
 sympatliy in victory, a solace in disaster, the
 
 138 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 softest, the most lasting, the kindest, the 
 most natural, the most endearing, the most 
 divine, the sacrament of family.' 
 
 'I agree and yet I disagree with you,' 
 answered the stranger. ' I agree with you 
 that it is to family that we must look for a 
 remedy for competition; but I disagree 
 ^vith you that it is tlie family whicli you would, 
 indicate. You condemn yourself, my son. 
 Look around you ; look at that world whose 
 family you would prefer, with all its mai'ri- 
 ages of convention, and sordid sacrifice of 
 young hearts, and base pursuit of gold for 
 this man in his generation and for his chil- 
 dren in theirs, with all his desires to push 
 them on, to get them up, or to keep tliem 
 up, to spur tliem forward, to urge them to 
 greed against and to tlie disparagement of 
 others — what is all tliis — this family, with its 
 strifes and contests, its complicate and dash-
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 139 
 
 ing interests, but a great reciprocity of carn- 
 age, a large massacre perpetrated, hereditary, 
 traditional, going on now as it did yesterday 
 and will to-morrow, generation against 
 generation, race against race, house against 
 house, name against name? Is that your 
 remedy? Do you not see that, like other 
 false remedies, it increases the evil, that com- 
 petition is magnified a hundredfold thereby, 
 that the struggle and the ambition and the 
 selfishness are not confined as they were 
 originally to units, but are carried down and 
 multiphed and extended by civilisation, and 
 to the farthest time spread jealousies and 
 feuds, and hatreds ? 
 
 ' No, Almeric Locart, there is another 
 family which man made not but which God 
 has made, which works not for self-advance- 
 ment, but for the advancement of otliers — 
 whicli therefore does them no ill immediately
 
 140 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 or mediately, but which sacrifices all things 
 proper and personal and selfish to do good 
 to others. The principle of your family is 
 pride, the principle of God's family is humi- 
 lity. The practice of your family is to get 
 themselves on over the heads of others, into 
 the higli places, and that you call Success 
 and Fame, Glory and Triumph — the practice 
 of God's family is to prostrate themselves 
 humbly and sadly, in order to be trampled 
 on by others, and that they call Success and 
 Fame, Glory and Triumph. The motive of 
 your family is self-aggrandisement to the 
 destruction and ruin of all other men ; the 
 motive of God's family is self-abasement for 
 the weal and tlie profit and the salvation of 
 other men. And both toil and labour un- 
 wearily and unceasingly morning and evening, 
 night and day.' 
 
 ' Mammon,' interrupted Locart, with all
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 141 
 
 the bitterness of a bruised soul, ' working 
 the most and hardest of tlie two, I take it.' 
 
 ' I^ay, it works openly and ostenta- 
 tiously — God works inscrutably and secretly. 
 The time has come when Vice parades and 
 Virtue hides, when the first has the world 
 in its favour and is called respectabiUty, and 
 worships openly and in broad daylight, and 
 confessedly, the Appearance ; while the other 
 has the world against it, and is called super- 
 stition, and suffers obscurely and is persecuted 
 for love of the Eeality. Look at the conduct 
 of the two. The child has not arrived at 
 man's estate before the father takes him, as 
 the tempter did of old, and shows him the vast 
 Panorama of Life, and instructs him how he 
 is to make it his own, and grasp, and gain, 
 and profit, and be successful. 
 
 ' If his brother faints, he is to strike him ; 
 if his brother is blind, he is to rolj him ; if his
 
 142 ANGELA PIS.\XI. 
 
 brother bleeds, lie is to stab him ; if his brother 
 trusts, he is to betray him ; if his brother 
 wants, he is to starve him ; if his brother be 
 generous, he is to take advantage of him ; if 
 his brother be miserable, he is to mock him ; 
 if his brother be simple, he is to expose him ; 
 if his brother be strong, he is to cheat him ; if 
 his brother be glorious, he is to envy him ; if 
 his brother be great, he is to slander him. 
 Or else how shall he get on? The end 
 justifies the means. 
 
 ' And the young daughter of the world, 
 does she fare better? See her — full of 
 maiden beauty, with those eyes which were 
 made for love, witli that voice wliich might 
 have inspired heroes, with that complexion 
 Heaven gave her, led by the hand into a 
 corrupt enervating atmospliere, where lights 
 are gleaming upon smiles as artificial as 
 themselves, where the many are hard and
 
 ANGELA PISAM. 143 
 
 callous and the few are reckless and un- 
 happy. But who is it that leads her ? Her 
 mother ! And does she lead her amoncj tlie 
 gentle-looking and the great, among the 
 famous or the irreproachable — among those 
 who have done some sacrifice, who have 
 thought one noble thought, who have re- 
 sisted one temptation, who have given proof 
 in themselves of merit, or distinction, or glory, 
 or honour, or good report ? Look again. She 
 leads her into a group wliose hearts have 
 been hardened by a long hereditary pros- 
 perity, whose blood laas been attenuated 
 and impoverished and vitiated by inveterate 
 traditional indulgence, who have never had 
 occasion to tliink or to work, for whom all 
 things are provided, and to whom all things 
 are subservient, because, centuries ago, their 
 forefathers did and acted — what ? A great- 
 ness or a crime — -factum or f acinus — which
 
 144 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 would it be even interpreted by modem 
 opinion? And tlie young maiden, all aitless- 
 looking, all seeming innocence, all careless 
 grace, who gives here a smile and tliere a 
 favour, and here a whisper and there her 
 hand, w^hy does she thus discriminate ? is it 
 caprice or accident, coquetry or chance? 
 Nay, that soft eye is calculating all the while 
 among diamonds, and gold, and pearls, and 
 strawberry leaves — she combines the instinct 
 of a usurer with the knowledge of a la^vyer. 
 She knows as well as any trader the tariff of 
 matrimony — and tlie ad valorem duty which 
 lier mother lias all lier life long taught her, to 
 know earl and marquis, duke and liiglmess. 
 And lamps are flaring and fountains are 
 playing, nuisic is thrilling and exotics are 
 blooming, for them. For these, and such as 
 these, are tlie treasures, and the delicateness 
 and the beauty of the earth.
 
 A]S^GELA PISANI. 145 
 
 'And while these scenes are enactinor, 
 there is another family, to whom its poverty, 
 its mortification, its calumny, have been 
 allotted, and they complain not, but rejoice 
 in working. Like their Master, they have 
 been hunted from city to city, and reviled 
 and persecuted by those for whom they 
 have most toiled, wdiom they have most en- 
 lightened. Like Him they are maligned, 
 but they pray for their maligners ; they are 
 proscribed, but they intercede for their pro- 
 scribers ; they are judged without a hearing, 
 but like Him they have a mission and a vow 
 to save the souls even of their judges. And 
 though one after another, nation after nation, 
 has arisen and borne false witness ai^ainst 
 them, and condemned them to bear the 
 Cross of Shame and Suffering, the Pilate-like 
 condemnation of the Mighty, the execration 
 and scorn of tlie nuiltitude, it has but united 
 
 VOL. I. h
 
 146 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 them the more closely to Him and to each 
 other. What are the domestic ties, which 
 are all fomided upon a principle of sectarian 
 hostility, compared to those Monastic Chari- 
 ties based upon tlie love of all ? 
 
 ' The first preserve in their old monu- 
 ments and archives the fame of individuals, 
 who have outvied, overreached, over- 
 powered, overborne their fellows. Heirs of 
 the Martyrs, the last have succeeded to their 
 full inheritance, and their family records are 
 sentences of exile and imprisonment, endur- 
 ance and persecution, torture and death. 
 These are their archives, their monuments, 
 their strawberry leaves, their pearls. And 
 yet they miglit boast a lieroic succession 
 which no other family can pretend to affect, 
 were they to count one titlie of their names 
 of learning and genius, of their discoveries 
 and acliievcments, their warriors and states-
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 147 
 
 men, the great truths and great men they 
 have given to the world. But it is not 
 these whom they vaunt or glorify. They 
 glorify the Spirit which sent forth to tlie 
 •ends of the earth men who were daunted 
 neither by tempests nor shipwrecks, nor 
 cruelties, nor ignorance, nor prejudice, nor 
 suffering, nor martyrdom.' 
 
 Locart, who had been carried away by 
 the Priest's earnestness, according as it did 
 with his own passionate mood, was so 
 anxious, that he interrupted him, ' You can- 
 not mean the family of Jesus ? ' 
 
 ' I do mean the family of Jesus,' in liis 
 turn interrupted Jerome. 
 
 ' How, in France, and you confide it to 
 me ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, to you, Almeric Locart, for tliere 
 is the mark of God upon you. You arc 
 destined to serve his Church. Tiiat im-
 
 148 ANGELA riSANI. 
 
 petiious spirit, whicli turned against yourself 
 and wounded you, and still lacerates you 
 now, has been long marked by us, and as 
 purely will you one day be one of us.' 
 
 ' Priest me no Priests,' cried Locart, im- 
 patiently, * from Egypt downwards you have 
 conspired against mankind. I seek a nobler 
 vocation. After I have seen my mother, I 
 shall go to the Wars.' 
 
 ' You are very young.' 
 
 ' I am not younger than was Sayer.' 
 Locart alluded to the glorious story then in 
 everybody's mouth of the drummer boy, 
 who at Marengo, Avhen told to beat a retreat, 
 beat a charge, and did about as much as 
 Kellerman to win tlie battle. 
 
 ' Come witli me ratlier,' replied tlie 
 Priest ; ' come and see how discipline may 
 delight, and mortification become a pleasure ; 
 come witli me, and fulfil yoiu* fate. Xay
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 140 
 
 you will not ; you shake your head : be it so 
 for the present. I may not bless you, you 
 have still many a penance first to undergo ; 
 but you bear within you a spirit which the 
 world can never satisfy. 
 
 ' We shall meet again.'
 
 150 ANGELA PISAN'I. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Thev have in England 
 A coin that bears the figure of an Angel 
 Stamped in gold : but that's insculp'd upon, 
 But here an Axgel. — MerchaiU of Vt-nice, 
 
 »FTEE Locart's expulsion, it ^vas 
 remarked at the Eleutheria that 
 Charles Denaiu and Lionel Ave- 
 ranche were inseparable. There were many- 
 reasons for this. Denain could not but feel 
 tlie value of an attachment like that of his- 
 young and enthusiastic comrade, nor was 
 any interruption put to their friendship by 
 tlie occurrence of vacations, as Averanche 
 was the ward of Denain's father. 
 
 Lionel Agenor' Augustin d'Averauche^
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 151 
 
 Vidame of Averanche, Seignieur of Picqiiigny, 
 Sire de Criol, a Grandee of Spain, Here- 
 ditary Seneschal of Granville, Marshal of 
 the armies of God and of Holy Church, 
 as his ancestors had proudly signed them- 
 selves at the time of tlie Crusades, and as 
 liis descendants had uninterruptedly signed 
 down to the Eevolution, heir to one of the 
 noblest of French names, and to three ruined 
 Chateaux, with rights innumerable of the old 
 Korman stamp, and to sixty quarterings in 
 token of past wealth, and a more than 
 Austrian felicity of alliance, w^as a little boy 
 without a sou. His father, Philippe Marie, 
 was one of the most brilhant among the 
 doctrinaire dandies, wdio had 2:)rosed, and 
 fought, and danced in the early years of 
 Louis XYI. He was the friend of Segur and 
 Lafayette, and the beautiful Condorcet. He 
 had made an American campaign, had
 
 152 ANGELA PIS.\XI. 
 
 avenged Montreal and Quebec upon the 
 English, had been coquettishly wounded, and 
 had worn his arm in the most fanciful and 
 exquisite of shngs. With all the advantages 
 and the renown of many a good fortune, it 
 Avas no wonder that the young Yidame with 
 the old possessions, was much sought after in 
 marriage; but, notwithstanding ennui and 
 debt, those two main hymeneal persuasives, 
 Philippe Marie held bravely out against 
 overtures of all kinds, formal or informal, the 
 regidar siege and the romantic surprise. At 
 last, in despair at the superior polish of the 
 Duke of Orleans' leathers who had organised 
 an estafette express from England to subserve 
 the reigning Anglomania, Averanche deter- 
 mined topass over into the Great Groomland 
 which exported such miracles of varnish. 
 Eond of horses, as became his Christian name, 
 he lost his money, with a ban mot and a
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 153 
 
 smile, to Lord March, but took his revenge 
 at ecarte on a Lancashire Baronet, who was 
 so enchanted with his conqueror's manners 
 as to ask him for a week's shooting to liis 
 house. But as the week's stay grew into a 
 month's stay, and that again into so serious a 
 thing as a marriage with liis host's daughter, 
 w^e must give some idea of little Lionel's 
 maternal ancestry. 
 
 Sir Hilary Clifford belonged to one of 
 those old banneret fomilies who take a pride 
 in ringing alternate changes on a name, and 
 like tlie Sir Arscotts and Sir Williams of the 
 Molesworths, or the Sir Nortons and Sir 
 Edwards of the Knatchbulls, endless was 
 the succession of Sir Hilarys and Sir Johns 
 in the family pedigree of the Cliffords. 
 Catholics before the Eeformation they had 
 remained true to the ancient faith. Their 
 politics were as unchangeable as their religion.
 
 154 ANGELA nSAXl. 
 
 Marians ngainst Elizabeth, and therefore 
 favoured by James I., they were cavaliers 
 under his son, Jacobites after the revolution, 
 and Tories after the Guelpliic accession. 
 Tliere was even a question of electing Sir 
 John Chfibrd, the father of the Yidame of 
 Averanche's friend, into the head of the 
 Tory party, after the desertion of Sir Watkyn 
 Wynne (a name that was ever fatal to the 
 Stuarts) in 1745. Sir Hilary, who succeeded 
 to his father some ten years later, had mar- 
 ried a Protestant, had coquetted with the 
 Whigs, liad been to a pubhc day at Knows- 
 ley, and liad refused a peerage from Lord 
 North. But notwithstanding^ these little 
 backsli diners, which were bitterlv crroaned 
 over in many a manor liouse of Lanoishire 
 and Cheshire, Sir Hilary was something of a 
 bigot in his ways ; his son he allowed to 
 think in the old Tory fashion of Hobbes»
 
 ANGELA PISANI. lo5 
 
 Bolingbroke and Hume, but his daughters 
 he educated in the strictest Latinism. 
 
