L I E) R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVER.SITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 8£3 
 
 Gr77h 
 set. I
 
 /\
 
 HIGH- WAYS AND BY-WAYS; 
 
 OR 
 
 TALES OF THE ROADSIDE, 
 
 PICKED UP IN THE FRENCH PROVINCES. 
 
 BY 
 
 A WALKING GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " I hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, and 
 say 'Tis all barren !" Sterne. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHITTAKER, 
 AVE-MARIA-LANE. 
 
 1823.
 
 1 
 
 I
 
 
 (M 
 
 £3 
 
 
 ^'■ 
 
 'f" 
 
 4f» 
 
 TO 
 
 WASHINGTON IRVING, ESQ. 
 
 THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED, 
 
 BY 
 
 HIS ADMIRER AND FRIEND, 
 
 THE AUTHOR.
 
 PREFACE, PROLOGUE, AVANT-PROPOS, 
 
 OR 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " The nature of a preface is rambling, never wholly out of the 
 
 way, nor in it." 
 
 Drydf.n.
 
 PREFACE, PROLOGUE, AVANT-PROPOS, 
 
 OR 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 If unencumbered men, who travel for pleasure, 
 knew half the pleasures of travelling on foot, 
 post-masters and carriage-owners would soon be 
 left to the patronage of those who have the 
 happiness, or the misery, of being married ; to 
 effeminate striplings, and old bachelors. 
 
 Who, with the life and spirit of youth within 
 him, blessed with health, and sound in mind, 
 would choose to waste his weary hours in the 
 solitude of a post-chaise, or pay his money at a
 
 X PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 diligence-office, in proportion to the speed 
 which hurries him through all that might in- 
 terest a rational man ? 
 
 Who, with limhs to move on, and a heart to 
 feel, would abandon the companionship of na- 
 ture's self; encage his body in a public vehicle ; 
 and stifle the young buds of thought in its con- 
 tracted atmosphere? 
 
 Can we expect to know a people by such 
 
 flying association ? Is it among travellers, every 
 
 one of whom might on his journey doubt his 
 
 own identity; — from the merchant counting on 
 
 his fingers in the corner, — from the lover whose 
 
 thoughts fly back in a direct ratio with the 
 
 haste of his advance, and whose eyes are so 
 
 full of his absent mistress, that he thinks he 
 
 sees her in the grufl" old lady, feeding her parrot 
 
 on the seat before him ; — is it from the friend, 
 
 the parent, or the child, who, going to meet the
 
 AVANT- PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XI 
 
 holy happiness of domestic welcome, thinks the 
 carriage retrogrades ; — is it from these the 
 foreign traveller would look for national fact or 
 individual reality ; or in their random and un- 
 digested chatter hope to find a mine of sound 
 and valuable truth ? 
 
 No, no, sir! take your knapsack, and your 
 stick, and walk ! Linger, and lounge, and loiter 
 on the way. Throw yourself among the people, 
 as if you came by chance, and not from cu- 
 riosity. Spend a day here, and a week there. 
 Be generous, but not profuse. Excite grati- 
 tude, not envy. Let information flow in gush- 
 ing springs, but do not strive to force it up by 
 pumping. Do all this, and a little time will 
 show you how wise you have become. 
 
 I am answered, perhaps, that time is not 
 given to all men in the same profuseness ; that 
 where I have a year to spare, another may
 
 Xll PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 have but a month. Then, I reply, spend your 
 month with profit. Measure at the end of it 
 the minds you have analysed, not the leagues 
 you have driven over; and if you have but 
 sauntered through one district of a foreign na- 
 tion, in communion with the inhabitants, you 
 are better informed than he who has galloped 
 from Calais to Paris, and thence to Florence, 
 Rome, and Naples. 
 
 But a crusty opponent might say that this is 
 all labour in vain, — tell me that most men travel 
 merely to talk of it*, or that " Voyager est im 
 triste plaisirf" cite the Scotch proverb, " Sen' 
 a fool to France, and he '11 come back a fool," — 
 quote, gravely, if he will, 
 
 * '*^ La curiosite n'est que vanite ; le plus souvent on ne 
 veut savoir que pour en parler ; on ne voyagerait pas sur 
 mer pour ne jamais en rien dire, et pour le seul plaisir de 
 voir, sans esperance de s'en entretenir avec personne." 
 
 Pascal. 
 
 t Madame de Stael.
 
 • •• 
 
 AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. Xlll 
 
 ^' Dans maint auteur, de science profonde^ 
 J'ai lu qu'on perd a trop courir le monde *." 
 
 and add to these authorities, that if the object 
 is knowledge, it may be had at home ; that the 
 external features of all countries pretty nearly 
 resemble one another ; that towns and villages 
 are composed of the same kind of materials ; 
 and that man himself is every where the same, 
 a two-legged animal without feathers. Why 
 then go out of our way to explore the outward 
 show of things, or even the nooks and crevices 
 of human nature ? 
 
 Such reasoner would be quickly yelped at 
 
 by the open-mouthed pack, which sweeps 
 
 through foreign scenes, barking or baying at 
 
 men or the moon ; and he would be stung by 
 
 the drones who hum, and buzz, and flutter over 
 
 all, but bring back not one drop of honey 
 
 to the hive. 
 
 * Gresset.
 
 XVI PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 Yet there is some justness in the cavil of my 
 cynic. Nature has made all things of the same 
 stuff, and distributed them in nearly the same 
 proportions. Man, the great master-piece, is 
 every where the same : five to six feet in height, 
 and seventy years of life ; four-limbed and two- 
 handed ; with five senses, thirty-four cerebral 
 organs, and one, two, or more ideas — as it may 
 be. Such is his common form and medium 
 
 definition. A straggling monster may now and 
 then shock us as less, or startle us as more 
 
 than man ; but the lover of miracle and marvel 
 seeks in vain for a group of Cyclops, or a race 
 of giants. The grosser works of the creation, 
 too, are all confined within certain limits. Cli- 
 mate, indeed, is comparatively cold or hot ; but 
 a fire or a pair of bellows can transport the 
 mind, through the medium of the senses, from 
 the frigid to the torrid zone, and vice versa. 
 Unsightly monsters, pillars, or even temples, 
 may be brought to us by ships. We cannot.
 
 AVANT-PROPOS, OPv INTRODUCTION. XV 
 
 to be sure, carry off mountains or rivers ; but, 
 if we will be satisfied with miniature models, let 
 us turn to our own romantic hills and lovely 
 streams, and we shall only want a magnifying 
 glass to show us all that nature holds of the 
 sublime and beautiful. 
 
 Yet all this^ is not enough, at least for us, 
 who, laughing at the theories of the dispa- 
 raging physiologists, believe man better than 
 the brutes. To know him rightly, we must 
 travel: not his stature, nor his deeds — descrip- 
 tion and history tell us these — but his mind 
 and his feelings can be laid open, his resem- 
 blance to or contrast with ourselves be dis- 
 played, only by the actual intercourse of heart 
 with heart, and soul with soul, when every 
 artificial exhibition is gone by, and every 
 cunning caution lulled to rest. 
 
 This is not to be done at home ; at least I 
 can never understand the biped of my own
 
 XVI PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 locality. There I move as in a family circle. 
 Every Englishman is a brother to the rest ; 
 and though one may grumble in a louder key, 
 or another growl in a deeper tone, still the 
 social resemblance is the same. I go into a 
 distant county, and I meet new faces, but not 
 one mind seems strange to me. \ fancy I know 
 all that passes in each round and honest- looking 
 head; yet the brain within is often spreading 
 a veil to keep its secrets from my view ; and 
 every idea coiling itself up like a rattlesnake, 
 to hide its real extent, and hit me the hardest 
 when I think myself most safe. 
 
 ♦ 
 
 Thus it is, that by the confidence of the 
 observer, and the caution of those he works 
 on, by common resemblances and sympathies, 
 we are as unable to know the character of our 
 countrymen as we are to depict our own. 
 
 And in looking on the natural features of my 
 country, the analogy holds good. The land-
 
 AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XVll 
 
 scape, the rosy cheeks, and fair complexions, 
 seem all to have been growing up with me from 
 earliest youth, and to be identified with every 
 hour of my existence. Every thing is familiar, 
 because it has been so long within my reach ; 
 and though I may be absent from my proper 
 fire-side, still I have passed no line. I have 
 slided on in harmony and in tune, from dolce to 
 forte ; from major to minor; from the subject to 
 the variation, and back again ; but in three or 
 four days, at farthest, I can be sure of sitting in 
 my own chair, and of poking my own poker 
 between the bars of my own grate. 
 
 But let me cross the channel, and I feel 
 instantly the magic of imagination. I already 
 breathe freer, although still in sight of Dover. 
 I am hotter, though the climate is the same. I 
 tread cautiously, and pick my steps, although 
 the roads be of the like materials, or the soils 
 be similar. I see mortality around me — flourish- 
 
 b
 
 XVlll PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 ing, decaying, dead — just as I left it behind. 
 I look in the faces before me. I pore over, 
 search, and scrutinize. I mark on every hand 
 a novelty or a wonder ; — yet all the while I am 
 reading in the same old book, only that it is 
 decked up in a different binding. But so it is. 
 We want this stimulus to give action to our 
 mental energies ; and we find as mighty a dif- 
 ference between man in England and man in 
 France, as we do between a plain mutton-chop 
 and a cotelette a la maintenon. 
 
 Let us then travel ; and if we do so with our 
 eyes open (I mean the eyes of the mind), we 
 shall return home wiser than when we set out, 
 but knowing nothing more than we might have 
 known before we started. The sum of all is, 
 the defectiveness of man. The knowledge that 
 let circumstances debase him here, or elevate 
 him there ; let him show in this century his fair 
 side, or in that his foul ; he is still, in all seasons
 
 AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XIX 
 
 and all climes, essentially the same ; thirsting 
 and toiling for perfectibility, but doomed, by 
 the very nature of the struggle, to prove his 
 irredeemable imperfection. 
 
 As to the prejudice with which we are loaded, 
 it is the disease of our nature. Every nation 
 possesses the virus, but we inoculate with it. 
 We nurture it as an antidote against something 
 worse ; and on quitting England lay in a plenti- 
 ful fund, as if it were an amulet, 
 
 Sans quoi le coeur, victime des dangers, 
 Revient charge de vices etrangers. 
 
 But let us see our illiberality in its true light. 
 It is the evil of isolation, and a tax paid for se- 
 curity. It is therefore, perhaps, neither a fault 
 nor a misfortune. With its acknowledged pos- 
 session we may safely say that, in many of the 
 substantial advantages of life, we are superior 
 
 b2
 
 XX PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 to our neighbours, — but are we so in all ? That 
 we have the unamiable folly to believe so is the 
 fact; but this is not the place to examine its 
 causes. It is enough to know that they exist, 
 and that after a long course of culture, they 
 generally end in the Englishman landing on 
 the shores of France, louring and black, and 
 charged with prejudice, as a thunder-cloud 
 with electricity. 
 
 Every ^hing he first observes is a kind of 
 moral paratonneref to draw down the flash of his 
 disdain. The lazy-looking people ; the dirty 
 inns ; the beggarly appearance of the open 
 country, and the wild uncomfortable aspect 
 of the towns, with their formidable barriers 
 and strict police, give but melancholy notions 
 of French vivacity, liberty, or enjoyment. He 
 hurries through these outposts of information, 
 and reaches the capital. There he sees no- 
 thing but splen did misery and comfortless mag-
 
 AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XXI 
 
 nificence; palaces and promenades, — the one 
 hemmed round with hovels, the other intrenched 
 in mud. Thus viewing the superficies of things 
 he gallops on ; returns by a different, or, per- 
 haps, the same track; sees in every new place 
 the counterpart of Vhat he left behind ; and, 
 springing at last upon the pier at Dover, raises 
 his hands in thankfulness to find himself again 
 on the world's sole enviable spot of earth^. 
 
 Another class, despising this species of tra- 
 veller, and resolved to do better, set them- 
 
 * I cannot refrain from quoting here a sentence of 
 Voltaire, so much in the spirit of true philosophy, that 1 
 should have chosen it for my motto, had it not been in a 
 foreign language. '^ Si les nations de I'Europe, au lieu 
 de se mepriser injustement les unes les autres, voulaient 
 faire une attention moins superficielle aux ouvrages et 
 aux manieres de leurs voisins, non pas pour en rire, mais 
 pour en profiter, peut-etre de ce commerce mutuel d'ob- 
 servations naitrait ce gout general qu'on cherche si inu- 
 tilement." 
 
 ESSAI SUll LES MCEURS, &C.
 
 XXU PREFACE, PROLOGUE, 
 
 selves down in France — ^but where ? In some 
 well-recommended town, swarming with their 
 countrymen, where every thing — society, man- 
 ners, time, and even temperature, are en- 
 deavoured to be regulated on the English plan. 
 They meet French people, and they see French 
 character ; but the first in masquerade, and the 
 latter in its worst point of view. A vitiated 
 emulation is the impulse of the natives. They 
 want the homely honest simplicity of rustic life, 
 and have not the stores of information which 
 abound in Paris. But they have pretensions 
 to every thing, and are, in comparison to the 
 capital, what a shallow pool is to a great river ; 
 reflecting on their surface the mightiest objects, 
 without depth to embrace their extent, or force 
 to bear their weight. 
 
 It is not in towns, then, we must expect to 
 find true national traits, but least of all in 
 French towns. Still one field is open to the
 
 AVANT-PROPOS, OR INTRODUCTION. XXIU 
 
 true observer — a country residence; where, 
 separate from English pride and French pre- 
 sumption, he may display and look upon their 
 contrasts. Here let a family fix ; for if good 
 fellowship, good-nature, true politeness, and 
 heartfelt humanity exist on earth, I do believe 
 them to be found in the quiet circle of such in- 
 tercourse. That faults are even here is but too 
 true ; but what would we have ? Perfection ? 
 Alas ! alas ! 
 
 But I want to write tales, not dissertations ; 
 instead of speculations, to give facts ; in place 
 of essays, anecdotes. I would rather shake a 
 prejudice, than build a pyramid ; and as a straw 
 can decide the inclination of a balance, so, per- 
 haps, may these volumes fix the bias of some un- 
 determined mind. When I flung aside the staff 
 that bore me on my pilgrimage, and took up the 
 pen that was to note down a portion of its pro- 
 gress, I did so in the hope of contributing my
 
 XXiv PREFACE, PROLOGUE, &C. 
 
 mite towards an act of national justice. The 
 means I employ are humble; the pretension 
 which puts them forward less than nothing. I 
 look to public indulgence as the best antidote 
 against individual severity ; — and, knowing pro- 
 pitiation to be hopeless, must only, in the old 
 spirit of peripatetic pride, throw defiance in the 
 teeth of the academicians.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT 
 
 TO THE 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 The unnecessary infliction of a new preface 
 would be a bad return for the public kindness, 
 which has called for a new edition of this work. 
 I scarcely feel warranted in putting such a 
 penalty on the indulgence of my readers ; but I 
 am in some measure forced to say a few words 
 here, in consequence of remarks which have 
 fallen from more than one of the critics, who 
 have considered my book deserving of their 
 notice. 
 
 It was observed that the work bore evidence 
 of a prepossession towards the reigning family
 
 XXvi ADVERTISEMENT TO 
 
 of France; and objected, that questions re- 
 lative to the revolution were treated with pre- 
 judice connected with that prepossession. The 
 first of these remarks is no douht justified by 
 the tone of one of the tales, which is quite in 
 unison with what I felt when it was written, 
 three years ago. An obscure and anonymous 
 author can scarcely presume to claim a sym- 
 pathy with princes. He may, however, without 
 any undue pretension, express a strong interest 
 in the well-being of a nation. That I felt, and 
 still feel, for the country where some of my 
 happiest days have been spent, and many of 
 my best attachments formed. Believing that 
 France, just freed from a galling despotism, 
 was most likely to enjoy security and welfare 
 under the constitutional rule of the Bourbons, 
 and convinced that such was the opinion of the 
 great mass of the nation, I was inclined to let 
 my notions on the subject exhibit the prevalent 
 impression. They were strengthened by several
 
 THE SECOND FDITION. XXVll 
 
 circumstances of an individual rather than a 
 family nature, such as the heroic conduct of 
 the Duchess of Angouleme at Bordeaux, and 
 the subsequent murder of the Duke of Berry. 
 
 ■ 
 
 With regard to the objection before noticed 
 I have but to say, that the subjects of most of 
 the tales being interwoven with events of the 
 revolution, I could not avoid touching upon the 
 latter; but I never ventured to argue such 
 topics as abstract questions, being desirous to 
 skim their surface in their reference to par- 
 ticular results, rather than go beyond my depth, 
 by treating them as general principles. 
 
 When I wrote, no idea was entertained, by 
 any one, I believe, of the war which has since 
 been undertaken against Spain. Feeling on 
 that point in common with every thousand less 
 by an unit, perhaps, of my countrymen, I have 
 omitted in the present edition the only sentence
 
 XXviii ADVERTISEMENT, &C. 
 
 (and one quite inadvertently allowed to stand 
 in the former) which could bear a construction 
 favourable to that enterprise. As I was absent 
 from England at the period of printing, I had 
 not an opportunity of making this, and some 
 slighter alterations, in the proper time. 
 
 I shall only add, that even this short state- 
 ment should not have been obtruded on the 
 public, indifferent to my name and opinions, 
 had I not been anxious to clear up to my 
 friends, acquainted with both, what might have 
 appeared a contradiction. 
 
 June, 1823.
 
 THE 
 
 FATHER'S CURSE, 
 
 Who shall tellen a tale after a man, 
 He mote rehearse as nye as ever he can : 
 Or else he mote tellen his tale untrue. 
 Or feine things, or find words new. 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 THE 
 
 FATHER'S CURSE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Travelling, as I always do, without guide 
 or compass, it is no merit of mine if I some- 
 times light on pleasing scenes, or mix with 
 interesting people. I have traversed France 
 from frontier to frontier ; cut across the high- 
 ways, and struck into the open country ; passed 
 by where curiosity is generally arrested; loitered 
 in spots unknown to Fame or Fashion f always 
 yielding to the impulse of feeling, or the whim 
 of fancy. Chance has so often led me into 
 scenes of soft adventure, that I ask no other 
 pilot ; but had I made the most nicely-balanced 
 choice, I could not have better suited my taste 
 than in that district called Le Perigord, and 
 the country bordering upon it. 
 
 Sauntering along the course of the river Dor- 
 
 B 2 
 
 1
 
 THE father's curse. 
 
 dogne, I had left far behind me the mountains 
 of Auvergne ; but I occasionally stopped to ob- 
 serve the autumnal sunbeams playing round 
 their distant peaks. I dwelt on the recollection 
 of the wondrous scenes they exhibit, and mar- 
 velled that so few of our travellers had explored 
 their secret charms — until I recollected that 
 they were inaccessible to the approach of four- 
 wheeled carriages. They gradually melted 
 from my sight, and new and different beauties 
 turned my thoughts aside. 
 
 I had seen the Dordogne in the heart of 
 those rugged hills — born in volcanic sources, 
 nursed on beds of lava, and swathed with ba- 
 saltic bands, — a riotous little stream, hurrying 
 on its passage with the waywardness of a noisy 
 child. A little further I had fancied it to glide 
 along in the quiet and smiling loveliness of fe- 
 male youth, through groups of gentle acclivities, 
 of wild yet verdant aspect. Now, T paced its 
 widely-separated banks, and marked it swelling 
 into full-grown beauty, rolling its course with 
 conscious dignity along congenial plains ; while 
 tufts of stately trees, converted by my imagina-
 
 THE FATHER*S CURSE. 
 
 tion into enamoured lovers, wooed their liquid 
 mistress with bent and graceful branches, which 
 wafted salutation, or sipped her passing sweets. 
 A little more, thought I, and this proud beauty 
 sinks into that sea, where all rivers are finally 
 lost! — and I was just getting into a train of 
 deep analogies, when I was roused by the flap- 
 ping wings of a covey of partridges behind me. 
 I turned, and saw my dog fixed steadily at a 
 point at some distance. I cocked my gun, but 
 the game had escaped me. Ranger came slowly 
 forward with a surly and reproving look, such 
 as many a musing sportsman has observed, 
 when the faithful follower, who has done so 
 well his duty, would tell you that you have 
 neglected yours. 
 
 In all my rambling I am accompanied by my 
 dog ; not that I despise the companionship of 
 man — far from it. But where can we find a 
 friend so like ourselves, with thoughts and feel- 
 ings so moulded into ours, that he will think 
 and talk, stand still, move forward, eat, drink, 
 and sleep in perfect unison with us? This 
 strict coincidence exists not between men ; and
 
 6 THE father's curse. 
 
 without this, such a course as mine is better 
 run alone. Pursuits there are, and pleasures, 
 it is true, which two minds sufficiently congenial 
 may soothingly follow together. Hours, nay, 
 days entire, of social fellowship have fallen to 
 my lot ; and I look forward with hope to a re- 
 newal of such intercourse, when ripened thought 
 shall have mellowed the young fruit of earlier 
 associations. But to wander for months in 
 foreign scenes ; to mix with strange society, yet 
 be not a stranger in it; to give the mind up to 
 that reflective abandonment which likes to revel 
 uncontrolled, you must have no companion but 
 your dog. With him you have no ceremony 
 to constrain you ; and he, poor thing, is ready 
 for your every mood. If you are gay, he frisks 
 and capers ; if sad, he trudges slowly on, and 
 thinks, or seems to think, as deeply as yourself. 
 When you eat, he has always a ready appetite ; 
 when out of the reach of food, he murmurs not. 
 Lie down to sleep, he is your guardian ; rise up 
 when you will, you will find him freshly at your 
 call. A gun is the natural accompaniment of a 
 connexion like this. It gives both employment
 
 THE FATHEll S CUllSE. 7 
 
 and amusement to man and beast. It is a pass- 
 port for the woods and mountains ; an excuse 
 for idleness ; a remedy against painful thought ; 
 and removes the mendicant and vagabond air 
 from a poor fellow who journeys with a wallet 
 and a staff. In France one runs but little risk 
 of stoppage or impediment. I do not speak of 
 the environs of cities, of fortified towns, or mili- 
 tary posts. These naturally bring with them a 
 train of ills — suspicion, petty tyranny, and in- 
 sult. But in the happier portions of the king- 
 dom, where rustic occupation takes place of 
 warlike possession ; where the fields are paced 
 by the husbandman, not trodden down by the 
 soldier, a traveller may feel himself at home. 
 A straggling gendarme sometimes asks to see 
 his licence, but a foreign face is nearly always 
 a sufficient protection. As I, however, was 
 furnished with both, I walked unmolested — a 
 privileged man. Never yet did surly keeper 
 drive me from a preserve ; and often has the 
 honest proprietor of some rural spot invited 
 me, in passing, to kill his game, and share hii£ 
 dinner too.
 
 8 THE father's curse. 
 
 But to return. — The birds were wild, and 
 flew high in the direction of the rising ground 
 which lay to my left. I marked them into a 
 thick copse, behind which rose a young planta- 
 tion. Thither I bent my steps, and Ranger 
 soon led me to the prey. I got a couple of 
 shots, and brought down my birds. The re- 
 mainder of the covey rose wildly round me, 
 and scattering over the plantation, I quite lost 
 their trace. 
 
 The day was young and warm. I walked to- 
 wards a projection which commanded a charm- 
 ing view, and afforded at the same time shelter 
 from the sun. Arrived at this little point, I 
 flung myself under the shade of an acacia, my 
 gun beside me, and Ranger not far off. It was 
 one of the sweetest moments of my life. I 
 seemed throned on the very summit of repose. 
 Far beneath me spread the fertile plain of Ber- 
 gerac, bounded on each side by chains of hills, 
 and divided into nearly equal parts by the 
 broad and placid river. The richly-wooded 
 landscape was sprinkled with cottages, and 
 showed here and there the tall chimneys of a
 
 THE father's curse. 
 
 chateau, rising among the foliage ; or the smoke 
 from some humbler habitation, hid in a mass 
 of chestnut trees, whose leaves protect the pea- 
 sant from the heat, and whose fruit is his chief 
 nourishment. Three or four small towns lay 
 in sight ; the one from which I had last started 
 just visible in the distance. 
 
 It was vintage time, and numerous groups of 
 grape-gatherers were scattered in the valleys, 
 as happy as they were busy ; for their joyous 
 songs and bursts of merriment rose up from all 
 sides on the pure and gentle breeze. A party 
 of sportsmen ranged through the low grounds 
 by the river, and an occasional shot came 
 sharply on the highly rarefied air. The bark 
 of an ill-trained dog, and the shout of the 
 country people, when a partridge or a hare 
 escaped their pursuers, were borne to my ear 
 with a distinctness as perfect as if each group 
 were close beside me. Many deeply-laden 
 boats were floating down the river, gaily and 
 unobstructed ; the helmsmen unemployed, and 
 the drowsy passengers carelessly leaning over 
 the sides. One solitary barge, managed by a
 
 10 THE father's curse. 
 
 single boatman, was working its way against the 
 current. Ungarnished by canvass or streamer, 
 it formed a striking contrast to those which 
 passed so rapidly by. The very breeze was 
 hostile, and seemed to sport in the fluttering 
 sails of the others, like those light and worth- 
 less parasites who fan the minions of good for- 
 tune. They swept in quick succession round 
 a point that hid them from my view. Others 
 came on, and were alike soon lost to me ; but 
 the single boat, working against both wind and 
 tide, appeared, though ever moving, ever to 
 stand still. I felt, that if I chose to indulge in 
 similes, I had a parallel at hand : but I felt this 
 without asperity or discontent, and seemed at 
 the moment to rise above ill fate. 
 
 So still was the air, yet so clear, that the 
 tolling of the several bells, as they chimed for 
 prayer, or marked I know not how many hours, 
 fell on my ear with sounds all equal. The hum 
 of every individual insect seemed separate in 
 the general buzz around me ; and the very 
 splash of the poor boatman's oar, as it fell upon 
 the water, reverberated through the little grove
 
 THE father's curse. 11 
 
 where I reclined. It is hard to say how long 
 I should have lain thus listless and delighted, 
 had I not been more forcibly excited by the 
 tone of a clarionette, touched by no mean per- 
 former, in one of the most distant outbound 
 boats. The strain came wild and faintly up 
 the river, and thrilled through my breast. It 
 was scarcely like real music, and resembled 
 rather those floating harmonies which some- 
 times lead the dreamer through mazes of en. 
 chantment. I seemed to wake from some such 
 oft-enjoyed illusion, and springing on my feet, 
 I clasped my hands and raised them towards 
 the skies. I felt as if the world was filled with 
 joy and peace, and could not have been per- 
 suaded to the contrary by a host of cynical 
 philosophers. Unconscious of my movements, 
 I struck into the grove ; but as I trod its little 
 winding path, the train of my contemplations 
 was disturbed. I thought I heard low sobs 
 close by me. Impossible ! said I ; this must be 
 imagination : my mind wanders, and while re- 
 velling in one extreme, its fancies warn me of 
 the other. I stopped and listened, but hoped
 
 12 THE FATHER^S CURSE. 
 
 to hear no sound. It was however but too 
 true. The tones of lamentation were repeated 
 more distinctly ; and, as I rustled through the 
 trees towards the place from whence they came, 
 I saw two female figures, clad in black, glide 
 hastily from the spot where I strove to pene- 
 trate. 
 
 It seemed a vision of my overheated brain ; 
 and, without knowing what I did, I burst 
 through the slight enclosure of myrtle trees 
 and laurel. I found myself in a place that 
 might be well called sacred. It was an arbour 
 planted with flowering shrubs, each one of 
 which might have attracted my attention, had 
 not that been wholly absorbed by its principal 
 an^ melancholy ornament. In the middle was 
 raised a little grass-covered mound, surmounted 
 by a small and simple marble urn. Two wreaths 
 of freshly-culled and blooming flowers were 
 hung around it. It bore no symbol of sorrow, 
 but this short inscription, in black letters : 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF OUR POOR SISTER. 
 
 Every thing looked as if just done. The 
 sods were newly placed ; the marble was un-
 
 THE father's curse. 13 
 
 stained by even a drop of rain ; the flowers 
 had all their fragrance ; and the whole scene 
 breathed a fresh and holy solemnity. Wound 
 up, as I had been, to the highest stretch of 
 moral imagining, forgetting all that was of 
 sorrow both of others and my own, the shock 
 was extreme. I felt dumb and tearless : I 
 would have given worlds to have spoken or 
 wept ; and I cursed the impetuosity which had 
 led to an intrusion, which I thought little short 
 of sacrilege. 
 
 The only atonement left me was to fly. I 
 plunged again into the little wood, and, hurry- 
 ing onwards, soon found an opening. I stepped 
 upon a grass field, and felt lighter at every pace 
 which bore me from the scene. Moving on, 
 with eyes fixed upon the earth, and in a state 
 of intense feeling, I had unconsciously taken 
 the very route I would have left behind. I 
 was proceeding directly towards the house, on 
 the grounds of which I was thus trespassing. 
 On looking up and perceiving this, I would have 
 turned abruptly round, but was accosted by 
 two young men, both in deep mourning, who
 
 14 THE father's curse. 
 
 had advanced to meet me. They were so 
 near, that there was no retreating. I antici- 
 pated reproach, if not insult ; and my astonish- 
 ment was great indeed to meet a pohte ajnd 
 even cordial salutation. " Sir, you are wel- 
 come," said one of the young men. " Come 
 in, my father has been expecting your arrival." 
 " Gentlemen," I replied, '* you have mistaken 
 for an expected visit an unpardonable intrusion. 
 Your father knows me not, and I entreat you 
 to attribute to ignorance the fault of which I 
 have been guilty." " If you are a stranger, 
 sir," returned the young man, " you have the 
 greater claim upon our hospitality. Come in, 
 I pray you. You have arrived at a sorrowful 
 season ; but the day of woe has almost passed 
 by, and our friends are now assembling to chase 
 away its remaining hours." There was in the 
 manner of these young men something so 
 pleasing, of mingled sadness and courtesy, and 
 the whole scene presented something so novel, 
 ^nd I thought so interesting, that I accepted 
 their entreaties. They asked me to go in as if 
 they wished I should do so ; and that was the
 
 THE father's curse. 15 
 
 surest method of overcoming my reluctance. 
 As we walked towards the house, they ex- 
 plained to me that they had mistaken me for a 
 stranger, whom their father expected ; and they 
 quite removed my scruples by assuring me, that 
 many would be at their dinner that day, who 
 were but little better known to the family than 
 I was. 
 
 I was still, however, not quite myself The 
 strong excitement of my recent sensations had 
 scarcely had time to subside. I begged of my 
 hospitable conductors to enter before me, and 
 mention that I was a foreigner, who had wan- 
 dered without plan or method from a neigh- 
 bouring town ; and, in the ardour of pursuit, 
 had followed my game too far. With thatkfeid 
 and unembarrassed air so peculiar to the un- 
 sophisticated Frenchman, they acceded at once 
 to my request, and consented that I should 
 gratify myself by strolling about while they 
 made my apology. I thus gained time to re- 
 cover my composure, and to examine the place 
 where I was.
 
 16 THE FATHER''s curse. 
 
 The house was small and low. Its white- 
 washed walls, tiled roof, and green window- 
 shutters, would have entitled it to the appel- 
 lation of a neat cottage residence, had not its 
 gigantic chimneys, disproportioned offices, and 
 slovenly court-yard, presented a bar to the sim- 
 plicity and comfort which that name denotes. 
 Large, straggling outhouses seemed flung at 
 random around. Implements of husbandry lay 
 scattered on the ill-kept pavement. The an- 
 noyances of the farm-yard invaded the Very 
 windows of the habitation. Disorder, in short, 
 seemed the governing principle of the place; 
 and, while I gazed on the natural capabilities 
 of its situation, I was grieved that so little had 
 been done for it by man. 
 
 The ground lay beautifully sloping to the 
 river at one side, and on the other hung the 
 little plantation. A precipitous bank towards 
 the side I stood on shelved down to a glen of 
 most romantic aspect. A rivulet ran gurgling 
 at the bottom, and wound its way rapidly to 
 join itself to the river. The foliage showed
 
 THE FATHEirS CURSE. IT 
 
 tlie softest variation of shades; and the sun, 
 now sloping in the western half of heaven, flung 
 a rich radiance on its mellow tints. 
 
 I could have almost relapsed into my former 
 mood, had not the younger of my inviiers ap- 
 proached me with a summons to the house. I 
 flung aside at once my mantle of reflection ; 
 and, with a resolution to observe first and take 
 time for thinking afterwards, I was ushered into 
 the drawing-room. A number of persons, in- 
 deed a large company, was assembled. All 
 were in black habits, except those who, I should 
 have thought, required them most ; for I im- 
 mediately recognized the master and mistress 
 of the mansion by their melancholy looks and 
 the places they occupied among the surroui'^- 
 ing visitors, although they neither of them wore 
 mourning. My conductors presented me to 
 their father, who approached me, and with a 
 manner polished enough to mark the man of 
 good breeding, but more sincere than courtier- 
 like, he told me that I was welcome. He in- 
 troduced me to his lady, who looked indeed 
 woe-stricken, and spoke not a word. TJie 
 
 VOL, 1. c
 
 18 THE father's curse. 
 
 guests had also sorrow on their faces, hut mo- 
 dified into different shapes and degrees of ex- 
 pression. I looked around me to discover the 
 figures which had glided from me in the planta- 
 tion, but in vain. After a few general ob- 
 servations I fell behind a group who were con- 
 versing in under tones, and silently surveyed 
 the scene into which I had so strangely dropped. 
 The furniture of the apartment particularly at- 
 tracted my notice : it was all that Parisian inge- 
 nuity could execute or good taste select. The 
 window-curtains, of blue silk and embroidered 
 muslin, tastefully festooned together, the richly- 
 wrought carpet, profusion of looking-glass, and 
 splendid chimney-ornaments, assorted ill with the 
 rustic air of the outside, and would have caused 
 me more surprise, if they had not been in per- 
 fect keeping with that inconsistency, which is 
 the most striking characteristic of every thing 
 French. But in this chamber all seemed 
 touched by a choice and delicate hand: ele- 
 gance reigned throughout. No gaudy gilding- 
 destroyed the effect of the polished mahogany 
 tables, or the piano-forte, which was placed at
 
 THE father's curse. 19 
 
 the upper end of the room. The harp was 
 simple and classic in its form. The pictures 
 which hung upon the walls were chaste and ex- 
 quisite copies from Italian and Spanish masters. 
 The portraits of the family, well executed and 
 neatly framed, had also their places. The 
 likenesses of some I could vouch to be most 
 faithful. Those of the father and mother were 
 particularly striking. They seemed to have 
 been painted in the early days of wedded en- 
 joyment, for the costume might have been that 
 of thirty years before ; and there was a smiling 
 play of expression on the lip of each, which 
 contrasted strongly with their present appear- 
 ance. 
 
 The young men whom I had seen were 
 schoolboys on the canvas, with curly heads and 
 joyous faces, standing at full length, a large 
 dog betv/een them, and altogether a fine and 
 social group. There was, besides, a full-grown 
 youth in hussar uniform, with ardour in his 
 glance and vigour in his manly form. Three 
 lovely female lialf-length figures completed all of 
 the set of portraits that was to be seen ; but one, 
 
 c 2
 
 20 THE father's curse. 
 
 more than all the others, excited my attention, 
 from its being covered with a veil of black gauze. 
 1 would have willingly penetrated its conceal- 
 ment, for I was interested in every thing con- 
 nected with this mysterious spot. I thought I 
 could distinguish beneath its sombre covering 
 the flowing drapery of a female form. I re- 
 collected the funeral urn, and my anxiety was 
 almost agitation. 
 
 Some of the guests accosted me with the 
 civility usual in this country of politeness. One 
 gentleman, more than any other, pleased me 
 by his address ; and the familiar footing which 
 he seemed to enjoy with the family made me 
 suppose him a relative, and, at all events, pro- 
 mised me a better chance of information than 
 the affectionate, yet distant, respect which was 
 visible in the manners of the rest. I attached 
 myself particularly to him ; and, in a short time, 
 the announcement of dinner gave me an oppor- 
 tunity for the indulgence which I so much de- 
 sired. We were ushered into the dining-room* 
 where a table was prepared for upwards of 
 twenty persons. I took care to remove far from
 
 THE father's curse. 21 
 
 the lady of the house, beside whom the pohte- 
 ness of the family would have placed me. I 
 saw the two young women silently enter and 
 take their seats, while, shrinking from them, I 
 secured a chair beside the gentleman whom I 
 before mentioned. 
 
 We soon got into conversation ; and, in an- 
 swer to one of my remarks, thrown out pur- 
 posely to lead him on, he informed me that the 
 breakfast-table that morning had been as amply 
 supplied, and as fully attended, as that at which 
 we were seated. I ventured to inquire the 
 cause of this double display of hospitality, so 
 imusual in one day. My companion informed 
 me, in a whisper, that this was the custom on 
 occasion of the first visits of condolence after 
 the death of a relative. Some few days fol- 
 lowing the funeral were, he told me, allowed 
 to elapse, that the sufferers might in solitude 
 give indulgence to their grief. Then it became 
 the duty of the neighbourhood, even that part 
 whose acquaintance was the slightest, to crowd 
 at once, as if the whole fortitude of the mourners 
 was to be forced into exertion on this single
 
 22 THE father's curse. 
 
 occasion. It was, he said, the usage all through 
 France that mourning visits should be paid in 
 mourning dress ; but, in answer to my ob- 
 servation on that of our host and his lady,- he 
 added, that parents were not obliged by custom 
 to conform to the colour which marked the 
 sorrow of the other connexions of the deceased. 
 Exceptions were nevertheless seen where pa- 
 rents availed themselves of the privilege to bear 
 the symbol of sorrow for their offspring's death ; 
 but this case offered no example of departure 
 from the general rule. 
 
 "It was a daughter that has been lost?" 
 asked I, my eyes involuntarily fixed on the 
 crape-covered portrait. Before he could reply 
 I saw that my gaze had caught the observation 
 of a part of the family — it might have been 
 that they heard the question. The lips of the 
 young women trembled, and their eyes swam 
 full of tears : the father blushed a deep scarlet, 
 and raised his glass to his head, which bent as 
 if in shame. I could have both wept and 
 blushed — the first for their sorrow, and the last 
 for my own want of delicate reserve.
 
 THE father's curse. 23 
 
 Determined to restrain myself, I turned the 
 conversation, and joined in that which became 
 general. Every one of the guests seemed 
 anxious to draw the attention of the mourning 
 family from the contemplation of their grief; 
 and the exertions of the latter were forced to 
 the utmost to keep up the appearance of com- 
 posure. But something seemed to lie upon 
 their hearts still heavier than common woe : a 
 deep sense of suffering, mixed with an uneasy 
 support of it, was to be read on every face of 
 the family. If the father for a moment relaxed 
 in his endeavours to uphold the conversation, 
 he started, at times, as if some inward reproach 
 painfully forced him upon words for relief. If 
 the young men now and then lapsed into 
 thought, their fine countenances seemed to 
 glow with the flushings of imagined disgrace. 
 The daughters scarcely ventured to speak, as 
 if afraid of the emotion that rose higher than 
 their words, and was continually struggling for 
 utterance. The mother looked broken-hearted. 
 But, among them all, there was none of the dig- 
 nity of virtuous sorrow ; none of the resignation
 
 S4 THE father's curse. 
 
 with which the woe-stricken mind looks back 
 upon the purity of a lamented object ; none of 
 that calm condolence with which we love to 
 dwell, in the days of mourning, on the woilh 
 and loveliness of a departed friend ; nor that 
 melancholy garrulity which seems to waste 
 away our grief in unavailing words. No, there 
 was none of this — no remembrance upon which 
 the weary heart seemed able to rest. All ap- 
 peared a hopeless anguish, that wept in the 
 bitterness of despondency. 
 
 The guests seemed actuated by a sympathy 
 of agitated and obstructed suffering : their 
 averted looks seemed to say, " We cannot 
 offer consolation — for we dare not tell you that 
 she lives in our esteem." Such was the con- 
 struction that I put upon their manner ; and I 
 felt that the contagion of this compressed and 
 overpowering affliction had seized upon me 
 too. The efforts to keep up the conversation 
 gradually died away. Subject after subject 
 was attempted for its revival, but each one 
 sunk in abortive efforts. The dishes went away 
 almost untasted — the bottles stood unemptied.
 
 THE father's curse. 25 
 
 The very ceremony of assumed appetite was 
 abandoned ; and the whole party, as if with 
 one accord, rose at length in silence, and pre- 
 pared to depart. 
 
 My neighbour at table had, in the hurried 
 snatches of conversation which we mutually 
 forced ourselves to support, informed me that 
 he was the physician of the family, and an in- 
 habitant of the town where I made my tempo- 
 rary sojourn. He proposed our walking there 
 together. I was glad to embrace his offer; 
 and, seeing that he wished to take an unob- 
 structed adieu of his friends, I promised to 
 loiter without until he joined me. The visitors 
 began to take their leave. They cordially 
 pressed the hands of each one of the deeply 
 afflicted family. Looks of sorrowful energy 
 were exchanged, but no sounds were uttered. 
 I silently stole from the scene ; for I felt that 
 my presence, though at first perhaps considered 
 a relief, had gradually become a restraint upon 
 the suffering and sympathising circle. 
 
 When I got out of the house it was yet day. 
 Dinner had been served about five o'clock, and
 
 9,6 THE father's curse. 
 
 nearly two dreary hours had elapsed since then. 
 The sun was gone down, and the crescent 
 moon hung in the heavens, transparent and 
 shadowy, like a spirit of tlie skies. A rich 
 glow suffused the west. The sun, in withdraw- 
 ing his beams from the world, appeared to have 
 shed a parting blessing on it, for every thing 
 breathed a luscious and mellow complacency. 
 The busy sounds of the morning were hushed : 
 the call of the scattered coveys, or the chirp- 
 ing of the quails, was the only interruption to 
 the stillness of the hour. My mind, however, 
 was not at first in harmony with this repose of 
 nature : the scene I had just left unfitted me 
 for its enjoyment ; and I thought that thunder 
 and storm would have better suited my soul's 
 temper : but in a little while the witchery of 
 nature lulled to rest the gloomy spirits by which 
 I was haunted. In proportion as my breast 
 received the impressions of external loveliness, 
 it seemed to swell with the desire of giving 
 them vent. Heaven knows it was not a moment 
 favourable to composition; and that, I trust, 
 will be borne in mind by the reader of the
 
 THE father's curse. 27 
 
 following verses, scribbled with my pencil on 
 the spot : 
 
 How sweet to range a lonely wood 
 When the mind is tuned to solitude. 
 
 And summer's garish tints are fled. 
 And the autumn leaves are falling — 
 
 Where a rough cascade o'er its rocky bed 
 With an angry sound is brawling : — 
 
 II. 
 
 Or on some mountain's heath-clad side. 
 As the sun yields up his blush of pride. 
 
 And roseate beams o'er the landscape roll 
 At the hour when day is closing ; 
 
 And the eye and the soul o'er the beauteous whole 
 Are in mutual calm reposing — 
 
 III. 
 
 When through the grove a plaintive breeze 
 Bears a pure perfume from the trees. 
 
 And we suck the wild thyme's luscious breath. 
 And sigh for the flow'rets blighted 
 
 Of some blooming wreath, where the hand of death 
 Spared nought which our hearts delighted. 
 
 IV. 
 
 'Tis ever thus : — with ruthless grasp 
 He comes to loosen the firm clasp
 
 28 THE father's curse. 
 
 Which folds those objects loved the best; 
 
 And then o'er each mourner hovers. 
 Whose parch'd lips press'd, make the grave's cold breast 
 
 Less chill than the form it covers. 
 
 I was just in the act of closing my tablets, 
 when my new-formed acquaintance joined me, 
 and we immediately set off arm in arm, Ranger 
 following at a respectful distance. I quickly 
 learned from my companion, that lie was not only 
 the physician, but also the confidential friend of 
 the family we were leaving behind ; but he said 
 that he considered it no breach of his double 
 trust to give me some information respecting 
 persons whose situation must have deeply excited 
 my curiosity. On the contrary, he thought it 
 more in their interest that he should make me 
 acquainted with circumstances which were 
 known to all the country, than leave me to hear 
 them from mingled ignorance and exaggeration, 
 or the gossip of a public table. 
 
 I requested him to give me the detail of all 
 that was not secret in the sorrow of his friends ; 
 and he immediately proceeded to do so, an- 
 swering my inquiries with minuteness, and
 
 THE father's Curse. 20 
 
 making me fully acquainted with their sad so- 
 licitudes. It was three leagues to the town to 
 which we were bound. We walked slowly in 
 the mellow moonlight ; yet we had to loiter in 
 the suburb, to allow my narrator to finish his 
 story. When he had ended, and that nothing 
 more was to be elicited from him, we parted. 
 The moon was high in heaven when I heard 
 the hollow sounds of his footsteps dying away 
 in the distance, as he reached his residence. 
 The beams of morning were crimsoning the 
 east before I flung myself on the bed in my 
 little inn, after a night of sensation more than 
 commonly painful. 
 
 Many months have gone by since I listened 
 to that sad recital, and time and absence have 
 worn down much of the first impression it made 
 upon me ; but although the vividness of the 
 detail is past, and the scene which I have at- 
 tempted to describe has lost the freshness of its 
 real existence, still, if I can but throw a faint 
 portion of reality into the outline which I now 
 sit down to draw, I think enough will be done 
 to impart some interest to it.
 
 30 THE father's curse. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The father of this unhappy family was a 
 man of small but independent fortune. He 
 farmed his own estate, which produced, pro- 
 bably, six hundred pounds a year, and on this 
 income lived respectably and well ; educating 
 his children, entertaining his neighbours, and 
 giving freely to the poor. 
 
 This is an enviable state of living to the man 
 who can consent to be happy in retirement, and 
 sighs not for the distinctions and disappoint- 
 ments of the world. Such a man was Mr. Le 
 Vasseur ; but even his choice was subject to its 
 miseries. The Revolution had strongly excited 
 the hopes of this gentleman, for he had none of 
 the abuses of hereditary rank to uphold. Ho 
 was of a respectable family, but not of distin- 
 guished birth ; and he saw, like many another 
 ardent spirit, the promise of terrestrial bliss in 
 the overthrow of those distinctions which held 
 a barrier to the advance of lowly worth. He
 
 THE FATHEIl's CURSE. 31 
 
 had gone to Paris immediately after having 
 married an amiable and accomplished woman, 
 and he there expected the realisation of his 
 visions of universal good. A little while dis- 
 solved this delusive hope. The excesses of 
 liberty appeared to him to offer no security 
 even to a freeman ; and, still a firm republican 
 in heart, he withdrew from the agitated scene. 
 
 He retired to his little paternal inheritance ; 
 looked on at the distant horrors of the times, 
 and strove to keep the torrent beyond the pale 
 of his own social circle. He had considerable 
 influence in the neighbourhood, froni the re- 
 spectability and steadiness of his conduct. A 
 rigid virtue appeared to guide him in every 
 thing; and if he sometimes erred, it was in 
 judgment, not in heart. In the days of fury, 
 he formed a happy contrast to the monsters 
 who were abroad. He was a warm friend of 
 liberty, but as firm as he was warm. He was 
 one of the many who could see the road be- 
 tween despotism and anarchy ; but he was also 
 one of the very few who had the strength and 
 virtue to follow it. He loved freedom, and had
 
 S2 THE father's curse. 
 
 drunk deeply in its delicious fountains, but 
 not to intoxication ; and he shrunk back from 
 the debauchery of less-guarded votaries. Such 
 was the public man. 
 
 In private life he was consistent. He was an 
 excellent husband and master ; and as years 
 grew upon him, he became a wisely-afFectionate 
 father. But Le Vasseur was unfortunately 
 tinctured with the infidelity of the times. He 
 had followed in his early years the course of 
 sophistry lectured on by some eminent pro- 
 fessors, and was a rash disciple of a very un- 
 worthy philosophy. He thought man capable 
 of perfection ; and in following this phantom, 
 he was forced to sacrifice many of the best, 
 though perhaps the least imposing of human 
 feelings. 
 
 He wished to form his character on the 
 model of ancient example ; but, like all who 
 aim at forcing feeling from its natural channels, 
 he was the frequent prey of very violent suf- 
 fering. He would be stoical, but nature had 
 made him tender. In his rigid view of right, 
 he discarded mercy. Rejecting the pleadings
 
 THE father's curse. 33 
 
 of the heart, he placed his whole reliance upon 
 reason ; but as reason ripened, he became sen- 
 sible of its unsoundness. When he saw this 
 god of men's idolatry raised to what they were 
 pleased to call its place, he saw that it had 
 neither the power nor the privileges of di- 
 vinity : that instead of men obeying its judg- 
 ments, they were by no means unanimous in 
 their interpretation of its laws : that while every 
 mouth was an oracle, the attributes of the 
 deity could never be explained; — and while 
 he gazed upon the naked strumpet paraded 
 through the streets, in triumphant personi- 
 fication of the immortal mind, he started back, 
 and asked himself if it was a dream. 
 
 This cured him of his first disorder. He 
 fled in disgust, and turned his thoughts towards 
 the formation of a little mental digest, which 
 was to be the essence of all that was wise and 
 good. Plato, Aristotle, and many other spe- 
 culators, lent their aid to his researches ; but 
 one lawgiver was rejected by involuntary im- 
 pulse. He had been too long taught to discard 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 THE father's curse. 
 
 Christianity, to be capable, if he wished, of 
 looking there for precept. Through the ab- 
 surdities with which it has been obscured by 
 mortal frailty, he could not distinguish the still 
 upright splendour of the principle itself; yet 
 he suffered his children to grow up in its pro- 
 fession, because it was the re-established form. 
 But the young people saw in his negative ap- 
 proval of its doctrines all the coldness of re- 
 straint; and Le Vasseur, perceiving that his 
 example was robbing them of their best sup- 
 port against impetuous desires, found himself 
 forced to a more rigid censorship : and he was 
 imperceptibly degenerating into the tyrant over 
 his free-born children. They felt this, and, 
 though they feared him, they did not love him ; 
 because indulgence proceeding from well-re- 
 gulated affection is the only foundation on 
 which the regard of children can be built. 
 
 The young Le Vasseurs were highly fa- 
 voured by nature. Each particular temper 
 showed in varying shades much that is bright 
 and beautiful in the human disposition ; and
 
 THE father's curse. 35 
 
 had these materials been kept together by 
 strong principle, perfection would be less a 
 mockery than it is. But such moral cement 
 was wanting. The boys would all have rushed 
 up to the cannon's mouth. Intrepidity ran 
 current in their veins ; yet the life-blood was 
 not warmer than their tenderness of heart. 
 They felt life to be possessed for the benefit 
 of their country. They smiled in involuntary 
 good-breeding, and bowed low if a stranger 
 gave them salutation, or if an inferior came 
 across their path ; but if a pampered son of 
 pride held up his countenance, and claimed 
 respect, they felt a self-knit frown upon their 
 brows, and an involuntary curl upon their lips. 
 Such was the fair side of the characters of 
 these young men, and such I believe to be the 
 better character of the country. But they had 
 no integrity of soul on which they could rest in 
 misfortune, and from which they might smile 
 at fate. They had no settled principle of right, 
 nor any well-organised notions of wrong. When 
 they went astray, it seemed as if by rule. If 
 
 D'2
 
 36 THE father's curse. 
 
 they were correct, it was like chance. Fine 
 feehngs and good actions seemed to spring up 
 spontaneously, and in their own despite ; while 
 looseness of life seemed worked into a settled 
 code of conduct. 
 
 This wondrous inconsistency in individuals 
 is to be met with every where; but it is in 
 France alone that it appears as the national 
 character. Other countries are strikingly moral, 
 or the contrary; and a whole people is distin- 
 guished, as well as individuals, by the epithets 
 good or bad : but those who have had any in- 
 tercourse with the French mind, know how 
 difficult it is to say which character predo- 
 minates. 
 
 The convulsions of the Revolution threw 
 every thing back into its original chaos. Mind 
 was confounded with matter ; and social insti- 
 tutions mingled in a common ruin with the 
 elementary principles on which order had been 
 raised. Conjugal faith became a mockery, and 
 virgin coyness a reproach. Woman was sunk 
 as low as she had been in the worst state of
 
 THE father's curse. 37 
 
 Grecian society, under the sway of the So- 
 phists ; while the flagitious doctrines of that 
 sect came now into practical reaction. 
 
 The influence of the government was a powers 
 ful engine in sapping the foundations of female 
 chastity. The making marriage merely a civil 
 obligation was striking a death-blow to its so- 
 lemnity; and the protection afforded to public 
 debauchery made private misconduct a matter 
 of course. The looseness of their literature; 
 the passion for classical illustration; the taste 
 for statuary — in all its dignified indecency — 
 these, and a thousand other combining causes, 
 broke through the barriers of natural modesty ; 
 and became the more irresistible, because 
 breathing the intoxicating odours of elegance, 
 and covered by the glittering yet flimsy veil of 
 sentiment. 
 
 I am not endeavouring to palliate the general 
 impurity, but I wish to establish some excuse 
 for particular instances of error : not offering 
 incense at the shrine of guilt, but striving to 
 excite compassion for some of the victims of its 
 worship. If I had not been able to do this, I
 
 38 THE father's curse. 
 
 should not have taken in hand the storv of Le 
 Vasseur. It was not, however, his fault, if the 
 contagion reached his doors. He struggled 
 hard, but it was against the stream; and ^ he 
 had no strength but what was barely enough 
 to keep himself from sinking. 
 
 In the whole neighbourhood there were no 
 young women so much admired as were his 
 daughters, nor any who merited more to be 
 so. They were beautiful, accomplished, and 
 pleasing. They danced and sung better than 
 most of their companions ; and had other ad- 
 vantages, which the majority could not procure. 
 Their father's wealth, for so his income was 
 considered in their neighbourhood, enabled him 
 to procure for his children masters in music 
 and drawing; and they profited as much as 
 possible by this indulgence. He had himself 
 much taste for the arts. His walls were 
 covered with good pictures and engravings; 
 and the chambers and gardens were furnished 
 with casts from the best statues of antiquity. 
 The subjects of all these ornaments were clas- 
 sical ; and Le Vasseur loved to instil into his
 
 THE father's curse. 39 
 
 children notions of republican virtue through 
 the medium of objects which might at once 
 direct and cultivate their taste. The conse- 
 quence was in some measure what he wished. 
 They grew up in the warmth of republican 
 principle; but they did not feel inclined to 
 become themselves the parallels of all its effects. 
 The sons almost deified the second Brutus, but 
 they thought of the first with horror. The 
 daughters sympathised with the heroic stern- 
 ness of the Spartan mother, but they turned 
 from Virginius as from a monster. 
 
 The hospitality of the house brought con- 
 tinual visitors, and, amongst others, the officers 
 of the cavalry regiments stationed in the neigh- 
 bouring town. These officers were the greatest 
 attraction which the neighbourhood afforded 
 for the young of both sexes. They danced 
 and flirted in a style quite different, and rode 
 and shot in a manner very much superior to 
 the rustic youth around. They were, of course, 
 every where well received, and at some houses 
 constant guests. During the late war in Spain, 
 the regiments were continually changed; and
 
 40 THE father's curse. 
 
 this being one of the principal cavalry stations 
 on the high road from Paris to Bayonne, troops 
 of that description were in frequent movement 
 from all sides of this part of France. 
 
 The two elder daughters of Le Vasseur had 
 now grown up to be marriageable, and two 
 other sisters were fast approaching to woman- 
 hood. But as they had all hitherto escaped 
 any serious attachment, their father began to 
 hope that they would finally fix their affections 
 on some of the neighbouring youth ; who, 
 though less captivating, had many more solid 
 claims to their regard. But in this respect he 
 was too sanguine ; for the young people, though 
 free from any dangerous impression, had suf- 
 ficiently relished the refinement of their military 
 acquaintances to have become extremely fas- 
 tidious with respect to the others. The casual 
 appearance of the few officers who now had 
 leisure to cultivate the knowledge of the neigh- 
 bourhood was rather discouraged by their still 
 hospitable but circumspect entertainer, who 
 brought as much as possible his country friends 
 around him. This change was little approved
 
 THE father's curse. 41 
 
 of by the younger members of the family ; and 
 the mother, who lived in the happiness of her 
 children, ventured occasionally to remonstrate 
 with her more prudent husband, but in vain. 
 
 The eldest son was now seventeen; and it 
 was determined, in compliance with his own 
 wish, that he should get an appointment in one 
 of the regiments ordered for Spain, and which 
 contained some of his favourite friends. The 
 appointment was procured ; and the young 
 hero, after taking an affectionate leave of his 
 family, set off for the frontiers. This was a 
 day of great sadness to those who were left 
 behind. The mother and sisters wept inces- 
 santly, and the two younger boys felt wretched 
 at the better fortune of him who, by two or 
 three years'* seniority, had flung them so much 
 into insignificance. They sighed for manhood, 
 and the fine uniform of their brother, and 
 built castles together for treasuring up the 
 glory which was to come. 
 
 This event made some relaxation necessary 
 to all ; for even the father felt his stoical firm- 
 ness somewhat shaken by the separation from
 
 42 THE father's curse. 
 
 his child. The young Le Vasseur was almost 
 choked with tears ; but, as he pressed his fa- 
 ther's hand to his lips, he sobbed out assurances 
 that he should not be an atom the worse soldier 
 for that weakness — and he was not. On the con- 
 trary, he was the better soldier for it, because it 
 softened down the courage of the animal into 
 the as brave but more considerate resolution of 
 the man. He distinguished himself in many 
 a bloody encounter by his boldness, and as 
 often by his humanity. In the scenes of horror, 
 which the Spanish war brought every day be- 
 fore his eyes, he only saw fresh reasons for the 
 cultivation of merciful feelings, and left it to 
 others to draw from them arguments for cruelty. 
 But I am anticipating.
 
 THE father's curse. iS 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Among the guests which the renewed con- 
 viviality of Le Vasseur's mansion brought to- 
 gether, was a young man named St. Croix, who 
 having, Hke most others of his countrymen, em.- 
 braced a mihtary life, had just returned from 
 Spain in consequence of a severe wound, and 
 was then residing with his father, who was a 
 neighbouring proprietor of equal property and 
 nearly similar principles with Le Vasseur him- 
 self. This young man was at all times en- 
 gaging and interesting, but particularly so at 
 this period, from his having so recently quitted 
 a country to which the attention of his friends 
 was so particularly directed. The intimacy of 
 his boyish days, before he had entered upon 
 his worldly career, was now renewed, and to 
 Le Vasseur's family party he became, in fact, 
 an almost necessary appendage. He spent days 
 together at the house. He was fond of shoot- 
 ing, and his mornings were chiefly occupied
 
 44j the father's curse. 
 
 with the boys. He understood the general 
 principles of agriculture, and passed an occa- 
 sional hour with the father in viewing the ma- 
 nagement of his farm. He loved music, and 
 was a proficient on more than one instrument. 
 That ensured him the favour of the daughters ; 
 and he answered, without tiring, the questions 
 relating to Spanish aiFairs which the mother 
 unsparingly put to him. I need not say that 
 he was a favourite with her. In short, in po- 
 litics, acquirements, and manners, he was every 
 thing that suited the particular tastes and 
 united ideas of the whole circle. He was, not- 
 withstanding all these external advantages, a 
 libertine at heart. His ambition was un- 
 bounded. He longed for fame with the eager- 
 ness, and reckoned on it with the ardour, of 
 youth. His self-confidence was unlimited, and 
 he had no doubt of his powers to command 
 good fortune. He wished for wealth as the 
 means of acquiring distinction, and despised 
 his expected patrimony, as well as the retire- 
 ment in which it was situated. He had been 
 for some time attached to the suite of King
 
 THE father's curse. 45 
 
 Joseph at Madrid ; had before then belonged 
 to the body-guard of the emperor, and in that 
 distinguished situation had been lonsj stationed 
 at Paris. He had imbibed all the vices, while 
 perfecting himself in the refinements, of courts 
 and capitals, and was, even there, a finished 
 and notorious profligate. 
 