 Left a Avidower very early he had hved 
 much abroad, partly because he hated Eng- 
 lish politics and partly to give to Margaret 
 and Eleanore Clifford, his only daughters, 
 whom he idolised, the benefits (such as he 
 thought them) of foreign education. And 
 Averanche thought, the first day that he saw 
 Margaret Clifford at matins, in her simple 
 dress, with a cross depending from her long 
 white throat, while her delicate head drooped 
 half hidden by taper fingers which Vandyke 
 might have painted — that he never had seen 
 anything half so lovely or so graceful. But 
 when at dinner the same day he found she 
 could talk as no young lady ever could in 
 his country, with their convent-spanned ex- 
 perience, deeply but lightly, of Italy and its 
 pictures, of Clarissa, of Le Kain, of Franklin ;
 
 156 AXGELA PISANI. 
 
 and then, wlien he had ventured upon some 
 philosophic flippancy, liow .she checked him 
 witli tlie glance of a Saxon saint — he rose 
 from table a lost man, sunk irretrievably in 
 his own esteem, utterly gone : he was iti love 
 icitJi a girl ! Why pursue the story of his 
 courtship? At a county ball, where he had, 
 as Lord Byron says, far excelled ' us serious 
 angels ' in the pantomime of dancing, he 
 proposed and was accepted. Sir Hilary, who, 
 although he liked living abroad, had no great 
 fancy for a foreign son-in-law, gave his con- 
 sent reluctantly ; and the old chapel at Apul- 
 derfield Hall never had seen amoni^ her 
 ancestresses so beautifiil a bride as lier whom 
 the Vidamc of Averanche led to the altar. 
 Her fail* hair with a long string of pearls 
 braided and interwoven in it as in one of 
 Veronese's heroines ; her soft, timid, blue 
 eye ; her exquisite transparency of com-
 
 ANGELA PTSANI. 157 
 
 plexion, all these found many au admirer. 
 Ijiit who was that tall, graceful, girlish figure 
 by her side, with hazel eyes almost alight 
 with passion, with imperial features, with the 
 thin lip of determination, with vsuperb and 
 commanding beauty even though so young, a 
 bridesmaid by whose side few might excel ? 
 It was Eleanore Clifford, the sister. Alas I a 
 few years afterwards, on a summer night 
 when the moon had long been up and the 
 btars had already shone whole hours upon the 
 sward, she might ha\-e been seen, by a foim- 
 tain in the great ancestral park, the low vows 
 of a foreis^ner echoino; in her ear, and the 
 wild lights of enthusiastic attachment flashing 
 in her eye. 
 
 And in the same year of that elopement 
 the bell of the old cliapel was tolling its 
 melancholy knell, for Sir Hilary Clifford was 
 no more. lie had died of a crushed s|)int
 
 158 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 and broken heart. His eldest daughter had 
 perished among tlie noyades at Lyons, and 
 his youngest had left lier paternal roof, which 
 had never known shame before, witli a 
 Venetian adventurer. 
 
 The same year which saw the death of 
 Madame d'Averanche and Sir Hilary ChfTord, 
 deprived little Lionel of his only remaining 
 parent. The Vidame of Averanche perished 
 by the orders of CoUot d'Herbois on the 
 scaffold. His last words (French memou's 
 with their usual laxity have falsely given 
 them to many) were full of grace and spirit. 
 
 * Do your work,' he said to the executioner ; 
 
 * I do my duty.' 
 
 The steward of his estates, a sort of 
 French Gilbert Glossin, had espoused the 
 popular cause witli great adroitness and 
 dexterity ; had trlnuned his opinions so as 
 always to be in favour, and had not only
 
 ANGELA PISANI. lol) 
 
 possessed himself of the property of Ave- 
 raiiche, buthad amassed an enormous fortune 
 ^^y speculations in corn during the flimous 
 year of 1792. 
 
 His name was Denain, and he was the 
 father of that Charles Denain who had won 
 the sabre at the Eleutheria. With a peculiar 
 forethought, he just conceived it possible that 
 something or other, if not the Duke of 
 Erunswick perhaps the House of Brunswick, 
 might some day or other re-establish the 
 Bourbons. 
 
 In this view, and determining to be pre- 
 pared for every vicissitude, he undertook the 
 charge of the orphan noble ^\hom he had de- 
 spoiled, and administered for him the miser- 
 able remains of those Seigneurial possessions 
 which he Iiimself had not thought worth a 
 purchase or a theft. Thus in the nursery of 
 a magnificent Hotel which should have been
 
 160 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 his own, little Lionel Averanche was reared. 
 To Cliarles Denain, his senior by three years, 
 he succeeded somewhat as Colhng^vood did 
 to Nelson, or Goulbiirn to Peel ; but, instead 
 of epaulettes, ships, and stations, Lord 
 Secretaryships, Home Secretaryships, or 
 Chancellorships of the Exchequer, it was to 
 his clothes, his toys, and his school books. 
 
 Li the year 1794 the elder Denain, who 
 had attached himself most intimately to 
 Fouche, accepted a secret mission to Persia 
 and took the two boys with him. Upon his 
 return, in the ensuing year, he dedicated all 
 his time and energy to fiscal matters, it was 
 whispered to speculations in Agio ; and in 
 1803 (just as his son Charles Denain was 
 leaving the Eleutheria) the First Consul 
 nominated him to the post of Counsellor of 
 State, a dignity at that time equivalent to a 
 Portfolio.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 161 
 
 His wife liad died in her first confine- 
 ment, and Charles Denain had been entirely 
 educated, from his childhood up to the 
 Eleutheria, by his father. He had not only 
 instilled into him, and into Lionel also, a love 
 of the classics which they never unlearned, 
 but also had ' grounded them ' with consum- 
 mate care in modern history and languages. 
 
 Especially had he caused them to be 
 taught English, which he said was as useftd 
 in a commercial ao'c as the chink of (guineas 
 in one's purse. He was naturally very proud 
 of his son's beauty and accomplishments, but 
 while he was sparing of praise, and even of 
 kindness, he corrected and punished him by 
 the most dangerous as well as cruel of all 
 chastisements, irony. 
 
 With his son's hard nature, however, it 
 did him little harm ; indeed, it refmed him, 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 as a keen instrument might give a polish 
 to Carrara marble. 
 
 But with Averanche, to whom his guar- 
 dian was even more brilhantly bitter, more 
 felicitously caustic, tlian to his own sou, the 
 evil thus effected was great. A remark 
 which would have glanced innocently off the 
 panoply of Charles Denain's self-assurance 
 wounded Lionel's sensitive feelings to the 
 quick. He would often retire into sohtude 
 and weep with a misery the more enduring 
 from its impotence and secrecy. He writhed 
 visibly beneath some of the elder Denain's 
 taunts, a result which never failed to flatter 
 the new Minister, and sometimes fill him with 
 a sort of half regret, that the Age of Eepre- 
 sentative Eepublics was over in France. 
 Averanche, however, could occasionally re- 
 tort. Once when he had been more than 
 usually irritable, in having all the rose-leaves
 
 AXGELA PISANI. 163 
 
 of some poet's dream crumpled and withered, 
 liis guardian said to him : — 
 
 ' Why, you are as sensitive as Eousseau 
 or Maximihen Eobespierre.' 
 
 ' And you, Sir, as cynical as Voltaire.' 
 
 Denain smiled. 
 
 ' Or Marat.' 
 
 In the spring of 1804, Averanche, who 
 went back to the Eleutheria without Charles 
 Denain, was at the very height of triumphant 
 happiness. He was nearly at the head of 
 ■the school, and his ability enabled him to 
 gratify his vanity by the attainment of prizes 
 and distinctions without too irksome an in- 
 terference with that indolence which, like all 
 boy-poets, he dearly loved. He was now 
 eighteen, and the world smiled round ]iim 
 like a paradise. His popularity witli liis 
 comrades was unbounded ; he had lieard 
 once or twice from Locart, wlio liad enlisted
 
 IGi ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ill Nansouty's magnificent regiment of cuiras- 
 siers, and was now at the camp of Boulogne. 
 lie had also already begun to feel all thj 
 delights and torments of love. His experience 
 of the Carte du Tendre was of course as yet 
 but shght, and his voyages witliout adven- 
 ture, but they were undisturbed by the 
 vicissitudes of older passions. Easy, too, as 
 were his conquests and among facile victims, 
 he was probably loved in earnest, for he was 
 very young and (what M. de Chateaubriand 
 lays such stress on in his posthumous book) 
 very good-looking. 
 
 It chanced the 3'ear after he had left the 
 Eleutheria, that one day the conversation of 
 Averanche and Charles Denain turned upon 
 the subject. They had been out shooting to- 
 gether, and Averanche, who was still almost 
 a schoolboy, felt more than commonly elated 
 at being the companion of Denain's sports,
 
 ANGELA PISANI. ]{*, 
 
 who had travelled and seen something of 
 mankind, and was already a sous-officier. 
 They had finished their sport, which was 
 much like that of the foreign Ambassader at 
 Oashiobury, who said he had had a capital 
 day, having bagged six sparrows and a 
 yellow-hammer, and were lying down in one 
 of the long green alleys of the Bois de 
 Boulogne, discussing all things, the highest 
 as well as the lowest, with that charming ease 
 which makes the conversation of youtli so 
 iinimating and so fresli, because so un- 
 reserved. 
 
 ' So you cannot help thinking that there 
 is something degrading in being loved for 
 one's mere physical merits, eh, Lionel ? ' 
 asked Denain with a smile. 
 
 ' Yes, I dream of a higher and more 
 spiritual passion. I pine to meet some 
 maiden Avith dark eyes, which cannot veil
 
 IGG ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 licr soul, who will give me love for love, 
 adoration for adoration, faith fov faitli ; who 
 will believe in a creed as wild as ray own, 
 who will consent to leave this world, with 
 all its conventions, behind, to follow nie in 
 my visions into tlie inmost sanctuary, the 
 lioly of holies, the highest heaven where the 
 spirit dwells.' 
 
 Charles Denain smiled still more. Ave- 
 ranche saw it and continued more calmly — 
 
 ' There are men who may be happy in 
 love, they ask so httle. Alas, I must ever 
 be disappointed, because I expect the perfect 
 and the infinite ; my temperament exacts a 
 love which should be superior to all acci- 
 dent, to the accident of beauty, as to that of 
 birth, or station, or fortune. The lady who 
 is adored for her wealth is miserable ; the 
 lady who is adored for her beauty is in ec- 
 stasies : explain the anomaly.'
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 167 
 
 ' I don't see one,' replied Denain : ' her 
 beauty, it is herself; her money, it is yours, 
 mine, anybody's, to-morrow or the next 
 day.' 
 
 ' I deny that beauty is herself ; ^ it is a 
 far more fleeting companion than the gold 
 you speak of; it is to her soul what the 
 perishable verdure of this grass about us is 
 to the Eternal Blue above us ! ' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! don't blaspheme,' pursued 
 Denain. ' Beauty is to form what genius is to 
 intellect; and men of sense prefer the per- 
 fection of matter to the perfection of spirit — 
 there it is.'^ 
 
 ' Will you give me the spirit ? ' retorted 
 Averanche. 
 
 ' Ah, you are nineteen,' rejoined the 
 
 ^ There should be, methinks, as little merit in loving a 
 woman for her beauty as in loving a man for his prosperity, 
 both being equally subject to change. — Sivift,
 
 168 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 stripling of twenty-two ; ' when you have 
 lived as long as I have, you will know that 
 matter carries the day. I will give you an 
 instance which occurred lately. The best-laid 
 plans in the world, which had cost me whole 
 nights of invention and whole days of action, 
 were destroyed by three inches too much of 
 brick wall.' 
 
 ' How do you mean ? ' asked Lionel. 
 
 ' Why, it prevented my seeing a window.* 
 
 ' A window ! that sounds like senti- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' Not always. Listen, my infant,' ex- 
 claimed Denain, with his favourite habit of 
 analysis ; ' the difference between us is this, 
 that if we were both to be granted one wish, 
 I should ask for the thing itself, and you for 
 the idea which is its shadow — I should ask 
 for money, and you for power. I should ask 
 for consideration, and you for fome — I should
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 1G9 
 
 desire my mistre^ss to be at my feet, begging 
 me to love her, and you ' 
 
 ' Oh, I should like to know her secret 
 thoughts,' interrupted Averanche. 
 
 ' Dreamer ! ' 
 
 ' Sophist ! ' 
 
 ' Bravo,' said Denain, ironically ; ' you are 
 Plato, I suppose, and I Protagoras. You 
 are Augustine, and I Spinoza. Well, where 
 is the distinction? One makes God all things, 
 and the other all things God.' 
 
 ' I said you were a sophist.' 
 
 ' Sophist, or no sophist,' answered Charles 
 Denain, 'you will come over to my views.' 
 
 ' Never,' said Averanche, very earnestly ; 
 * Heaven forbid ! ' 
 
 Denain laughed with his low and musical 
 laugh. ' I am stating facts,' he added, ' not 
 opinions. Look at mankind, strange as it 
 may seem to you (for, like all boys, you are
 
 170 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 absorbed in your own idiosyncrasy), you are 
 one of the same species, subject to the same 
 influence, and governed by the same law. 
 Well, then, man's life, what is it but the 
 record of matter's triumpli over spirit? Take 
 the case we were just discussing — that of love 
 — up to five and twenty we expect angels, 
 from five and twenty to forty we lower our 
 demand to mortals, from forty to sixty we 
 are satisfied with friends, and from sixty to 
 the grave we put up with nurses. See what 
 you will come to and go through.' 
 
 ' Well, happily, we are both of us still in 
 the age of angel belief/ 
 
 ' I believe in nothing,' said Denain, care- 
 lessly ; ' not even in evil.' 
 
 ' Look there, then, and believe in Good ; 
 Lionel Averanche pointed to a sight, which 
 might well liave represented the Perfect, and
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 171 
 
 ill a primitive time have even been canon- 
 ized in some figurative Hagiology. 
 
 A little girl was bending over the game- 
 bag which had been fluniy at some distance 
 from the spot where the two friends Avere 
 lying. It so happened that Averanche had 
 shot a jay, and, to make the most of so great 
 a prize, he had coquettishly disposed its blue 
 feathers, so that they drooped out of the bag 
 as if accidentally. 
 
 But it was not the feathers which Charles 
 Denain looked at, nor which Averanche 
 alluded to. The young form which leaned 
 over the plumes, the artless attitude, the 
 pleased expression, the exquisite regularity 
 of feature, the long, waving, floating hair, 
 made a picture such as Eaphael in the 
 younger and purer days of his first style 
 might have painted : she might have been tlie 
 Beatrice of Dante as he saw ]ier first. It
 
 172 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 was a young maiden of ten years old witli 
 all the freshness of Heaven still about her, 
 the mute delight of her innocent raptures 
 unchecked and unembarrassed by the pre- 
 sence of the strangers of Avhom she was 
 unconscious. 
 
 Lionel, who was nearest to the bag, 
 sprang forward with all the instinctive 
 gallantry of a Frenchman, and plucked the 
 blue feathers, which he offered to her. 
 
 She looked up to him with the look of a 
 Sir Joshua. 
 
 ' What is your name, my little jay ?' 
 
 ' Angela.' 
 
 Averanche would have crossed himself 
 if he had been alone ; as it was, he looked so 
 superstitious, that Denain laughed long and 
 merrily. 
 
 ' Ilist ! hist ! ' exclaimed the httle giil 
 eagerly ; ' I am hiding.'
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 173 
 
 The mystery of this last phrase was soon 
 i:)xplainecl, as a long and straggling troop of 
 laughing girls came dancing down an alley, 
 with merry and melodious shouts. It might 
 have been a scene of Watteau from the ' He 
 Adam/ 
 
 ' Ah, there you are, you most perversely 
 invisible of little sylphs,' exclaimed the fore- 
 most of the throng, as she sprang forward at 
 the sight of Angela, half screened by foliage. 
 
 Like a rose embowered 
 In its own green leaves. 
 
 ' Ah, there you are !' 
 
 She stopped short as she saw the two 
 young men lying close by Angela on the 
 grass, checked herself, and blushed very 
 much to have been seen playing ' hide and 
 seek.' She was seventeen : and if the little 
 girl whose name had so strangely harmonised 
 with Averanche's and Denain's conveisation
 
 174 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 mii^ht have seemed an emanation from the 
 spiritual world, it would liave been im- 
 possible to have found a more voluptuous 
 type of material beauty tlian the lady now 
 before tliem. One might have been fancied 
 in the clouds, the other might have risen 
 from the sea : it was tlie Venus orta Mari, 
 or, to speak more moderately, a Venetian of 
 Titian leaping from her frame, and revelling 
 in the animation of her young existence. 
 