 In the circle of his native spot there was 
 nothing of sufficient pomp to suit his in- 
 clinations ; nothing highly-seasoned enough to 
 excite his satiated taste ; but still sufficient to 
 satisfy his grosser appetite. In Le Vasseur's 
 family he saw a native elegance, of a kind 
 totally different from the artful embellishments 
 of fashionable life, but something that resembled 
 it more than he saw elsewhere ; and he gazed 
 on beauty of a description as exquisite as the 
 most vitiated voluptuary could desire. He re- 
 marked with astonishment the grace with which 
 these couritry girls danced; the feeling with 
 which they played and sung; the ease and 
 even eloquence with which they spoke, and 
 their freedom from vulgarisms and provincial 
 accent. This was all certainly astonishing.
 
 46 THE father's curse. 
 
 inasmuch as it is uncommon ; but who has not, 
 some time or other, met with such unaccountable 
 and striking instances of inherent good taste 
 and self-formed good breeding ? 
 
 The eldest of the daughters, whose name 
 was Eugenie, attracted particularly St. Croix's 
 regards, and seemed to value them the high- 
 est. She had all that brilliancy of beauty 
 and showiness of person which the depravity 
 of fashion prefers to more retiring charms. She 
 was by far the best musician. She was of a 
 gayer turn than Agnes ; and the attractions of 
 the youngest two were not yet sufficiently de- 
 veloped to enter into the competition. 
 
 The flow of Eugenie's spirits had no bounds ; 
 and her tongue kept pace with the rapidity 
 of her thoughts. She talked incessantly, and 
 generally well ; but she frequently got beyond 
 her depth, and boldly entered into discussions 
 on the most profound subjects with a levity 
 which showed her disrespect as well as inca- 
 pacity. Agnes thought on these matters pretty 
 nearly as did her sister, but she talked less 
 about them. She never scoffed at religion, and
 
 THE father's curse. 47 
 
 felt there was a something holy in even its su- 
 perstitions, and was sometimes almost disposed 
 to regret that she could not enter into its en- 
 thusiasm. The mother delighted in Eugenie's 
 talents and their display; but they caused the 
 father many an anxious hour. He would have 
 given worlds to have seen her well married; 
 and he thought that such a man as St. Croix 
 was exactly suited for her husband. With this 
 view he encouraged the intimacy that was 
 going on ; and he felt that for Agnes he had 
 no need of uneasiness. There was something: 
 in the reflective complacency of even her hap- 
 piest moments which gave him surety for her. 
 She had a heart fully as susceptible as her 
 sister's, but more regulated ; and although her 
 feelings seemed to spring from the same source, 
 they ran in quite a different channel. I cannot 
 pursue the parallel further. The sequel of 
 what I have to relate will illustrate their cha- 
 racters better than description. 
 
 For some months matters went on most 
 smoothly with the family; continual parties of 
 pleasure, in the rural scenes around, diversified
 
 48 THE father's curse. 
 
 their domestic enjoyments. Frequent letters 
 from the army gave assurance of the safety and 
 good conduct of the young soldier. His place 
 at home had been almost completely supplied 
 by St. Croix. The father and mother were de- 
 lighted by the prospect of having him really 
 for their son, and the younger girls looked on 
 him quite as a brother. The boys, too, con- 
 sidered him completely as such; and as for 
 Eugenie, she gave herself up entirely to love. 
 All that warmth of impassioned feeling which 
 had so long been prisoned in her breast now 
 rushed from its concealment with irresistible 
 force. Every faculty of her mind seemed im- 
 bued with the spirit of enamoured inspiration ; 
 and she looked, and spoke, and sung more like 
 some visionary being of the fancy than any 
 thing real with which mortal sympathies have 
 connexion. 
 
 St. Croix seemed equally ardent and im- 
 passioned, but his demeanour wanted that stamp 
 of self-delight with which his lovely mistress 
 seemed imprinted : towards her he was all that 
 affection could create, but with himself he seemed
 
 THE father's curse. '49 
 
 but ill at rest. His appearance wore a look of 
 mingled agitation and enchantment, and at the 
 times when he was the happiest he seemed the 
 most unhappy. In fact, he was undergoing the 
 severest struggle that the mind of a profligate, 
 yet amorous, man could suffer : he was a con- 
 stant prey to the contest of ambition with desire. 
 He really loved Eugenie witli all the force of 
 the most violent passion, but he still panted 
 after fame with the breathless ardour of de- 
 votion. To marry Eugenie would have for 
 ever thrown him back from the object of his 
 primary pursuit : to lose her would have ren- 
 dered him incapable of its enjoyment. The 
 distinction which he looked to was only to be 
 procured by means of a high alliance — a union 
 with Eugenie would sink him at once into in- 
 significance. He turned in every way his pro- 
 spects and position : viewed, in all their bear- 
 ings, the arguments for and against; but was 
 long ere he forced himself to decide on the 
 enjoyment of one ruling passion without the 
 sacrifice of the other. 
 
 He was not without a portion of those better 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE father's curse. 
 
 feelings which I am fond of beheving to belong 
 more or less to all his countrymen ; those ge- 
 nuine sentiments of natural good, which, even 
 when they fall before the power of vice,- cast 
 a redeeming lustre on their possessors, and too 
 often brighten the sombre shades of guilt. He 
 hesitated long before he resolved on the se- 
 duction of Eugenie. I can scarcely, however, 
 use that word : he had but little difficulty on 
 her part to overcome. She w^as prepared for 
 her fall by a long course of indifference to its 
 criminality; and, if she had any qualms, they 
 were more on the score of expediency than 
 shame. 
 
 I do not mean to stain my pages by detailing 
 the progress of this guilty passion, nor do I 
 write to gratify licentious taste ; neither have I 
 to dwell, with the warmth of sensibility, on the 
 aberrations of a delicate mind from the path of 
 right. The mind of Eugenie knew nothing of 
 true virtue ; and I shall not attempt to excite a 
 spurious compassion for an object undeserving 
 of pity. She flung herself without hesitation 
 into the open arms of her paramour, and in
 
 THE father's curse. 51 
 
 his ardour had all that she required of con- 
 solation. He never talked of marriage, and she 
 
 cared little on that point. She had no dread 
 of the pangs which she was preparing for her 
 mother, although loving her tenderly; nor of 
 the shame she was bringing on her brothers ; 
 nor the danger into which she was thus guiding 
 her sisters. She was quite convinced of her 
 power to remove from all of them every feeling 
 of temporary resentment ; and she relied so 
 strongly on the fidelity of St. Croix, that she 
 was even ready to sacrifice them all, should 
 they oppose themselves to a connexion whicli 
 she felt was to endure for ever. But she some- 
 times shuddered at the anticipation of her 
 father''s severity. From this fear she, however, 
 strove to shelter herself by the hope of being- 
 able to conceal her secret; and, if even dis- 
 covered, she had volumes of reproach to heap 
 upon him in return for the indulgence which 
 led to her crime. 
 
 We may believe that in this state of feeling 
 she had hours of much uneasiness. She had 
 so, but they were fleeting. Her sorrow was not 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE father's curse. 
 
 founded on remorse ; and it is that alone which 
 makes sorrow hopeless. She had no self-re- 
 proaches — for to herself she could justify what 
 she had done by the arguments of many of her 
 favourite authors, and the example of some of 
 her friends. 
 
 But Le Vasseur could not coincide with 
 those who maintained that females, whose ex- 
 ample has once tended to loosen the bonds of 
 society, should be allowed an opportunity of 
 uniting them again, beyond the sphere of their 
 own families, and the Umited circle of their par- 
 ticular friends. In consistency with his op- 
 position to the principle, he was obliged to dis- 
 countenance its followers; and if he failed in 
 his efforts to instil strict notions of right into 
 the minds of his children, he at least kept from 
 them the practical instances of impurity. No 
 female of suspected virtue was admitted to his 
 house; and if his daughters occasionally saw 
 some of their tainted companions, it was by 
 stealth. 
 
 While this narrowed the round of their social 
 intercourse, it did not better themselves. The
 
 THE father's curse. 53 
 
 system of outer toleration was too general to 
 be affected by the rigid exclusion from one 
 house, although one of most influence in the 
 country; and the family of Le Vasseur, as well 
 as his neighbours, unanimously pronounced him 
 too strict, I have said little of the character of 
 his wife, because little was to be said on the 
 subject. She was a woman of great amiability, 
 oF placid temper, and engaging manners ; who 
 on all occasions submitted to others; who 
 thought opposition produced only unhappiness; 
 who indulged the foibles of her offspring, from 
 fear of spoiling their tempers, and who con- 
 cealed their faults from their father, in the 
 dread of fretting him. Living, however, but 
 for the well-being of her children and the will 
 of her husband, she thought the first should 
 be as dependent on the latter as she was her- 
 self; and if she wept, in the sequel, over her 
 daughter''s misfortune, it was more because it 
 brought down her husband's anger than from 
 any idea of its innate impropriety, or any notion 
 that her own weakness could be imagined to 
 have caused the calamity.
 
 54 THE father's curse. 
 
 Such was the easy character of Madame Le 
 Vasseur, and such were the two extremes 
 through which her children had to steer : pa- 
 ternal austerity and motherly indulgence, to- 
 tally incapable of association ; and the one ever 
 counteracting the good, and adding to the evil 
 effects of the other. I feel that I am invo- 
 luntarily urging arguments of extenuation for 
 the immediate object of my censure. It is 
 possible that I am; but as more morals than 
 one are mixed together in my tale, I must only 
 hope that there are the more chances for its 
 example being effective. 
 
 Time, which in all cases flies, alas! too ra- 
 pidly, is apparently accelerated in speed by 
 every species of enjoyment, but by none so 
 much as by that which is criminal. 
 
 When Eugenie looked back on four months 
 from the commencement of her intercourse, she 
 was amazed. It seemed incredible. The time 
 was gone, and like a blank. No record was 
 written of thoughts, feelings, or actions. All 
 had been a wild and uncontrollable flow of 
 spirit, which left no vestige of its course. She
 
 THE father's curse. 55 
 
 remembered that she had been happy; and a 
 wild and negligent air was visible in all she 
 said or did. 
 
 St. Croix was ever with her, but did not 
 partake of this abandonment. He was almost 
 as impassioned as she was, but he was not so 
 thorough a voluptuary. She thought but of 
 him — he but of himself. Her infatuation must 
 have led to inevitable discovery, had not the 
 lover possessed a more limited share of suscepti- 
 bility. His whole attention was turned to pre- 
 vent the betrayal of their secret by the very 
 object to whom discovery would have been 
 most fatal. 
 
 Le Vasseur observed Eugenie's demeanour, 
 and saw it with pleasure. He had made virtue 
 too much his study to have had leisure for the 
 contemplation of vice ; and, if he had been 
 called upon to draw an inference from his 
 daughter's manners, he would have stated it to 
 be the obviousness of her purity. 
 
 He often wondered at the agitated expression 
 of St. Croix's countenance; but he saw him 
 deeply enamoured of Eugenie, and believed that
 
 B6 THE father's curse. 
 
 no obstacle could interpose a barrier against 
 their union. He knew the sentiments of St. 
 Croix's father to be highly favourable to it, and 
 he felt that he himself was not a man to be 
 trifled with ; and that no alternative remained 
 for him who had gone so far. 
 
 Madame Le Vasseur was a passive spectator 
 of the progress of things. She saw that her 
 husband was approving, and her daughter 
 happy. The brothers regretted the attach- 
 ment, which so engrossed St. Croix as to take 
 him entirely away from a participation in their 
 sports ; and the younger girls looked on in 
 silence, and thought the lovers very extra- 
 vagant. But Agnes had a deeper interest in 
 the affair — for she was throughout her sister's 
 confidant. How the mind silently sickens at 
 this fact, and how naturally it turns from the 
 instance of particular ill to the execration of 
 the system in which it had its source ! What a 
 mass of public turpitude must have vitiated the 
 natural delicacy of the female breast before 
 such a depository as a sister's bosom could be 
 the chosen hiding-place of such a secret ! What
 
 THE father's curse. 57 
 
 fumes of delusion, impiety, and vice must have 
 risen from the authorized writings of the land 
 before a bosom could be found to accept the 
 trust ! 
 
 Agnes was, however, her sister's confidant ; 
 and the trust could not have been reposed in a 
 safer breast. Her every effort was exerted in 
 devising plans for the prevention of discovery, 
 and for persuading St. Croix into the necessity 
 of his marrying Eugenie. She had the pene- 
 tration to discover that he had no idea of such 
 a step ; and she saw enough of his character to 
 convince her that no common motive would be 
 sufficient to urge him to it. But she perceived 
 through his libertinism a glimmering light of 
 humanity and honour, and a ruling spirit of 
 chivalrous feeling, which she hoped to bring 
 into effective action against self-interest and 
 ambition. She felt that with Eugenie it was 
 premature to enter on a topic of such material 
 texture. She saw in her romantic flightiness 
 no basis on which such argument could rest ; 
 and she let her run on in the ungovernableness 
 of her delusion, until the moment when neces-
 
 5S THE father's curse. 
 
 sity should speak more forcibly than prudence 
 or self-interest. 
 
 That moment had now arrived — for the in- 
 fatuated Eugenie began to perceive that proofs 
 of her intercourse would soon be furnished to 
 the eye of every observer. Her first flash of 
 feeling was that of rapture at the thought of 
 becoming a mother ; and her ecstasy burst upon 
 St. Croix in the most impassioned strain of elo- 
 quent endearment. In offering him the promise 
 of this pledge, her only fear was that excess of 
 delight would be too much for his self-com- 
 mand. How blank and desolate was her heart 
 when his involuntary exclamation of horror 
 struck upon her ear ! He was almost petrified, 
 and lost all control. He poured out the bitter- 
 ness of his angry regret in a flood of reproaches 
 on his unfortunate associate ; and he saw her 
 sink insensible on the floor of the garden 
 arbour, and rushed from it in the violence of 
 his rage without a feeling for mother or for 
 child. 
 
 Agnes met him in this mood; and he ab- 
 ruptly told her the secret which her sister had
 
 THE father's curse. 59 
 
 revealed. She saw in his face the workings of 
 his soul ; but she did not for an instant lose her 
 presence of mind, nor evince any appearance 
 of surprise. In fact, she had for some thne 
 expected this communication, but was not 
 astonished that the overflow of Eugenie's joy 
 should have first betrayed itself to him who was 
 so strictly joined with her in community of 
 interest. 
 
 Agnes, with all her usual composure, and 
 somewhat of her father's sternness, quietly re- 
 plied to the passionate expression of St. Croix's 
 emotion, " Then no time is to be lost : you must 
 marry her without the least delay !" " Marry 
 her !"" exclaimed the criminal. *^ Madness ! 
 Never, never ! She dreams not of such ruin." 
 " Ruin ! To whom ?" *' To me ; to me eternal 
 ruin. What! dash my hopes of everlasting- 
 fame to earth, and prostrate the golden glories 
 of ambition at the feet of her who has led me 
 to this connexion ! — Never !" " St. Croix," 
 replied Agnes, " I have no hopes of forcing 
 you to your duty through any medium but 
 your own heart : I shall not even combat the
 
 60 THE father's curse. 
 
 momentary injustice which would fling upon my 
 unhappy sister reproach or recrimination. If 
 she had even been your tempter, you have 
 bound your destiny to hers; and, were you 
 even joined in fellowship with a fiend, the bonds 
 would be eternal that were so cemented." She 
 walked from him calmly towards the arbour. 
 He spoke not a word, but remained fixedly 
 gazing on her, with a sort of awful admiration, 
 till he saw her enter the alley which led her to 
 Eugenie ; and, as he lost sight of her graceful 
 figure, he felt as if lightened of a spell that 
 chained him to the spot. He hurried away in 
 a state of distracted feeling, but the last words 
 of Agnes seemed still ringing in his ears. 
 
 He rushed from the garden by an unfre- 
 quented path, and was seen for above an hour 
 pacing the neighbouring vineyard with agitated 
 steps. An hour of deep reflection was nothing 
 uncommon to him ; but an hour of hard-con- 
 tested struggle between ambition and honour 
 was novel to his breast; for in general they 
 acted in concert — at least, according to his 
 notions. In this instance, however, he could
 
 THE father's curse. 61 
 
 not blind himself to their opposition ; for his 
 feelings echoed back their violent and incessant 
 clashing. In defence of the sus^estions which 
 bade him abandon Eugenie he had a host of 
 ready arguments; the most leading of which 
 was his never having promised her marriage. 
 Then rushed up the doubt, if he ought not to 
 have done so. Her promptness to meet his 
 advances was at least the result of unbounded 
 confidence; and he could not conceal from 
 himself, that, had she made conditions, she 
 might have had any that she chose. In short, 
 his perturbation was extreme, and he suffered 
 keenly during this hour of mental strife ; but 
 at every pause of thought, and often in the 
 midst of thought's most violent paroxysms, the 
 words of Agnes returned with all their air of 
 supernatural and inspired delivery : — " Had 
 you even joined in fellowship with a fiend, the 
 bonds would be eternal that were so cemented." 
 Whether it was the influence of this prophetic 
 ejaculation, or the workings of natural good 
 feeling, even St. Croix himself could never di- 
 stinguish ; but a magical and momentaneous
 
 62 THE father's curse. 
 
 impulse seemed to strike him with the con- 
 viction, that a man involved in such a connexion 
 as his was hound to ahide the fate of his asso- 
 ciate, though fortune, fame, or hfe was the in- 
 evitahle sacrifice. His agitation ended in this 
 fixed belief, and in a determination to act up to 
 its principle : but, while we may suppose him 
 in all the ferment of conflicting feelings, and 
 before his determination was formed, we must 
 turn awhile to her who sufliered under the con- 
 sequences of his intemperate treatment.
 
 THE FATHERS CURSE. 63 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 When Agnes entered the bower, she found 
 the wretched Eugenie stretched senseless on 
 the ground. Shocked as she was, she uttered 
 no scream, nor did she lose in useless lamenta- 
 tion the moments which were so precious for 
 the recovery of the sufferer. She flew to the 
 little brook which flowed through the garden, 
 and the readiness of reflection supplied her with 
 a resource which the want of common conve- 
 niences would have rendered unattainable to a 
 mind of less self-command. She steeped her 
 handkerchief in the stream, and ran back with 
 it to the bower. She applied the plentiful 
 moisture to her sister's temples, and had soon 
 the happiness to see her revive. I must not 
 dwell on the distressing portrait which the poor 
 victim presented ; nor could I heighten by 
 description the pain of every sensitive heart 
 which imagines the picture of her wretched-
 
 64 THE father's curse. 
 
 ness. The first expression of her recovered 
 reason was a piercing shriek on perceiving her 
 sister where her inhuman lover had so lately 
 stood. The memory of all that had passed 
 rushed in agony upon her brain ; and, with 
 long-redoubled cries, she called upon the father 
 of her child. Agnes endeavoured to pacify 
 her, but in vain. She would not be restrained ; 
 and the sounds of her anguished voice soon 
 reached the house, and pierced even the re- 
 cesses of her father's study. 
 
 The first persons of the family who reached 
 the spot were her two brothers, who had been 
 preparing for their morning sports, and, armed 
 with their guns, they rushed towards the bower. 
 Their wild inquiries were quickly answered by 
 the frantic confessions of Eugenie. Her over- 
 loaded heart seemed relieved by every burst of 
 agonised reproach, heaped as unsparingly upon 
 herself as on the cause of her suffering. Agnes 
 would have interposed between the rash avowal 
 of Eugenie and the fiery agitation of the youth- 
 ful listeners. Her most judicious efforts were, 
 however, uselessly exerted ; for the exclama-
 
 THE father's curse. 65 
 
 tions of self-conviction were again and again 
 repeated, and St. Croix as often accused of 
 brutal villany. The brothers, thus wrought 
 upon, gave loose to their mutual fury. With 
 one glance of indignant sympathy flung upon 
 their sister, they rushed through the shrub- 
 bery, and were lost to the imploring gaze of 
 Agnes, who, still kneeling on the ground, sup- 
 ported in her arms the victim of violence and 
 exhaustion. 
 
 The servants and labourers now came in, and 
 next the mother. To each one was the fatal 
 secret openly developed ; but in the contem- 
 plation of him who followed them I pass over 
 the effect produced on more common observers. 
 Le Vasseur was the last who reached the 
 arbour. The shrieks which had roused him 
 from his retirement came more faintly repeated 
 as he approached the spot ; but the bewailing 
 accents of his daughter forcibly caught his 
 attention. The sounds of grief seldom pro- 
 ceeded from the voice of Eugenie. The pene- 
 trating mind of Le Vasseur quickly seized upon 
 the truth. As he listened, the life-blood rushed 
 
 VOL.1. F
 
 66 THE father''s curse, 
 
 upwards from his heart, and a suffocating im- 
 pression of agony and anger for an instant 
 seemed to threaten life itself. His eyes swam, 
 and had he not laid hold of a projecting tree, 
 he felt that he must have fallen to the earth. 
 It was some moments before he could recover 
 himself sufficiently to move ; and during this 
 interval he heard enough, in the continued 
 strain of self-accusation from within, to remove 
 all shade of doubt, and to arouse the entire 
 energies of the agonised father. 
 
 He entered the arbour. The paleness of 
 united rage and sorrow overspread his face. 
 He tottered feebly from the violence of his 
 emotion, and large drops, rage-distilled, stood 
 on his sternly-furrowed brow. The servants 
 and labourers made way as he approached. 
 His wife shrunk back, and Agnes sunk her 
 head upon the bosom which she had been so 
 long supporting. Eugenie alone seemed spell- 
 bound by her father's withering gaze. Her 
 eyes wildly glared upon him as he came slowly 
 towards her, with uplifted hands clasped above 
 his head. As he advanced he spoke not, but
 
 THE father's curse. 67 
 
 fixed his looks upon her. His eyes for a 
 moment closed, his brows were knit more 
 rigidly, his lips compressed together with a 
 sterner energy, his hands trembled on high; 
 and then, as if this short but fearful prepara- 
 tion had given his mind full strength, he spoke : 
 " Listen, daughter of infamy ! listen to the 
 curse of him who disowns you for his child. I 
 curse you in the moment of your anguish, and 
 I pray that it may last with your life. I drive 
 you from my heart and my home, and implore 
 the heavens, that eternal misery may light upon 
 your desolate path !" 
 
 This was uttered in a voice of terrible 
 energy ; and when the listening group ventured 
 again to look up, the father was seen hurrying 
 from the bower, and the object of his maledic- 
 tion was once more senseless on the ground. 
 
 Agnes was the first to recover from the shock 
 which the horrid fervour of her father had 
 given to all. Her mother was flooded in her 
 tears, but site could not weep. The springs of 
 feeling seemed congealed within her breast, 
 and an icy hardness pressing on her heart. 
 
 f2
 
 G8 THE father's curse. 
 
 She felt at the moment that nothing in nature 
 was half so terrible as a Father's Curse ; and 
 shuddered at the reflection that it was mere 
 chance which had spared her, and drew it 
 down upon her sister. But there was no time 
 for the indulgence of thought : she saw that 
 the life of Eugenie was at stake; and in re- 
 solute, but, she felt, in right defiance of her 
 father's sentence, she ordered the people to bear 
 her sister to the house. Madame Le Vasseur 
 gave no sign of approval or disapprobation. The 
 servants were always accustomed to regard the 
 words of Agnes as law ; and humanity joined 
 at present in stimulating to the disobedience of 
 an unnatural decree. They therefore carried 
 the senseless sufferer along. As they passed 
 towards the house, Le Vasseur was seen stand- 
 ing in a by path, with one hand clenched in 
 involuntary agitation, and the other firmly 
 placed upon his forehead, as if to control the 
 angry spirit that seemed throbbing in his brain. 
 He looked upon the melancholy procession un- 
 moved, and saw it enter the house. The fol- 
 lowers were all delighted at this tacit approval
 
 THE father's curse. 69 
 
 on the part of the father ; but Agnes trembled 
 anew as she gazed on the spectacle of his silent 
 apathy. 
 
 Eugenie was borne to her own chamber, and 
 placed before an open window. The repeated 
 applications usual on such occasions brought 
 her once more to herself She had begun to 
 revive, and was weeping bitterly, surrounded 
 by her mother and sisters, when a new object 
 of agitation and terror came to add to the 
 calamities of this momentous day. A shot was 
 lieard from the vineyard. It came like the 
 sound of fate to the ready anticipation of 
 Eugenie. Agnes, too, felt an instinctive appre- 
 hension at a report so common, and at other 
 times so harmless ; but her whole attention was 
 turned to tranquillise her whose destiny, per- 
 haps, hung upon the intelligence of the next 
 moment. 
 
 While the sisters thus looked out in the vio- 
 lence of their emotion, a woful spectacle pre- 
 sented itself. The brothers were seen issuing 
 from the vineyard, bearing between them the 
 bleeding body of St. Croix. Eugenie started
 
 70 THE father's curse. 
 
 from her seat, and in the frenzy of overwrought 
 exciteinent she rushed from the house, followed 
 by the scarcely less shocked spectators. She 
 quickly met the object of her search; and -be- 
 fore prevention could interfere, she flung her- 
 self upon her bleeding lover, accusing herself as 
 the cause of his murder, and heaping execra- 
 tions on the brothers, whose hands she intui- 
 tively concluded to have dealt the fatal blow. 
 St. Croix was not, however, dead, but the life- 
 blood was gushing fast away ; and here again 
 the presence of mind of Agnes was most 
 strikingly displayed. She despatched mes- 
 sengers in two or three directions, in search of 
 surgical aid ; stanched the dreadful wound 
 which had lacerated the breast of St. Croix, 
 and had him quietly placed in the bed which 
 he had so long occupied in the vigorous repose 
 of health. He had fainted from pain and loss 
 of blood, and was as insensible to the anguish 
 of the one sister as to the wisdom of the other. 
 Eugenie, the miserable Eugenie, could no 
 longer support this terrible excitement. She 
 saw her lover laid upon his bed — his eyes were
 
 THE father's curse. 71 
 
 closed, she thought, for ever — and, sinking 
 under the overwhelming pressure of her an- 
 guish, she was carried again to her chamber in 
 the raging violence of a fever. 
 
 The causes which led to the immediate situ- 
 ation of St. Croix are quickly told. We left 
 him pondering on the part which he was to 
 pursue ; but I had anticipated his decision of 
 giving to Eugenie the only reparation for his 
 injurious and unjust demeanour, by joining 
 himself to her for ever. He was returning to- 
 wards the garden, with his heart full of this 
 resolve, and bursting with anxiety to utter it, 
 when he was met and abruptly accosted by the 
 brothers, who had sought him all round the 
 farm. Their young breasts burned with swell- 
 ing energy, and their brains were almost mad- 
 dened by the sorrowful picture on which they 
 had just gazed. The elder of the two ap- 
 proached St. Croix, and fiercely accosted him : 
 " Are you a man ? I know you to be a villain. 
 Here ! take this gun (presenting him that be- 
 longing to his brother). Place yourself on your 
 guard — stand firm, for you have but a moment
 
 12 THE father's curse. 
 
 to live."— "My dear Adolphe.''— -" Whatl 
 villain, does your coward heart fail you ?" That 
 was enough. St. Croix was as impetuous as 
 his young antagonist. The magic of one word 
 had turned his blood to flame. He took the 
 fowling-piece, and placed himself in the atti- 
 tude to fire. Adolphe, at twenty paces from 
 him, did the same. The younger brother was 
 to give the signal ; but ere he could pronounce 
 it, St. Croix's better feelings once more pre- 
 vailed, and the gun remained in his hands un- 
 cocked. The signal to fire was given, and 
 Adolphe obeyed it too well. Almost the whole 
 charge of small shot entered the breast of St. 
 Croix, who was sensible to nothing farther, 
 until roused by the painful operations of the 
 surgeons, endeavouring to extract the shot. 
 
 The youthful instruments of his suffering 
 were deeply affected. They felt that shrinking 
 from themselves experienced by every humane 
 man who has the misfortune to shed blood, 
 even in an honest cause. They applied to 
 their father for consolation, but he had none to 
 give them : he had more need of it than they.
 
 THE father's curse. 73 
 
 The daughter that he loved — the friend so 
 highly valued — ^both in such imminent danger 
 of death. His paternal tenderness abused — 
 his confidence betrayed — his offended pride — 
 his wounded honour — all that could be ima- 
 gined of suffering to such a man, was accumu« 
 lated in one dreadful storm, the suddenness of 
 which was an aggravation of every individual 
 horror. He stood, indeed, in want of consola- 
 tion ; and, most of all, of that consolation which 
 he could not command. It was religion that 
 he needed, to bear him up in this hour of trial. 
 Philosophy and virtue were unavailing ; and 
 he exhibited a melancholy instance of strength 
 of mind sinking under the more powerful sway 
 of force of feeling. He had roused all his 
 faculties to action when he pronounced the 
 terrible curse upon his daughter ; but such a 
 display of desperation was not the natural man. 
 It was the effort of that artificial character 
 which he had for years been struggling to make 
 his own. It was sufficient for the moment, but 
 no more. While the anathema yet quivered on 
 ^s lip, he saw a portion of its command in-
 
 74 THE father's curse. 
 
 fringed, yet he saw this violation without power 
 to control its progress ; and after reaching the 
 farthest stretch of stoical exertion, he sunk 
 down under all the weakness of humanity. - 
 
 I cannot depict the state of his mind during 
 the days which elapsed before St. Croix and 
 Eugenie were declared out of danger. He 
 passed this time in frequent and violent strug- 
 gles as to the course he should pursue. His 
 natural feelings told him to forgive his daughter, 
 in compassion for her sufferings, while his as- 
 sumed disposition urged him to persist in cast- 
 ing her off for ever. The contest ended as 
 might be expected, when nature is the anta- 
 gonist of art. The victory was on the side of 
 clemency, and the good sense of Le Vasseur 
 told him that he was right. 
 