 Even the unpicturesque costume of the 
 time, the tight short waist, the close nankeen 
 pelisse with numerous braidings which 
 laced it, only served to display the perfection 
 of her corsage and tlie rounded forms whicli 
 still swayed and panted beneath her drapery, 
 as she stood there, Ihished and breathless 
 with exercise and C(.^nfusion. 
 
 Tlie maidens behind her were most of 
 them younger and many of theni very lovely.
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 175 
 
 There were as many as twenty ; and Charles 
 Denain, who was by no means in the nursery 
 and bread-and-butter hue, thought he had 
 never seen so fascinating a ballet. There 
 was something in his face wliich showed it, 
 for Lionel Averanche, wdiose turn it was now 
 to laugh, exclaimed : — 
 
 'Come, Charles, you will believe in 
 angels now ? ' 
 
 * In Houris, in Mahomet, in the Seventh 
 Heaven, in what you ^vdll ; yet, no — not even 
 in these,' he added after a pause, ' for here 
 are old women coming against the express 
 promise of the Prophet.' 
 
 As Denain observed, the group of charm- 
 ing revellers Avas joined by two or three 
 ladies of graver mien — mothers, governesses, 
 duennas.
 
 17G ANGELA PISAM. 
 
 CHAPTER YT. 
 
 »X a climate like ours, it is abso- 
 lutely necessary for one's spirits 
 that we should be able to 
 shroud ourselves when we please m a re- 
 serve as dense as our fogs, and it is pro- 
 bably owing to the brisk air of Paris that it 
 is so much easier to make acquaintance there. 
 Certain it is, that a quarter of an hour after 
 the apparition of the gay playmates and 
 graver guardians recorded in the last chapter, 
 Lionel Averanche and Charles Denain were 
 not only on excellent terms witli the whole 
 party, but had already discovered the secret 
 of so picturesque a merry-making.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. V'U 
 
 ]\ille. Illyrine de la Yal, the foremost 
 of the troop who had invaded the hiding- 
 place of their youngest companion, had 
 made a most successful debut at the theatre 
 a week or ten days before. And it was 
 agreed among all the mistresses and pension- 
 naires of the school which she had just left, 
 that they would duly celebrate so auspicious 
 an occurrence. Such was the meaning of 
 the fete which liad peopled the Bois de 
 Boulogne with such delicate revellers. 
 
 It wanted but a few minutes to the hour 
 of their repast, and Madame de la Val, to the 
 dismay of the directrice of the young ladies' 
 seminary, who shuddered at such youthful 
 and masculine guests, had requested the 
 honour of Monsieur Denain's and theVidame 
 d'Averanche's company. She had already 
 summoned far more than sufficient admirers 
 of lier daughter, thought Madame Coppet. 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 There was to be a dark-haired and hght- 
 hearted Florentine, the leader of the orchestra 
 at the Italiens^ Signor Cellini, who not only 
 swore that he descended from Benvenuto, 
 but through him from Flornas, w^ho gave his 
 name to Florence, and who came from 
 Cellhii near Montefiascone. There was also 
 an English Earl, Lord Latimer, a detenu^ 
 who rolled in wealth, and had the taste of 
 Louis XV. for very youthful society. The 
 masters of the establishment, all elated witli 
 the success of their brilliant pupil, completed 
 the male portion of the party. 
 
 ' Was there anything ever so beautifid ? ' 
 exclaimed Charles Denain, as they came out 
 of the glade upon a grassy dell, where there 
 were two snow-white tents, decked with tiny 
 flags and pennons streaming with the name 
 of lUyrinc ; other girls were playing neai*
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 170 
 
 them, and soft music was sounding in her 
 honour. 
 
 ' Never,' answered Averanche. He Avas 
 looking at her, and he thought he had never 
 seen any one so consummately, so gloriously, 
 so surpassingly lovely. Her features had 
 struck him before, but it was not till he 
 noted the half-triumphant, half-scornful 
 smile with which she greeted the thousand 
 flatteries of scene and sound around them, 
 that he appreciated the exquisite beauty of 
 her face. There was hair which was ebon 
 in its darkness, and which fell in rich, broad 
 masses upon either side of her arched brow ; 
 there were eyebrows darkly and gracefully 
 pencilled, eyes 
 
 now briglitly bold, now beautifully shy, 
 
 •of a mystic grey, like Mary Stuart's, now 
 Hashing till they seemed almost black, now 
 
 n2
 
 180 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 soft and hazel like a quiet lake, as lustrous 
 and as clear. And, then, such lashes, long 
 and silky, droopincs nay, sweeping down a 
 cheek l^eneatli whicli tlie young;- blood 
 crimsoned in glo\ving and more than 
 Venetian colouring ; a nose not quite fiiult- 
 less, but wliicli it was impossible to criticise 
 near lips and chin which were the very ideal, 
 tlie perfect tyjie of a voluptuous loveliness, 
 such as Cleopatra might have longed for to 
 win Augustus. 
 
 And, then, what smiles ! for wliich, like 
 tlie other, ' the soft Triumvir,' you might lose 
 heaven, but which you would licsitate loni^ 
 before you preferred to dimples tlie most pro- 
 voking, the most enticing, the most torment- 
 ing. Imagine all this, and teeth like pearls, 
 Avhich scintillated almost like lif?htnin£r 
 through the low mellow music of her laugh, and 
 you have the picture of the young Illp'ine, as
 
 AJSTGELA PISANI. 181 
 
 she advanced to welcome Lord Latimer, who 
 had just arrived. 
 
 ' Oh Milor ! how miicli have I to thank 
 you for, all the pretty surprises which I owe 
 to you ! ' 
 
 Lord Latimer bowed, glanced at Ave- 
 ranche and Denain, half laughed, and said in 
 Enghsh : — 
 
 ' And these other pretty surprises I owe 
 to you — connections of course ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no ! not even by marriage.' 
 
 Averanche who knew Enghsh well, his 
 
 mother's language, w^as astonished at the 
 
 faultless purity of her accent. 
 
 ' How well you speak English ! ' lie 
 said. 
 
 ' And Italian too ! ' he repeated, as she 
 
 greeted Signor Cellini in Tuscan as pure as 
 
 his own. 
 
 ' Oh yes, and German, M. le Vidame ;
 
 182 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 allow me to present you to iny late Geniian- 
 master, Herr Hermann, formerly a citizen of 
 tlie world, and a theophilanthropist, now 
 a pensionary of the Emperor, and the author 
 of ' The Divine Origin of War.' 
 
 Averanche bowed. 
 
 ' And Spanish ! ah, M. Castel-Garcia, I 
 must introduce you : fonnerly a minister 
 and the intimate of his queen, now a 
 philosopher and the enemy of Godoz. 
 
 ' And Latin and Greek,' continued the 
 laughing girl, ' but I have nobody to intro- 
 duce them : no live men for the dead 
 languages.' 
 
 Denain looked incredulous. ' Monsieur 
 does not believe me — here, write somethiug^ 
 in Latin, Monsieur d'Averanche, and I will 
 translate it.' 
 
 She flung Jiim the prettiest ivory tablets- 
 in the world.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 183 
 
 Averauclie was still in the liappy teens 
 of presumptuousness. He first of all wrote 
 his own address, then he wTote a declaration 
 involving as many superlatives as one page 
 would hold, beo^innino' of course with ' most 
 beautiful,' and then he dexterously turned 
 over another page, and by the inspiration 
 of his memory lucidly remembered, altered 
 and adapted, a couple of lines of an English 
 minister to Maria-Theresa in Latin : — 
 
 Me Dea Trina rogas quod dicam rite, * susurrans 
 Es Venus, incedens Juno, Minerva loquens.' 
 
 ' What does Lionel say, mademoiselle ? ' 
 asked Charles Denain, with the least possible 
 inflexion of malice in his tone. 
 
 ' Nothing,' replied the actress, carelessly, 
 ' except that I am all the three goddesses 
 in one.' 
 
 ' And Monsieur, I suppose, is Alexander ? ' 
 asked Loi d Latimer, in a voice so bland, so
 
 184 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 saccharine that it was hard to say whether 
 he was sneering or not. 
 
 ' Come, come, gentlemen, we have here 
 something better than apples of discord to 
 discuss. Come, mamma ; come, madame ; 
 come, mademoiselle ! ' And tlie merry 
 maiden went lightly forward to the larger 
 of the two marquees. 
 
 The other was furnished for her younger 
 comrades and tlie three teachers, with ices, 
 bonbons and chocolate, squibs, toys, find 
 every other dainty object of infantile appe- 
 tite and fancy. But in the larger tent there 
 was a banquet more substantial, to which 
 Denain and Averanche after their exercise 
 were in every disposition to do justice. 
 Averanche, thanks to his rank, which in 
 that dawn of Imperial renovation was begin- 
 ninsf to be marked, found himself on tlie 
 left of his heroine ; on his right was her
 
 AKGELA PISANI. 185 
 
 motlier. Opposite to him was Charles 
 Denain, who was taking some pains to 
 discover the latent character of Mile. 
 Delphine Guiscard, the beauty next him. 
 She was an actress at the Varietes, and had 
 been asked by Madame de la Val at Lord 
 Latimer's request. She was proverbial for 
 shyness, almost to savagery, and her melan- 
 choly eyes, at all times sombre, seemed 
 absolutely ferocious as she glanced at 
 Illyrine. She reminded him of a namesake 
 of hers, perhaps an ancestor, who attempted 
 the life of an English Prime Minister ; she 
 herself would have obviously made short 
 and summary work of satisfying a resent- 
 ment. There was a cynical resolution about 
 her lip wliich made her loveliness almost 
 sinister. Lord Latimer was on the i-'vjht of 
 Mile, de la Yal ; and Signer Cellini, to 
 his great disgust, between Madame Coppet
 
 180 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 and one of the teachers, Madame Eene, an 
 amiable quadragenarian, witli desperately 
 inexpressive eyes. 
 
 Averanche, on whom the fever fits had 
 commenced, was already nervous about 
 speaking to Illyrine, and sought refuge in 
 conversation with her mother. Madame de 
 la Yal was a fair type of the Parisian bour- 
 geoise, excessively cunning, extraordinarily 
 suspicious, extravagantly credulous, and yet 
 withal, in spite of her ascribing the worst 
 motives to everything and everybody, in 
 spite of her vile standard of character, a 
 good and kind person. Her daughter she 
 absolutely idolized ; but while in whatever 
 related to the sphere of tliought she re- 
 garded her as infallible, she preserved the 
 most absolute control over her in all prac- 
 tical matters. She never could be per- 
 suaded that Illyrine was not seven years old.
 
 ANGELA PISAN'I. 187 
 
 but seventeen. Averanche, however, to 
 whom every httle personal incident relating 
 to Illyrine had a charm, seemed never weary 
 of hearing how she had been brought up 
 on panade, how she had never been 
 even allowed such dangerous stimulants 
 as tea or coffee, and liow that dazzling com- 
 plexion and that satin-like skin were entirely 
 owing to warm baths with bran in them, and 
 to the regime of houblon, and racine-de- 
 patience^ which she had undergone every 
 spring. 
 
 ' Mon Dieu ! Mon Dieu ! ' shrieked 
 Madame de la Yal, in the midst of her edu- 
 cational confessions. ' Illyrine, you are 
 drinking Sillery without w^ater! Milord 
 Latimer, how could you do such a tiling, 
 how could you give it to her ? ' 
 
 ' I have given Mademoiselle de la Yal 
 things before which might do her more
 
 188 ANGELA PIS.\NI. 
 
 harm, and you never said anything,' said 
 Lord Latimer, with mock gravity. 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' exclaimed the 
 mother, furiously, for Mile. Delphine Guis- 
 card looked for a second happy, and Charles 
 Denain almost laughed. 
 
 ' Well, imaghie, Mesdames, that when I 
 wished to make Mile, de la Val a httle pre- 
 sent the other day, in homage to her de- 
 lightful acting, she chose — what do you 
 think?' 
 
 ' Shawls — diamonds — a pony carriage — 
 a villa ? ' guessed different people. 
 
 ' A bouquet ? ' guessed Delphine, in order 
 to convey that she took nothing more 
 valuable herself 
 
 ' An inscription on the Grand Livre ? ' 
 hazarded Denain. 
 
 ' Monsieur is the nearest to it ; she asked 
 me for a book — Bayle's Dictionary ! ' Every-
 
 ANGELA riSAXr. ISO 
 
 body seemed surprised except Madame de la 
 Val, who looked rather proud without 
 knowing exactly why. Mile. Guiscard's 
 very thin and very envious lips almost 
 audibly murmured ^9'r<?a^w5{?. Perhaps 
 Illyrine heard her, for she said in a low tone 
 to Lionel, 
 
 ' Do you think me a Blue ? ' 
 
 Averanche looked as if he thought her 
 all the colours of Heaven, the Iris of Cardinal 
 ] Semis's madrigal, but he was too much in 
 love to say so. 
 
 ' Eemember you saw me first playing at 
 hide and seek.' 
 
 'Do you deign to care what I think?' 
 asked Averanche, timidly. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' replied Illyrine. 
 
 ' Ah, incomprehensible and beautiful, if I 
 dared to tell you half I thought : how I am 
 won by your singular loveliness, how I am
 
 190 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 dazzled by your rare intelligence, how very 
 fair and glorious ' 
 
 ' Monsieur, I perceive, is a poet.' 
 
 Lionel defended himself, and they en- 
 gaged in one of those flint-and-steel, strike- 
 a-light conversations which minister so 
 much to the sacred flame. At last she cut 
 short one of his most passionate declarations 
 by asking with adorable childishness for a 
 sugar-plum. 
 
 ' Lord Latimer, you are silent ; moral- 
 ising, meditating. What are you thinking 
 of ? ' asked Illyrine of her left-hand neigh- 
 bour. 
 
 Lord Latimer, who had all the aplomb 
 and self-assurance of a great Englisli aristo- 
 crat, who had never been thwarted in any- 
 thing from his cradle, had been as silent and 
 self-engrossed for half an hour as if tlie 
 company around him had all been his
 
 .\NGELA PISANI. ]91 
 
 lackeys. His eyes, of a pale rainy blue, were 
 fixed upon the little cliildren, whose supper 
 Avas over, and who wxre playing and romp- 
 ing in all kinds of graceful groups and atti- 
 tudes. 
 
 'I was thinking,' he answered, rather 
 drily, ' whether those children or you were 
 the happier.' 
 
 ' There is no difference,' interrupted Ma- 
 dame de la Val. 
 
 ' Of course not, as far as conscience is 
 concerned, but perhaps a little as to expe- 
 rience,' said Delphine Guiscard. 
 
 ' Oh ! nobody can be so happy as I am 
 now,' said Illyrine, hurriedly : Lionel felt all 
 the magnetism of tlie remark. 
 
 'The sight of those children makes me 
 anything but happy,' said Lord Latimer ; ' in 
 my country there are great statesmen, who 
 debate whether tlie note of the ni^litinj^ale
 
 192 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 be sad or merry ; ^ now, does the sight of 
 tliose children make one most glad or 
 sorry ? ' 
 
 ' Why should they make you sorry ? ' 
 
 'Ah ! that is the question.' 
 
 ' Because the next time tliey play, even 
 ihey will be older,' said Denain. 
 