 St. Croix had repeatedly, during his illness, 
 sent assurances to Le Vasseur that his only 
 hope for life was, that he might repair his 
 injury to Eugenie, and make her happy. His 
 own father was the negotiator between them, 
 and the whole neighbourhood joined their soli- 
 citations for mercy to those so strongly urged 
 
 •i!t
 
 THE father's curse. 75 
 
 by the immediate members of the two suffering 
 families. Le Vasseur was glad of so plausible 
 an excuse, and he strove to make a dignified 
 merit of yielding to their prayers what every 
 body saw that his heart was yearning to grant. 
 
 His first interview with St. Croix was very 
 interesting, but that with his daughter was 
 affecting in the extreme. During the delirium 
 of her fever, she had repeatedly fancied that 
 she saw her father, and in her frequent ravings 
 had called on his name. She sometimes im- 
 plored, and sometimes defied him. Heaped on 
 him, at one moment, the most endearing appel- 
 lations ; at another, loaded him with epithets of 
 fearful execration. These heart-rending wan- 
 derings sunk deep into the mind of Agnes, and 
 she fervently hoped, again and again, that she 
 miffht die before such a state as that should be 
 her lot. 
 
 At length the crisis of Eugenie's fever passed 
 by, and, whether from the natural force of her 
 constitution, or the more probable cause that 
 she had not been worn down by the over-done 
 severity of medical aid, she seemed to have lost
 
 76 THE father's curse. 
 
 but little of her former strength, and a few days 
 made a rapid change for the better in her 
 appearance. Still, though she had not the 
 haggard and emaciated look which a fever 
 patient in England carries for weeks after his 
 recovery, she was but the shadow of her former 
 loveliness. She looked pale and exhausted, 
 and her mind seemed to be yet more worn 
 down than her body. She believed her lover 
 to be dead, and the physicians thought it 
 dangerous for awhile to undeceive her. With 
 her recovered reason she caught the recollection 
 of St. Croix, and the melancholy hope of joining 
 him in the grave where she believed him buried. 
 She refused, under different pretences, the 
 nourishment necessary for life itself, and under 
 those circumstances it became absolutely re- 
 quisite, even at the risk of a relapse, to inform 
 her of the only truth that could induce her to 
 live. 
 
 For the performance of this task her father 
 was considered the best qualified ; and he con- 
 sented to see her for the purpose of assuring 
 her of his forgiveness, and of communicating
 
 THE father's curse. 77 
 
 the intelligence which was to give his pardon 
 the most effectual value. Eugenie ardently 
 expected' this first interview; for, feeling that 
 she could not live, she was miserable at leaving 
 the world without her father''s blessing pro- 
 nounced from his own lips. Her mother and 
 Agnes had repeatedly told her of his forgive- 
 ness, but she was not satisfied with this. She 
 prayed that she might be allowed to see him, 
 and was so much agitated by the delays insisted 
 on by the physicians, that they at length con- 
 sidered the emotions to be looked for from the 
 meeting were less to be apprehended than the 
 effects of her protracted anxiety. 
 
 The hour being at length fixed for the in- 
 teresting visit, the father announced his readi- 
 ness to proceed to her chamber, and the time 
 approached. She received the announcement 
 with composed delight, and seemed calmly pre- 
 pared for the arduous scene ; but in a little she 
 betrayed symptoms of uneasy apprehension and 
 occasional wanderings of thought and expres- 
 sion. A feverish flushing stole over her pallid 
 cheeks, and she was seen occasionally to turn
 
 78 THE father's curse. 
 
 her eyes towards the door with a wildness of 
 gaze that was thought symptomatic of a relapse. 
 At length her state of nervous irritability be- 
 came so oppressive, that she begged that her 
 father might not see her that day. Her mother 
 was commissioned to be the bearer of this wish ; 
 but, ere she had left the chamber a minute, 
 Agnes was despatched by the capricious suf- 
 ferer to recal the postponement, and request 
 his presence. He accordingly, in no slight 
 emotion, prepared to attend the summons, but 
 had not reached her chamber door, accompa- 
 nied by his wife and Agnes, when one of the 
 younger sisters once more forbade his entrance. 
 As they entered the chamber he retired, and 
 had but just again composed himself to his 
 study, when a renewed entreaty from the agi- 
 tated invalid was borne by the remaining sister, 
 cancelling the last prohibition, and soliciting 
 his immediate presence. 
 
 Le Vasseur was almost overpowered by these 
 proofs of the misery of his unhappy child. If 
 one lurking feeling of resentment still lingered 
 in his bosom, it was utterly erased by the force
 
 THE father's curse. 79 
 
 of her affliction, and in moving once more, in 
 tacit obedience to her call, he almost felt him- 
 self unequal to the trying scene. He, however, 
 summoned up all his fortitude, and reached 
 her chamber-door. He here paused, and half 
 hoped that some renewal of Eugenie's appre- 
 hensions might come to prevent the exposure 
 of his own. He shook the handle of the door 
 with noise sufficient to announce his approach, 
 but no voice pronounced the wished-for oppo- 
 sition to his entrance. He next coughed aloud, 
 knowing that by that he should be recognized » 
 All was, however, still. He then desired his 
 daughter, who accompanied him, to go softly 
 in, and see if Eugenie did not sleep, and, as 
 she entered, he leant forward, in the hope of 
 catching the heavy breathing which heralds 
 the momentary repose of illness. But his wife 
 appeared and beckoned him in. He had no 
 alternative ; he could not shrink back, and he 
 made a final effort to recover his firmness. His 
 wonted severity of aspect and utterance was 
 now forgotten, and, in this moment of trial, the
 
 80 THE father's curse. 
 
 man completely triumphed over the philoso- 
 pher. 
 
 Eugenie heard him enter, but she saw him 
 not. She did not venture to look up. A jilm 
 seemed spread before her eyes. She trembled 
 in every limb. Her heart leaped with violence, 
 and fancy pictured her father with the counte- 
 nance, and in the attitude, in which she had 
 last gazed on him. The appalling recollection 
 rushed upon her mind, and vibrated in terror 
 through her feeble frame. She buried her 
 head beneath the bed-covering, and exclaimed 
 aloud, that she could not, dared not, look upon 
 him. He in a tremulous and tender voice pro- 
 nounced her name. " Eugenie, my child V 
 were the only words that he could utter; but 
 the tone in which he spoke them was like magic 
 to the daughter's feelings — so plaintive, so ex- 
 pressive, so unlike his usual firm enunciation — 
 she felt lightened of a load of fear ; and, with 
 an electric impulse of delight, she started up 
 and saw her father. Could it be him ? she in- 
 voluntarily asked herself — sunk on one knee
 
 THE father's curse. 81 
 
 beside the bed — his brow unbent — his lips 
 quivering — his voice choked with sobs, and his 
 eyes streaming with tears ! She uttered a cry of 
 mingled rapture and amazement, and flung her- 
 self into the arms which opened wide to fold 
 her to a parent's heart. 
 
 T^ T^ vP "Tv" 3jP 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 THE father's curse. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Two years from this day saw France relieved 
 from war, and the family of Le Vasseur once 
 more at peace and happy. Eugenie, the mar- 
 ried mother of two beautiful children, living in 
 her own home; her eldest brother returned from 
 Spain, covered with honourable wounds and 
 well earned fame ; the two younger boys grown 
 up to gallant youths ; the younger sisters lovely 
 and accomplished; and Agnes possessed of the 
 only want of her heart — a lover. 
 
 The nuptials of Eugenie and St. Croix, which 
 immediately followed his convalescence, were a 
 festival of general joy to all within the circle of 
 the family acquaintance. There was something 
 so interesting, so romantic, so sentimental, in 
 the adventure, that the most powerful sympathy 
 was excited in behalf of the united lovers. 
 
 The wedding festivities were gay and grace- 
 ful. Music ushered in the morning, and dancing
 
 THE father's curse. SB 
 
 closed the day. Crowds of admiring friends 
 attended the young couple to the Mairie* and 
 the church; for the ceremonies of religion 
 added their sanction to the civil contract re- 
 quired by the law. Many a flower was ravished 
 from its stem to strew the path of the bridal 
 party; and the quickly fading bloom of the 
 bouquets seemed an appropriate warning to the 
 chief personage of the procession. She, the 
 thoughtless Eugenie, moved on, blithe and 
 blushing, not from modesty but joy. Her look 
 resembled not the fluctuations of a bridal coun- 
 tenance which I once gazed on. There the 
 mingled emotions of virgin agitation at one 
 moment flushed the cheek with crimson, the 
 next called back the burning tide to swell the 
 maiden's heart, and leave her visage colourless ; 
 — bringing to my remembrance the varying 
 beauties which I had seen in the passes of a 
 mountain chain, when some graceful peak, 
 clothed in heaven's whitest snow, blushed for 
 an instant in the roseate light of a refracted sun- 
 
 * The town-house. 
 
 G 2
 
 84? THE father's curse. 
 
 beam, and then, as the slant ray verged down 
 the hill, relapsed into its hue of mild yet daz- 
 zling purity. 
 
 But the triumphant glance of Eugenie spoke 
 only a consciousness of her victory over ill- 
 fortune. Snatched from the threshold of the 
 grave, she gained no salutary advantage from 
 her escape, but turned back upon the vrorld 
 with redoubled relish for its most worthless va- 
 nities. She thought not of the past, nor looked 
 forward to what was to come ; but clung to the 
 present enjoyment, as buoyant as the light- 
 winged hours which were fleeting so fast and 
 sunny over her span of life. St. Croix sup- 
 ported her on his arm, and his pallid brow 
 showed the occasional furrow traced by some 
 flitting recollection. He behaved however well, 
 and wore a firm if not an enraptured demeanour. 
 Every member of the Le Vasseur family at- 
 tended. The aflectionate mother wept floods 
 of joyous tears. The sisters indulged freely in 
 her happiness. The sons showed a frank and 
 manly satisfaction, and Le Vasseur himself bore
 
 THE father's curse. 85 
 
 tip in unison with the general appearance of 
 content. 
 
 St. Croix and his wife removed immediately 
 to the house of his father, whose widowed soli- 
 tude was cheered by such a happy accession to 
 his domestic enjoyments. His comfort was how- 
 ever of short duration ; for the perturbation of 
 mind which had so violently acted upon a feeble 
 constitution, during the late trying circum- 
 stances, brought him to the grave in less than a 
 year after the marriage of his son. St. Croix 
 became thus master of his property, and having 
 neither brother nor sister, he was very well in 
 the world ; and, with the peculiar facility of a 
 French philosopher, he flung off every notion 
 of his former views, renounced his shadowy 
 hopes of fame, and, settling down into the 
 farmer of his own ground, gave himself up to 
 those rural occupations for which his neigh- 
 bourhood was so well adapted. 
 
 Eugenie, in her new capacity of mistress of 
 a family, had an ample field for the display of 
 her natural character. The warmth of her
 
 86 THE FATHER S CUBSE. 
 
 heart had now free channels into which it could 
 run ; and her wilder feelings being bounded by 
 a settled object, she was in less danger of suf- 
 fering from their excess. Her old acquaintances 
 flocked round her with undiminished fondness, 
 and no notion of disrespect attached itself to 
 the memory of her misconduct. 
 
 Eugenie, however, in the midst of her appa- 
 rent enjoyments, had one subject of severe re- 
 gret, sufficient to chill the warmest of her plea- 
 sures; and in the bloom of all her joys there 
 was a canker at her heart. Although not at all 
 sunk in her own esteem, or her husband's, or 
 her mother's, or her friends', she saw clearly 
 that she had for ever lost her father's. She 
 felt bitterly his evidently uncontrollable dislike. 
 He appeared to shun her society even at his 
 own house ; and she naturally felt a disinclination 
 to meet him at hers. In short, there was but 
 little intercourse between them; but the younger 
 branches of the family often saw each other. 
 
 Le Vasseur, having lost in a great measure 
 his fondness for his eldest daughter, seemed to 
 turn with a tenfold affection to Agnes. She
 
 THE father's curse. 87 
 
 had always been his favourite child, and re- 
 sembled him more than any of the others in 
 all the better parts of his character. She was 
 drawn still closer to him by his feeling towards 
 her sister, for she pitied him, knowing that he 
 felt himself disgraced as well as afflicted ; and 
 though differing widely with him on the main 
 point of Eugenie's guilt, she took care not to 
 shock him by any avowal of her opinion on a 
 subject upon which his was so decided. While 
 lavishing every kindness that he had the means 
 of bestowing to meet each want and wish of 
 Agnes, decorating his house anew according to 
 her taste, and forgetting the austerity of his 
 character in the overflowing of his indulgence, 
 Le Vasseur still neglected no opportunity of 
 recurring with the whole weight of his reason- 
 ing to the subject which gave rise to his present 
 conduct. He was] evidently dissatisfied with 
 the part he had acted on that occasion. He 
 saw that he had lost the finest opportunity of 
 his Ufe for leaving behind him the 'character of 
 that unbending and implacable virtue, to esta- 
 blish which his whole life had been devoted.
 
 88 THE father's curse. 
 
 He felt himself little in comparison to what he 
 had been ; degraded in the eyes of those who 
 had looked upon him as a paragon of repub- 
 lican firmness ; and he was conscious that he 
 had descended from the pedestal of his pride 
 to mingle in the common ranks of every-day 
 men. 
 
 The mortification which this caused him was 
 much more powerful than any counterbalancing 
 pleasure founded on the applause which he had 
 obtained. He had seen so much evil produced 
 in the world by the plastic characters of those 
 who are thought the best, that he would have 
 rather been an object of fear than of affection ; 
 and, unsatisfied at the late example of his weak- 
 ness, he almost wished, at times, for an oppor- 
 tunity of redeeming his character by giving a 
 proof of his severity. 
 
 But these last were flitting and unsettled 
 thoughts : in his better moments he had none 
 of them. They were the wayward errings of 
 his artificial mind : his natural feelings revolted 
 from them ; and he was even sometimes, in the 
 fulness of his heart, disposed to think that he
 
 THE father's curse. 89 
 
 had rather relieved his reputation from the 
 stain of harshness than loaded it with the 
 stigma of unsteadiness. " If, however," he 
 used to exclaim, " if another instance should 
 occur ! — " But he never could finish the sen- 
 tence, nor allow his thoughts to dwell on the 
 anticipation. 
 
 If Le Vasseur wished to have procured a 
 husband for Eugenie before the unfortunate 
 connexion that ended in her marriage, much 
 more ardently did he now hope to be able to 
 ^x on suitable matches for his remaining 
 daughters. But still, with that frightful ex- 
 ample before his eyes, he knew not how to 
 accomplish his desire. He had ever been 
 averse to matches of mere interest, or those 
 formed in the usual heartless and business-like 
 manner which is customary 4n France, where 
 love is, generally speaking, a matter as foreign 
 to marriage as friendship in a mercantile trans- 
 action with us; where the fortune of the man 
 is thrown into one scale, and that of his intended 
 bride into the other ; when, if she is " found 
 wanting," her family, her connexions, and her
 
 90 THE FATHER^S CURSE. 
 
 interest, are flung in to make up the balance; 
 but where beauty, accomplishment, or virtue, 
 have scarcely weight enough to turn the beam. 
 
 My story is a proof that there are exceptions 
 to this general habit, and Le Vasseur had full 
 in view the danger of encouraging a union 
 founded on mutual attachment. The risks of 
 such a connexion appalled him, and he shud- 
 dered when he saw an agreeable young man 
 pay a visit at his house. The violence, or at 
 least the sternness of his political principles, was 
 a great bar to the attainment of his heart's first 
 object. Interests became so divided, and ani- 
 mosities so strong, party spirit ran so high, and 
 party hatred so deep, that the ruin of society 
 was the consequence. 
 
 The overthrow of the imperial dynasty, and 
 the re-establishment of the Bourbons, produced 
 a convulsion of opinions which is known to all 
 the world ; but few, who have not seen the di- 
 stant effects proceeding from these grand trans- 
 actions, can form a just idea of the evils which 
 hang upon the movements of the great. It is 
 not in the crowded capital that such conse-
 
 THE father's curse. 91 
 
 quences can be estimated. There every circle 
 of society plays round an axis of its own, but 
 does not interrupt the evolutions of the others, 
 forming with it a general system. There things 
 go on as if no change had been. The theatres, 
 the public walks, and the churches, are as 
 crowded as ever, and men gaze on their fellows 
 without frown or sneer, because they cannot 
 from the million single out each particular opi- 
 nion. A few only are marked by their avowal. 
 One cannot stop another in the street, and ask 
 for the confession of his faith ; and the mixture 
 of so many varying shades blends insensibly into 
 a mass of general colouring, while the perpetual 
 contact of opposite feelings rubs off the asperi- 
 ties from their surface. It is that which gives 
 the true polish to city manners in the worst 
 commotions ; but in the remote seclusion of the 
 country all is different. There men move in 
 the open daylight of public cognizance. There 
 are no hiding-places wherein they may skulk, 
 nor crowds to give them shelter. Every indi- 
 vidual of the thin-scattered population is a mark 
 for the observation of the others ; and each one
 
 92 THE father's curse. 
 
 carries the stamp of his opinions upon him, as 
 plain as if he bore the label of his party round 
 his neck. 
 
 In scenes so confined, men are, in quiet times, 
 joined together for their common comfort; but 
 when the moment comes in which their interests 
 clash, the ties which bound them are snapt 
 asunder with a sharpness proportioned to their 
 former tension. They fly off from each other 
 like opposing metals in a crucible, and every 
 figure stands out upon the scene in all the naked 
 individuality of relief. They then herd toge- 
 ther — but there is no grace in their combina- 
 tions ; and society looks like a piece of patch- 
 work, where different colours every where glare 
 out in independent solitude. 
 
 It is thus that every distinct set lends its aid 
 to the general deformity, and the great charm 
 of every thing living or inanimate, variety, is 
 lost. Every house becomes a nest for the nou- 
 rishment of prejudice, while every disjointed 
 member of the common family hangs loose and 
 incapable of performing its functions ; and, in- 
 stead of aiding in the general harmony of
 
 THE father's curse. 93 
 
 nature, looks like a breaking out upon its fair 
 and beauteous face. 
 
 Le Vasseur was one of those who lent their 
 unintended aid to this demoralizing system. 
 His idol was consistency ; and in straining after 
 it, he too often stretched a good feeling to ex- 
 cess. He was a rigid republican ; and during 
 the short interval of one hundred days, when 
 the return of Buonaparte brought about events 
 which changed the destiny of the world, Le 
 Vasseur thought he saw a bright occasion for 
 the re-establishment of that form of govern- 
 ment which had his whole devotion. .He boldly 
 promulgated his views, and hoped to make him- 
 self a rallying point for all who thought with 
 him. Many did come forward ; and, had suf- 
 ficient time been given for ripening their de- 
 signs, the mischief might have spread. But 
 the fate of Europe could not wait for the tardy 
 developement of these Utopian schemes, and 
 Louis was once more fixed upon the throne 
 which, it was discovered, had no chance of 
 security unless it was erected on a constitutional 
 basis.
 
 94 THE father's curse. 
 
 Le Vasseur again sunk down into domestic 
 quiet; but he excluded from his house all who, 
 by deed or word, gave support to the reigning 
 family. St. Croix was not so rigid: his military 
 life had thrown him amongst men of all opi- 
 nions and principles ; and amongst those too, of 
 no opinions and no principles. He was not a 
 little infected by the general laxity of his asso- 
 ciates ; and, while he talked of liberality in the 
 formation of his friendships, it was, in fact, 
 licentiousness which he had in his mind. He 
 mixed a good deal with his neighbours of poli- 
 tics different from those which he professed— 
 which were those of his family and connexions ; 
 and Agnes and her sisters met at his house 
 many persons who were never admitted to the 
 sanctuary of their home. 
 
 Foremost among these visitors, in every thing 
 which Agnes considered amiable and attractive, 
 was the young de Monigny, the son of an emi- 
 grant who had returned from England with 
 the king ; and who, having lost beyond redemp- 
 tion the entire of his large possessions, had been 
 appointed to an official situation, of slight emolu-
 
 THE father's curse. 95 
 
 ment, in the town close by St Croix's residence. 
 The son, who, Hke most young men of that sta- 
 tion, was very poor, and very idle, soon became 
 a favourite with St. Croix, and was often in- 
 vited to his house. But he had better claims 
 upon the admiration and regard of Agnes. A 
 good person and expressive countenance were 
 his most trivial advantages. The gravity of 
 his deportment assorted well with her own ; and 
 the reflective, yet cheerful turn of his conversa- 
 tion, seemed the result of good sense engrafted 
 on good nature, and formed a fine contrast with 
 the flashy and flimsy manners of St. Croix. De 
 Monigny had been brought up in England from 
 his childhood. He spoke the language like a 
 native; had studied the literature, the institu- 
 tions, and the habits of the people, and had 
 turned his observations to account. With all 
 that noble warmth of national feeling, of which 
 no Frenchman can divest himself, he possessed 
 an open eye to the manifold faults of his coun- 
 trymen;. — but he was also sensible of their many 
 merits, as well as of the errors of the nation he 
 had so recently quitted. His study had long
 
 96 THE father's curse. 
 
 been to form for himself a character composed 
 of the better quaUties of both nations ; and being 
 one of the happy few whose feehngs are sub- 
 servient to their reason, — whose hearts submit 
 to the dictates of their heads — he completely 
 succeeded in his design. Thus, at thirty years 
 of age (when Agnes first saw him), he was one 
 of those rare and inestimable models of man- 
 ners, conduct, and character, which it would be 
 well if the awkward English youth, and the 
 blustering young Frenchman, more frequently 
 studied. 
 
 Agnes had just passed her twentieth year, a 
 period when a female in the south of France 
 acquires her full maturity of manners as well as 
 mien. If the women there want the brilliant 
 bloom which girls of that age wear in England, 
 and that exquisite air of innocence which is no- 
 where to be rivalled, they have other charms 
 peculiar and almost equivalent. — An eye of fire, 
 often tempered by reflection; a lip of ripe luxu_ 
 riance; ringlets of polished jet, and teeth of 
 pearl : while, under the autumnal tint of their 
 transparent skin, the young blood circles on,
 
 THE father's curse. 97 
 
 giving a hue of mellow richness to the cheek, 
 less bright but more subdued. Then the ever- 
 beaming expression of their glance — their in- 
 telligence — their softened air, that happy me- 
 dium between languor and indifference — their 
 light and graceful figures ! — Agnes united all 
 within herself. No wonder, then, if between 
 her and de Monigny a sympathy of tastes was 
 followed by a mutual passion. 
 
 The lover, however, was no boy, nor his mis- 
 tress a child. They saw their mutual danger. 
 He was pennyless, for the scanty allowance 
 granted him by his father was revocable at will; 
 and he knew that his consent to such a match 
 was out of the question. Agnes, on her part, 
 remembered Eugenie. She felt also the indul- 
 gent kindness of her father; she knew that 
 his happiness depended much on her, and she 
 dreaded the impossibility of obtaining his sanc- 
 tion to her attachment. Such were the startling 
 obstacles which lay in the way of Agnes and 
 de Monigny, but they considered them too late 
 — for they loved already; and a passion so 
 forcible and so well founded would have defied 
 
 VOL. I. 'h
 
 98 THE father's curse. 
 
 the warnings of a philosophy stronger even than 
 theirs. 
 
 Eugenie soon perceived the nature of her 
 sister's feehngs, and she half rejoiced in the 
 danger to which she fancied her exposed. See- 
 ing no sort of criminahty in the indulgence she 
 had herself practised, she rather took pains to 
 facilitate her sister's following her track, than 
 made efforts to turn her from it ; and uncon- 
 scious of the real cause of her own feelings, 
 which arose from that mingled selfishness and 
 envy, the first consequence of guilt, she wished 
 that Agnes might fall into the snare, confident 
 that she would then, as well as herself, become 
 the object of her father's estrangement, or, per- 
 haps, by striking a new blow at his pride, 
 weaken the strength of his particular resent- 
 ment. She therefore carefully fanned the rising 
 flame, and her impatience made her often ques- 
 tion Agnes as to its progress. 
 
 Agnes, however, made no confident to her 
 attachment. She continued for some months 
 to receive the professions of her lover, and she 
 confessed to him alone the strength of her
 
 THE father's curse. 99 
 
 affection. They would have wilfully placed a 
 bandage before their eyes, but they could not 
 blind themselves to the utter hopelessness of 
 their passion. They were neither of them, 
 however, of that reckless and indolent turn, 
 which makes lovers sometimes' sink under the 
 weight of their despair, and seems to impart a 
 charm to its worst excesses. Agnes calculated 
 a little on her father's unbounded affection. 
 DeMonigny knew that he possessed the esteem, 
 as well as regard of his parent ; and they agreed, 
 by mutual plan, to endeavour to procure some 
 relaxation of their relative severity. Agnes 
 knew full well the impossibility of shaking Le 
 Vasseur*s political dislikes ; but she had a faint 
 hope that, by well arranged efforts, she might 
 weaken one (it was all she asked) of his per- 
 sonal prejudices. 
 
 On every fair occasion she brought before 
 him the particular merits of her lover, but that 
 in a manner so guarded, as at first not to rouse 
 his suspicions. The frequent recurrence to the 
 same topic, and the animation with which the 
 self-deceived Agnes discussed the character of 
 
 h2
 
 100 THE father's curse. 
 
 one whom she affected to speak of with indif- 
 ference, could not, however, escape her father's 
 penetration ; and in one of those conversations, 
 brought about by Agnes, an unguarded warmth, 
 in one of her eulogiums, told him clearly that 
 her heart was irretrievably engaged. He con- 
 sidered de Monigny (although he had never 
 seen him) as an enemy, in common with all his 
 party. No sooner did the conviction of his 
 daughter's attachment to an object so detested 
 flash across his mind, than he felt himself the 
 most desolate of mankind. 
 
 He burst into no paroxysm of rage, nor did 
 one word of reproach fall from his lips. He 
 looked as though the whole weight of destiny 
 had fallen to crush him, and seemed bowed 
 down by the magnitude of his misery. 
 
 Agnes saw the emotion which agitated her 
 father, and it cut her to the soul. She ad- 
 dressed him in the most affectionate and sooth- 
 ing accents — assured him that the gratitude 
 and affection which she owed him were nothinsr 
 impaired — that her heart by being divided by 
 two objects, with claims equally irresistible,
 
 THE father's curse. 101 
 
 but totally distinct, would acquire strength in 
 its movements, and stability in its devotion. 
 She fixed her streaming eyes full upon his, and 
 entreated him to reply; but he answered not 
 a word. Resentment appeared dead to every 
 possibility of utterance, but his looks were 
 daggers. 
 
 Agnes was racked with the most agitated 
 sensations. It was the first time that she had 
 ever caused her father a painful moment, and 
 she felt that her offence was wilful. But, with 
 all the aggravation which this consciousness 
 brought to her distress, the idea of abandoning 
 her lover never entered her mind. She flung 
 herself on her knees, and took her father's 
 hands in hers. She wildly strained them to 
 her heart, but they returned no pressure. She 
 put them to her lips, and the tears which fell 
 on them in showers spoke much more forcibly 
 than words; but all seemed lost on the im- 
 moveable sorrow of Le Vasseur. She implored 
 his pardon — his pity : appealed to every thing 
 generous in his nature ; to every liberal senti- 
 ment ; to every fatherly feeling. A cold atten-
 
 102 THE father's curse. 
 
 tion to her words was, for a considerable time, 
 all she could obtain. At length, as if life seemed 
 to awaken again within him, he recovered his 
 wonted animation. His eyes fixed themselves 
 upon her, but not with their accustomed ten- 
 derness. A glazed fixedness usurped the place 
 of their usual expression, and a sternly sorrowful 
 composure sat upon his brow. He spoke, and 
 the agitated listener hung upon his words with 
 the air of one who waited for the sentence of 
 life or death. He addressed her with solemnity ; 
 briefly, but forcibly, pointed out the probable 
 consequences of the attachment she had formed; 
 its evils, and, as he thought, its error. All this 
 was pronounced with a determined coolness 
 that she saw was the forerunner of some terrible 
 decision. It was so in fact, for he swore that 
 he never would consent to the union she de- 
 sired ; and that if she persisted in her deter- 
 mination to complete it, it was at her peril ; for 
 on its entire abandonment depended his ever 
 again acknowledging her for his child. 
 
 He left her with a calm and measured au- 
 sterity. Agnes remained for some time buried
 
 THE father's curse. 103 
 
 in thought ; but she gradually recovered her 
 accustomed serenity, and when she met her 
 father at the dinner-table, showed no change in 
 look or demeanour. He, on the contrary, was 
 silent and sorrowful; a dark and desperate 
 struggle seemed to work in his breast, but far 
 too deep to be betrayed by any common ex- 
 pression of pain. Agnes seemed to have re- 
 covered the shock, and to have already decided 
 on her future steps. She had got over the fear 
 of her father's determination, while he in his 
 turn now dreaded that resolution which she 
 possessed in common with himself, but in a 
 more forcible degree, from hers being natural, 
 and his assumed. She hoped in vain to con- 
 tinue her self-command, and he fruitlessly en- 
 deavoured to assume her tone ; but an involun- 
 tary restraint was the consequent effect of their 
 separate sensations, and it was as firmly esta- 
 blished as if it had been fixed by mutual 
 consent. He did not, therefore, object, a few 
 days afterwards, to a proposal of his wife, that 
 Agnes should go to pass some time at the 
 house of Eugenie. Le Vasseur had great
 
 104 THE father's curse. 
 
 reliance on the wisdom of Agnes, and he 
 thought that by leaving her to its unrestricted 
 sway, he was doing more toward the attainment 
 of his object, than by offering in restraint in- 
 centives to disobedience.
 
 THE father's curse. 105 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 On her arrival at St. Croix's she was met by 
 the impatient de Monigny. He too had seen 
 his father, and had as ineffectually endeavoured 
 to subdue his inveterate opposition. The only 
 point the indignant father would concede was a 
 confirmation of the trifling pension which he 
 had hitherto allowed him ; and on this inade- 
 quate sum the ardent lover resolved at all 
 hazards to attempt his own and his mistress's 
 support. The communication of their mutual 
 failure, and their mutual grief, seemed to bind 
 more closely their united hearts, for nature nor 
 art holds no cement like sympathy of woe. 
 
 St. Croix and Eugenie, who were now in the 
 confidence and counsel of the lovers, were pre- 
 sent at this interview. They had never seen 
 him so unmanned nor her so overcome. They 
 essayed their kindest efforts to console them,
 
 106 THE father's curse. 
 
 but finding all fruitless, they left them to them- 
 selves. 
 
 From this clay Agnes visibly pined away. 
 The glow of mind which formerly shone in her 
 face seemed overcast by a hopeless and im- 
 moveable affliction. Her eye was dull and her 
 cheek without bloom. No smile of pleasing 
 thought played round her parched and colour- 
 less lip. Her hair hung disordered over her 
 brow, and her hands fell listless by her side. 
 Her ear was open to all sounds ; but those of 
 joy awoke no echo in her brain, which seemed 
 to reverberate only to tones of grief and lamenta- 
 tion ; while the burning thought within con- 
 sumed her beauty and her happiness. 
 
 Her father saw her wasting away, and he 
 himself appeared to decline as fast as she did. 
 The secret of her attachment became known to 
 all the family, and while all participated in the 
 despondency of the father and daughter, they 
 nevertheless made many hopeless and forlorn 
 attempts to remove it. The manly remon- 
 strances of the eldest son, the entreaties of St. 
 Croix and Eugenie, the silent tears of the
 
 THE father's curse. 107 
 
 mother, the smihng endearment of the younger 
 children, were all tried in vain upon Le Vasseur. 
 He had throned himself upon a rock of resolu- 
 tion from which nothing could remove him; 
 but with the self-confident blindness, which 
 ever waits on obstinacy, he could see no danger 
 in it. He trusted to his vigorous resistance 
 gaining the victory in the end; and as his 
 solicitors, in the behalf of Agnes, dropped off 
 one by one from their energetic efforts, he only 
 waited for the hour when she herself should 
 pay the tribute to his determination, by yielding 
 up her lover for her father's sake. 
 
 On this principle he did not even oppose her 
 seeing de Monigny, for not doubting the result, 
 he hoped his triumph would be the greater. 
 This feeling did not proceed from any selfish 
 or unworthy vanity ; but he looked forward to 
 the good effects of the example on his other 
 children, and knew that it would be striking in 
 proportion to its strength. Agnes, therefore, 
 was frequently at St. Croix's, and saw de 
 Monigny often and unrestrained. His passion 
 seemed to grow with every hour, and his
 
 108 THE father's curse. 
 
 urgency for their marriage with every obstacle. 
 Her attachment was tenderly but placidly evi- 
 dent; and her friends, affected by her worn 
 and wasted appearance, urged her, upon ^ the 
 time of her reaching the age which authorized 
 her by law, to join herself to her lover in 
 defiance of an unjust and positive parent. De 
 Monigny was not backward in arguments to 
 persuade her to this step ; and Agnes herself 
 knew that it must be the final alternative. 
 
 But as the day of her legal emancipation 
 from parental authority arrived, she determined 
 to make one effort more to melt the obduracy 
 of Le Vasseur. At the very hour on which 
 she completed her twenty-first year, she broke 
 in unexpectedly on the retirement of his study, 
 and flung herself upon his neck. He under- 
 stood and Jelt the appeal, and for a moment his 
 arms instinctively closed around her. *' Oh, 
 my father I my dear father !" cried Agnes, 
 ** drive me not to utter despair. You know not 
 what you are doing by your rigid resolution. 
 Give me your consent to be happy and re- 
 spectable. You must, you must 1' Her sobbing
 
 THE father's curse. 109 
 
 rendered further speech impossible, but her 
 choked and convulsive efforts to articulate 
 told that she had a v/orld of arguments to 
 urge. She would have gone on, but her father, 
 gently disengaging himself, desired her, in a 
 tone scarcely audible, to leave him. She would 
 not, however, be repulsed. She clung to him 
 as he strove to escape from her embrace. Her 
 tears rolled upon his cheeks, and she even 
 thought his own were mingled with them. But 
 even if they were, they had not power to wash 
 away his firm resolution. He gathered all the 
 firmness of his voice, and repeated his deter- 
 mination to see her die, and to die himself, 
 sooner than give the required consent ; and he 
 was at last obliged forcibly to put her from him, 
 and to escape from the struggle which he 
 doubted his power to prolong. 
 
 That interview of misery was the last in 
 which she ever saw her father. As soon as she 
 could recover her presence of mind, and suf- 
 ficient bodily strength, she arose and left the 
 apartment. Without delay, or consultation 
 with any of the family, she hurried from the
 
 110 THE father's curse. 
 
 house, and in the unfixed wildness of despau' 
 she traversed the road which led to the resi- 
 dence of her sister. Arrived there, she com- 
 municated the result of her attempt to^ de 
 Monigny, St. Croix, and Eugenie. Her reso- 
 lution was now unequivocal ; and an immediate 
 application, as prescribed by the laws, was 
 made on her part to her father, demanding his 
 consent to her intended marriage. A prompt 
 refusal was the consequence. Another and 
 another demand, followed by negatives, as 
 steady and inflexible, left nothing which public 
 rule considered as obstacles ; and the necessary 
 previous ceremonials being gone through, de 
 Monigny led his affianced bride to the presence 
 of the public officer, before whom the inviolable 
 contract was required to be solemnized. They 
 were attended by St. Croix and Eugenie — no 
 more. How different to the glad procession 
 which usually accompanies a wedded couple ! 
 How unlike the expensive and joyous celebra- 
 tion of Eugenie's own nuptials ! Instead of the 
 gaudy crowd, showering flowers and blessings 
 on the youthful pair, there was no one to be
 
 THE FATHEirS CURSE. Ill 
 
 seen but some gazing stragglers, attracted to 
 the spot by uninterested and listless curiosity. 
 The friends of both families kept far away, or 
 if a passing few encountered by chance the 
 progress of the bridal party, they hurried from 
 the path with averted eyes, as if there were con- 
 tagion in its train. A beggar or two gave their 
 common-place and sordid benediction, — and 
 thus escorted they entered the public office. 
 The mayor, who was an intimate friend of de 
 Monigny's father, went through the duty which 
 his situation imposed on him with a cold and 
 sullen reserve. The greffier, who registered 
 the contract, had his part in the gloomy com- 
 bination, and seemed anxious to engraft on his 
 ill-favoured visage a scion from the stem of his 
 superior's disdain ; while the ragged clerk, who 
 affixed the seal of office, strove to redouble the 
 reflections of authority in his gruff and greasy 
 countenance, and stamped the arms of the town 
 with an energy so startling, as to tell that an 
 unmuttered imprecation lent its impulse to the 
 act. 
 
 Every thing was blank and joyless. The
 
 112 THE father's curse. 
 
 looks of de Monigny depicted none of the fervid 
 earnestness of expectant love, and Agnes was 
 the living illustration of misery. St. Croix and 
 Eugenie felt the infection, and no congratu- 
 latory embrace echoed round the wide and 
 silent chamber. The party walked away ; nor 
 did the hallowed solemnities of religion follow 
 the celebration of the civil ceremony, which 
 was all that the law required. They were one, 
 — it was enough. They returned to the house 
 of St. Croix, and the morrow ushered in no 
 sounds of merriment, nor shone upon a face of 
 new-born rapture. 
 
 Declining the longer participation of St. 
 Croix's residence, the new-married couple re- 
 moved the following day to a little cottage on 
 his grounds, hastily fitted up for their recep- 
 tion. Cheerless and sad, it contained nothing 
 by which the residence of the newly-married 
 may be almost invariably recognized. If ele- 
 gance be wanting, or even the necessary comforts 
 of life, there is at least, with scarcely an excep- 
 tion, in the homeliest hut where wedded love 
 first settles, a glow of genird kind ; a breathing
 
 THE father's curse. 113 
 
 of indifference to worldly cares ; a heaven of 
 blithe enjoyment which defies both poverty and 
 ill-fate. But if one exception ever did exist 
 to this generally blessed lot, it was now, in the 
 hopeless home of Agnes and her husband. 
 
 It was summer; and the unsheltered cot 
 received the angry beams of the sun without 
 any respite or relief: the hard earthen floor, 
 the rough and unpainted walls, the scanty fur- 
 niture, one ignorant, uncivilized attendant, all 
 threw an air of utter wretchedness around, and 
 " misery" seemed written on the walls. Some 
 of the kind-hearted neighbours, by presents, 
 added to the bountiful supplies of St. Croix and 
 Eugenie, would have rendered this hopeless 
 situation more tolerable ; but they were all 
 rejected with a pride that seemed to spring 
 from bitterness of soul. Even the friendly 
 visits of the few who still would cling to the 
 unfortunate were declined ; and none admitted, 
 with the sole exception of the physician, the 
 old and tried friend of the family. The pre- 
 sence of even Eugenie and St. Croix appeared 
 at first unwelcome, and was in a little time 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE father's curse. 
 
 wholly refused; while the frequent efforts of 
 Madame Le Vasseur and her other children to 
 see the unhappy Agnes were all in vain. 
 
 The mystery hanging over this resolute and 
 unmitigated seclusion at length determined the 
 anxious mother to gain an entrance by strata- 
 gem; and accordingly one night, when dark- 
 ness and rain left her approach less than ever 
 suspected, she hastened towards the cottage of 
 de Monigny attended by St. Croix. Eugenie, 
 being in expectation of soon becoming again a 
 mother, could not venture to join the party. 
 
 Just four months had now elapsed from the 
 day of Agnes' marriage ; and her mother had 
 for some weeks abandoned her oft-repeated so- 
 licitations for admission. Her agitation on ap- 
 proaching the bleak and lonely habitation be- 
 came extreme. She thought of her own home 
 comforts, and the comparative elegancies which 
 surrounded Eugenie. She asked herself which 
 of the sisters was most worthy ; and the bitter- 
 ness of self-answering recollections quite over- 
 powered her. She wept aloud, and was led on 
 unresisting, by the guidance of St. Croix, en-
 
 THE father's curse. 115 
 
 deavouring to stifle the audible expression of 
 her distress. As they came close to the house, 
 the low murmuring of voices from within made 
 them pause for a moment, and they saw, through 
 the half-opened shutters of the little parlour 
 window, the hapless owners of this mansion of 
 misery. They were seated at a coarse and 
 rustic table : a solitary lamp, placed upon the 
 chimney, threw its melancholy beam upon the 
 wan and hollow countenances of Agnes and de 
 Monigny. The former was busily employed 
 at needle-work, and her husband, with looks of 
 compassionate meaning, seemed striving to give 
 her comfort. 
 
 Madame Le Vasseur could gaze no longer. 
 She raised the latch of the door, — for no pre- 
 cautions close the houses of these remote and 
 secluded parts : but if robbers did infest the 
 country, there was little temptation for their at- 
 tacks in the scanty possessions of de Monigny. 
 The sudden opening of the door made him now 
 start from his chair, and when he recognized 
 the intruders, a flush of anger rose upon his pal- 
 lid cheek ; but he suppressed his emotion and 
 
 i2
 
 116 THE father's curse. 
 
 turned to Agnes, who, in the first movement of 
 surprise, and unguarded affection, advanced to 
 embrace her mother. But Madame Le Vasseur 
 for a moment shrunk back. A thousand -con- 
 flicting sensations rushed at once across her 
 mind, for as her eye caught the self-betraying 
 form of Agnes, she saw with a glance that she 
 was in the most advanced state of pregnancy. 
 The recollection of her situation came like 
 lightning to the memory of Agnes. She made 
 an effort to fold her robe around her ; and as 
 the first astonished pang of Madame Le Vas- 
 seur subsided, and as she was hurrying forward 
 to meet the proferred embrace of her daughter, 
 the returning consciousness of the latter made 
 her sink with empty arms into her chair. 
 
 The remainder of the interview may be bet- 
 ter imagined than described. The astonished 
 St. Croix hastened back to convey the un- 
 expected news to Eugenie ; while Madame Le 
 Vasseur spent the remainder of the night in 
 assurances of forgiveness, and many a com- 
 mon-place, though heartfelt condolence, quite 
 lost on the despairing listener.
 
 THE FATHER''s curse. 117 
 
 The dawning of a heavy morning broXight no 
 gleam of hope to the afflicted group, but it 
 showed more plainly to the mother the ravages 
 which a little time had made in her once beauti- 
 ful and blooming child. Her anguish was al- 
 most insupportable ; and she saw that she but 
 added to the distress of Agnes, who seemed 
 overpowered and bent down under the con- 
 viction that \\Qv Jathers curse awaited his dis- 
 covery of her situation. With this feeling she 
 implored her mother to keep the secret from 
 him, and to give her a chance of dying un- 
 betrayed. She uttered no reproach against 
 him, nor did she shelter her offence with the 
 plea which his obstinate opposition might have 
 given her, even when confessing to her mother, 
 that the day of his resolute unkindness, on dis- 
 covering her attachment, was that in which the 
 despair of Monigny and herself led to the fatal 
 forgetfulness of his duty, and the fall of her 
 honour. But she now looked upon the past 
 without pain, and mechanically made prepara- 
 tions for the future ; while her whole powers of 
 thought and feeling were concentrated in the
 
 118 THE father's curse. 
 
 dread of that malediction, which once riveted 
 her to the earth, although launched against 
 another. 
 
 Her mother, to quiet her fears, told her that 
 she would be discreet ; and, assuring her that 
 her secret should be safe from her father, she 
 left her somewhat more composed. On the 
 return of Madame Le Vasseur to St. Croix's, 
 however, she, in concert with them, agreed to 
 make every thing known to her husband. They 
 unanimously agreed, that much was to be ex- 
 pected from his natural tenderness upon his 
 hearing the truth of Agnes's suffering, and from 
 the strong affection towards her, which was best 
 evinced by his wretchedness ever since the fatal 
 hour in which he drove her from his bosom. 
 Full of the most benevolent hopes, they hastened 
 to his house; and without formal or settled 
 plan, the intelligence burst from them, in an 
 united disclosure, which none of them could 
 have made individually, but which they trusted 
 he could not thus withstand the force of. 
 
 Le Vasseur heard them in silence. A smile 
 was curling his lip. They thought it incredulity.
 
 THE father's curse. 119 
 
 but it was despair! His hands trembled, his 
 colour went and came, he sunk back in his chair, 
 burst into a fit of loud hysterical laughter, and 
 would have gone mad, had he not had relief in a 
 passionate flood of tears. They were the first 
 he had shed for many a day. When he came 
 a little to himself he motioned to the door, and 
 there was an awful dignity in his gesture which 
 commanded immediate obedience. They left 
 him ; and in less than ten minutes they saw a 
 servant leave the court-yard on horseback, at 
 full speed, with a letter in his hand. 
 
 With that wilful deception which the most 
 desperate cases cannot conquer, Madame Le 
 Vasseur, Eugenie, and even St. Croix^ felt con- 
 vinced that the letter contained the pardon of 
 Agnes. They proceeded once more to Le Vas- 
 seur's study, in half-satisfied anxiety that their 
 belief would be confirmed. They were admitted. 
 Le Vasseur was sitting in his chair, calm and 
 unimpassioned. They ardently inquired what 
 were the contents of his letter. Suddenly start- 
 ing up, with a look of phrensy, and a tone of 
 fearful energy, he cried, " my curse !"
 
 120 THE father's curse. 
 
 Some hours after Madame Le Vasseur had 
 quitted Agnes in the morning, the effects of 
 the sudden and long protracted agitation be- 
 came apparent in the latter. She felt every 
 symptom of approaching delivery, and her hus- 
 band hastened off to the town, which was at 
 some distance, where resided the physician, 
 who, being in her confidence throughout, ex- 
 pected the summons. Hardly had de Monigny 
 lost sight of his dwelling, when the servant 
 bearing Le Vasseur's letter arrived. The ig- 
 norant girl who had the care of her mistress 
 immediately handed her the letter ; and Agnes, 
 recognizing her father's writing, opened it with 
 the eagerness of hope. - She forgot for a mo- 
 ment her pains, and lost all sense of suffering 
 in the magic of expectation. Her eye ran 
 quickly over the few lines contained in the bil- 
 let, when the horror-struck servant saw her sink 
 back in the bed, uttering a piercing scream, the 
 herald of a fit of violent convulsion. Shrieks of 
 maniac wildness, the voice of mingled agony 
 and delirium, burst loudly from her, and ceased 
 but with one fierce and closing spasm, which, at
 
 THE father's curse. 121 
 
 one and the same moment, gave birth to a fine 
 female child, and broke the heart of the ill-fated 
 mother !r 
 
 As de Monigny returned towards home, ac- 
 companied by the doctor, they heard the terrific 
 accents. As they neared the house, the shriek 
 was hushed ; and when they entered, Agnes was 
 quite dead. The distracted servants, who stood 
 by her side, did not think of going out to meet 
 the husband's approach ; and as he rushed into 
 the room, breathless and abrupt, such was the 
 spectacle which met his sight. 
 
 The following evening Agnes was privately 
 buried in the neighbouring cemetery, her hand, 
 even in the grave, grasping the fatal letter 
 which was the warrant of her death, and which 
 had been in vain attempted to be taken from it. 
 St. Croix and her younger brothers followed her 
 to the grave. The eldest fled from his father's 
 house, overwhelmed by the double shame which 
 had fallen on his family, and the infatuated se- 
 verity which had perpetuated its disgrace. Eu- 
 genie was dreadfully shocked on learning her 
 sister's fate ; but the fears were exaggerated of
 
 122 THE father's curse. 
 
 those who thought the intelHgence would have 
 endangered her safety. 
 
 The infant was alive and well at the time I 
 heard these particulars, and had not to that day 
 received a morsel of nourishment, except from 
 the hands of its inconsolable father.
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 " They who, by accident, have some inevitable and 
 indelible mark on their persons, if they want not virtue, 
 
 generally prove fortunate." 
 
 Lord Bacon.
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 I TOOK a boat on the Garonne, in the fall 
 of the year, that treacherous season, when the 
 varying tints of the foHage, Hke the hectic flush 
 of consumption, make us forget the decay of 
 nature, while admiring its loveliness. I sailed 
 down the river as far as Pauilhac, a little port 
 some leagues from its mouth ; a kind of halting- 
 place for vessels bound to Bordeaux, as Graves- 
 end is to London. 
 
 The views on this part of the Garonne are 
 fine, but can be scarcely called picturesque. 
 The stream is too wide, its banks not high 
 enough, and the country beyond too flat to en- 
 title the landscape to that epithet so dear to 
 travellers. But there are some interesting- 
 points : Lormont, for example, a village on the
 
 126 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 right hand, inhabited chiefly by ship-builders, 
 as is evident, from the many skeletons and 
 newly-finished vessels standing on the stocks. 
 A height rises abruptly behind the houses; 
 and, being covered with vineyards to the top, 
 has, till late in the season, a very cheerful and 
 even romantic appearance. Some villages of 
 less note ; occasional villas belonging to the 
 gentry of Bordeaux ; the round fort in the 
 middle of the river, called, from its shape, le 
 pate ; and the towns of Bourg and Blaye, with 
 the citadel of the latter, are the other stationary 
 objects which attract attention. Then you have 
 the ships scudding up or down the river; all 
 sails set, and all hearts joyous, if the wind is 
 fair ; tacking and labouring, should it be foul. 
 An occasional steam-boat is seen, plodding 
 along like a Dutch merchant, enveloped in 
 smoke, and turning neither to right nor left; 
 while many little fishing smacks and pilot boats 
 dance gaily on the waves, and plunge their 
 prows through the spray. 
 
 I have not, perhaps, done justice to the 
 beauties of the Garonne ; but it must be re-
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 127 
 
 membered that I paint it below Bordeaux, as it 
 appears to a man coming down the country, his 
 mind filled with the inspiration of much finer 
 scenes. Sailing up the river, after a voyage of 
 some weeks, the impressions it excites are far 
 different. I know this by experience ; for I 
 well recollect, that after the tedium of the sea, 
 and the tossing of the Bay of Biscay, in one of 
 its angriest moods, I thought the light-house of 
 Cordouan the model of architecture, the bleak 
 sands at the river's mouth the perfection of rural 
 loveliness, and every spot as we ascended a little 
 isolated Eden. 
 
 I need not tell my readers that the confluence 
 of the Garonne and the Dordogne, just above 
 Blay^, forms the Gironde, an extensive estuary, 
 with all the attributes of the sea. A few leagues 
 below this junction of the rivers I stepped out 
 of the boat on the beach of Pauilhac, followed 
 by Ranger, and accompanied by the ennui oc- 
 casioned by my four hours' lazy voyage. 
 
 In visiting Medoc, I meant — the phrase is 
 admissible from a sportsman — to kill two birds 
 with one stone ; viz. to see the principal growths
 
 128 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 of those wines so palatable to us under the name 
 of claret, and to enjoy two or three days' good 
 shooting, which had been promised to me by a 
 Bordeaux friend. But man is himself no better 
 than the sport of chance and circumstance, and 
 his most settled purposes are often, like scat- 
 tered covies, disturbed and routed by feelings 
 beyond their control, and which worry them 
 without leave or licence. The morning after 
 my arrival at Pauilhac, the glimpse of one old 
 chateau was sufficient to drive both my pur- 
 poses totally out of my head. 
 
 Having risen early, and taken to the road, 
 I was proceeding towards the grounds of my 
 friend, when this before-mentioned chateau ly- 
 ing in my path, I inquired of an old peasant the 
 name of its owner. Stopping for a moment from 
 his work of hedge-cutting, he turned round and 
 answered, " The Marchioness de la Roche- 
 Jacquelin." 
 
 "Indeed!" cried I, "is she here, then?" 
 " Here ! every body, who knows any thing of 
 the marchioness, knows that she's at Paris," 
 repUed he, astonished, it would seem, at my
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 129 
 
 local ignorance, and in a tone of reproof, which 
 seemed to accuse me of having insinuated an 
 acquaintance to which I had not the shghtest 
 pretension. 
 
 " Indeed, my friend," returned I, " I do know 
 a great deal of the marchioness, although J 
 never saw her, and was not aware of her re- 
 sidence." 
 
 Our conversation ended here ; and, wishing 
 him a good morning, I walked towards the next 
 village. A full tide of thought was rushing on 
 my brain, and the name which had been just 
 mentioned to me opened every sluice of me- 
 mory. My whole mind was filled with the 
 remembrance of La Vendee, so chastely and 
 beautifully illustrated in the work of that in- 
 teresting woman, whose property I now trod 
 on. It was a situation fit to recal the emotions 
 which I had so often experienced in La Vendee 
 itself — that ground once eminent, and always 
 sacred — and I felt my pulse swell, and my bosom 
 throb, as they were wont to do, while standing 
 on the spot immortalized by some glorious ac- 
 tion, I paid my homage to heroism in its own 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 I'^iO LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 peculiar sanctuary. This is to me of all parts 
 of France the most interesting: it is full of 
 associations of the most inspiring nature; it 
 awakens every thing lying dormant in the mind 
 that bears relationship to valour or to virtue ; 
 it breathes an air of sympathy and sorrow into 
 the heart, and arouses at once recollections of 
 heroic devotion, and indignation for the ruin of 
 this its noblest temple. 
 
 La Vendee, despoiled and desolated, is no 
 longer what it was. The face of nature is not 
 changed, but the movements which were wont 
 to light up its features are gone by. The 
 thickly -wooded landscape is the same as ever ; 
 the verdant mass of foliage, the gushing rivu- 
 lets, the rising hillocks, the scattered villages, 
 still show themselves. Isolated chateaux raise 
 here and there their red-tiled roofs above the 
 aged oaks ; and many a blackened wall shows 
 you where others stood, and what destroyed 
 them. Man, too, is there : in fact, the district 
 still exists, in all the visible signs of life ; but 
 the fine soul of its inspiration is no more. The 
 mild, yet hardy nature of the people, is not
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 131 
 
 quite changed ; they are still hospitable, bene- 
 ficent, and brave ; their cottages and their 
 hearts are open to the stranger; they share 
 with him their humble fare, and the fulness of 
 their sorrows — but they are a broken-down 
 race. Their courage shines out on a sudden 
 impulse or unexpected excitement ; but the na- 
 tural tone of former intrepidity has died away in 
 the artificial efforts which tyranny forced from 
 them. The quickening impulse of domestic 
 example has long ceased to animate the pea- 
 sants of La Vendee. They see no more the 
 lords of their idolatry living among them in the 
 fellowship of honourable association, holding 
 out the arm of power to cherish, not to crush, 
 their followers ; giving notions of right, not by 
 precept, but by action ; teaching religion, not 
 by persecution, but by piety ; endearing peace, 
 by deeds of quiet virtue ; and leading to battle 
 by such spirit-stirring words as these : " If I 
 advance, follow me ; if I shrink back, kill me ; 
 if I die, revenge me* !" 
 
 * Henri de la Roche-Jacquelin.
 
 132 LA VILATNE TETE. 
 
 Such was the oft-indulged train of thought 
 that came revived and fresh upon me as I now 
 walked up to the rustic inn, whose designation 
 was a withered branch of fir-tree, stuck in the 
 wall, and a roughly-coloured print below it, 
 representing a couple of jolly fellows sitting, 
 glasses in hand, beside a huge crimson bottle, 
 which shot forth a cloud of blue froth. " Good 
 March beer," in large letters at the foot, was 
 the key to this hieroglyphic, and a signal of 
 invitation to the thirsty passenger. Sure of a 
 w elcome in the common home of every wan- 
 derer with sixpence in his pocket, I entered 
 the house, and asked if I could have a bed for 
 the night. A little hesitation on the part of 
 the host, a few frivolous questions about my 
 passport from the landlady, and some sly looks 
 of mingled suspicion and coquetry from her 
 chubby and sun- burnt daughter, all ended in 
 the grant of my demand, and in my instalment 
 in a snug little room looking out upon the gar- 
 den. Being fairly in possession, I bethought 
 myself of a very important and oft-required as- 
 sistant in the arrangements of all men, but par-
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. ISS 
 
 ticularly of those who carry their wardrobe on 
 their shoulders — I mean a washerwoman. 
 
 " O yes, sir/"* said the landlord's daughter, 
 " to be sure, there 's a washerwoman in the vil- 
 lage. — Shall I run and look for her ? " 
 
 " If you please, after you have given me my 
 breakfast.'' 
 
 The washerwoman came in consequence ; 
 and, as I offered her a glass of wine from my 
 bottle, she thanked me with an accent which I 
 knew at once to be Vendean. " What, you too 
 are from La Vendee!" exclaimed I. "Alas! 
 yes, sir," said she, " many a long day ; though 
 I seem to bear the token marked on my tongue 
 as firmly as it is stamped in my heart." — She 
 here wiped a tear from her eye. The poor 
 woman had a very ill-favoured countenance ; 
 and as to the rest of her person, I can only 
 say with Milton, that she had *' fit body to fit 
 head ; " thus aflPording another proof that pro^ 
 portion may be prejudicial to the cause of 
 beauty. 
 
 Her birth-place was, however, enough to en- 
 sure her my regard. We entered deeply into
 
 134 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 chat ; and, in return to my many questions about 
 the circumstances of the celebrated Madame de 
 la Roche-Jacquelin and her family, she gave 
 me much information. This, though interesting 
 to the sensitive or curious reader, being of pri- 
 vate and existing individuals, I do not feel my- 
 self warranted, by any example, to make public. 
 Our conversation insensibly turned on tales 
 of La Vendee ; and half a day was thus spent 
 before the old washerwoman bundled up my 
 
 little packet of two shirts, two pair of psha ! 
 
 no matter — and bade me good evening. My 
 mind was full of the subject; and forgetting, 
 for that night, both vineyards and partridges, 
 I sketched the following true story, which, at 
 my leisure, I put into its present form. 
 
 ^%
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 135 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 There is no truth more obvious than that 
 vicious times aiFord the best field for the display 
 of virtue ; and never was the axiom more fully 
 exemplified than during the progress of the 
 French Revolution. Many people find it hard 
 to mingle notions of virtue with the memory of 
 that event; yet gratitude, humanity, and honour 
 were never more frequent — because so many 
 opportunities for their exertion have been rarely 
 ever afforded. Such quahties as these are best 
 understood by contrast; and, in fact, require 
 the display of their opposites to bring them 
 into action. Bad passions and bad men obtrude 
 themselves upon us : the good must be called 
 forth to be observed. Evil forms the fore- 
 ground of the social picture, but brings out, 
 rather than conceals, the amiable and mild 
 perspective. The country, and the period in 
 question, formed the mighty frame- work of this 
 moral exhibition ; and it was in La Vendee that
 
 136 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 human nature appeared abstractedly the worst. 
 It was there, too, that more instances of virtue 
 occurred than in any other part. There the 
 most hateful passions were let loose : French- 
 man warred against Frenchman ; the son bat- 
 tled against the father; brother was opposed 
 to brother: yet there it was, amidst rapine, 
 hatred, and revenge, that all the finer feelings 
 of the heart were seen to flourish ; 
 
 " Not in the sunshine and the smiles of Heaven, 
 But wrapp'd in whirlwinds, and begirt with woes." 
 