 Lord Latimer nodded approbation. Not 
 yet five and thirty Lord Latimer was already 
 as renowned for his feats of profligacy as his 
 ancestors had been for their feats of arms. 
 His father had been honourably mentioned 
 in the Diaboliad ; and he did his best not 
 to belie his paternity. He belonged, too, to 
 that school of debauchery which married 
 profound thought with profound practice. 
 He had played quinze at night with Ossory, 
 Charles Fox, Morpeth, Fitzpatrick, March, 
 
 ^ Mr. Fox and the Duke of Devonshire.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 193 
 
 shared half the Duke's ^ formal supper, and 
 walked home with Sheridan in the morning. 
 Like George Selwyn, he considered ' all think- 
 ing as but a waste of thought ' which did not 
 relate immediately to self. He was as fond, 
 too, as Selwyn of contrasts, and if he did not 
 go from hazard to an execution, it was because 
 he thouo-ht the excitement too coarse and 
 flao-rant. But he loved to trace the intimate 
 relations between excess and decrepitude, 
 vanity and decay, debauchery and death. 
 He could understand why Henry III. of 
 France wore a chaplet of children's skulls at 
 Ms orgies, and why his festal attire was em- 
 broidered with crossbones and death's heads. 
 He appreciated Louis XV., who was never 
 tired of talking about death, who gazed 
 from a balcony at Versailles upon the funeral 
 
 ^ Of Devonshire. 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 of Madame de rompadour, and who went to 
 look at liis Queen the moment he heard 
 she was dead, altliough he rarely \'isited her 
 while living. Tliere was something Egyptian 
 in his very pleasures, and Denain's quaint 
 material remark was just of tlie nature to 
 strike him. Wisliing, perhaps, to try Charles 
 a little farther, he continued the conversa- 
 tion. 
 
 ' Monsieur, I perceive, sees things as they 
 are : children have always seemed to me one 
 of the strongest proofs against the genuine- 
 ness of sentiment. Men never are in love 
 with them, and yet their innocence, beauty, 
 candour, freshness, purity, all tlie qualities 
 which poets rave about, are indisputable.' 
 
 'Then you do not beheve in Platonic 
 love? ' asked Charles Denan. 
 
 'Yes. Afterwards^' said Lord Latimer, 
 demurely.
 
 ANGELA riSAXI. 195 
 
 ' But are men never in love with children ? 
 Eemember Vergniaud,' suggested Averanche. 
 
 'What is the story?' 
 
 ' Oh, Vergniaud was desperately in love 
 with a little girl thirteen years old, Adele de 
 Sauvan ; and the morning of his execution he 
 sent her his watch, with their names linked 
 together, which he had scratched with his 
 penknife.' 
 
 ' But do you know what the Girondins 
 did the nio'ht before that execution? tliat 
 goes entirely the other way,' asked Illp'ine ; 
 ' they put to the vote, at their memorable 
 supper, spirit or matter? Immortality or 
 none ? and matter carried it by a majority of 
 only one vote ; and that one vote was Vergi- 
 naud's.' 
 
 'This is the same conversation we had 
 this very afternoon,' observed Denaiu. 
 'Lionel, there, is a confirmed Spiritua-
 
 196 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 list, more tlian a Cartesisan, even a Eo 
 maiiticist.' 
 
 ' Sing us a song then, M. le Vidame ! ' 
 said Cellini, wlio was getting rather tipsy, 
 having nothing better to do, and wliose only 
 idea of romance was the gai-scavoir. 
 
 ' Oh, no songs,' said Illpine, * unless M. 
 Cast el- Garcia will sing one.' 
 
 M. Castel-Garcia, a real old grandee, 
 brown, thin, and compact as a good cigar, 
 with blue blood in his veins, looked as black 
 as the Escurial. Lord Latimer, who had a 
 sort of a notion that in tliat a^je of revolu- 
 tions his own nobihty might one day be 
 reduced as low as M. Castel-Garcia's, came to 
 his aid. 
 
 ' Come, Celhni, give us a toast.' 
 
 ' A toast ! a toast ! ' sliouted the ItaUan, 
 and lie whu'led liis glass round his liead, till 
 the flames of the mantling puncli flashed
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 197 
 
 around it like a halo round a saint or a glory 
 round a warrior. 
 
 ' Ladies and gentlemen — as they say in 
 that Eldorado of Artists, England — my an- 
 cestors the Eomans ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't begin so far back,' said Lord 
 Latimer. ' My ancestors the Eomans ' 
 
 ' Is it after the affair of the Sabines ? ' 
 asked Denain. 
 
 ' Or the affair of the Tarquins ? ' said 
 Delphine Guiscard. 'My ancestors the 
 Eomans ' 
 
 ' Empire ! Empire ! Consulates are out 
 of fashion,' exclaimed Illyrine. 
 
 ' Come down to Arminius,' said tlie 
 German with his mouth full ; the only words 
 he had yet uttered. 
 
 ' My ancestors the Eomans,' repeated 
 Signor Cellini, dwelling more upon the 
 phrase with every successive interruption.
 
 198 ANGELA TISAXI. 
 
 with all the perseverance of M. Guizot (in 
 the grandest passage of his great life) on the 
 fact that he too had been great. At length, 
 like tliat superb and haughty rhetorician, 
 he watched liis opportunity and dashed on 
 with his sentence. 
 
 ' My ancestors the Eomans had a custom 
 of throwing pearls and sapphires and pre- 
 cious stones into tlieir goblets, when they 
 wished to do honour to a sentiment. I 
 challenge for my toast contributions as 
 costly. I bog you but to look into the glass. 
 Throw sapphire glances into it, Mile. 
 Guiscard ! smile pearls upon it Mile, de la 
 Val ! let your wit flash around it, my lord ! 
 sigh your maiden sigh towards it, M. le 
 Vidame ! was ever a beaker so nobly 
 freighted, so preciously charged? Ladies 
 and gentlemen, I quaff this glass, in honour
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 199 
 
 of Tlialia's youngest, fairest, most triumphant 
 daughter, MLle. Illyrine de la Val ! ' 
 
 Loud bravos followed his harangue. 
 Denain's, perhaps, were a little faint, for he 
 saw Delphine's lips getting as white as Mme. 
 de Pompadour's with suppressed hate. As 
 for Mme. de la Val she thought it was im- 
 possible for eloquence to soar higher than 
 SiQ;nor Cellini's. 
 
 ' Illyrine, Illyrine, my child, what can 
 you say in reply to such beautiful compli- 
 ments,' she exclaimed, in the wildness of her 
 very maternal joy. Illyrine was, however, 
 in her element the moment persJ/lage began. 
 
 ' I must not reply, mamma ; but if some 
 of these gentlemen who liave all day long 
 said so many jn^etty things to me, will only 
 now condescend to say some of these pretty 
 things for me, it will be so kind of them. 
 Come, Lord Latimer ; come,M. Denain ; come,
 
 200 ANGELA nSAXI. 
 
 M. Castel-Garcia ; come, M. Herrman ; come, 
 M. fVAveranclie. 
 
 Averanchc thought to himself that she 
 liad turned everybody else into ridicule 
 before him, and he felt happy even for such 
 a favour. It was his first love. 
 
 ' Well, gentlemen,' pursued Ulyrine, 
 looking round archly — ' all silent.' 
 
 ' Speech is silver, silence is golden,' 
 uiurmured Lionel, who had been to Persia 
 and remembered the proverb. 
 
 ' And love, which is a little of both, is 
 that silver-gilt, Leo ? ' asked Charles Denain. 
 
 ' Monsieur is so ready, will he not speak 
 for me ? ' asked Illyrine, rather shaii^ly. 
 
 ' Certainly,' said Denain, and in another 
 moment he was on his legs. 
 
 ' I will speak /(>r you, fair lady. I will 
 snj for you, that you have the dignity of 
 Mile. Georges, but that you never rant ;
 
 ANGELA FISAXI. 201 
 
 that your voice is as penetrating as Mile. 
 Ducliesnois, but that your figure is as 
 perfect as hers is the contrary ; that 
 you are as elegant as Mile. Mars, but 
 with for more original genius ; that you 
 are as likely to marry a Prince as Mme. 
 Souberteau, but you will bear far more beauty 
 as a dower ; that you are as lively as 
 Mile. Boin^going, but with no vulgarity ; that 
 —to sum up, I can pay you no higher 
 compliment, than that you have the grace, 
 the delicacy, the passion, the loveliness of 
 Mle. Delphine Guiscard. I need not con- 
 tinue — can I say vnorofor you ? ' 
 
 It was impossible to speak more mischiev- 
 ously. Delphine Guiscard smiled through 
 her superb scowl — which, like the young 
 Tiberius, said ' I hate you,' while she bowed 
 the very reverse to Charles ; and Lord 
 Latimer, who deliglited in the prospect of a
 
 202 ANGELA PIS.^XI. 
 
 row between the women, laughed that de- 
 testable laugh, which the devil must so love, 
 over wounded feelings and mortified hu- 
 manity. 
 
 But Illyrine pretended to take Denain's 
 compliments as serious ; she smiled her most 
 gracious smile, and affected to rally M. 
 Denain for making so bad a calembour on the 
 w^ord for. 
 
 She had not, however, with her quickness 
 failed to notice Lord Latimer's laugh, and she 
 said in a low tone to Averanche : — 
 
 ' And tliat man, whom my pain would 
 delight far more than my pleasure, thinks I 
 do not see through him ! ' 
 
 Lionel was in ecstasies to be treated as a 
 confidant. 
 
 ' Do you know why you please me, M. le 
 Vidame ? 
 
 Averanche quivered — his soul shrank
 
 .ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 within Liin to hear so sacred a thought so 
 carelessly treated. 
 
 ' Because I like contrasts, and you, as yet, 
 are all heart, while I am all this ; ' and she 
 touched her statuesque and Pallas-like head. 
 
 ' Surely, you have some heart ? ' 
 
 ' None.' 
 
 ' Some imagination, then ; I see it in your 
 eyes ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is my weak point : but I have 
 no feeling. Do not think me a monster.' 
 
 'I!' 
 
 ' Good-bye.' She allowed her hand to 
 touch his for a moment, and then suddenly 
 rising, exclaimed, ' Who will come and play 
 with the children ? ' 
 
 Madame de la Val hurried after her. 
 
 Lord Latimer looked at his watch and 
 offered Charles Denain a seat back to Paris 
 in his carriage.
 
 204 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 The party gradually dispersed. An hour 
 afterwards Lionel Averanche found himself 
 alone, in the dusk of evening, leaning against 
 a tree, whence he could see where Illyrine 
 had sat, while he tried to recall every change 
 of her features, every modulation of her tone, 
 every trivial incident of the evening. He 
 remembered them all ; he was entranced in 
 the most delicious of reveries. 
 
 The tiniest of little hands was on a sudden 
 put into his. 
 
 ' I have come to thank you once more. 
 Play is all over now.' 
 
 It was the little lady of the wood. 
 
 ' And is Mile, de la Yal gone home ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, long ago.' 
 
 'How you must have loved her at 
 school ? ' 
 
 ' Oh so much ; but I love you too, and 
 shall often think of you.'
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 205 
 
 ' People forget so soon,' said Averanche, 
 absently. 
 
 ' Ah, but I shall look at these feathers and 
 remember you : they are blue too, but not 
 like your eyes : those are more like heaven.' 
 
 Averanche kissed the little hand of the 
 girl of ten years old. There could not be 
 a more genuine compliment.
 
 20G AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 CHAPTER YIL 
 
 iN the succeeding year Lionel 
 Averanche had left the Eleii- 
 tlieria, and by the interest of 
 his guardian had already been promoted in 
 the army. Monsieur Denain had become 
 a high state-functionary, below the Arch 
 Treasurer in rank, but far superior to him 
 in influence. He had made himself nearly 
 as necessary to Napoleon as Daru, in the 
 vast financial preparations for the first 
 Imperial campaign. Essentially a man of 
 combination and resource, with the clearest 
 head and the coldest heart, he added to 
 these rare administrative gifts the exquisite
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 207 
 
 finish of manners whicli distinguislied the 
 school of E. K. de Semorville and Talley- 
 rand. He was at once an homme d'etat, 
 and a courtier, and therefore especially 
 formed to succeed Avith a dynasty which 
 required social accomplishment scarcely less 
 than genius for affairs. It was, therefore, 
 without difficulty that he had got Charles 
 Denain to be nominated on Berthier's staff, 
 ' the handsome staff,' as it was called ; and 
 Averanche, whose appointment as a private 
 of the guard was merely formal, already 
 found himself, through the same influence, 
 a sub-lieutenant. The frame of the old 
 revolutionary equality was still preserved 
 in the army, but it was already virtually 
 null. And many a bai'rack was full of 
 grumblers who murmured with some jus- 
 tice at these boy-promotions, and wlio
 
 208 A^'GELA PISANI. 
 
 declared tliat the ci-devants themselves had 
 not been worse. 
 
 Lionel Averanche and Charles Denain, 
 who lived together as inseparably as their 
 military duties would permit, tlu'ew them- 
 selves with all the ardom* of their young 
 years into the gaieties of the capital. Nor 
 to their hot and Pellaian temper was one 
 world enough. Tliey not only lived in 
 brilhant society, in the old Fauboiu-g St. 
 Germain, in the magnificent hotels of the 
 newly created Marshals, at the Elysee 
 Napoleon, or the Tuileries, but in a more 
 dangerous and enervating world, the coulisses 
 of operas, and the boudoirs of actresses. 
 The gardens of Boutin, Marbeuf, VanpaUiere 
 (the Mabille and Eanelagh of half a century 
 ago)j Avere frequented by them on the same 
 principle of universal excitement which 
 brings very young dandies in England to
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 209 
 
 sup at Bob Croft's, after they have perhaps 
 dined with a royal duke or a minister of 
 state. Their existence acted separately upon 
 them in the way it might be supposed to do. 
 There are some characters whom pleasure 
 becomes, to whom it delights to impart the 
 light and rose-coloured tints of the laughing 
 hours which they sport -with. There was a 
 meaning in the ancient legend that Cypris 
 sprang out of froth. Certain it is that, 
 whether Charles Denain was only fulfilling 
 the conditions of his epicurean nature or not, 
 he grew more self-confident with his every 
 moment of intemperate life. Like some 
 tropical flower, the brilliant attributes of 
 his nature expanded in the hot-house atmo- 
 sphere of artificial voluptuousness. His very 
 appearance was refined by it ; experience, 
 wit, knowledge, power of action, all were 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 improved and increased, enlarged and 
 strengthened. 
 
 It was not so witli Averanche. Intended 
 for a more ideal, purer, loftier atmosphere, 
 he languished amidst these uncongenial, 
 sweet, and perfumed regions. He bore upon 
 his countenance the visible marks that he 
 was not obeying the law of his organisation, 
 that he was dissatisfied with himself, that he 
 was a rebel to his nature, and that in his 
 inner self he was ever regretting the treason. 
 His boyish buoyancy of spirit had entirely 
 disappeared, little of his early ingenuousness 
 remained. One night at a man-supper at 
 Kobert's, where he had been unusually 
 silent and abstracted, his glance chanced to 
 light on Lord Latimer's features, swollen but 
 haggard, seamed with the cordage of a 
 hundred lines, his fixed, hard rigidity of look 
 contrasting with the nervous twitches of his
 
 ANGELA PISAXL. 211 
 
 mouth. ' Sucli will be my fate,' he thought, 
 and shuddered. 
 
 ' A glass of Clos-Yougeot, eh ! Ave- 
 rauche ? ' exclaimed Lord Latmier, who had 
 caught his eye. 
 