 In this isolated region resistance to the re- 
 volutionary spirit was not caused by feelings of 
 a political nature. They were strictly private, 
 and therefore more pure. It was not that the 
 Vendeans wished to uphold the prerogatives of 
 the crown, or the errors of the court. They 
 were unconnected with the one, and ignorant 
 of the other. The name of king excited in 
 them feelings of endearment only as it was con- 
 nected with the nobihty, under whom they hved 
 and thrived. Had these flung away their pri- 
 vileges and titles, the peasants would have been
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 137 
 
 as willingly republicans as royalists.' Their hardy 
 and unsophisticated minds cared nothing for 
 distinctions. They were happy ; they had every 
 right which they required ; and felt that attach- 
 ment which free-born gratitude inspires. They 
 took arms to protect their lords from injury, 
 and their altars from pollution. Loyalty and 
 religion were blended with the more domestic 
 feelings ; and the only ill they feared was the re- 
 moval of that authority which elsewhere meant 
 abuse, but was to them protection. It is this 
 which sanctifies their struggles. Had the me- 
 mory of their bravery and their misfortunes 
 come to us merely as intrepid assertors of po- 
 litical rights, we should have felt for them all 
 the admiration and regret which is due to un- 
 successful courage. But the warriors of La 
 Vendee take hold of our sympathies by ten- 
 derer, and even stronger, ties. In the soldier 
 we see also the husband and the father. No 
 cold-blooded mercenaries come to claim our 
 compassion, but ardent patriots to command it. 
 We view them in all the energy of home de- 
 votion — in all the softness of fire-side endear-
 
 138 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 ment — in the strenuous exercise of domestic 
 honour. Not rushing on from the impulse of 
 unmeaning ambition, but rallying round their 
 brave commanders with all the warmth of family 
 regard; and fighting with them side by side 
 upon their native fields, at once the cradle of 
 their blessings and the sepulchre of their woes. 
 
 The events of the Vendean wars abound 
 with incidents of deep, but sorrowful interest. 
 The fortunes and fate of the rebel leaders most 
 naturally attract our attention ; but the suffer- 
 ing was so general, there was such a perfect 
 equality of wretchedness, that we cannot gaze 
 upon the devotion of the chief without mingling 
 our regards with that of his followers. Did I 
 choose to work on high- wrought feelings ; did 
 I want a hero of romantic endowment or won- 
 derous feats, they are to be had in rich abund- 
 ance; but such was not my object: I chose a 
 simpler theme and humbler actors, abandoning 
 for truth all views of exaltation. 
 
 In the heart of that part of this devoted pro- 
 vince, called Le Socage, stood a retired strag- 
 gling village, containing about twenty houses ;
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 139 
 
 but these were so irregularly scattered, that 
 they occupied a surface which might have suf- 
 ficed for ten times the number. This village 
 was far away from any high road ; and, being 
 skirted by impenetrable woods, and surrounded 
 by rising grounds, it is impossible to imagine a 
 more complete seclusion. The humble com- 
 munity by which it was occupied were ignorant 
 of the world, and did not wish for worldly know- 
 ledge. Their pastor, a mild and amiable man, 
 assured them that he had voluntarily renounced 
 it, and that the votaries of fashion held a lot 
 less happy than theirs. The seigneur, who 
 lived in the chateau close at hand, was another 
 practical example of the curate's veracity; for 
 he also had for many years abandoned the plea- 
 sures of high life, and lived among his peasan- 
 try, more like a father than a master. These 
 two authorities were all in all with the honest 
 creatures whom they governed, and with a sway 
 so gentle, that this influence was but their due. 
 Nothing w^as more reciprocally amiable than 
 the intercourse between these poor people, their 
 pastor, and their lord. In each gradation there
 
 140 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 was, to be sure, a variety of feeling; but it har- 
 monized so well together, that it would be hard 
 to point out the distinctions. 
 
 The church was a lowly edifice, suiting the 
 humility of the teacher and his flock. The 
 simple altar, and unornamented walls, formed a 
 striking contrast with the gorgeousness of me- 
 tropolitan embellishment ; and, notwithstanding 
 all that I have heard of " the majesty of reli- 
 gion," and the " magnificence of worship," I 
 doubt whether the gilding and polishing of a 
 Roman or Parisian temple ever reflected a con- 
 gregation more devout than that which filled 
 this modest sanctuary. — But nothing like fanati- 
 cism was known among them. They did their 
 duty too well to have leisure for excesses ; guilt 
 rarely sullied the round of their occupations* 
 The worthy curate often wept over the sorrows 
 to which all, alas! are subject; but he as often 
 smiled at the innocent eagerness with which his 
 parishioners would labour to convict themselves 
 of crime. Their confessions were frequent; 
 their penances slight ; and their absolution safely 
 conceded. They were, however, as gay as they
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 141 
 
 were pious, and as fond of dancing as of prayer. 
 They never neglected their devotions, or forgot 
 their pleasures. The grass plat before the little 
 church was the scene of their Sunday festivities ; 
 and probably neither religion nor recreation 
 was the worse for this affinity. The good priest 
 presided almost as regularly at the one as the 
 other. Reclined in the shade of a group of 
 elms, as old as the ivy-covered walls of the 
 church itself, his smiles gave a sanction to the 
 pleasures on which he gazed. The village con- 
 tained three or four musicians ; and the rustic 
 concert often charmed to the spot the seigneur 
 andhisfamily, with any occasional guest who hap- 
 pened to be at the chateau. There was among 
 the inhabitants an equality purely republican ; 
 but they were unruffled by those dreams of 
 vanity and ambition, to which even republicans 
 are subject. They were all alike poor, indus- 
 trious, well-disposed, and happy.- — To trace the 
 portrait of one family would be to give the 
 picture of all. 
 
 The cottages, too, were nearly all alike ; but 
 one was pre-eminent above the rest for the pe-
 
 142 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 culiar beauty of its situation and its neatness. 
 A French cottage, even now, when the pohtical 
 condition of the peasantry is so much improved, 
 brings no idea of outward comfort to the mind. 
 At the period in question its claims were still 
 less; and in our village external slovenliness 
 and dirt were as much apparent as in any other. 
 But one habitation formed a pleasing exception 
 to this general reproach. It stood apart from 
 the others, on the banks of a rivulet which ran 
 between the village and the wood. It was sur- 
 rounded by a small garden, kept neat and bloom- 
 ing. The walls were covered with creeping 
 shrubs; and flowering plants were placed 
 around, carefully cherished in winter, and in 
 summer fantastically arranged on benches built 
 against the cottage. The well, sunk, as is 
 usual, in the middle of the garden, and front of 
 the house, showed nothing of naked deformity 
 or uncouth ornament. Its wall, rising about 
 three feet from the ground, was surrounded by 
 a little hedge of myrtle and rose-trees, which, 
 in the season of bloom and beauty, showed a 
 profusion of gay flowers. A couple of vines
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 145 
 
 were trained along the front of the cottage, 
 and their stems carefully preserved by a wooden 
 covering nailed round them. Every thing 
 within was in unison with the simple neatness 
 without. The room, which served as kitchen 
 and parlour, was furnished scantily, but clean- 
 lily. The copper vessels shone bright on the 
 walls, and the table and chairs were white from 
 regular and careful scouring. The sleeping 
 apartment had a comfortable bed ; a small closet 
 adjoining the kitchen held another; and a 
 couple of presses were well stocked with coarse, 
 but wholesome linen, a luxury enjoyed by the 
 French peasants to what we might think excess. 
 The owner of this humble, yet enviable man- 
 sion, was an old woman, bent down with age 
 and infirmity. Her whole stay and solace in 
 the world was her grandaughter, whom she 
 had brought up — an orphan from the cradle. 
 This poor girl was every thing that she could 
 desire, except in one respect; and possessed 
 all that her situation required, but one ad- 
 vantage, with which, it must be confessed, there 
 are few who can well entirely dispense. Jean-
 
 144 LA VILAINE TETK. 
 
 nette was amiable, cheerful, tender-hearted; a 
 good spinner, active in household affairs, and 
 pious ; but beauty formed no part of her pos- 
 sessions ; for she was in appearance ugly — not 
 simply 'plain, but downright ugly. This utter 
 absence of personal advantages had procured 
 her among the neighbours the title of" la vilaine 
 tete^ To let the reader judge whether or not 
 exaggeration had suggested this epithet, the 
 following portrait is given ; and coming from a 
 friendly hand, its truth may be relied on. 
 
 Jeannette was — but the pen refuses to pro- 
 ceed ! It is, in truth, but an ungracious task, 
 and cannot be persevered in. How different 
 are the efforts to depict the traits of beauty ! 
 There is, indeed, enjoyment in dwelling on their 
 memory : in essaying, however vainly, to com- 
 mit to paper with pen or pencil the impressions 
 they stamp upon the mind : in striving to trace 
 out those indelible, yet shadowy recollections, 
 which flit before the fancy so fairy-like, so 
 lovely, so evanescent ; inspiring to pursuit, yet 
 baffling every effort at detention. How I have 
 laboured at this hopeless task ! How strove to
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 145 
 
 do justice by description to that face and form 
 which are ever before my eyes ! How, while I 
 thought to fashion out one feature, has the me- 
 mory of another swam upon my brain, con- 
 founding all in an overflow of blending loveli- 
 ness ! Even now, they seem to float before my 
 gaze in the unfading sweetness which needs no 
 contrast to increase it, which time and distance 
 purify, but weaken not. But — but to return 
 to my heroine ; that is, to poor Jeannette. 
 There are cases where 'tis best to leave the 
 reader to himself; and this is one. Imagination 
 may complete the portrait I would have com- 
 menced, without fearing to err by extravagance : 
 let it paint her ever so unprepossessing in ap- 
 pearance, and it cannot go too far. 
 
 Jeannette, unlike most people, cared but 
 little for that which she did not possess ; and 
 was rather disposed to dwell upon those com- 
 pensations which nature had given her. She 
 knew that she was ugly — very ugly — but she 
 felt that she was strong and healthy, and her 
 composure was not ruflled. Her grandmother's 
 cottage contained but little looking-glass Xo 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 throw reflections on her defect, and the neigh- 
 bours were too good-natured to supply so un- 
 kind an office. I really believe that she thought 
 so seldom of her face, and heard so little to 
 make her remember it, that she only knew of 
 its peculiarities from the faithful but officious 
 brook in which she was accustomed to wash the 
 linen of the cottage, and that of the neighbour- 
 ing chateau, confided to her care. This was her 
 chief employment, and, taking pride in doing it 
 well, she was early distinguished as the best 
 savonneuse in the village, and her own and her 
 grandmother's caps and kerchiefs were by far 
 the most conspicuous for their whiteness and 
 getting up. This early accomplishment turned 
 afterwards, as we shall see, to good account. 
 
 Jeannette, it will be easily believed, dreamt 
 not of love or marriage. She certainly was 
 never tempted to one nor the other. But some- 
 how she never wanted a partner at a dance ; 
 her garden, in which she had such pride, was 
 cultivated by the voluntary labours of the village 
 lads; did any thing go wrong in the cottage, 
 she was sure of the gratuitous aid of some
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 147 
 
 rustic mechanic ; and on her jour defete none of 
 the girls around could show more of those in- 
 teresting, though homely, tokens which affec- 
 tion presents to worth. Such is the power of 
 virtue, and such the value in which the French 
 peasants hold it, that Jeannette never knew 
 what it was to be slighted or forgotten. It is 
 true she was called la vilaine tete, but nick- 
 names in rustic society are by no means tokens 
 of ill-nature. A joke is there given and taken, 
 as it ought to be every where, in good part ; 
 and the bitter sarcasms of good-breeding find 
 no place in the unrefined enjoyments of country 
 life. Jeannette bore her designation with great 
 good humour, and custom quite reconciled her 
 to it. She knew it was very just, and therefore 
 was satisfied that she had no right to complain, 
 truth being, by persons of her rank in life, 
 seldom or never disguised. But she had an- 
 other appellation, which might have consoled 
 a more sensitive mind— that was, " The good 
 Jeannette.*" This was just as involuntary as 
 the other, and not a bit more sophistical; for 
 she was, to reverse a common expression, " as 
 
 l2
 
 148 LA VILATNE TETE. 
 
 good as she was ngly^'' — and that is sayiilg a 
 great deal. Whenever a child was ill, or an 
 old woman complaining, or if an accident hap- 
 pened to man or beast, Jeannette was ever one 
 of the first to offer her assistance, and the last 
 to discontinue it. She had also the great ad- 
 vantage of depriving envy of its sting ; for, was 
 one of her female companions ever so plain^ 
 she had a consolation in looking at Jeannette ; 
 and, was she ever so wretched, a comfort in 
 listening to her. Her advice was sought for 
 by her friends in all emergencies; and, what 
 was more wonderful, it was almost as certain to 
 be taken as asked. To make matters short, 
 and tell a plain fact in few words, she had the 
 blessings of the whole village, old and young. 
 
 Thus might she have run the quiet tenor of 
 her way, and gone in happy obscurity down the 
 stream of life, had not the public events which 
 agitated her country forced her from her re- 
 treat. It may be a question whether or not she 
 merits immortality. Even if she does, these 
 pages do not hope to secure her that reward. 
 Jeannette was exactly eighteen years of age
 
 LA VILAINE TKTE. 149 
 
 when the village tranquillity was first disturbed 
 by the sound of the tocsin of war. Alas ! how 
 wofully did that sound break over the stillness 
 of the gentle night, to the ears of those who 
 knew of what it was the signal. Jeannette was 
 not one of those. She and her young com- 
 panions had heard much of previous events." 
 Every day was hot with accounts of distant 
 movements and alarms ; but in the gaiety of 
 youth they believed that such disturbance could 
 never come home to them, and they had no 
 notion of the horrors they were so soon to 
 witness. Jeannette was in bed, and on the first 
 sound of the alarm-bell hurried on her clothes, 
 and looked from the lattice to ascertain the 
 quarter of the fire, supposing such to be the 
 cause of the summons. She looked out, but 
 all was darkness. No flame coloured the clouds 
 which rolled heavily above, nor tinged the trees 
 whose foliage overhung the cottage. The air 
 was impervious to her inquiring gaze, and the 
 low-breathing wind was scarcely strong enough 
 to rustle the leaves around. This unusual 
 repose of nature looked like the sleep of death.
 
 160 LA VILAINE TETE 
 
 Jeannette listened to the bell with a dread 
 which no visible danger could have inspired; 
 and she shuddered without knowing why. At 
 length murmuring voices came upon the air, 
 and a drum was loudly beaten. Shouts of 
 assembling men were soon distinguished, and 
 then the firing of distant musketry. Jeannette 
 trembled in every joint, and stole from the 
 closet where she slept, intending to pass softly 
 through the garden, to demand at the next 
 cottage the meaning of such awful sounds. She 
 entered the kitchen, and was surprised to hear 
 whisperings in her grandmother's apartment, 
 and opening the door she distinguished by the 
 glimmering of the little lamp, half-shaded to 
 conceal the light, the old woman and two of her 
 neighbours on their knees devoutly joined in 
 prayer. The entrance of Jeannette made them 
 start up in alarm ; while she, terrified at their 
 solemn and fear-stricken looks, flung herself 
 into her grandmother's arms, and burst into 
 tears. 
 
 When their agitation had subsided, Jeannette 
 resolved on going out into the road which
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 151 
 
 passed before the garden, and connected the 
 irregular and scattered cottages. She learned 
 enough, from her grandmother's melancholy 
 visitors, to know that the alarm without pro- 
 ceeded from the union of the villagers and the 
 neighbouring peasants, brought together by 
 the determination of the seigneur and the cure ; 
 who, tired of forbearance, had at length re- 
 solved on rousing the parish to the aid of the 
 more forward opponents of the Revolution. 
 
 Jeannette resolved to go into the road and 
 view the passing scene. She did so, but a com- 
 parative tranquillity had succeeded the recent 
 tumult. Nothing was to be distinguished, but 
 she trod on well-known ground ; and, following 
 the murmur of retiring voices, she soon reached 
 the hillock upon which the church was built. 
 The great entrance was open; and, to the 
 astonishment of our heroine, a stream of light 
 issued from it, flinging a wild and solemn glare 
 upon the tall elms planted around. The pitchy 
 darkness of the night made the contrast more 
 striking, and the sighing of the increasing 
 breeze in the viewless branches seemed the
 
 152 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 utterance of awful and agitated nature. Scat- 
 tered groups of peasants passed now and then 
 across the illuminated space just opposite the 
 church door, as they emerged from the gloom 
 of one side, and with hurried pace, were lost in 
 a moment in the darkness of the other. Some 
 entered the church ; a few stood still in deep 
 and anxious conversation — but all were armed. 
 Weapons of various kinds were borne by those 
 sinewy arms, which grasped with indiscriminate 
 vigour whatever could be turned to purposes of 
 vengeance. As Jeannette leaned, pale and 
 trembling, against a tree, she was startled by 
 occasional shots from approaching parties of 
 peasants, and gradually a number of fires were 
 lighted on the rising grounds in the vicinity, 
 bursting up in columns of flame and smoke, and 
 casting a dark red gleam upon the woods 
 below. While Jeannette contemplated, with 
 breathless admiration, the impressive scene 
 before her, a splitting shout burst from the holy 
 edifice. She sprang from the earth at the 
 electric sound. It was so unnatural — so demon- 
 like, compared to the low murmurings of prayer
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 153 
 
 which were wont to breathe through the con- 
 secrated building, that she doubted for a moment 
 the reahty of what she heard. But another, of 
 still louder and more lengthened tone, brought 
 conviction to the agitated listener, who, hurried 
 by an uncontrollable impulse, hastened to the 
 open door to satisfy her intense and terrified 
 curiosity. She stopped awhile under the porch 
 which projected beyond the entrance. From 
 thence she gazed upon the scene within. A 
 mass of people of both sexes filled the body of 
 the church. They were standing, and as they 
 listened attentively to the discourse of the cure, 
 hundreds of bayonets, pikes, and other martial 
 instruments, glittered above their heads. The 
 altar was lighted up as if for more than a com- 
 mon occasion ; and on its steps stood the 
 seigneur, accoutred in all the irregular array of 
 rustic warfare. Beside him was the cure, 
 dressed in the full splendor of priestly decora- 
 tion. The first was a figure fit for the pencil 
 of Salvator Rosa ; hardy, inflexible, and firm. 
 His careless apparel, flung on with the romantic 
 grace of a bandit mountaineer; a leathern belt
 
 154 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 around his waist, its large steel buckle shining 
 between the rude carving of two enormous 
 pistols ; his left hand grasping the hilt of an 
 ancient and rusty sword ; the other supported 
 on the muzzle of a brass barrelled carbine :~ 
 his black eyes shooting fire, and his deep-knit 
 brow garnished by the raven curls which escaped 
 from beneath a crimson handkerchief, tied 
 tightly round his head ^. The priest might 
 have been supposed the embodied form of one 
 of Raphael's exquisite imaginings. His whole 
 expression calm, inspired, ineffable; his blue 
 eyes beaming with a light as if from heaven ; 
 the graceful drapery of his attire giving ad- 
 
 * This head-dress, common to the Vendean chiefs, was 
 adopted from their heroic comrade, Henri de la Roche- 
 Jacquelin, who was thus first distinguished in the revolu- 
 tionary battles. He made himself a mark for the bullets 
 of his enemies and the imitation of his friends. " Fire at 
 the red handkerchief !" was repeatedly cried by the re- 
 publicans who witnessed the uncommon valour of its 
 wearer. His danger being pointed out to him, made 
 Henri persist in what he had first done by chance ; and 
 to save him from particular risque, all his brave com- 
 panions followed his example. See The Memoir cs of 
 Madame de la Roche-Jacquelin.
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 155 
 
 ditional height to his tall spare form ; his sallow 
 cheeks showing, in transparent currency, the 
 blood which mantled through them. The sei- 
 gneur stood fixed and statue-like, as if motion 
 was stopped by the intensity of some determined 
 thought. The cure had his hands raised in the 
 energy of eloquence, while he harangued his 
 ardent congregation. The distance allowed but 
 a part of his oration to reach the wondering 
 ears of Jeannette. She, however, distinguished 
 enough to inform her that he was exciting his 
 listeners to battle, and promising them victory. 
 In the first instant of surprise she fancied her- 
 self the dupe of some illusion ; and she sought 
 to doubt the identity of those before her. Were 
 they not some impudent impostors, dressed in 
 masquerade ? Could that be the placid seigneur ? 
 Could that be the meek and merciful preacher 
 of forgiveness ? Such were the natural doubts 
 of the uninformed Jeannette. But it is not 
 strange that persecution should arouse the most 
 sensitive feelings of the soul, nor that for- 
 bearance should be turned to vengeance by the 
 hatred of oppression. So it was now with these
 
 156 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 altered associates, who seemed to revive the 
 days of old, when the high priest Joad preached 
 revolt against the tyranny of Athalia; or the 
 more recent times, when Peter the hermit 
 poured forth his irresistible eloquence to the 
 warriors of the cross. 
 
 Jeannette listened with a fixed and half-un- 
 willing conviction to the discourse of the vene- 
 rable ecclesiastic. His words appeared to flow 
 from the impulse of inspiration, and at every 
 pause reiterated shouts burst from the highly 
 excited throng. The skilful orator saw that 
 his point was gained. The energy of deep 
 devotion was blended with valorous ardour; 
 and, while enthusiasm seemed at its height, he 
 took from off the altar a flag of white silk. 
 With his face again turned to his audience, he 
 waved the snowy banner, in impassioned grace, 
 above his head. As it floated round him, his 
 long grey locks were agitated by the air — his 
 countenance beamed bright — his whole frame 
 was moved with fervid agitation, and he looked 
 the semblance of something more than mortal, 
 The peopled gazed on him awhile in reverential
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 157 
 
 silence, waiting for the sounds of his sonorous 
 and impressive accents. " Behold, my chil- 
 dren," he at length said, " the banner of your 
 God, your country, and your king !" The 
 crowd caught anew the lightning impulse from 
 his look, and a loud and long continued cry of 
 " God, our country, and our king !" re-echoed 
 through the church. " Let us now consecrate 
 this sacred symbol of virtue and of valour 1" 
 He performed the ceremony with pious fervour, 
 ^hen it was finished he spoke once more. 
 " Who now volunteers to guard the holy 
 banner?" Scarcely had he pronounced the 
 question, when a crowd of young men sprang 
 over the railing of the altar, and with bran- 
 dished swords hurried, in friendly contest, to 
 seize upon the flag. The seigneur assisted the 
 cure in repressing their zeal, and the former 
 exclaimed aloud, " No, my friends — be this 
 honour mine ! It is the only distinction I claim 
 from you. For the rest, we will march together 
 to the combat. We will fight side by side — 
 conquer together, or, if it must be so, die. 
 Look ever to this symbol of our cause : while
 
 158 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 it floats above me, the path of glory is not di- 
 stant: when it falls to earth — then dig your 
 standard-bearer's grave !" The young aspirants 
 yielded to the claim of their chief; spontaneous 
 acclamations again arose; the people flung 
 themselves into each others' arms ; while the 
 clashing of swords, and rolling of drums, formed 
 a wild and singular accompaniment to the en- 
 thusiasm and harmony of the scene. 
 
 The cure waved his hand. All was still. 
 " Raise now your voices to the throne of grace 
 — let your artless anthem bear on high the 
 prayer of Christians, and the vows of patriots !" 
 At these words the I'ural choir commenced a 
 strain of rough and vigorous melody, in which 
 the whole assemblage enthusiastically joined. 
 The air was more martial than religious, and an 
 unpremeditating pen had hastily adapted to 
 it some stanzas which appeared appropriate. 
 They were as follow : 
 
 I. 
 
 Why linger we here, when the tocsin afar 
 Through our villages rings ? — let us on to the war : 
 Let us on, ere the false one write shame on our crest. 
 To the battle, Vendeans — our banner is blest !
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 159 
 
 II. 
 
 Proud bearer, whose task is to guard it from stain. 
 Wave high the white symbol, and lead to the plain : 
 There be regicide cheeks that shall vie with its white. 
 As its tricolor rival sinks down in the fight. 
 
 III. 
 
 Let them come when they list, in their rebel array. 
 We have hearts for the onset, and swords for the fray : 
 For our homes and our altars to vengeance we spring. 
 And God shall be with us, for country and king. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Lead on, gallant bearer ! high blessing and vow 
 Have been breathed on our banner — why linger we now ? 
 Our weapons are out, and the scabbards flung by. 
 And we swear, by that standard, to conquer or die. 
 
 The effect of this chant, if not its harmony, 
 was greatly increased by being joined in by the 
 whole assembly. The untutored crash of such 
 a strain was stunning, bvit impressive. When 
 the last sounds ceased to reverberate, the cure 
 again shortly addressed the crowd. His looks 
 were once more changed — his eyes vvere filled 
 with tears. His voice faltered as he pro- 
 nounced his parting benediction. His accents 
 were those of tenderness and love, such as a
 
 160 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 fond father would utter when separating from a 
 favourite child. He had before raised their 
 minds to the highest pitch of exaltation, he now 
 melted their hearts. He told them to be merci- 
 ful, as he knew they would be brave ;' and 
 laboured to convince them that true courage 
 was ever blended with humanity. He then 
 cast over them the purifying water, symbolic of 
 the holy dew of righteousness ; and finally bade 
 them farewell, as, headed by the seigneur, they 
 sallied from the church; and the last words 
 uttered by his almost exhausted voice were, 
 " March firmly, my children — the God of battles 
 guides and guards you !" 
 
 The crowd rushed past Jeannette without 
 perceiving her, and almost unperceived. Her 
 whole attention was riveted on the interesting 
 being whose fervid eloquence had chained her 
 to the spot. She saw him at last sink down 
 upon a bench, as the last stragglers quitted the 
 church. Two or three attendants remained 
 with him, and with upturned eyes and quivering- 
 lips he seemed to murmur the remains of an 
 unfinished prayer. Jeannette turned towards
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 161 
 
 home, where, she began to recollect, she would 
 be anxiously expected. As she descended the 
 sloping ground, she looked around her. The 
 signal fires had almost all burned out. Here 
 and there an occasional burst of flame told that 
 the latest was expiring, and in some places a 
 mass of glowing embers relieved the sombre 
 shades. As she paused an instant at the foot 
 of the hillock, she turned towards the church. 
 The door was on the point of being closed, and 
 the stream of light shut from her. There was 
 no one near — all seemed desolate. The women 
 of the village had, together with those who 
 followed their husbands and fathers from the 
 country, almost all set out in mournful escort to 
 the departing warriors. A glimmering light 
 from a few of the cottages told that old age 
 or infirmity kept watch within. As Jeannette 
 reached her home, her own little beacon was 
 the only perceivable object, and nothing was to 
 be heard but the distant trampling of the fast- 
 going crowd, and the savage yet thrilling strains 
 of their loud-sung chorus. 
 
 But I must pass over the details of this por- 
 
 VOL, I. M
 
 16^ LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 tentous night, nor dwell upon topics of distress, 
 so often and so well described. From this mo- 
 ment no sounds of joy were heard in the once 
 happy village, if we except the shouts of OC' 
 casional triumph, resembling tiger-yellings more 
 than tones of natural delight. The church bell 
 no more rung out for prayers ; its tolling no\v 
 announced but blood and battle. The sports 
 and labours of the fields were abandoned for 
 their fiercer pursuits. Training, exercising, 
 marching, occupied the young men in their oc- 
 casional relaxations from combat, and the old 
 inhabitants had no heart for industry. The 
 cheerful Sunday ball no longer called the lasses 
 to its innocent enjoyment. A care-worn ex- 
 pression hung on every face, and haggard looks 
 gave evidence of sleepless nights and agitated 
 hearts. Each day was big with new events: 
 some fresh encounter, some impending danger, 
 some hard-earned victory. Many a gallant 
 youth of the village lay unburied on a distant 
 battle-field ; and others, after every action, re- 
 turned to die — wounded, worn down, and muti- 
 lated. The women took various parts in these
 
 LA VTLAINE TETE. 1G3 
 
 afflicting scenes. They were prohibited from 
 following the Vendean armies, and therefore 
 the great body remained, and performed all the 
 duties of guard-mounting and patrolling, like 
 experienced soldiers. But many, disguised as 
 men, girded on swords and mingled in the 
 ranks, leaving their aged parents or their in- 
 fants to the care of the feeble or the timorous 
 who staid behind. Our heroine was one of the 
 latter, for she possessed a tender, and even 
 weak, nature ; but she was eminently useful in 
 the natural occupations of her sex. The church 
 had been converted into a hospital, and under 
 the directions of the worthy cure, and a sur- 
 geon appointed to the charge, it was soon con- 
 sidered as one of the chief depots for the vic- 
 tims of war. The principal hospital of La 
 Vendee was at St. Laurent, a town on the river 
 Sevre, at a considerable distance from our vil- 
 lage ; and there was the chief rendezvous of 
 the Sceurs de Charite, that sublime association, 
 whose virtues half compensate for the folly or 
 the vice of other orders, wearing the semblance 
 of religion. Thus deprived of the services of 
 
 M 2
 
 164 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 the sisterhood, the women of the village were 
 obliged to supply those offices, to the perform- 
 ance of which the former were wholly con- 
 secrated. The hearts of the female peasants 
 readily prompted them to the arduous under- 
 taking ; and that knowledge of the simple medi- 
 cines of nature, and, above all, that benevolence 
 of disposition so general among this class in 
 France, fitted them well for the fulfilment of 
 such duties. 
 
 The secluded situation of the village spared 
 it for some time from the actual presence of 
 either army. It lay far from the high-road, 
 and was only resorted to for forage or recruits. 
 But soon the wide-spreading force of the Re- 
 publican arms drove the gallant warriors of La 
 Vendee to the most remote and difficult posi- 
 tions. The village became the head-quarters 
 of one of the retreating bodies of royalists, and 
 presented a scene quite novel to its remaining 
 inhabitants. Cannons, baggage-waggons, and 
 cavalry, continually moving through the road ; 
 drums and trumpets ever sounding; constant pa- 
 rades ; warlike accoutrements filling every cor-
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 165 
 
 Her and crevice of the cottages ; soldiers, if we 
 may so call the untrained bands of Vendeans, 
 leaning across the doors and windows, sleeping 
 on the benches before them, or lounging in 
 strange groups at corners. Slaughtering of cattle 
 to supply the messes ; the gardens trampled on, 
 and laid waste by marauders — in short, all the 
 bustle and misfortune of an ill-regulated military 
 possession. The seigneur was one of those who, 
 having escaped death in several desperate en- 
 counters, had reached again his own roof, to 
 enjoy awhile the scanty repose which anxiety 
 allowed him. The general commanding, with his 
 staff, was of course lodged in the chateau, and 
 the reputation of Jeannette procured her the ap- 
 pointment of washerwoman to the whole establish- 
 ment. This gave her ample employment night 
 and day, but being well recompensed for her 
 trouble, she did not grudge it ; and for some weeks 
 she prudently hoarded up all the money she re- 
 <;eived, to be at hand in case of an emergency. 
 The parties which, from time to time, went 
 out on scattered expeditions, brought back (but 
 iiot often) occasional prisoners to the village.
 
 166 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 At the general assemblage of the Vend6an ar- 
 mies, held some time before at ChoUet, it was 
 determined that no quarter should be given; 
 and the shocking nature of the subsequent con- 
 flicts rarely allowed the infringement of the 
 order. The few prisoners spared were solely 
 for the purpose of obtaining information, and 
 these wretches were generally reserved for a 
 miserable fate. In relation to them every gentle 
 feeling seemed commonly stifled, and a prin- 
 ciple of terrible retaliation governed their ex- 
 asperated foes. Dragged along, bleeding and 
 exhausted, they used to enter the village more 
 dead than alive; and, after their examination 
 before the chiefs, they were cast into some 
 deserted cottage, or loathsome outhouse, con- 
 verted into a prison, often to expire of disease 
 and neglect. But many a heart bled silently for 
 their sorrows ; compassion even here triumphed 
 over the excitement of the darker passions; 
 and some of these unfortunates were spared to 
 repay their preservers' bounty, and rescue hu- 
 man nature from unlimited reproach. 
 
 One night, as Jeannette was busily employed
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 167 
 
 in preparing some linen, to be delivered at the 
 chateau the following day, a gentle knocking at 
 the outer door aroused her from her work. She 
 raised the latch unhesitatingly, knowing that 
 the village was occupied by friends ; but the ob- 
 ject which presented itself made her start back 
 affrighted. It was a soldier in the Republican 
 uniform. He wore the national cockade, but 
 no more dangerous symbol of his profession or 
 opinions. He was unarmed. His face was pale, 
 and an open wound upon his forehead, with the 
 clotted blood which had trickled from it, in- 
 creased the ghastliness of his hue. One arm 
 was bound with a coarse handkerchief, and sup- 
 ported by his cravat, converted into a sling. 
 He had neither shoes nor stockings. His gar- 
 ments were torn in several places, and covered 
 with dust and mire. He was altogether a 
 miserable figure. He addressed Jeannette in 
 a hurried, yet insinuating tone, and entreated 
 her to admit him, and shut the door. She did 
 so, for there was a something in his look and 
 manner that disarmed her of her fears. The 
 stranger was young, and, notwithstanding his
 
 168 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 wretched plight, the indehble traits of beauty 
 were stamped upon his countenance. There 
 was, too, a touching softness in his voice ; and 
 his forlorn and perilous condition awoke at once 
 that pity, so hard to be distinguished from 
 a feeling still more tender. Jeannette was a 
 steady royalist, and till now had instinctively 
 shuddered with dread at the bare thought of 
 a republican; but a sudden chill seemed to 
 creep across those loyal antipathies which were 
 wont to flow so warmly ; and, I fear, I am re- 
 duced to the dilemma of confessing the plain 
 truth with regard to our poor heroine. Yes, 
 the long-stagnant sensibilities of her nature 
 were at once let loose — the thousand kind emo- 
 tions of her heart, so often lavished in indeter- 
 minate yet amiable profusion, were in a moment 
 fixed, brought home, concentrated — and she 
 experienced all that instant rush of inspiration 
 which is defined, most fitly, by the pithy phrase 
 of " Love at first sight." 
 
 La Coste, for so the stranger named himself, 
 shortly informed Jeannette that he was one of 
 the enemy that day brought a prisoner to the
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 169 
 
 village from a neighbouring skirmish ; that he 
 had been, in the afternoon, examined by the 
 royalist officers, and afterwards thrust into a 
 wretched hovel, with all the misery, but none 
 of the security, of confinement. He had just 
 availed himself of the carelessness of his guards 
 to effect his escape, when, in search of some 
 hiding-place, he was attracted by the light in 
 the cottage window. He knew, he said, that 
 he ran a fearful risk; but seeing through the 
 lattice that there was only a woman, and that a 
 young one (he could not force himself to say a 
 pretty, or even an interesting one — words so 
 common), he relied on her compassion over- 
 powering every feeling of harshness or hos- 
 tility. He intreated her to protect and shelter 
 him — and she did so. There was no time for 
 hesitation, had she even been disposed to hesi- 
 tate ; but of this it will be believed she never 
 thought, for most of my readers will possibly 
 be able to testify, that when people surrender 
 the heart, they are seldom difficult as to yield- 
 ing up the house. She led him softly to her 
 little closet, and insisted on his occupying her
 
 170 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 bed. Should any one be disposed to shrink 
 from this arrangement, I must beg them simply 
 to consider that Jeannette was a peasant girl, 
 not versed in nice distinctions — innocent and 
 ugly — and also that this was a case of life and 
 death. She warmed some water, and washed 
 his wounded forehead and his lacerated feet. 
 Her hospital experience was now of infinite 
 value, and she exercised it with a tender ala- 
 crity, which she was astonished to acknowledge 
 greater than usual. She next bound up his 
 contused arm, and gave him, from the little 
 store of the cottage, something to eat, with a 
 bottle of wine, all of which he readily disposed 
 of Jeannette had seen enougli of wounds to 
 know that his were but slight ; and, though not 
 quite conversant in theories of animal appetite, 
 she felt there was not much danger to be ap- 
 prehended from the specimen which his ex- 
 hibited. Neither was she alarmed to observe 
 some symptoms of drowsiness display them- 
 selves in her patient's visage. She begged of 
 him to give free indulgence to his evident in- 
 clination to repose. Prompted for a time by
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 171 
 
 his expiring politessey he made some faint ob- 
 jections ; but yielding at length to her solicita- 
 tions, and his own desires, he nodded an in- 
 voluntary assent, and closed his eyes on such 
 flagrant breach of gallantry. Jeannette had 
 thus the satisfaction of seeing him sink into a 
 profound sleep, and she then took possession 
 of an arm chair by the kitchen fire, where she 
 sat the whole night ruminating on the oddness 
 of her adventure, and forming plans for escaping 
 from its dangers. 
 
 Her cogitations were serious and embarrass- 
 ing, but mixed with them was a certain buoy- 
 ancy of feeling wholly unaccountable to its 
 possessor. She felt that in harbouring an enemy 
 to the cause, she was doing it an injury — that 
 in concealing a man, particularly as he was con- 
 cealed, she was committing, at least, an indis- 
 cretion. She knew that in case of discovery 
 she should certainly incur high censure ; per- 
 haps disgrace and punishment. But she seemed 
 to rise superior to party feeling, to prudery, 
 and even to prudence; and an inward whis- 
 pering seemed still to tell her that her fears
 
 IW LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 were visionary, and her risk chimerical. She 
 wondered what it could be, yet scarcely liked 
 to ask herself what it was. She felt an awk- 
 wardness she knew not why, and yet it was so 
 pleasing she was unwilling to wish herself quite 
 at ease. She turned the matter over in every 
 way; viewed her situation in all its aspects, 
 and found it always to preserve the same face, 
 like portraits, which, observed from whatever 
 position we will, seem ever to fix their eyes full 
 upon ours. It was thus that on every account 
 she felt bound to save the young man. She 
 resolved to do so at all hazards, and, as soon as 
 the first glimmer of morning light broke through 
 the lattice, she approached the closet to tell 
 him so. He still slept. Jeannette wished 
 him awake, and strove to persuade herself that 
 it was merely for his safety she wished it; 
 but she longed notwithstanding for the soft 
 expression of his gratitude, which she knew 
 would follow her communication, for his gentle 
 accents were still tingling in her ears. She 
 could not, however, summon up the courage to 
 disturb him, and she retreated softly to the
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 173 
 
 kitchen again. The lark was by this time 
 winging his heavenward flight, and the chirp- 
 ings of the less aspiring songsters called Jean- 
 nette to the window. As she opened it, the 
 breeze rushed in upon her fresh and familiar ; 
 and she thought that, in spite of her peril, she 
 never felt so Hght and happy. She looked 
 out revived and joyous, but her heart's blood 
 seemed suddenly congealed when she saw 
 approaching from one of the opposite cottages 
 three or four armed men, whom she rightly 
 conjectured to be a part of the evening guard 
 in search of their fugitive foe. She hurried 
 into his hiding-place, and not having the power 
 of utterance, she shook him into sensibility, 
 and a sense of his danger. Time was precious : 
 security was the first consideration; and in 
 order to it he was obliged to submit to the un- 
 pleasant necessity of being covered with a huge 
 heap of the unwashed linen, which Jeannette 
 threw carelessly over him, leaving but a small 
 opening at the back part of the bed, through 
 which he had just room to breathe. This 
 being arranged, she spread her table in the
 
 174 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 kitchen for the apparent completion of her 
 task; and had just renewed it, when the door 
 was unceremoniously burst open by the dreaded 
 visitors. We must not, however, mistake their 
 motives, nor imagine from their conduct any 
 thing derogatory to the respectability of our 
 cottage friends. Suspicion never ventured to 
 light upon their loyalty, but their well-known 
 humanity caused them to be doubted on this 
 occasion. To the opening interrogations Jean- 
 nette could make no reply. She trembled in • 
 visible agitation ; and the rude remarks of her 
 inquisitors awakened the old woman in the 
 room within. Her thoughts, which had been 
 latterly in constant movement, and turned^ un- 
 ceasingly on the subject of revolutionary alarms, 
 immediately pictured, in the rough figures that 
 now entered her chamber, the living apparitions 
 which her imagination had conjured up. Her 
 consequent scream came like confirmation to 
 the suspicions of the soldiers. They therefore 
 proceeded with increased asperity to announce 
 to the dame the nature of their visit, and to 
 commence without delay its business. When
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 175 
 
 she rightly understood their meaning, and her 
 own safety, her feehngs took a new turn, and 
 rage usurped the throne just vacated by terror. 
 She gave vent to her resentment in a shower of 
 such reproaches as weak people, in their anger, 
 are wont to lavish on those friends from whom 
 they dread no retaliation. The soldiers smiled, 
 and continued their search. They poked their 
 heads into every nook sufficiently capacious, 
 and their bayonets where those could not enter. 
 The very sanctuary of the old lady's repose 
 was violated by this pointed scrutiny ; and when 
 satisfied that no living thing lurked beneath the 
 blankets, they proceeded to the closet of Jean- 
 nette to repeat the operation. The suffocating 
 heap which covered her bed was just about to 
 be submitted to the like examination, when the 
 old woman fiercely interposed, exclaiming that 
 it was the general's linen, in time to save the 
 heap from perforation, and the whole secret from 
 discovery. Jeannette stood silent and almost 
 senseless, being unblessed by the force of mind 
 which enables us to overcome our feehngs, or 
 the power of deception which teaches us to
 
 176 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 conceal them. The old woman, taking ad- 
 vantage of the hesitation which her last appeal 
 had produced, assumed a higher tone, and 
 threatened punishment for the affront thus in- 
 flicted on one of the functionaries (that was the 
 washerwoman) of the right (that was the royal) 
 cause. The soldiers, brought to their recol- 
 lection, began to look like agents who have 
 exceeded their powers. They gave one secret, 
 searching glance at the old woman, and another 
 at Jeannette. The demeanor of the first dis- , 
 armed suspicion, while the looks of the latter 
 defied it. The old woman's countenance beamed 
 indignant innocence, and he must have been in- 
 deed a clever physiognomist who could have 
 discovered a secret in our heroine's illegible 
 face. Baffled in their object, the j)arty retired, 
 and before night the pursuit was abandoned for 
 the observance of more material concerns. 
 
 The approach of the republican army, in all 
 the flush of victory, was this very day announced 
 at quarters ; and the village had been fixed on, 
 in a council of the chiefs, as the spot most 
 favourable to the junction of the royalist di-
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 177 
 
 visions, for the purpose of risking a general 
 action. Great bustle of course prevailed, and 
 the minds of all being occupied in anticipations 
 of the coming contest, Jeannette was for several 
 days left unmolested to the discharge of her 
 duties towards her interesting invalid. I pass 
 over the detail of the many difficulties she ex- 
 perienced in concealing him from her grand- 
 mother's observation. These, however, she 
 surmounted with an address surprising to her- 
 self, proportioned to her former ignorance in 
 the science of hypocrisy ; and which gave La 
 Coste a notion of her cleverness, exaggerated 
 by the contrast of his first impressions. He 
 had a less arduous, but more wearisome, part 
 to play ; — to suffer that state of demi-existence 
 where the body is obliged to lie passive and 
 inert, while every energy of the mind gains new 
 activity, and the brain seems wearing out the 
 frame-work that contains its busy machinery. 
 He lay for most part of the day in bed, nearly 
 smothered by the weight of clothes which his 
 considerate protectress took care to heap upon 
 him. When cramped and exhausted almost 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 beyond endurance, he used occasionally to creep 
 from his concealment, and screened by some 
 linen, which Jeannette hung before the door 
 and window as if to dry, he snatched the in- 
 dulgence of a few stooping, distorted turns up 
 and down the closet (which was three good 
 paces in length), and then s tole again into his 
 covert. At night his situation was more to- 
 lerable. The weather at the time was* happily 
 dark and clouded, and he might with safety sit 
 at the open casement breathing the freshness 
 of the midnight air; and he sometimes even 
 stepped boldly out into the little garden, unable 
 to resist his desire to tread the earth once more, 
 and feel himself half free. 
 
 Dread of discovery, which would not only 
 bring down certain ruin upon him, but as in- 
 fallibly compromise the safety of his preserver, 
 obliged him to retrench this only solace of his 
 imprisonment. Returning into his closet, he 
 was always sure to perceive the little table 
 covered with an ample supply for that appetite 
 which convalescence every day increased, and 
 over which confinement exercised its control in
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 179 
 
 vain. He had no longer any bodily ill, for the 
 application of Jeannette's simple remedies had 
 already removed every obstacle to the recovery 
 of his strength. The consequent consumption 
 of bread, cheese, and eggs was enormous, and 
 perfectly incomprehensible to the old woman, 
 who saw, of a morning, a complete clearance of 
 as much food as used to serve for three or four 
 days provision for herself and Jeannette. The 
 latter had been ever a remarkably poor eater, 
 but she all of a sudden proclaimed a hunger 
 that verged upon voracity ; and, what was still 
 more extraordinary to the grandmother, it was 
 at night that this miraculous increase of ap- 
 petite was principally displayed. To sausages 
 Jeannette, from her earliest moments, had had 
 a decided antipathy. The old woman well re- 
 membered that when the poor girl, at six months 
 old, had lost her mother, and with her the na- 
 tural nourishment of her age, a tender-hearted 
 neighbour who stood by, in the act of eating 
 one of those savoury preparations of country 
 cookery, would have soothed the crying infant 
 by a morsel of the tempting relish ; but the 
 
 n2
 
 180 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 sliock inflicted upon the palate of the child was. 
 so severe, that she never could overcome the 
 dislike — yet of a dozen of these delicacies, now 
 presented to her grandmother by a neighbour, 
 only two were suffered to proceed on their 
 original destination. Jeannette arrested the 
 progress of the others. She put in her claim 
 to their possession, and seemed resolved, by 
 this sudden affection, to atone for her long in- 
 dulged hostility. Wine, too, which she had 
 before now rarely tasted, became a matter of 
 absolute necessity. She proclaimed herself in 
 daily want of a portion, more than had formerly 
 served her for a month. The fact was, that 
 she was afraid to take the unusual step of seek- 
 ing abroad those supplies which her patient re- 
 quired, and preferred exciting the astonishment 
 of her aged relative to arousing the suspicion 
 of her younger friends. She endeavoured to 
 persuade the former that her marvellous ap- 
 petite was the natural effect of her increased 
 ' exertions ; but this did not satisfy the old wo- 
 man. Convinced that some miracle was work- 
 ing, she vainly exerted her conjectural faculties
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 181 
 
 to explain it away ; and finding, at length, that 
 it was too vague for her solution, she had re- 
 course to her saint, whose name I am ignorant 
 of, and whose power or inclination^was, in^this 
 case, insufficient. Invocation, prayer, and per- 
 severance were fruitlessly essayed for a whole 
 week. The mysterious secret remaine'd un- 
 solved, and the piety of the dame, like that of 
 many another pretending to more sanctity, being 
 weakened by the want of immediate satisfac- 
 tion, she abandoned her reliance on super- 
 natural power, and was on the point of turning 
 it into the channel of mortal sagacity — in fact, 
 she had just resolved to consult the cure on the 
 question, when the rapid march of events re- 
 moved the necessity, as well as the opportunity, 
 for so doing. In the meantime Jeannette em- 
 ployed herself 'in vinceasing efforts for the 
 advantage and comfort of her protege. She 
 supplied him with a pair of shoes, the best she 
 had of two pair ; and let not the idolater of fe- 
 male symmetry be agonised to learn, that they 
 fitted him well, but rather loosely ; for the foot 
 of the young grenadier did not measure the
 
 182 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 tenth part of an incli more in length, and con- 
 siderably less than that in breadth, than the 
 mark imprinted by our heroine in the mud, 
 when she paced the winter pathways of the vil- 
 lage. She supplied him, too, with stockings 
 from her scanty store (but I am not prepared to 
 treat of the mystery of their proportion). She 
 employed herself at night in changing the whole 
 arrangement of his dress. She cut his military 
 coat into the jacket of a simple civilian ; stripped 
 it of its warlike ornaments, and turned the skirts 
 into a cap. For ten nights she never slept but 
 in the great chair before mentioned, and she 
 was beginning to show evident marks of fatigue 
 and anxiety. Her patient observed this, and 
 he felt deeply both her kindness and her suiFer- 
 ins. He bounded with ardour to be once more 
 in action ; he considered his concealment a dis- 
 grace, and burned with shame at the thought 
 of being discovered by his comrades, on the 
 triumphant entry which he anticipated, hidden 
 under a bundle of foul linen ! 
 
 The preparations for the battle were now 
 coming to a close. The royalist position was
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 18o 
 
 strengthened by every possible means. Re- 
 doubts were constructed on the rising grounds, 
 trees felled in the plains below; the rivulets 
 dammed up, to be let loose as the enemy ad- 
 vanced : — nothing, in short, was left undone to 
 second the bravery of the peasant troops, whose 
 courage was unabated, but whose tactics had 
 gained nothing by experience. Daily skirmishes 
 took place, and random discharges of artillery 
 rolled their echoes round the village. 
 
 The troops on either side could with diffi- 
 culty be restrained. Reinforcements thronged 
 to the royalist lines ; and the victorious enemy, 
 approaching from all quarters, had ranged his 
 battalions close to the front of their redoubts. 
 The morrow of a gloomy evening was fixed on 
 for the attack. The manoeuvres of the repub- 
 licans gave certain intimation of this, and the 
 dawn was ardently watched for by their daring 
 and desperate opponents. Every movement 
 was known in the village, and reported accu- 
 rately by Jeannette to the inquiring La Coste. 
 His resolution may be anticipated. He was 
 determined, at all hazards, to quit his conceal-
 
 184< LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 ment, and make an effort to join the republican 
 army. Jeannette made no opposition : she 
 knew it would be vain ; and the certainty of 
 losing him deprived her of all power of argu- 
 ment or entreaty. She passively assented to 
 his plans. A leaden apathy seemed to weigh 
 her down. As evening closed in, her oppres- 
 sion increased, mixed with a breathless gnawing 
 anxiety of which she knew not the meaning. 
 Who can define it ; yet who has not felt it at 
 the heavy hour of hopeless separation ? 
 
 It became quite dark, and a heavy rain poured 
 down as if expressly to increase the facilities for 
 the escape. The old woman had retired to 
 bed, in the hope of snatching some repose from 
 the constant agitation which preyed upon her. 
 Jeannette had prepared a little repast for La 
 Coste, but when she offered him to eat he 
 could hot touch it ! This sudden failure of ap- 
 petite was no trifling proof of sensibility. Jean- 
 nette knew better than any one how to measure 
 its force; she felt it fully, and could not re- 
 strain her tears. But she turned from him, 
 lest he should observe or be infected by her
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 185 
 
 weakness. She opened a drawer, and taking 
 from it a small leather purse, which contained 
 all the earnings of her several weeks' work, she 
 put it into his hands. He refused it by every 
 declining gesture, for he was unable to speak ; 
 but she insisted by entreaties, silent but yet so 
 powerful, that he at last consented, and placed 
 it in his bosom, saying, " Until to-morrow, 
 since it must be so." Had he known it to have 
 contained the whole of her little store, would 
 he, on any terms, have been persuaded to ac- 
 cept it, or have suffered any hope, however 
 sanguine, to have made him risk the contingen- 
 cies of the morrow? I think not. 
 
 The final moment of parting was at hand. 
 La Coste saw clearly the workings of Jean- 
 nette's despair. They pained him, but he had 
 no reciprocity in her pangs. He was more and 
 more impatient to depart, for he felt not that 
 desperate enjoyment which leads the lover to 
 cling on in agonized procrastination to the 
 misery of such a moment. Jeannette was not 
 so utterly involved in her own sorrow as not to 
 see the actual extent of his, or the delicacy
 
 186 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 which still kept him near her. She made one 
 struggle: she opened the little window. He 
 eagerly caught the permission thus given him, 
 and stepped out into the garden. She pointed 
 once more to the path leading to the wood, 
 where he trusted to find an opening beyond 
 the extent of the royalist lines. He pressed her 
 chill hands to his lips, and tenderly uttered, 
 " God bless you, my preserver! expect me to- 
 morrow."" She faintly whispered, " Adieu!" 
 and in a moment he was lost in the darkness. 
 The pattering of the rain drowned even the 
 sound of his footsteps. The shock was in- 
 stantaneous, and poor Jeannette sunk back in a 
 chair, quite stupefied with sorrow. 
 
 The dawn was fearfully ushered in. Cannon 
 and musketry heralded its earliest beam : Jean- 
 nette started at the first discharge, from a state 
 of several hours unconsciousness. She knew 
 not if she had slept, for no dream had left its 
 shadowy trace on the monotony of her repose. 
 She had been, perhaps, in waking insensibility 
 — no memory of her thoughts remained to mark 
 the hours. All that she recollected was the
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 187 
 
 parting movement of La Coste, and his gentle 
 murmur, " Expect me to-morrow." Her first 
 impulse was to spring forward to the window, 
 as in hope to catch another glimpse of his re- 
 treating form — but the flash of morning light 
 just breaking o'er the heavens, struck her back 
 in shocked amazement. How had the night 
 elapsed, and where was he? The thundering 
 roll of the artillery gave reply, and the reality 
 rushed upon her with that overpowering abrupt- 
 ness which seems to stifle thought, while, at the 
 same time, it gives new nerve to the mind's 
 energies. She flung open the cottage door, 
 and, as if every feeling was absorbed in the one 
 great object of discovering him, she ran at her 
 utmost speed to the nearest rising ground in 
 the direction of the battle. As she reached 
 the summit of the little hill, shouts of triumph 
 broke upon her. She saw the women of the 
 royalist army, with frantic yet joyous gestures, 
 waving handkerchiefs, dancing, singing ; while, 
 in a cloud of smoke below, she distinguished 
 the great body of the Vendeans rushing on the 
 republican lines, and sweeping every thing
 
 188 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 before them. Their impetuosity had led them 
 to anticipate the meditated attack, and scarcely 
 had the opening roar of the redoubts com- 
 menced, when they precipitated themselves 
 from their position with a movement as un- 
 looked for as it was resistless. The chiefs 
 knowing how to profit by this impulse — and 
 which was, indeed, their only knowledge in the 
 arts of war — threw themselves before the troops 
 with their accustomed gallantry. The repub- 
 licans kept up awhile a murderous fire, but they 
 were every where broken. The advantages of 
 one side, and the disorder of the other, were, 
 however, but temporary. The courage of the 
 republicans was unshaken, and after a little 
 breathing time given by a moment's check 
 which their violent antagonists experienced, 
 they turned round with all the steadiness of 
 veterans, and changed the fortune of the day. 
 The Vendeans fell back, but not in flight. 
 They opposed no well-trained masses to the 
 advance of the enemy's columns, but flinging 
 themselves behind the hedges in scattered 
 groups, they forced their opponents to attack
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 189 
 
 them in detail, and the fight became a bloody 
 struggle of man to man. When personal 
 prowess is the sole resource between foes 
 equally brave, and alike enthusiastic in their 
 respective causes, it is numbers alone which 
 can be expected to decide the contest. This 
 preponderance was at the side of the repub- 
 licans, but their superiority in tactics was here 
 of no avail. Their generals even were obliged 
 to abandon their knowledge of manoeuvring, of 
 discipline, and command, to combat foot to 
 foot with some sturdy peasant, who forced 
 them, by his way of fighting, to acknowledge 
 his equality. The Vendeans at length aban- 
 doned the valley, and as they more rapidly 
 retreated up the rising ground, the panic-struck 
 females fled towards the village, uttering the 
 most fearful shrieks. One alone remained ; it 
 was Jeannette, who stood in silent and awful 
 observation. From the moment in which she 
 had reached the summit of the hillock, her 
 eyes had been fixed on the scene of blood 
 below her. Fear never entered her heart : its
 
 190 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 whole emotions seemed changed from their 
 usual course. She heard the angry voice of 
 the combat — the whistling of the bullets — the 
 clash of swords — the groans of anguish, with- 
 out any one of those heart-sinking sensations 
 which used to be excited by the most trifling 
 sounds of danger or suffering. The only tone 
 which seemed to impress itself upon her was 
 the parting murmur of La Coste. '* Expect 
 me to-morrow," was ever self-repeated in her 
 brain ; and in spite of improbability, of danger, 
 and even of death, she clung with unshaken 
 certainty to the fulfilment of the expectation. 
 Her vacant stare looked for him in every group 
 of desperate combatants. It rested the longest 
 wherever the deadliest feats of valour were 
 acting — for something told her that there should 
 be his place. When a republican soldier fell 
 to earth, she sickened with apprehension; but 
 if one of her own party dropped under the 
 blows of his antagonists, she felt on the con- 
 trary a sort of throb something quite different 
 from pain. Jeannette, once or twice, during
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 191 
 
 her terrible suspense, was startled and shocked 
 at this state of feeling. She had not, however, 
 time to enter into its analysis, nor have I. 
 
 A general and overwhelming charge, which 
 the open nature of the upland ground allowed 
 the republicans to make, carried the broken 
 parties of the Vendeans before it, as a shattered 
 herd borne along by the flooding of some mighty 
 stream. The mingled mass rolled onward to- 
 wards the village, and Jeannette was hurried 
 with it, stunned and almost stifled by the noise 
 and pressure of the throng. The Vendeans 
 seemed actuated by a single soul, for each indi- 
 vidual, as he extricated himself from the multi- 
 tude, made towards the church, as if in search 
 of safety from its protection, or in determina- 
 tion to die under its venerated walls. The 
 body of the building was already filled to suffo- 
 cation, for the cure was within, celebrating mass 
 to a mixed and melancholy congregation of dis- 
 tracted women, wounded and desperate soldiers, 
 and those sick and fainting wretches who occu- 
 pied their miserable beds in this hospital sanc- 
 tuary. The httle band of native warriors.
 
 192 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 headed by the seigneur, made a bold stand to 
 save their village from the pollution of the foe, 
 and allowed an opportunity to the great re- 
 treating body to form a deep and solid circle 
 round the church. Bent there upon their knees, 
 or stretched prostrate on the earth, they invoked 
 the aid of Heaven, and filled with momentary 
 enthusiasm, they rushed again to the fight in 
 renewed and firmer resolution. But the num- 
 bers of the enemy forced back all resistance, 
 and advancing into the village, they commenced 
 their horrid system of warfare, by setting fire 
 to the cottages in successive order. That of 
 our heroine being the very first on the course 
 of the rivulet running parallel with the road, 
 was one of the first in flames. She saw the 
 faggots placed around it — the smoke and the 
 fire burst up. She shuddered : she would have 
 screamed, but her voice seemed choking her 
 in every effort to articulate ; and as the door 
 began to crackle in the blaze, she fancied she 
 heard from within the faint murmur of a female 
 voice ! It might be so — for from that hour she 
 never saw her grandmother, and she never
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 193 
 
 knew her fate. The fragile frame-work of the 
 rustic habitation was soon a blaze. The repub- 
 licans rushed on through the fiery wreaths 
 which rolled out on all sides, and the shrieks 
 of the women and children, with the deeper 
 execrations of the furious villagers, rose up like 
 the discordant yells which poets have imagined 
 to burst from Pandemonium, and mixed them- 
 selves with the triumphant shouts of their 
 fierce assailants. Every hope seemed lost to 
 the Vendeans. They were borne backwards 
 even beyond the church ; and the foremost of 
 the enemy, with sacrilegious hands, applied 
 their torches to the consecrated walls. The 
 crumbling wood-works, dried by the heats of a 
 hundred summers, caught quickly the assailing 
 flames. The horror-struck congregation set 
 forth one tremendous cry, and precipitated 
 themselves on the incendiaries without. The 
 rush was terrific. The republicans oflPered no 
 resistance, for the demoniac passions of the day 
 gave way to the natural humanity of the French 
 heart. They could not raise their weapons 
 against the flying crowd, but saw them scatter 
 VOL. L o
 
 194 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 across the fields without firing a single shot to 
 increase the panic which impelled them. 
 