 They clinked their glasses together. 
 Averanche felt while he did it as if he had 
 fulfilled his destiny. 
 
 ' Shall you go to Mme. de Eavenna's 
 to-morrow night ? ' asked Charles Denain of 
 Lord Latimer. 
 
 ' I must, I suppose, put on harness for 
 once. I want to see this new dance Irenis 
 has got up.' 
 
 'Ah ! it will be worth seeinsc ; a c^ame of 
 chess danced in a quadrille,' said Denain. 
 
 ' Does it last lonc^ ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! they only represent the fool's 
 mate ; besides, there would not be time, as 
 there are endless entertainments both before 
 p2
 
 212 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 and after,' replied Charles ; ' Hungarian 
 quadrilles, hal pare, a fair, and a play.' 
 
 ' To be sure, I had forgotten : it bcirins 
 with an act of the Misanthrope, and the Illy- 
 rine acts Celimene.' 
 
 The name chimed in the midst of Ave 
 I'anche's thoughts like an alarm ; for he still 
 preserved the memory of his boyhood's first 
 love in his inmost soul, like a secret tahsman, 
 in the virtue of which he fondly believed. 
 He had been to see her every day in the 
 first week after the fete at the Bois de 
 Boulogne. Mme. de la Val, who had en- 
 quired into his prospects, forbad him the 
 house. But even this annoyed him less than 
 the inexplicable coqucttishness of Illyrine : 
 now she encouraged, now discouraged him ; 
 now she listened if he spoke to her, now she 
 contradicted, thwarted, vexed him. He went 
 to see her, night after night, as she acted ;
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 sometimes, he tlioiight, she seemed pleased 
 to recognise him, at other times annoyed ; 
 but after vain efforts to break the duenna - 
 like guard wliich her mother had imposed, 
 Lionel, seduced by Charles Denain's example, 
 had given himself up to pleasure with all tho 
 zeal of a noviciate and all the recklessness 
 of disappointment. 
 
 Early, very early the next evening, now 
 that he knew Mle. de la Val was to act in 
 the theatricals at the Princesse de Eavenna's, 
 Averanche made his bow to the lady of the 
 house. She was a soft-eyed and low-voiced 
 Italian with whose fame all Paris was then 
 ringing, because, with beauty to bring the 
 world in homage to her feet, she had pre- 
 ferred a life of reflection and study. Her 
 renown for beneficence to men of letters Avas 
 cnly second to her own hterary fame. She 
 brought, moreover, into her learned pursuits
 
 214 ANGELA PJSAXI. 
 
 all those tender feelings which a woman 
 alone possesses. It was hard to determine 
 whether she seemed most amiable in re- 
 storing forgotten authors who had been un- 
 justly depreciated by a faithless and super- 
 ficial age, in rendering to them discoveries- 
 which others had pilfered ; or when she was 
 seen on angelic errands in the Eue des 
 Quatre Yents, and the bare poverty-haunted 
 streets of the Quartier-Latin. A blind old 
 man with a world-famous name lived with 
 her, and while he dictated immortal works^ 
 and she ministered to him, it was impossible 
 not to recall the thought of Milton and his 
 daughter. 
 
 The sumptuous splendour of her magni- 
 ficent hotel, illuminated by thousands of 
 lights, was Oriental in its bewildering and 
 almost magical effects. The Emperor, who 
 had himself asked for th^ftte^ the Empress,
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 215 
 
 the Imperial Family, the King and Queen of 
 Etruria, reigning princes and grand dukes 
 Avithout number, were among the guests. It 
 was tlie first great reception given by an. 
 individual since the coronation. This alone 
 was sufficient to make it memorable amon^r 
 the courtiers there. But the Emperor lost 
 no opportunity of marking his favour to one 
 who brought so much glory to his capital, 
 and who lived so much among literary 
 people, without encouraging any fantastic 
 ideology, as the Princess of Eaveima. 
 
 She had met the Imperial retinue at the 
 top of the broad marble stairs. The Emperor 
 had embraced her, not once, but twice. 
 
 ' Once more,' he had said, after his first 
 salute, ' for the King of Italy ; you are twice 
 my subject.' 
 
 After this, it is needless to say, that the 
 whole world of Paris in her saloons vied in
 
 216 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 their praise of the liotel, tlie lighting, the 
 flowers, the pictures, the plate, the Sevres, 
 the music, all things belonging and apper- 
 taining to Mme. de Eavenna. 
 
 Averanche, who would hardly have 
 dared to move from his seat, even if there 
 had been room, for fear of turning his back 
 upon some royalty or other, was wedged in 
 among a crowd of ladies. The performances 
 had already begun. It was not etiquette 
 to applaud in the Imperial presence, but 
 nothing could prevent Frenchwomen from 
 whispering, and Averanche was rather 
 amused at the snatches of conversation which 
 he heard. Sham aristocracy with all its 
 insolent inanity was already beginning. 
 
 ' Ah ! the Faubourg are here to-night ; 
 there she is, in the pink taffeta with the long 
 waist.' 
 
 ' The Duchesse de Che\Teuse ? '
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 217 
 
 ' Yes ; did you ever see such a coilTure ! 
 Well, I would not wear tliat to be born a 
 Montmorenci,' said a little round-faced lady 
 with red bows. 
 
 ' You know why she wears it ? ' retorted 
 her companion w^ith thin acid features ; ' she 
 has red hair.' 
 
 ' What a lovely dress Mme. Eecamier 
 has on ! do look,' interposed a blonde in her 
 meridian with her light hair crepe^ to eke 
 out a semblance of foregone luxuriance, as 
 her eyes caught the simple white drapery 
 which set off and enhanced the most exqui- 
 site of figures. 
 
 ' I have seen her better dressed than 
 that,' said the lady of the acidulated features. 
 
 ' When ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, in former days, when she, the 
 Cabarrus, and Mme. Bonaparte used to 
 dress all alike, half naked, a la Carmagnole.'
 
 218 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' Ish, isli ! ' interrupted the pale-haired 
 blonde, who was shocked to hear the Empress 
 alluded to so disrespectfully ; ' ish ! Mme. 
 Lannes will hear you.' 
 
 ' Which is she ? ' asked the little round- 
 faced woman with red bows ; ' one does not 
 know lialf these new people ? ' She herself 
 had been sister to a Director, and had for 
 half a year done the honours of the Luxem- 
 bourg. 
 
 ' There, that beautiful complexion half 
 hidden by the large Spanish fan — there, 
 close by you.' 
 
 ' Beautiful complexion ; well, I do not 
 think so,' replied the lady of the acidulated 
 expression ; ' what a pity, too, she thinks so 
 much of it.' 
 
 ' You heard of Charles Denain's dehcrhtful 
 impertinence to her the other night? They 
 were playing at " What is my thought like ? '*
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 210 
 
 at Mme. Ney's ; well, Mnie. Lanues, expect- 
 ing a compliment from the men, said in her 
 most languishing way, "Je voudrais etre 
 peche." "Et moi pechem%" said that 
 charming Charles Denain.' 
 
 ' How handsome Monsieur Charles 
 Denain is,' said the tender blonde, blushing 
 even throuofh her roug^e. 
 
 ' And so ag;reeable,' said the ex-sovereio-n 
 of the Luxembourg. 
 
 ' Yes, he has wit,' allowed the sharp- 
 featured lady. 
 
 ' Charles is getting on even here," 
 thought Averanche. 
 
 But a loud, spontaneous, almost general 
 ' hush,' a few minutes later, rid him of his 
 tormentors. 
 
 Mile, de la Val's acting had alread}^ won 
 upon the spectators. It could hardly be 
 otherwise. Very ambitious, and with powers
 
 220 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 of mind to which few men even could pre- 
 tend, Illyrine put fortli all her energy in 
 acting at such a moment ; the part, too, 
 suited her admirably ; the intense, innate, 
 and irreclaimable coquetry of Cehmene 
 never, as he thought, found a happier or 
 more sympathetic representative. Averanche 
 followed the piece, scene after scene, and act 
 after act, with painful interest. 
 
 He thouglit that he had never seen Illy- 
 rine more natural, more perfect, more her- 
 self. At the end of the play, the Empress 
 had flung a bouquet on the temporary 
 stage, the Emperor himself had applauded, 
 and Mile, de la Val's name was in every 
 mouth. 
 
 Averanche, wlio was almost as much 
 excited as if the success had been his own, 
 yearned to make his escape to congratulate 
 her. With all the daring hardihood of a
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 221 
 
 boy lie had already nearly forced his way 
 out, utterly regardless of dignitaries and 
 patents of precedence of all kinds. He had 
 nearly reached the door, when in his pre- 
 cipitancy he all but stumbled over the foot 
 of a lady who was reclining in graceful 
 lassitude on a sofa. Her eyes were of the 
 rare veiled glow, the haze and the lustre, 
 the softness and the fire of the Greeks. 
 Averanche bent low before them, even down 
 to the exquisite foot he had injured. 
 
 ' Ten thousand pardons, Madame. It 
 was so small, it was invisible.' 
 
 ' Ah ! there you are at last ! ' exclaimed 
 Illyrine, as she gave him her hand with a 
 frank joy that was beyond all feigning. ' I 
 am so glad to see you. What have you 
 done with yourself ? — one never sees you.' 
 
 Averanche did not kiss the hand she 
 proffered to him, that might have seemed a
 
 222 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 mere compliment, but he said, reproach- 
 fully;- 
 
 ' You never see me ; whose fault is 
 that ? ' 
 
 ' Mamma's ; no, not mamma's, but the 
 fault of all those odious people who had 
 been talking of us to her.' 
 
 Illyrine spoke very low, but there was a 
 feeling in her tone which touched Ave- 
 ranche. Besides, the us flattered him ; it 
 was pleasant to hear that he had been in 
 any way coupled with her. He spoke to 
 lier a little longer, and ventured even to 
 allude to his own feelings since he had seen 
 her last ; but Mnie. de la Val's eye warned 
 him, and he made way for other and very 
 different congratulations. Bye-and-bye, how- 
 ever, he returned again ; he hovered round 
 her, and at last was fortunate enough to 
 secure her arm and to put her into her
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 223 
 
 coupe. On going to it he was rendered 
 exquisitely liappy by Illyrine's reproaching 
 him for the life he was leading, and the 
 companions with whom he associated. 
 
 ' Do you really care ? ' asked Averanche. 
 
 ' Why should I speak to you, other- 
 wise ? ' 
 
 These last words, so different from her 
 habitual and coquettish sprightliness, spoken 
 mournfully, made his heart leap within him 
 for delight. 
 
 Good fortune, like bad, never comes 
 singly. In coming up the great staircase 
 again, he met two Aides-de-camj) in brilliant 
 uniform, who exclaimed to him : — 
 
 ' Monsieur d' Averanche, where have you 
 been ? You are wanted in the ball-room.' 
 
 ' Who wants me ? ' asked Averanche, 
 with some surprise. 
 
 'The Princesse Camille Borc^hese.'
 
 224 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 Wondering more and more, Averanche 
 foUoAved liis two conductors in silence. 
 When they had reached the head of the ball- 
 room, they turned aside into the embrasure 
 of a window, where, on a low divan, a little 
 concealed from observation, the Princess 
 Borghese ratlier reclined than sat. It was 
 the lady of the beautiful eyes. 
 
 Averanche gazed upon her lustrous 
 loveliness till he felt his brain reel within 
 him. He had often heard of the Princess 
 Pauline, but had never seen, not even in his 
 dreams, such perfect, complete, consummate 
 beauty. He remained rooted to the spot in 
 a trance of admiration ; he forgot her rank 
 and dignity ; beneath the influence of every 
 spell which could contribute to the genius 
 of form, he stood bewildered before her, 
 absorbed in a passionate reverie, affected 
 almost to tears, as man}- natures are by the 
 great works of the Divine.
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 The rriiicess seemed a little embarrassed, 
 but not displeased. She pomted to her 
 little foot, and said, playfully : — 
 
 ' Do you know, Monsieur, you have hurt 
 my poor foot so much I cannot dance.' 
 Her voice was very melodious, tliough she 
 spoke feebly, as if all conversation was an 
 effort to her in her invalid state. 
 
 She paused for a reply, but Averanche 
 was still spell-bound ; the low murmur of 
 her voice fell on his ear like an incantation ; 
 he could not believe that such loveliness was 
 real. 
 
 ' Well, Monsieur ! ' this time there was 
 something of Napoleon's sister in her voice, 
 air, manner, command. ' What excuse have 
 you ? are you dumb ? ' 
 
 ' I was short-sighted before, now I am 
 bhnded, — dazzled,' he added in a lower 
 tone. His reconciliation with Illyrine liad 
 
 VOL. L Q
 
 226 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 given him coiilideiice ; he walked on air, he 
 felt lighter, lie breathed happiness, he spoke 
 boldly, he was a new man. There is no 
 man so agreeable to all the world as an 
 accepted lover. 
 
 Mme. Borghese laughed slightly. 
 ' Where did you learn all these pretty 
 compliments, Monsieur ? ' she said after a 
 pause. 
 
 'It would be impossible to pay yoiu- 
 Imperial Highness a comphment,' answered 
 Lionel, gravely and in earnest. 
 
 ' Why not ? ' asked Pauline, whose 
 vanity could not resist the question, although 
 she of course anticipated the ansAver. 
 
 ' Because your Imperial Highness is 
 above all compliment.' 
 
 ' No, no, Monsieur,' said the spoilt 
 beauty ; ' I shall not let you off so. I shall
 
 ANGELA riSAXI. 227 
 
 insist upon it, you shall liken me to some 
 one.' 
 
 Averanche was silent. 
 
 ' What, none among all the celebrated 
 beauties who were dressed hke this ? ' 
 
 The Princesse Camille Borghese's eye 
 glanced at her own classic costume with 
 womanly vanity. 
 
 ' None,' said Averanche. 
 
 ' No one in Athens or in Eome ? ' 
 
 ' No one,' repeated Lionel. 
 
 ' Well, some one?' she asked, impatiently, 
 
 ' Cleopatra.' 
 
 The slightest cloud darkened that radiant 
 and faultless brow. 
 
 'Yes, Cleopatra,' continued Averanche^ 
 ' but for one reason only ; because One Man 
 alone Avas exempt from the power of her 
 beauty, and he was the greatest of his age.' 
 q2
 
 238 .ISGfEU PISAXL 
 
 'Who, Monaeur?* 
 
 'I beg your Imperial Higfaneas' ten 
 thousand pardons — I meant Caesar/
 
 AXGELA riS.\>-I. 229 
 
 CHAPTEE VIE. 
 
 n ne faut pas se faire un monstre dii plus beau des 
 malheurs, de la guerre. — Prin'Ce de Ligne. 
 
 ^l^^^HE red Sim is looking down upon 
 the December snow which lies in 
 broad white flakes upon the 
 frost-bound and cheerless earth. Here and 
 there are patches of fire which burn fitfully. 
 Here and there are tents yet white in the 
 wan gleams of morning. Here and there 
 long rows of arms ghsten like coiling rivers, 
 and reflect a dim and uncertain hght. There 
 is a dense, dark, massive fog ; but the Sun 
 burns through it, like a globe of blood, ' as 
 though a curse were in his broad bright eye.' 
 On tliis side it flashes upon a mighty arma-
 
 230 ANGELA riS.\XI. 
 
 ment, united as one man, animated by one 
 Idea, speaking one language, banded by one 
 Will. On that side, at a little interval, it 
 irradiates a vast encampment, mustered by 
 various interests, arrayed in many garbs, 
 parading a myriad contrasts ; here the 
 wildest of the wild, there the fonnal among 
 the fonnal ; here tlie sheepskin and the 
 shaggy beard, there tlie pipe-clayed uniform 
 and close-shaven face. Breathing many 
 sentiments : here the heroism of Arniinius 
 in arms for freedom, the glorious Idea of 
 Nationalitv ; tlierc the heroism of Genghis 
 Khan, insatiate for conquest, tlie not less 
 glorious Idea, that would absorb all nation- 
 ality. Here are the guards of tlie Czar, like 
 some green forest in palmy Midsummer ; 
 there the guards of the Ca}sar, beautiful to 
 look upon, Ilimgarian magnates, such as re- 
 stored the shattered sceptre of Marie Therese.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 231 
 
 Walloons who had been commanded by 
 Loudon, Pandours who could remember 
 Prince Euo;enc, min^hn^r in strano;e fellow- 
 ship with those whom Europe had never 
 seen before, the wild men of tlie North, with 
 Cossacks and Bashouks leaning low upon 
 their rugged ponies with the old Scythian 
 bow and arrow, as if to annihilate by their 
 presence the distance between Alexander 
 and Alexander, and recall the legacy of the 
 world which the Great Macedonian be- 
 queathed to the Sclavonian family. 
 
 That Sun, which shone on that December 
 mornino" — it shines still. It will sliine to all 
 Eternity, long as History, long as the world 
 — it was the Sun of Austerlitz. 
 
 And He of whom it shall be the mem- 
 ory, there are few to whom his image is not 
 familiar, even as it appeared u])on lluit 
 morning — the high imperial foreliead, yet
 
 232 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 higher in its baldness ; the eagle-eye wliich 
 glanced so proudly at that sun ; the small 
 and delicate moutli compressed and resolved ; 
 the Ca3sar-like figure moulded for command ; 
 tlie uniform of green and white, the grey 
 riding-coat, the three-cornered hat, tlie map 
 before him and its golden pins, — even the 
 reverie in wliich he seems so entirely ab- 
 sorbed. About him are twenty heroes. 
 Marshals whose names will never die. Gene- 
 rals whose actions won them their crrade, 
 soldiers wdth the love of gloiy high within 
 their breasts. Silent, as if, according to 
 the ancient lec^end, the o'rave had ren- 
 dered u}) the Captain of a thousand ages, — 
 silent with the expectation of what should 
 fall from the lips of the greatest, silent with 
 that silence which is more eloquent than 
 speech, they stand aroimd. The very 
 horse is still which is held close bv, its
 
 AXGELA PISANI. L>33 
 
 milk-wliite hue contrasting strangely with 
 the bare swart arm of its Mamehike at- 
 tendant. 
 
 At a httle distance from this central 
 group were some battalions of the Guard. 
 Here, though scarcely out of the Emperor's 
 hearing, a running fire of rude commentaries, 
 guesses, jests, was kept up among some 
 veterans. 
 
 ' Dent de Fei\' exclaimed a trooper, with 
 long, uncouth, grisly hair, and enormous 
 moustachios, to a colossal comrade whose 
 dark keen eyes were fixed upon Napoleon, 
 with an expression in which confidence and 
 scrutiny were curiously blent ; ' well, what 
 do you say ? ' 
 
 ' Wliat was the proudest moment you 
 ever saw him in. El Douba P ' retorted Dent 
 de Fer to Jacques Laurent, who had been 
 nicknamed El Douba (the Arabic for hyena).
 
 234 ANGELA TISANI. 
 
 because in Egypt, a country of sliaven heads, 
 he liad, with liis wild, matted, tangled locks 
 hanging round liim, liis ferocious appear- 
 ance, and liis piercing scream in the battle, 
 given no unapt type of that animal. 
 
 ' I Avill tell you,' after a pause, said 
 Laurent ; ' do you rememl)er when Kleber 
 almost lifted him off the j^round in his em- 
 brace, and said to him after the battle of the 
 Pyramids, " General, you are great as the 
 Tv^orld ! " That was a glorious moment.' 
 
 ' I will tell you a more glorious one to 
 my mind. El Douba,' said a veiy handsome 
 and mucli younger soldier, w^itli teeth like 
 pearls, glittering earrings, and an au' of ela- 
 borate effeminacy, whicli, witli a deep sabre 
 gash on liis forehead, and down his clieek, 
 he could afford to assume ; ' it was after Ma- 
 rengo, wliere I saAv liim ride up to a car- 
 riaoje, in wliich there was tlie most beautiful
 
 AXGELA riSAXI. 
 
 of women, and he put liis hand into the 
 carriaG;e, and she Idssed it amiin and acfain.' 
 
 ' Pshaw — Muscadin ! — that Avas only a 
 singing-woman,' said El Douba. 
 
 ' I don't care what she was. I am think- 
 ing of her eyes. Oh, I should like to have 
 been the Emperor then ! ' 
 
 ' Well,' said a Breton trooper close by, 
 with a wooden leg, and that savage inno- 
 cence of air which characterises the men of 
 his province, for whom his daring feats had 
 earned him the sobriquet of ' Brave Gars,' — 
 ' Well, I know what my cure told me.' 
 
 ' Ha, ha, ha,' the whole group of soldiers 
 laughed long and heariily. ' How much 
 now,' said Muscadin, ' did he tell you ? that 
 pretty Florence Chauraont's last child, when 
 you were away in the last campaign, was a 
 miracle, or that you must never kiss the 
 vivandiere, eh ? le Brave Gars ? '
 
 236 AXGELA riS.\X'I. 
 
 ' Do not scoff,' replied le Brave Gtirs, 
 simply. ' No : you must know our cure's 
 brother was witli Cardinal Fesch, who is the 
 little Corporal's uncle, and he has often 
 heard the Cardinal say, that the Emperor 
 himself declares the happiest moment of his 
 life, was — what do you think ? ' 
 
 ' When he pulled your moustache per- 
 haps,' said Muscadin. 
 
 ' No,' pursued the mdomitable Gars, 
 ' " but when he received his first communion, 
 his confirmation." ' ^ 
 
 ' Pshaw ! ' said El Douba. 
 
 ' Why, you have all the faith of a cen- 
 turion,' jested Muscadin. 
 
 ' Truth can stand laughter, my comrades,' 
 said the naif Chasseur, who never quarrelled ; 
 'but for my own part, I own I think the 
 
 ^ The ])iic de Cazes stated this as a fact publicly in a 
 speech at a dinner given to him in the South.
 
 ANGELA riSANI. 237 
 
 happiest moment of his hfe must have been 
 when the Holy Father came all the way from 
 Borne to 
 
 ' Do what ? ' asked. Miiscadin, mischiev- 
 ously. 
 
 ' To put his crown on his head,' said le 
 Brave Gars. 
 
 ' But he put his crown on himself,' re- 
 torted Muscadin. 
 
 ' Hush, I say, hush,' interrupted Dent 
 (le Fer, ' hush all of you — look at him now^ 
 and remember this is the anniversary of that 
 day!' 
 
 Tlie Emperor was at that moment, m 
 truth, a grand object of contemplation. The 
 sun's light was Hashing full upon him, and 
 he stood one moment as if transfigured. 
 He waved his arm upwards as if to hail 
 the omen ; lie said some words proudly, which 
 the troopers were too far off to hear, but the
 
 238 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 import of which tliey knew, ' Those armies 
 shall be mine ! ' 
 
 And now tliat he is aroused from his 
 self-concentration, he has summoned marshal 
 after marshal to confer with him over liLs 
 map — and one by one the}- are seen to ride 
 away to their positions, each accompanied 
 by young and brilliant aides-de-camp. 
 
 At this moment Lionel Averanche, who 
 belonged to the same regiment as El Douba 
 and Dent de Fer, the chasseurs of the Guard, 
 had approached as near as they could to 
 the group about the Emperor's person. 
 
 His object was to see Charles Denain, 
 and give him some letters, wdiich he had 
 written the night before, in case he should 
 fall in action. 
 
 He knew that Charles, avIio was in the 
 Prince de Neuchatel's staff, was less likely 
 to be personally engaged tlian himself, and
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 239 
 
 lie also knew that belonging to that arm, 
 the cavalry of the Guard, which Xapoleon 
 used with such terrible effect, he at some 
 time or other of the day would most pro- 
 bably be ordered into the hottest of the 
 fight. But coming up to the spot where 
 the little outer knot of soldiers had gathered, 
 he could not help stopping, arrested by the 
 grand historical scene before him. 
 
 Napoleon was engaged in earnest con- 
 versation, pointing every now and then to 
 his map, with a tall ungainly officer, of 
 strongly marked features, and an eye which, 
 although loaded and heavy, was yet quick 
 and shrewd, who although he listened with 
 profound and almost religious deference, 
 seemed occasionally to offer a suggestion. 
 
 Near Soidt, for it w^as he, two other 
 marshals, Bessieres with his olive, thin, Italian 
 face, and Lannes with dark, keen, savagely
 
 240 ANGELA PIS.\NI. 
 
 handsome features, were looking on, intent 
 and meditative. A little behind there were 
 two generals, not unlike each other in figure. 
 One was Eapp ; tlie other, whose back was 
 turned to them, was an object of some specu- 
 lation to the soldiers. The Emperor had 
 just summoned liim as Soult galloped off". 
 ' Crc nation ! it is Junot ! ' ' When could he 
 have come ? ' ' Only last night.' ' Lucky 
 gars\ how burnt he is by the sun.' 'All, 
 he has been in Spain.' ' I wonder what 
 command he will liave.' These and fifty 
 similar questions and answers ran through 
 the crowd, but tliey died away almost 
 directly. Everyone seemed disposed to con- 
 template that unique spectacle in silence. 
 
 Averanclie, a youtli of thought, imagina- 
 tion, and education, was more curiously and 
 deeply absorbed even than the rude Pne- 
 torians around. lie did not share in tlieir
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 241 
 
 superstitious coniidence and blind adoration ; 
 but it was impossible to view Napoleon with 
 other feeliui^s than those with which man 
 forgets his own littleness while looking on 
 greatness. 
 
 The poet found amidst the fragments of 
 the Eoman Colosseum that his own griefs 
 Avere as notliing, that they were annihilated, 
 that they w^ere not in the presence of that 
 universal ruin. So it was Avith Averanche : 
 while he gazed upon Napoleon, he forgot 
 ]iis letters, his anxiety to see Charles Denain, 
 the self- diffidence, the agitation, tlie tremulous 
 excitement, whicli even the bravest heart 
 must feel in the hour whicli precedes a 
 first battle ; he forgot all things personal 
 and immediate in the, meditations challenged 
 by that majestic presence. The individual 
 was lost in the universal. Lionel thought 
 not of himself, but of mankind. He was 
 
 VOL. L R
 
 242 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 in the presence of Napoleon, its crown and 
 consummation. 
 
 The idea of universal monarchy — the 
 dream of Charles the Fifth, the scheme of 
 Philip the Second — that idea, whicli the 
 Jesuits never have abandoned and never will 
 abandon, it was there before his eyes, reahzed, 
 incarnate. There he was, the nearest ap- 
 proximation the world has ever known unto 
 Omnipotence. That dimmutive frame, and 
 that flashing eye, they had but to move, and 
 the destinies of a hemisphere were changed. 
 He had but to will, and millions willed as 
 he did. He had but to s]:)eak, and monarchs 
 trembled ; and their ]:)eople wept, some for 
 terror, and more for hope. Athwart a 
 world grown old, he w^as passing like the 
 genius of hfe. There, as he stood at 
 Austerlitz, in a land of decrepid conventions 
 and formulary tyrannies, he symbolized a
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 2 J .'J 
 
 revelation which was to supersede the old 
 dispensations. He was the representative 
 of new hopes, new feehngs, new ideas, new 
 instincts, which, various and conflicting in 
 themselves, all centred and harmonized in 
 him. 
 
 The young Eepublican in the far woods 
 of the New World, the overtaxed artisan in 
 the busy home of English industry, the 
 German enthusiast of the Secret Society, 
 the Caliph of the throne of Islam, the 
 Pope who crowned him, and who prayed 
 that he might prove a second Charlemagne 
 to the Church, such were among the strange 
 interests set in motion by this man of 
 miracles. Who before ever centered in 
 himself so many requirements, so many be- 
 liefs, so many hopes ? Who was ever before 
 so pre-eminent among all
 
 244 ANGELA PIS AN I. 
 
 ' — the men divine 
 Who rose like shadows, between man and God, 
 Till that eclipse, still hanging o'er high Heaven, 
 "Was worshipped by the world, o'er which they strode ? * 
 
 Such tlioiights as tliese were passing 
 through Averanche's mind, when he was 
 interrupted b}- Denain's voice. 
 
 'What dream are you in, Lionel? I 
 liave been looking at you for at least three 
 minutes, from Berthier's side there, and 
 you have been agaze all the while, like 
 Eiidymion for the moon. Eouse yourself, 
 man cher, you w^ill have some sharp work 
 to-day ; Bessieres never spares the Guard.' 
 
 ' Ah, it is about that I wanted to speak 
 to you, Charles.' 
 
 They rode a little on one side, and 
 Averanclie drew two letters from his breast. 
 
 ' In case, Charles, I fall to day, I wish 
 you to take charge of these for me.' 
 
 * My dear fellow, that is so like you men
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 of imagination ; you die ten times as often 
 as anybody else.' 
 
 ' Do not banter me now, Charles, we 
 may perhaps never meet again. And I 
 have loved you dearly, very dearly, more so, 
 perhaps, than you will believe. This letter 
 is for your father. I have thanked him in it 
 foi- all his goodness to a poor orphan, who 
 has, I hope, in spite of some few angry 
 passages, never behaved ungratefully, nor 
 with a want of affection towards him. Tell 
 him, dear Charles, should I die, that I re- 
 membered him and spoke of him with teai's. 
 The other letter,' said Averanche, hesitating, 
 and he gave it witliout adding a word. 
 
 Denain glanced at the envelope. 
 
 ' Mile. Illyrine de la Yal. Good heavens, 
 Leo, liow can you be such an ass ? Wliy, 
 it is to tlie mistress of tlie Eni;Hsli mil- 
 lionaire. Lord Latimer ! '
 
 24G AXGELA PISAX'I. 
 
 A thousand recollections, a thousand 
 probabilities, a thousand certainties flashed 
 across Averanche's mind. He felt as a man 
 stunned by a blow, and snatching the letter 
 impatiently from Denain, he tore it into 
 shreds, pressed Charles's hand with a rapid 
 and silent emotion, and galloped back to his 
 post. 
 
 The battle had already begun. The 
 sharp rattle of the musketry sounded crisply 
 in the frosty air. The long and sinuous 
 columns, seen at a distance, looked like huge 
 snakes gliding from brake and covert in 
 tlie early morning. The Eussian left is 
 taking up its position. Four and twenty 
 battalions in that green uniform, advancing 
 silently in cohunn ; then a column of 
 cio'hteen serried battalions ; a tliird column 
 of the same number ; the Kolo wrath's- 
 Austrian troops, with twelve more Eussiaa
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 247 
 
 battalions, making in all eighty-seven 
 battalions. It was a glorious and animating; 
 sight to see these cohorts so massive and 
 compact ; but the gleaming helmets and 
 glancing sabres of Lichtenstein's magnifi- 
 cent cavalry, which supported them on each 
 Hank, still more vividly arrested the eyes. 
 And now the advanced guard of the 
 Eussians is seen led by the impetuous 
 Bagration, the hero of a hundred battles, 
 the hero who was so ill rewarded. Ever 
 the foremost in battle, he is already engaged 
 with the French right, which he has thrown 
 into some confusion. Davoust flies to tlie 
 rescue, Davoust who so disliked Bonaparte, 
 but who is grateful for his Marshal's baton 
 to Napoleon. The eagle eye is upon him ; 
 order is restored ; the steady firing, gun for 
 gun, volley for volley, tells that the fight is 
 equally sustained upon the right. Now
 
 248 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 opposing regiments mingle and are con- 
 founded. Xeither give way. Xapoleon's 
 immediate anxiety is at an end, he has time to 
 reconnoitre tlie formation of the whole alUed 
 army in columns. A flash of divination 
 irradiates his face — it is the first glimpse of 
 approaching victory. A great part of the 
 enemy's line is unmistakably formed of raw 
 material ; they march without precision ; 
 tliere is here and there an ominous gap in 
 that multitudinous array. 
 
 Averanche, who was posted with his 
 regiment a little on Napoleon's right, again 
 felt all the fascination of the great man's 
 presence. He found refuge from his 
 agonies in the sanctuaiy of that sacred 
 contemplation. He forgot his own petty 
 stakes in his interest in the £:amester who 
 was playing for the world. He watched* 
 the Emperor with a scrutiny so intense that
 
 AXGELA PISANI 240 
 
 it would fain have entered with magnetic, 
 vohtion into his feehngs. He has beckoned 
 to Berthier. In another moment Charles 
 Denain has received an order, and plunging 
 his spurs in his horse's sides gallops away. 
 He returns, and Soult is with him. 
 
 ' How soon. Marshal, could you carry 
 that village ? ' 
 
 Napoleon pointed to a hamlet environed 
 by the allied hues. 
 
 'Pratzen, Sire?' 
 
 Napoleon nodded. The great strategist 
 pauses. After an interval he adds : — 
 
 ' Five and twenty minutes, Sire.' 
 
 ' Take it.' 
 
 The magical words have gone forth. 
 With tlie divisions, St. Hilaire, and Van- 
 damme (Vandamme who even then dreamed 
 of a crown), he has flung himself upon the 
 enemy. Pratzen is his own within less than
 
 250 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 the stipulated time. The Emperor's plan is 
 accomplished, the enemies' communications 
 are intercepted, their hne is pierced. But 
 tlie Eussian infantry is not discouraged ; 
 these are not the troops of Mack, this is not 
 the day of Ulm. They move, they advance, 
 they regain Pratzen. 
 
 ' Murat, Murat, Murat ! ' Like a Pala- 
 din of old he comes, Avitli the glorious 
 war cry and the dancing plume. 
 
 Where the broken line enlarging, 
 
 Fought or fled along the plain — 
 There, be sure, was Murat charging. 
 
 Again, and again, and yet again he 
 conies. It is in vain. They stand hke a 
 rock — that terrible infontry. Lannes is 
 ordered to the support — the Ajax of the 
 camp — with heart as dauntless, words as 
 rude, and j^pirit as susceptible. And now 
 the whole line is enc^ag^ed : two hundred 
 
 O CD
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 251 
 
 pieces of cannon are roaring, two Imndrecl 
 thousand men are struggling with death.. 
 There has been no battle hke to this ; not 
 Pharsalia, not Pliilippi, not Actium. Three 
 emperors are in the field. On neither side 
 does the balance yet incline. But now, 
 Soult, who has been strengthened by the 
 charges of Murat and Lannes, makes a 
 desperate effort. Pratzen is his once more ; 
 he drives the enemy still farther ; the village 
 of Austerlitz is wrested from the Eussians. 
 Kutusoff sees his line broken ; the peril is 
 immediate, his communications are de- 
 stroyed, but the day may still be retrieved. 
 The Eussian Guard, those picked troops of 
 gigantic stature, of a courage almost savage,, 
 with the indomitable temper of that Tartar 
 race which has swept victorious through 
 deserts even to the eastern frontiers of Cliina 
 and Corea ; these are now for the first time
 
 252 AXGELA PISANI. 
 
 to confront Europeans. And by their side, 
 the Guard of Xol^les, with a Grand Duke at 
 their head, and tlie ilower of tlie old Mus- 
 <'Ovitc cliivalry, sons of those Boyars who 
 struck so bravely at Pultowa : these, too, are 
 to charge. 
 
 With fierce ' hurrahs,' with a wild 
 Asiatic prayer for tlieir father Alexander, 
 with loud calls upon their God whose regent 
 he is, 
 
 * "With their heads all drooping low, with their spears set 
 in a row, 
 Like a whirlwind on the woods, like a deluj^e on tlic 
 dykes,' 
 
 they fling themselves upon the French. The 
 shock is terrific, and bears down all before 
 it. 
 
 A whole regiment, the first of the fine, is 
 sabred where it stands by these gigantic 
 sons of tlie Steppes. They must be the men 
 of Anak the Scripture speaks of, wdtli their
 
 ANGELA PIS AN I. 
 
 colossal stature and terrible deeds. ' Hurrah, 
 hurrah, hurrah, hurrah ! ' their triumpliaiit 
 yells ring aloud above tlie blast of the 
 clarions, and above the roar of the artillery. 
 The Eussian line is restored, the communi- 
 cations are preserved, and still they sweep 
 on, this resistless cavalry, advancing with 
 insulting cries, piercing into the very lieart 
 of their enemy. 
 
 But Napoleon's eye is upon them, the 
 colour flushes in his cheek, the thunder 
 rises in his voice. 
 
 ' Bessieres, charge with the Guard ! ' 
 The ground trembled as with an earth- 
 quake beneath the tramp of thousands of 
 liorsemen. Battalion after battalion, i-egi- 
 ment after regiment, brigade after brigade. 
 Lionel felt for the first time, as he galloped 
 at full speed, ' the rapture of the strife.' 
 Before his eyes was a glorious panorama of
 
 254 ANGELA P1S.\NI. 
 
 waving plumes and flashing steel, in his ear 
 the battle-cry of the bravest soldiers in 
 Napoleon's army. His feelings, too, predis- 
 posed him to recklessness ; lie shouted with 
 the shouts of the veterans. A bullet struck 
 his helmet and bore it from his head. He 
 flung up his arm gaily, and said, ' I shall see 
 the barbarians all the better.' 
 
 ' JSTow, then, is your time,' said Dent de 
 Fei% as the Chasseurs of the Guard encoun- 
 tered in full charge a Russian regiment of 
 Cuirassiers. It was at once a melee and a 
 duel. The event of the day depended upon 
 the issues of the combat between the French 
 and Russian Guards. Each man knew it 
 and felt it, with faith in Iiimself, his standard, 
 his cause, and his commander. Their eyes 
 glanced at each otlicr friMii beneath their 
 glittering casques, witli a glorious jealousy 
 ■and an heroic hate.
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 25.5 
 
 The bullets liurtled through the air, the 
 swords crossed, the clarions sounded. 
 Chasseur and cuirassier, cuirassier and 
 lancer, fought hand to hand and Iiorse to 
 liorse. It was a whirlpool of eddying con- 
 flicts, which swayed and swept around ; a 
 whirlwind tossino- the sand columns of the 
 desert into each other ; a series of tourna- 
 ments, each with its own heroic achievements 
 and chivalric incidents. 
 
 Lionel could scarcely breathe in his ex- 
 citement : he knew that the French Guards' 
 charge must have already lasted some time, 
 yet the result seemed still doubtful and con- 
 fused. On a sudden the wild scream of El 
 Douba rang upon his ear. ' A barbarian is 
 bearing off an Eagle ! ' It was so. A 
 general officer of gigantic form was brand- 
 ishing high the guidon of the regiment. 
 Lionel, boy as he was, dashed up to him ;
 
 2.-58 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Ills hand was on the staff, El Douba's lance, 
 too, was witliin a yard of tlic spoiler, when 
 the Grand Duke Constantine, for it was he, 
 witli the shout of a savage, with the address 
 of a gladiator, turned aside El Douba's spear,, 
 and clove him to the earth as he careered 
 past liim. 
 
 ' Boy,' he roared, ' take that,' and with 
 the hilt of his sword lie struck Averanche, 
 whose left hand was on the guidon, on his 
 improtected head. 
 
 Lionel fell senseless, his last thought one 
 of intolerable anguish to see the eagle borne 
 away. 
 
 Who has not seen tliat glorious charge 
 as depicted by Gerard, wlien Rapp, with his 
 sword snapt in twain, liis head bare, his 
 forehead bleeding, but his eye kindling with 
 triumph, rides up to tell Xapoleou its result ? 
 At his feet are Eefruin, the colonel of the
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 257 
 
 Muscovite Guard of Nobles, and other 
 prisoners of mark. And iNapoleon — his 
 glance is radiant, his mien superb ; but there 
 is a shade which darkens his solemn and 
 meditative brow, as if he already felt the 
 responsibilities of victory. 
 
 Near him there were two youths in the 
 full sunshine of happiness, whom a meta- 
 physician would probably have turned aside 
 to contemplate. They were perhaps nearer 
 heaven in that hour than the hero himself, for 
 it was the hour of a maiden triumph. And 
 there they stood, with the legion of honour — 
 which the Emperor himself had placed there 
 — glowing on their breasts. And he had 
 added words of praise, which a whole army 
 would repeat. 
 
 Yet Charles Dcnain looked as superbly 
 indifferent as Alcibiades, after the liazards 
 mid i^lories of Potida^a. Turnino; round to 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 Alexis Vauriensky, his companion in glory, 
 lie whispered, half laughing, 'Alick, man 
 cher^ there was just one moment when I 
 was infernally near running away ! '
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 2oO 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Je ne suis point venu mettre la paix mais I'epee. 
 
 MONTECTJCXJLI. 
 
 I HAT a delightful thing a victory 
 
 must be, Duke ! ' hsped a fine 
 
 lady to the Duke of Wellington. 
 
 ' The most tragic thing in the world, 
 
 Madam, except a defeat,' was the grave reply 
 
 of the immortal truth-teller. 
 
 The scene in the French camp after 
 Austerhtz was a terrible illustration of this 
 remark. The piercing cold, the dead and 
 trampled bodies, the black hordes of carrion- 
 crows which were gathered in dark dense 
 masses about the field, or which might be 
 seen wheeling with hungry expectation in 
 s 2
 
 200 AXGELA riS.\NI. 
 
 the air, tlic low moans of the wounded, here 
 and there a woman's shriek, tlie deep curse 
 of a disabled trooper, the vast expanse of 
 strong and glaring colours, the veiy pictur- 
 esqueness of the scene, all this, as Xapoleon 
 said at Eylau, 
 
 * had more relief upon a ground of snow.' 
 
 And yet in the midst of these horrors, the 
 great commander's eye was roving over the 
 Boidevards, upon the eager crowds of Paris, 
 the little knots of men around the trees, 
 the deep low universal hum of expectation, 
 the appearance of the Moniteiu\ the bulletin 
 of victory, the long, loud exulting shout of 
 rapture which succeeds to that suspense. 
 Nor was the statesman idle. His imagina- 
 tion throw^s him back into times wdicn heroes 
 lived; and he speaks a language and pro- 
 jects achievements which might arouse them 
 from their sleep. He ordains that a mighty
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 2G1 
 
 column shall arise, iu commemoration of the 
 day ; he will employ in a national enter- 
 prise the industry of a people whose energies 
 had too long been neglected ; he will adorn, 
 exalt, and glorify his Paris ; and in after ages 
 the traveller will say, ' These were the great 
 works of the first Emperor in the Capital of 
 the Western Empire.' Where be these 
 words, this enterprise, these achievements ? 
 generation of the false and feeble — 
 race of expediency and compromise — 
 dwarfs who liave succeeded unto giants ! 
 But the words of Napoleon still exist ; these 
 they could not destroy. Are they not worthy 
 of a great man, conscious of greatness, and 
 believing in himself? Are they not august 
 but simple, above, beyond, apart from all 
 contemporary comparison ? 
 
 ' Soldiers, I am contented witli you. 
 You liave decorated your eagles with an
 
 2G2 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 eternal fame. An army of a hundred 
 thousand men, commanded by the Emperors 
 of Austria and Eussia, has in less than four 
 hours been cut to pieces and dispersed. 
 Of tliose wlio escaped your sword, most 
 have been drowned in the waters. Forty 
 flags, the standard of the Imperial Guard 
 of Eussia, one hundred and twenty cannon, 
 twenty generals, thirty thousand prisoners, 
 are the result of tliis ever-memorable day. 
 Tliis infantry so vaunted, and in number so 
 greatly your superior, lias been unable to 
 -svithstand your shock, and lienceforward 
 3'ou have no rivals. 
 
 ' Soldiers, when the French people put 
 upon my head the Imperial Crown, I placed 
 my trust in 3-0 u, to maintain it for ever in 
 that high and glorious lustre which alone 
 could render it of price. Soldiers, I will 
 soon lead you back into France. There you
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 263 
 
 will be the object of my teiiderest solicitude, 
 and it will be enough for you to say, " I was 
 at the battle of Austerlitz," for me to answer, 
 ^' Behold a brave man ! " ' 
 
 Such was the tone in which Napoleon 
 addressed his troops after his first victory 
 as Emperor. Nor did he ever forget how 
 signal a spell he conjured within its memory. 
 Its anniversary in the Eussian Campaign 
 furnished him with the noblest trait even 
 of liis heroic eloquence. ' They and we are 
 we not the troops of Austerlitz.' There is 
 nothing in Demosthenes so fine. 
 
 The Emperor has just finished the dic- 
 tation of his proclamation. Berthier and 
 Caulaincourt are in his tent. He is walkinsc 
 restlessly backwards and forwards. 
 
 ' I wisli I could communicate with De- 
 nain. I. can do nothing in this afHiir without 
 him ' — he pointed to a heap of papers on a
 
 264 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 small table by him. ' Stop, let me see — 
 Bertliier, lias he not a ward in the Guard ? 
 I will send Inm off to Paris to-night.' 
 
 ' Why not send his son, sire, he is on my 
 staff? ' 
 
 ' No, no, we shall liave need of all our 
 soldiers in a week. One night at Vienna 
 must repair all the ravages we made to-day. 
 We owe Austria some lives.' 
 
 The quick diplomatist smiled at this 
 adaptation of the great Conde's celebrated 
 mot: but Berthier, a })ractical man, whose 
 soul was above a jest, asked the Emperor, 
 gi-avely, 
 
 ' Shall I fetch this youth here ? ' 
 
 ' Directly.' 
 
 It was not long before Averanche (who 
 had only been stunned by the blow he had 
 received) was in Napoleon's presence. 
 
 ' Your name ? '
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 265 
 
 ' Lionel Averanche.' 
 
 Napoleon, as Madame Campan tells us, 
 was singularly susceptible to sweet sounds 
 and strangely fascinated by a melodious 
 name. Averanche's voice was musical and 
 soft ; and it was, perhaps, this that at once 
 prepossessed Napoleon in his favour. 
 
 ' You have had a blow to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Sire, in defence of an Eagle.' 
 
 * You are a brave boy ; the Eussians 
 should not strike such children.' 
 
 ' It was the Grand Duke Constantino 
 himself. Sire,' said Averanche, rather proudly. 
 Nobody, old or young, unless it be a woman, 
 likes to be called a child. 
 
 Napoleon laughed. 
 
 ' An imperial compliment ; I must match 
 it with another, the legion of honour will 
 become you.' 
 
 Averanche's eye lighted A\ith joy.
 
 '2GG ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' And you shall go on Berthier's staff. 
 And now for the greatest of all graces — 
 what is that, tliink you ? ' 
 
 ' To serve your Majesty.' 
 
 ' No, parclie^ but to see Paris. You 
 must be off to-night. You will there see 
 M. Denain, and you will tell him that 
 I have told you so and so. Now for busi- 
 ness. What I am going to say is very 
 simple, but I will not write. Do you under- 
 stand me ? ' 
 
 Averanche bowed low. 
 
 Napoleon then, with much precision 
 and in a few words, entrusted Averanche 
 with an outline of a financial scheme which 
 was to counteract the operations of a party 
 on the Bourse, headed by a minister whom 
 Napoleon knew to be phiying for the haisst\ 
 and therefore, in ever3Mvay that the strongest 
 motives might devise, counteractini^ his
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 207 
 
 plans. Strange it is, that the world lias de 
 veloped and improved into a golden age 
 where avarice is the best incitement to ima- 
 gination. The arrangements which Napo- 
 leon rapidly indicated, served to show the 
 coming disgrace of M. Barbe-Morbois (his 
 Finance minister), and were to end in the 
 ruin of that o-ioantic financier, Ouvrard, 
 whom he envied and hated, as Louis XIV. 
 envied and liated Fouquet. He desired 
 M. Denain to prepare a list of the recent 
 engagements this millionaire had enter- 
 tained with the Prince of tlie Peace and 
 the House of Hope at Amsterdam, and to 
 hold him personally responsible for the 
 enormous simi of three milhons and a half 
 sterling. 
 
 ' Now, Monsieur, there is trusted to 
 you a secret which must be known only 
 to three men, yourself, M. Denain, and
 
 268 ANGELA TISANI. 
 
 myself. Be discreet, and your fortune is 
 made.' 
 
 Averanche could not forbear from kneel- 
 ing and kissing tlie great man's hand. 
 
 ' Your family is, I think, from Xormandy, 
 is it not, M. d'Averanche ? ' 
 
 Averanche assented, but his features be- 
 trayed all his astonishment, that Naj^oleon 
 should be acquainted Avith his genealogy. 
 
 'Ah, I know more about you than you 
 tliink,' and he played Avith Lionel's ear 
 caressingly. ' Your father's last words were, 
 " Fais ton metier— je fais mon devoir^ His 
 son must never forget tliem.' 
 
 Napoleon spoke so kindly that Ave- 
 ranche's eyes filled with tears. It is the gift 
 of a man of genius to move and to attach even 
 at first interviews. 
 
 ' Farewell, young sir ; yours is a great 
 name, and I will take care of it.'
 
 ANGELA riSAXI. 
 
 ' As old, Sire, as Charlemagne,' said 
 Averanche, encouraged by the great man's 
 evident prepossession and hking for him. 
 Charlemagne was a name which Napoleon 
 never heard without pleasure, nor at the 
 same time without the interest which his 
 own great feudal scheme engendered. 
 
 ' Indeed — so old ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Sire,' continued Averanche, still 
 more encouraged in his boyish confidence ; 
 ' but our house was founded under Wilham 
 the Conqueror.' 
 
 'You shared in the conquest of England? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Sire.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Napoleon, laughingly, ' we 
 will perhaps found it anew in the next con- 
 quest of England.' 
 
 Averanche bowed and took liis leave. 
 Nor ^Y(}YQ tlie few minutes which Napoleon 
 had seemingly wasted in light converse with-
 
 270 ANGELA PISAXI 
 
 out a purpose on the part of that compre- 
 hensive tliinker, one who was so great in 
 vast enterprises because he never lost an 
 opportunity in details. He never permitted 
 an occasion to escape him of attaching to his 
 person the old names and families of France. 
 He had already gathered around him Mont- 
 morencys, Noailles, Montesquieus, and Talley - 
 rands. In the Empress Josephine's house- 
 hold were to be found the names of Eohan, 
 La Eochefoucauld, and Bouille. While he 
 thus rooted himself in the past, he felt more 
 confident of the future. 
 
 Averanche, when he found liimself out- 
 side the Emperor's tent, looked around for 
 his horse, whicli he had tied to a tree 
 close by. It liad disappeared, which was 
 only natural, considering tliat Lionel, in 
 the intoxication of beinu' summoned into 
 Napoleon's presence, had given it in charge
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 271 
 
 to no one. Leaning, however, against tlie 
 same tree, lie distinguished the robust form 
 of Le Brave Gars, who was smoking his 
 tobacco out of a magnificent German 
 meerschaum, late the property of one of 
 Lichtenstein's hussars. 
 
 ' Hallo there, you sir,' said Averanche, 
 elated by his interview wdth majesty, and the 
 prospect of his secret mission — ' where is 
 my horse ? ' 
 
 ' God knows, ray child,' replied the Brave 
 with all the familiarity of a French soldier 
 who recognises an officer but no superior. 
 
 ' Damnation ! but I left it there ! ' 
 
 ' Very hkely,' said the Gars, continuing 
 to puff wdth unabated composure. 
 
 ' Go and get me another,' said Averanche, 
 impetuously;'! must be at the Commissary- 
 General's quarters directly. I have orders 
 from the Emperor.'
 
 ANGELA PLSAXI. 
 
 ' No doubt : but you must find me 
 fourgon Xo. 17 first.' 
 
 ' By lieavcn, sir, I will have you tried 
 for disobedience. Will you or will you not 
 move ? ' 
 
 ' You must find me fourgon Xo. 17, 
 first,' repeated Le Brave Gars, doggedly. 
 
 ' Are you mad or drunk, or what ? ' 
 said Averanche. ' Neither,' Le Gars 
 answered, ' but I have lost a leg.' 
 
 ' Good God ! and joii arc out here, and 
 in this weather ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, but it was my wooden one, and 
 I cannot replace it till I find fourgon Xo. 
 17.' 
 
 ' Well, I will send 3'ou your leg. I am 
 off to the Commissary-General's this instant. 
 Only tell me how to get a horse.' 
 
 ' Take that one there,' said Le Brave ; 
 and he pointed to a charger with splendid
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 27.3 
 
 housings, held by a servant in the superb 
 2[reen luiiform of the o'rand Veneur's cs- 
 tabhshment. 
 
 'But it is the Prince of Xeuchatel's/ 
 ' Ay, ay, he has been promoted prince, 
 so may you or I be to-morrow or the next 
 day ; but we are comrades for all that, and 
 you have His orders to carry.' 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 274 
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 The boy thus when his sparrow's flown 
 
 The bird in silence eyes, 
 But soon as out of siglit 'tis gone 
 
 Whines, whimpers, sobs and cries. 
 
 Beggar's Opera. 
 
 IFTEE sucli over-excited and ex- 
 treme feelings as tlie events 
 that have been described pro- 
 duced in Lionel Averanche, there is 
 commonly a reaction. The very conscious- 
 ness of Napoleon's kindness, and therefore 
 tlie chance of a successful and even a great 
 career, now only provoked an almost in- 
 tolerable sadness. What Avere pohtics and 
 tlieir vicissitudes to liim Avliose soul was 
 dark within him, from whom the lii^'ht
 
 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 which had so long played upon liis secret. 
 thoughts was now withdrawn — to him wlio 
 would never more look into those eyes 
 whose lustre had so gently shone upon him. 
 Flung thus into himself, for sadness is always 
 selfish, he fell into a self-pitying and mourn- 
 ful reverie, which Avas only broken Avhen the 
 remarks of Charles Denain before the battle 
 seemed again to sound in his ear. He 
 writhed and almost moaned aloud beneath 
 their influence. Illyrine ! to whom he had 
 offered up his most unworldly and unselfish 
 homage, whom he had worshipped in tliat 
 truest of all worships in his lonely hour ; 
 whose brilliant reminiscences had preserved 
 and even allured him from so many ba^^e 
 temptations ; whose sacred image had at 
 times been a reproach, and therefore been 
 adorned with more self-disu;ust and li'reater 
 self-devotion ! These memories, all wrecked
 
 276 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 and dead, and turned to ashes, were veiy 
 bitter and liard to bear for so young and 
 sensitive a spirit. Those to whom nature 
 has awarded warm feehngs, and wlio now 
 look back to early days, in all tlie cynicism 
 of spent and exhausted sense, will perhaps 
 bethink themselves of young vows and 
 former oaths not dissimilar to those now 
 uttered by Lionel. For himself, he felt so 
 abject, so lowered, so degraded, he was so 
 much ashamed of an unworthy and yet 
 inextricable love, that he pined, as it were, 
 to quit himself and life and the world. 
 When we are boys we are for ever playing 
 the ]:)hantom game of ' Caesar or nothing ' 
 with ourselves, and as few can become 
 Cassars, every generation is full of abortive 
 heroes consecrated to the sad alternative of 
 nothingness. But how earnest were they ! 
 how determined not to outlive the hour
 
 AXGELA riSAXI. 271 
 
 which might frustrate ! the day after Avhich 
 might ruin ! how sincere in anguish, how 
 true in their despair ! 
 
 It must be remembered that Averanche 
 was very youug, and, as a great meta- 
 physician has said, nothing sednces a young 
 man so much as the idea of playing guardian 
 ansfel and acting; Providence to a beautiful 
 woman. He was holiest with himself, while 
 he swore to disbelieve Charles Denain's 
 story, and swore also to love Illyrine no 
 more : and yet Charles's story was w^eighing 
 heavy on his inmost soul, and he felt he 
 never loved Illyrine more than when he 
 made the vow to be onl}^ her good genius. 
 Ah, it is a difficult thing to forget when we 
 liave loved, and Averanche indulged in 
 Avild fantastic reveries in which he blent his 
 future fortune with Illyrine and ministered 
 unknown to lier sacred service, and^ unseen,
 
 278 AXGELA riSAXI. 
 
 strewed upon her patli the sunshine and 
 the pleasantness of hfe. The strange 
 combination made by his imagination with 
 the scenes wliieh he so vividly painted to 
 himself out of feeling and despair soothed 
 Iiim and beguiled him for a time from the 
 barren truth. All men know it. Even far 
 older ones than Lionel still seek the cheateiy 
 of impossible illusions, fly to fancy as they 
 might to opinion, and dream vrild dreams of 
 Elysian and extravagant vicissitude. 
 
 ' Will you not ahght, sir ? ' The voice 
 of an importunate postmaster recalled 
 Averanclic to the world without. He 
 stepped into the kitchen of tlie cabaret to 
 which his host conducted him, and mechani- 
 cally called for supper. The remains of a 
 pasty and a Westphalia ham were soon 
 before him, with capital rye bread and a 
 flask of Ehenish. But Averanche was in no
 
 AXGELA PISAXI. 279 
 
 mood to eat ; lie played with a morsel or 
 so of food, but lie drank with desperate 
 avidity. He had just poured out the last 
 glass the bottle contained, when he was 
 made aware that another traveller was also 
 supping in the kitchen. 
 
 ' Let us drink to one another, fair 
 youth.' There was something sneering, a 
 latent contemptuousness in the stranger's 
 voice, which displeased Averanche. He 
 looked at him not without liausrhtiness, with 
 the dignity of melancholy however rather 
 than of aristocracy or station. 
 
 ' We ou<T:ht to drink to^'cther,' continued 
 the stranger, drily. 
 
 ' Why? ' asked Averanche. 
 
 ' Sympathy. Men diink either from 
 pleasure or from care. You drink too ftist 
 for the first.' 
 
 While the stranger spoke, Averanche,
 
 280 ANGELA PISAXI. 
 
 little disposed as lie then was to observe 
 or make remarks, was struek by the appear- 
 ance of liis companion. Prematurely white 
 hair curled about his forehead ; black, evil 
 eyes glowed Avhile he spoke, but were ever 
 bent downwards ; a shame-stricken stamp 
 hung upon his haggard features, which were 
 otherwise handsome, and a colossal stature, 
 in its Herculean proportions and exquisite 
 symmetry, recalled the fabulous appearance 
 of Trenck of Spandau. All this Averanclie 
 noticed, but it did not interest him ; so he 
 bowed his head politely to the challenge, but 
 did not speak. 
 
 ' At your age grief comes from two 
 things, love going outwards or love tm^ning 
 inwards. You have, I suppose, ideaUzed 
 a jilt, or quarrelled with your guardian, 
 eh?' 
 
 The observation was searching. There
 
 ANGELA riSANI. 281 
 
 was also a i^enuine lightness in it which 
 accorded with Lionel Averanche's senti- 
 ments. 
 
 ' Your opinion of the world is seemingly 
 not of the highest.' 
 
 ' The world and I are enemies. We 
 always think highly of those whom we 
 dignify into foes and speak ill of them. Do 
 you not know that, young sir? ' 
 
 There was tlie same sardonic expression 
 on the stranger's featm^cs which had before 
 displeased Lionel ; but he was sad at heart, 
 and therefore indisposed to take affront, 
 and he spoke rather to himself than to his 
 companion when he answered, 
 
 ' I have no foes : I was only this moment 
 wishing; I had no friends.' 
 
 ' Already on the path which leads to tliis ; ' 
 and the stranc^er indicated his matted and 
 ha2^f]^ard mien, witli a not unirraceful i2:osl ure.
 
 282 AXGELA PISAXI. 
 
 ' So young,' he piirsuecl, as if he in his turn 
 was speaking to himself, ' already wounded 
 and already writhing. Drink, sir, drink, it 
 will help your imagination, — and if it lead 
 to the grave, the imagination leads to worse, 
 it leads to this.' The stranger again pointed 
 to liimself. 
 
 Lionel Averanche was struck by the 
 energy of his manner ; he could not answer 
 by a formula or a commonplace, so he 
 remained silent, not without a sort of 
 sympathy in his looks. 
 
 ' Ah, young sir, you feel and you fancy — 
 two steeds which gallop pretty fast to the 
 great end. You are a poet too, you were 
 murmuring verse words to yoiu'self but now 
 as you came in. Do you want a hero for your 
 next poem ? ' The stranger's tone changed 
 into a levity which was bitterer than ever. 
 
 'Take me — ideahze the principle of
 
 ANGELA PISAXI. 283 
 
 hate — hate of man, not the sick phantasy 
 of the Eoman Emperor who pined for one 
 neck for mankind, bnt a misanthropy real, 
 burning, ever present here, ever goading, 
 which longs — yearns, as no saint ever longed 
 or yearned — for the Day of Judgment. Do 
 you know why ? ' 
 
 Averanche, who beijan to think he had 
 fallen in with a madman, got up from his 
 seat. 
 
 ' To be avenged upon my race,' hissed 
 rather than whispered the stranger in his 
 ear. 
 
 Averanche's thoughts were of the serpent, 
 so helhsh was the expression of hate on his 
 companion's face. 
 
 ' Ah, there arc your four liorses, and ]iere 
 is my good hack wortli tlieni all four.' Tlie 
 stranger's voice was again changed into his
 
 284 ANGELA PISANI. 
 
 familiar and every-clay tone. ' Good-bye, 
 young sir.' 
 
 Ten minutes afterwards the stranger 
 galloped past, and his wild words and un- 
 earthly appearance w^ere soon banished from 
 Averanche's tlioiights. So true is it that the 
 individual principle is always selfish, in small 
 things as in OTeat. Lionel had lost a crea- 
 tion of his own, and, true to humanity, was 
 absorbed. Narcissus-like, in his shallow 
 sorrow. 
 
 EXD OF THE FIEST VOLUME. 
 
 LON'DOy : PRTXTED BY 
 
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