 At this instant the ceremony of the mass was 
 finished. The cure had, with unruffled solem- 
 nity, performed its sacred mysteries, amidst all 
 the appalling sounds which rose around him. 
 He now descended the steps of the altar, and 
 bearing aloft the chalice, containing the in- 
 gredients which the faith of such a being has 
 almost the power to dignify into the reality of 
 his sublimed imagining, he followed the impulse 
 of the escaping, concourse ; and as the latest 
 fugitive passed the wide-spreading blaze, he 
 issued from the porch in all the majesty and 
 might of holiness. He spoke not, but stopping 
 for an instant, looked full upon the thousands 
 of armed men who circled the little eminence. 
 The effect was magical. The whole, as if 
 struck by an electric pang, turned from him 
 and fled. No voice was raised to stay them. 
 No standard uplifted around which they might 
 rally. All mingled in indiscriminate rout. The 
 Vendeans saw this inexplicable scene. It ap- 
 peared to them to exceed the possibilities of
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 195 
 
 human influence, and they attributed the miracle 
 to the immediate interposition of the deity. 
 The thought darted through them Hke inspira- 
 tion ; and, following their chiefs, whose efforts 
 to reanimate them had been unceasing, they 
 rushed once more around the church. The 
 cure advanced, surrounded by the flames which 
 the enthusiasm of his ardent observers con- 
 verted into a halo of celestial glory ; and with 
 the utmost energy which his feeble frame 
 allowed, he sang the chorus of their battle song. 
 The wide air rang with the congregated bursts 
 from every individual voice, and the torrent 
 poured onwards. The Vendeans were stopped 
 at every step by heaps of their dead comrades, 
 who had fallen on the enemy's advance; but 
 the speed of their vengeance overtook its vic- 
 tims, and a horrid carnage ensued. Frightful 
 as these scenes are in themselves, there are 
 times when they borrow from circumstances 
 a character of exaggerated atrocity — and this 
 was one. When the business of death is 
 wrested, in a measure, from the agents to which 
 
 o2
 
 190 LA VILATNE TETE. 
 
 its infliction seems appropriate; when men 
 consign the work of slaughter to feebler hands; 
 when woman bears her part in the battle ; and 
 childliood sports among the bodies of the slain, 
 and dabbles its innocent fingers in their blood. 
 The village was soon cleared of the hated 
 intruders, but a strong reserve, posted on the 
 heights by the wary and experienced Wester- 
 mann, arrested again the advance of the Ven- 
 deans, and finally turned the scale of victory 
 against them. Still, however, they pressed on- 
 wards ; and foremost among the brave was the 
 seigneur, who seemed actuated by the feeling 
 that courage, on such ground, was his more pe- 
 culiar privilege. He bore the banner in his left 
 hand, and, with his sword, carved for himself a 
 passage through the thickest of the fight. Jean- 
 nette, borne by the current of the crowd, saw 
 him one instant separated by a circle of the 
 enemy from his companions, and fighting with 
 desperate valour. In the next, the white flag 
 sunk below the heads of the combatants, and 
 when her gaze again fixed upon its hapless
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 197 
 
 bearer, she saw him carried towards the village 
 in the arms of four of his own soldiers, mangled 
 and lifeless. 
 
 With the death of their beloved chieftain, 
 and the fall of the banner, seemed to sink the 
 hearts of its supporters. Actual flight was in- 
 compatible with the valour of their officers- 
 La Roche-Jacquelin, Lescure, de Marigny, 
 Bonchamp, are names which warrant this as- 
 sertion ; but they nevertheless fell back, fight- 
 ing step by step their bloody way. Jeannette, 
 whose personal fears and hopes were merged 
 in the general horrors around her, forgot all 
 private feeling, and thought her heart would 
 break at the contemplation of the universal 
 misery. She put up some short irregular 
 prayers, and experienced, what most of us have 
 sometime or other felt, the ineptitude of stated 
 and stately invocations to scenes of imminent 
 alarm. Her whole thoughts seemed to turn 
 towards the saintly man who in this hour ap- 
 peared, by his profession as well as his virtues, 
 to approach the nearest to that power in whom 
 alone was hope for safety. She hurried to and
 
 198 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 fro across the battle field, and often — alas ! how 
 often — turned shuddering from the hacked and 
 bleeding victims of the direful day ; from the 
 ferocious enemy howling forth his curses as he 
 died; or the acquaintance or friend stiff in 
 death, and consuming in the blaze of his own 
 cottage. At length she caught a glimpse of 
 the holy father, and flying over many a horrible 
 impediment, she threw herself on her knees be- 
 side him, and sought to cover herself with the 
 skirt of his mantle. He was bending over a 
 wounded republican, and in the glow of piety 
 administering the sacred rights of the church 
 to the expiring sinner. He was surrounded by 
 a heap of dead and dying. Several of the 
 latter, of both parties, made straining efforts to 
 crawl towards him. Some with piercing shrieks 
 demanded his aid ; while others, unable to ar- 
 ticulate the wish, fixed their glazed looks upon 
 him, as if the very beam of his eye poured con- 
 solation to their souls. The pressure of the 
 enemy increased each moment, and a thicken- 
 ing shower of balls flew round the spot. Jean- 
 nette, forgetting in her fright the sacredness of
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 199 
 
 his occupation, and the veneration with which 
 she was wont to look upon the priest, flung her 
 arms around him, and in an agony of agitation 
 implored him to save her. He turned calmly 
 round, recognized her, and pointing his finger 
 to Heaven, just uttered, " My child — " when 
 his voice ceased, and falling from her faint em- 
 brace, he sunk to earth. Two bullets of a 
 well-directed volley had pierced his breast, and 
 forced the life-blood from his innocent heart. 
 The warm stream covered the garments of 
 Jeannette. She gazed a moment on his out- 
 stretched body, and then ran in frantic agony 
 towards the home where instinct seemed to 
 point her steps. 
 
 Unhurt, almost by miracle, she hurried 
 through the scorched and suffocating air, in 
 the direction of what was once the cottage. 
 Its position alone enabled her to recognize it 
 now, for not a half of the walls reared their 
 blackened remains above the still-burning heap 
 of rubbish. The garden was utterly destroyed. 
 The vines which used to hang so gracefully 
 above the door were now leafless and shrivelled ;
 
 200 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 and the branches of the beautiful acacias, which 
 had so long shaded the roof, parched, shrunk, 
 and crackling in the column of smoke which half 
 hid their deformity. Many other sad and striking 
 contrasts to its former state were offered to the 
 miserable girl by the present desolation of her 
 only home. She paced its limited extent, and 
 sought, amidst its ruins, for her old and helpless 
 relative, but in vain. Not even a vestige of the 
 homely furniture had escaped the flames — all 
 was consumed. Jeannette, giving way to a burst 
 of utter agony, covered her face with her hands, 
 and sank upon the smoking heap. 
 
 The clamour of the fight was gradually re- 
 tiring. The still-prolonged struggle had left 
 the village behind it, but many stragglers were 
 flitting across the road, whose fierce and hag- 
 gard looks might have suited the worst of the 
 spirits of ill. Jeannette once more looked up, 
 but not in hope. A mechanical movement, 
 rather than an eflbrt of the will, made her fix 
 her gaze on the desolate scene around her. 
 She had no longer aught to look for, for he 
 alone on whom her thoughts could dare to rest
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 201 
 
 had either fallen in the fray or forgotten her. 
 What, then, was her astonishment to see a re- 
 publican soldier following the course of the 
 little rivulet, as if its windings were his guide 
 towards her, while, as he approached her, he 
 pronounced her name ! The voice was weak 
 and hoarse — speaking exhaustion and pain. 
 She thought she had never before heard it, 
 yet whose could it be but his P She sprang 
 upon her feet, and ran to meet him. When he 
 perceived her, he increased his speed, and she 
 saw, in his elastic bound, the ardour and anima- 
 tion of youth. He was too distant to allow of 
 her distinguishing his features, but the image 
 stamped upon her memory filled up the interval 
 between her and him. She saw that he held his 
 hand above his head, as if to mark to her that 
 it contained some object destined for her. She 
 involuntarily expanded her arms as though he 
 were close to her embrace, when at the instant 
 of his springing across the rivulet to cut off a 
 turn which retarded his approach, a party of 
 three or four Vendeans, retreating to the wood, 
 discharged their carbines at him, and he fell
 
 202 LA VILAINE TETE, 
 
 dead into the stream. Jeannette heard the re- 
 port of the volley, and saw him fall, but could 
 not — would not believe he was to rise no more. 
 She flew to the spot. He had fallen on his 
 face. His arms were extended before him on 
 the bank ; one hand holding firmly his musket, 
 and the other Jeannette's leathern purse. She 
 shuddered with a mixture of every horrible 
 sensation as she gazed on this testimony of 
 honour, feeling, and, she would have thought, 
 affection. But even in this hour of anguish, 
 reason made itself heard to check the latter 
 belief. Scarcely conscious of what she did, 
 she stepped into the stream, and raised the body 
 up. At this moment the murderers reached 
 the spot ; and, in defiance of her entreaties, 
 shrieks, and struggles, two of them forced her 
 with them to the wood, while another rifled the 
 body, and then flung it again indignantly into 
 the water. 
 
 Arrived at the skirts of the wood, Jeannette 
 cast back one glance upon the fatal spot where 
 all her hopes were buried. She distinguished 
 nothing but the smoke curling above the cot-
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 203 
 
 tage ruins, and the more distant blaze uprising 
 from the church. Just as her conductors hur- 
 ried her into the concealment of the trees, the 
 roof of the sacred building fell in with a loud 
 crash, and the yell which came down the wind 
 announced the ferocious joy of its destroyers. 
 
 The contents of the purse were soon divided. 
 Jeannette was offered some of her own money, 
 but she shrank back from its acceptance. All 
 that she asked for and procured was the black 
 silk handkerchief, which she thought she re- 
 cognized, and a scrap of paper, on which some- 
 thing was written unintelligible to Jeannette as 
 well as the group around her. She felt, how- 
 ever, a tender expectation of finding some one 
 capable of reading its contents ; she knew not 
 that La Coste possessed the accomplishment of 
 being able to write. He had never said he did. 
 But in her present wretchedness she dwelt on 
 this proof of his modesty with a comfortless 
 kind of satisfaction, of the same nature with 
 that which she felt in the possession of this 
 scrap of his original composition — for other she 
 never thought it. She placed the paper in her
 
 5204 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 bosom, and tied the handkerchief round her 
 throbbing head. For some hours she wandered 
 in the skirts of the wood with her companions, 
 and heard with indifference the various lamenta- 
 tions and threats of vengeance muttered against 
 their victors. The evening fell at length. She 
 took advantage of the dusk, left her com- 
 panions, and emerged from the thicket. She 
 soon arrived on the banks of the rivulet. She 
 hastened towards the memorable spot. Bodies 
 were scattered there in sad abundance, but it 
 was impossible to distinguish any one amongst 
 the heaps. The stream rippled redly on; — 
 faint groans issued from the dying wretches 
 washed by its sanguined waters — no other 
 sounds were heard except the moaning of the 
 evening breeze, and the broken murmurs of an 
 impatient and gloomy band of republicans, to 
 whom had devolved the task of burying their 
 fallen friends. They were busily at work, and 
 the echo of their spades, striking the branches 
 of trees, stones, and other obstacles, fell upon 
 the ear of- Jeanne tte as a fitting consummation 
 of this most terrible day. She tottered towards
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 205 
 
 the ruins of the cottage. Faint, and sick at 
 heart, she had just strength enough left to 
 reach the spot, when she fell down exhausted, 
 and as she thought expiring. 
 
 She lived, however, to see other, and, per- 
 haps, more wretched days ; for with the mor- 
 row came that loneliness of heart which follows 
 the loss of happiness, unsupported by the sti- 
 mulating anguish, whose violence seems to lift 
 us above the reach of despair. The hour of 
 earliest suffering is certainly not that of greatest 
 sorrow — for in the first the intensity of the feel- 
 ing weakens its effect. The heart-strings seem 
 drawn up in defiance of actual pain ; and the 
 shock falls down with such a general pressure, 
 that no individual sensation has power to at- 
 tribute it to itself But when the mind relaxes 
 from this tension, and the memory can take in 
 the blessings we have lost, as well as the in- 
 fliction which destroyed them, then comes the 
 reign of indescribable distress ; when the heart 
 seems balanced in a cold and desolate void — as 
 if no blood ran through it, and no fibre touched 
 it. Such were the waking feelings of Jean-
 
 206 LA VILATNE TETE. 
 
 nette when the hot sun-beams shone upon her 
 wretchedness. Parched, cold, feverish, and 
 forlorn, she raised her heavy head to meet the 
 light. She left her retreat, and turning to the 
 rivulet, would have quenched in its quiet stream 
 the fire which seemed consuming her. Arrived 
 at the brink, she shrank back in unspeakable 
 disgust on seeing the water still tinged with the 
 blood of the preceding day. She next turned 
 her steps towards the village. — The village I 
 It existed, alas ! no more. All traces of re- 
 semblance were gone by. The houses were 
 every one destroyed ; whole gardens rooted up ; 
 trees cut into pieces by the shots ; branches 
 shorn away and scattered on the ground : the 
 very earth transformed into a monument of ruin; 
 the road and the fields furrowed alike into one 
 mass of mud, and strewn with the yet unburied 
 bodies of the Vendeans, and all the accumu- 
 lated fragments of the battle. No living thing 
 relieved the desolation, or bore witness to the 
 dreary scene. 
 
 Jeannette proceeded in the direction of the 
 chateau, which lay at the further extremity of
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. SOT 
 
 the village. She soon perceived it, and to her 
 utter surprise it was entire. Smoke issued from 
 its tall, dark chimneys, but it was the token of 
 good cheer, and not destruction. As she ap- 
 proached, a ruffian-looking republican rushed 
 out, and, in a ferocious tone, demanded what 
 she wanted. She nearly sunk to the earth, and 
 lost all use of speech. He again fiercely ad- 
 dressed her, and placed his bayonet to her 
 breast, with horrid imprecations asking of what 
 party she was. Every sense of recollection left 
 the affrighted girl, who, almost unconscious of 
 his question, muttered instinctively the word 
 most familiar to her lips and feelings, " Royal- 
 ist." He did not kill her, but seizing her by 
 the hair, he dragged her into the chateau, 
 where a small guard had been left by the vic- 
 tors, the great body of whom had directed their 
 march to Nantes, while a single division was 
 detached in pursuit of the broken and dispersed 
 Vendeans. The officer in command of the 
 chateau, hearing the charge against Jeannette, 
 ordered her to be thrust into a hovel in the
 
 208 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 court-yard, where a miserable remnant of the 
 villagers were confined. 
 
 When she saw herself among these old friends 
 of her happiest days, and now the companions 
 of her ruin, a something like pleasure seemed 
 to break upon her. They had, however, little 
 to communicate but sighs, tears, and lamenta- 
 tions. A night was passed in this monotony of 
 woe. They were furnished with a scanty supply 
 of coarse food, which served but to irritate the 
 hunger that, in spite of romance, will force its 
 way through the deepest suffering. 
 
 At day-break they were all summoned out to 
 the court-yard, prepared for any fate, and in- 
 different to all. But Death had not yet closed 
 with his victims. They were brought forth, and 
 having each received a portion of bread, they 
 set off, escorted by the guard of the chateau, 
 on the road to Nantes, which was, they were 
 informed, their final destination. They pro- 
 ceeded silently and sullenly on. As they quitted 
 the long-loved spot for ever, the villagers, with 
 a simultaneous movement, turned round their
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 209 
 
 heads. They saw enough in one glance to 
 satisfy their despair. To complete the picture 
 of the preceding days, the chateau was now in 
 flames, its relentless conquerors having resolved 
 to leave no vestige of the village undestroyed. 
 It was thus these warriors marched through 
 their native land — desolation the monument of 
 their victories, and a desert the resting-place of 
 their renown. 
 
 As the party proceeded, the track of their 
 precursors was easily distinguished. Ruins, 
 havoc, and death, choked up the passage of the 
 roads ; but not one surviving wretch was found 
 to tell the fate of his fellows. They emerged, 
 at length, from the woody fastnesses of La Ven- 
 dee, and, reaching the gently-winding Sevre, 
 the fine varieties of nature burst, for the first 
 time, on the prisoners, but not in beauty. 
 Their woe-worn hearts could ill participate in 
 the enjoyment of such scenes ; and what is love- 
 liness if sympathy responds not to its charms ? 
 Howvainlymay the richest view expand itself be- 
 fore our gaze — how ineffectual are the grandest 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 exhibitions of combined magnificence, if the 
 soul is unattuned by inward preparation ! We 
 call this landscape beautiful, or that sublime — 
 phrases of form, conventional terms agreed on 
 between men — but through the widest range of 
 loveliness or splendour, we find nothing with 
 power to stamp its meaning on us if our sus- 
 ceptibilities are not in unison to receive the im- 
 press. Such was not the case with the unhappy 
 outcasts whose route I am now following. To 
 mark the various feelings of their lone and 
 asitated minds would be a sad and difficult 
 
 CI 
 
 task. With my hapless heroine every thought 
 was paralysed and plunged in dead indifference. 
 For her the Loire, upon whose banks the third 
 day brought them, flowed unobserved. The 
 acclivities by which it is bordered, with all their 
 scattered ornaments — castles, abbeys, villages, 
 and hamlets — uprose around her, but in vain. 
 The frequent vineyards, in their picturesque 
 positions, planted on the steep rocks which 
 hang over the water's edge, and showing often 
 from their mass of foliage the habitation of the
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 211 
 
 vigneron hewn in the breast of the calcareous 
 cliff— all these sweet combinations were lost 
 upon the desolate Jeannette. 
 
 Another night, and Nantes displayed itself 
 to view. Could any thing have awakened the 
 sympathy of the suffering girl, it had surely 
 been the first glance of this beautiful town: 
 stretching its broad front along the banks of 
 the river; its fine quay, with a double colon- 
 nade of noble trees, skirting the wide and trans- 
 parent stream, on the surface of which islands 
 of verdure fling their reflected shadows, and 
 give to the water an apparent depth, which, 
 however, it does not possess. But the very 
 shallowness of this charming river is to me one 
 of its chief beauties ; and I love to look on its 
 pebbly bed, and see, in the summer season, the 
 scattered sand-banks rising over its rippling 
 wave, and covered with basking groups of 
 cattle, or sportive bands of children. 
 
 The mournful troop marched on. During 
 their long route, the roughness of their escort 
 seemed to be hushed by the influence of pity. 
 The prisoners were allowed to totter on, with- 
 
 f2
 
 212 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 out any aggravation from insult or ill-treatment ; 
 but as they now approached the grand depot of 
 crime and cruelty, their conductors seemed to 
 gain a new ferocity in the anticipation of that 
 they went to meet. Their approach to the 
 barriers was quickly announced through the 
 fauxbourg, and a crowd of idle ruffians came 
 out to pour their bitter and terrific welcomes. 
 Jeannette was nearly dropping from exhaustion, 
 covered with dust, and at no time of a pre- 
 possessing appearance. Her figure was singled 
 out as the particular mark of ribaldry and sar- 
 casm. She bore it all, however, with a forbear- 
 ance not likely to be shaken, for it was founded 
 on despau*. 
 
 It was noon when she and her friends, the 
 very refuse of wretchedness, arrived at the 
 public square of Nantes, on their way to the 
 prison to which they were destined. The ac- 
 cumulating crowd seemed to gather fury as 
 their numbers increased ; bad passions gaining 
 strength from association, as virtuous feeling 
 thrives in singleness and solitude. The dis- 
 suasions and efforts of the guards could hardly
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 213 
 
 protect the poor Vendeans from the violence of 
 the rabble. The hootings and revilings heaped 
 on them drew additional tormentors from every 
 street they passed ; but, in justice to the hu- 
 mane and respectable portion of the population, 
 it should be stated, that it was but the rabble 
 who joined in this and similar persecutions. 
 The town of Nantes may, in this instance, be 
 fairly taken as an epitome of all France ; for in 
 the one, as well as the other, it was the dregs 
 of society who stamped by their atrocities the 
 character of infamy which has attached itself to 
 both. They got the upper hand, and used it. 
 May the terrible truth carry down its moral 
 with it ! 
 
 As the prisoners were hurried along, many a 
 stifled sigh was given for their fate; many a 
 silent prayer put up in their behalf, and even 
 some remonstrances offered in their favour. 
 But all was alike unknown by Jeannette and 
 her companions ; nor was any thing capable of 
 arresting their attention, till, rising above the 
 heads of the multitude, one object struck upon 
 their sight, and for the first time broke their
 
 214 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 lethargy. It was the guillotine I not silent, 
 motionless, unoccupied — but at work in all the 
 fulness of its terrors, and surrounded by the 
 worst of revolutionary excitements. 
 
 The villagers were led in triumphant pro- 
 cession through every quarter of the town. As 
 they passed along the quay, scattered parties 
 of the populace were shouting in joyous ac- 
 clamations, as some boats, filled with people of 
 both sexes, put off from the shore. Were these 
 the enthusiastic adieus of affection, blending 
 with the winds to waft its objects safely over 
 the waves? No — a desperate enjoyment was 
 mixed with the hoarse sounds, unlike the faint 
 farewell of tenderness and friendship. What 
 meant the answering shrieks sent forth from 
 every boat — the fierce struggles of frantic 
 women and despairing men, visible to the 
 astonished eyes of the Vendeans ? Could these 
 be the expressions of departing love tearing 
 itself from those who had long filled the breasts 
 of the unhappy crev/s ? No, no ; it is not thus 
 that parting scenes are signalized ; not thus that 
 inevitable, or even sudden, separations affect
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 215 
 
 the traveller, of whom hope anticipates the re- 
 turn. Alas ! it was the noyades, whose frightful 
 festival was now in celebration. Those blood- 
 less butcheries, those quiet massacres, which 
 first stole upon the victims in all the seduction 
 of tranquillity, but which, when betrayed to 
 their discovery, came more shocking than the 
 direst preparations for slaughter. 
 
 The day was closing in upon these horrid 
 scenes, when the prisoners flung themselves 
 upon their heaps of straw in the gloomy prison 
 called L Entrepot. Each hour which brought 
 them nearer to their end showed them the ter- 
 rible novelties of life. Dungeons and shackles, 
 and blood and blasphemy, surrounded them. 
 The night passed by in darkness ; but the din 
 of agonised despair — the clank of chains — the 
 echoing of clenched fist^ against the half-dis- 
 tracted head — the laugh of maniac fear — the 
 w^ailing of the weak — the imprecations of the 
 violent — the deep breath of the sleepers, for 
 even there was sleep — the death rattle in the 
 throats of those who thus cheated the monsters
 
 S16 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 of the morrow, — these were the comhinations 
 that filled up the creeping hours. 
 
 The grated portal was thrown open with the 
 dawn, and the anxious guards rushed in. Their 
 first care was to remove the bodies of the happy 
 few who had died during the night ; and these 
 were dragged forth with indignities which fell 
 on the sympathizing survivors, not on them ! 
 Next came the selection of the victims of the 
 day. Many were hurried out as their names 
 were successively called over. For the females 
 of the lately arrived group, one chance of life 
 remained. It was permitted to each republican 
 soldier to choose from among the condemned 
 one woman to be acknowledged as his wife. 
 The same privilege existed with regard to chil- 
 dren; and, being exercised with unbounded 
 humanity, many an adopted infant of Royalist, 
 and often of noble blood, has been ushered to 
 the world ; and numbers, no doubt, at this 
 moment exist as the reputed offspring of re- 
 volutionary parents. 
 
 Upon every new arrival jn the prisons, the
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 217 
 
 well-disposed of the soldiery came in to exer- 
 cise this right, and a party now waited for ad- 
 mission. 
 
 When the previously allotted victims were 
 drawn out for execution, this band of expectants 
 were ushered in. They entered quickly on 
 their scrutiny ; but being actuated by humanity 
 much more than passion, the selection was not 
 a matter of difficulty or delay. All the women 
 of the little group were instantly chosen forth 
 but one. Need I name her? Who could have 
 chosen Jeannette ? It was impossible. She was 
 looked at but to be turned from ; and showing 
 no sort of interest in her own fate, she excited 
 the less regard from others. She finally re- 
 mained behind with three or four men, for 
 whom there was no hope. Of these, two saw 
 their wives led forth in the possession of their 
 respective claimants ; and, dead to every feeling 
 of their own fate, they now called for death 
 with an eager alacrity — throwing themselves at 
 the feet of the soldiers, embracing their knees, 
 and calling down blessings on the preservers of
 
 218 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 those for whom alone they ever thought of 
 hfe. 
 
 One by one the prisoners disappeared, either 
 to be sacrificed or saved. Jeannette, vi^ha lay 
 extended in a remote and darkened corner of 
 the room, insensible to what was passing, at 
 length raised her head, and looking round the 
 chamber, found that she was alone. Horrible 
 as was her solitude, it gave her some relief. 
 She felt free to give vent to the accumulated 
 anguish of so many days, and she, not unwill- 
 ingly, discovered that her cheeks were flooded 
 with tears. She gave herself up to the full 
 abandonment of her sorrow, and sobbed and 
 sighed aloud. The centinel who paced outside 
 the grating heard the unexpected sounds, for 
 he thought the chamber totally untenanted. 
 He entered, and saw the miserable figure of 
 our heroine reclined upon her straw. Asto- 
 nished at the oversight which had left her 
 behind, he approached and gently raised her 
 up. He asked, in soothing terms, for his heart 
 was touched, " Why had she not been brought
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 219 
 
 out with the other prisoners ?" She knew not 
 why. " Had she no friend in Nantes V She 
 had no friend any where. " Did she know any 
 republican, civil or military ?" She never knew 
 but one, and he was now dead. " What was 
 his name V " La Coste." " Where did he 
 die ?" « He was killed in La Vendue." " Had 
 she any memorial of his which might be recog- 
 nised by his friends ?" " Yes, a black silk 
 handkerchief" — taking it from her head, and 
 handing it to the soldier. " Only this ? nothing 
 more ?" " Oh ! yes, some of his handwriting" 
 — producing the scrap of scribbled paper. The 
 soldier rejecting the first rather questionable 
 token of identity, took the latter; uncreased, 
 refolded, smoothed, and looked at it attentively, 
 in hopes of its affording some clew by which to 
 discover who was the writer. While he was 
 thus occupied, Jeannette felt as if her existence 
 was renewed ; as if another spring had burst 
 out in the desert of her bosom ; and being in- 
 stinctively impressed with the belief that she 
 now might learn the sentiments of him whom 
 she had so tenderly loved, she entreated the
 
 220 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 soldier to read the manuscript aloud. But 
 while the centinel prepared to read, the clat- 
 tering of footsteps broke in upon her reverie, 
 and the j ailor, with some soldiers of the guard, 
 quickly entered the room. With violent exe- 
 crations they accused the centinel of having 
 purposely concealed Jeannette, while he on his 
 part retorted the reproach upon the jailor. 
 The security of the victim was, however, the 
 surest means of reconcilement. The dispute 
 was soon arranged, and our heroine handed 
 over to the accompanying guard, with directions 
 to hurry her to the quay, where her compa- 
 nions waited only her arrival to proceed to 
 e7iibarkation I They seized her, and hastened 
 her onwards, her face besmeared with a con- 
 crete of dust and tears ; her clothes torn and 
 disordered ; her hair dishevelled and loose upon 
 her shoulders, for the handkerchief which had 
 bound it was left behind in the prison. All 
 these concurrent disfigurements heightened her 
 natural defects, and in this state she reached 
 the boat. Several of the old and condemned 
 of both sexes were already embarked, but not
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. S2l 
 
 one female with the least pretensions to youth 
 was there. She was pushed over the side by 
 the guards, and received on board by the ready 
 executioners with a shout of mockery. The 
 preparations being all completed, the boatmen 
 were in the very act of pushing from the shore, 
 when a young soldier, flushed and panting, 
 forced his way through the crowd ; plunged 
 into the water, seized the prow of the boat, and 
 cried out loudly, " Hold ! I am not too late. 
 'I choose that girl for my wife." The object of 
 his choice shrieked on seeing him, and as he 
 held forth his arms to receive her, she sunk 
 fainting on the floor. The guards, the prisoners, 
 the lookers on, were all for a moment mute. 
 The scene was so quick, and the choice so 
 inexplicable, that no time was given for com- 
 ment, conjecture, or opposition. A moment 
 more and the boat pushed oflT— but lightened 
 of its wretched freight, for the insensible Jean-* 
 nette was borne triumphantly to land, in the 
 nervous arms of the grateful and generous La 
 Coste. 
 
 I must not now linger on my narrative, the
 
 LA YILAINE TETE. 
 
 interest of which I know to be nearly over. 
 Little remains to be told, and that little shall 
 be shortly despatched. La Coste hastened to 
 explain to his astonished Jeannette, who soon 
 recovered her senses, on his bosom, that on the 
 morning after their parting, he had succeeded 
 in safely making his way to the outposts of the 
 republican army, where he arrived just as the 
 battle began ; that he had escaped unhurt during 
 the whole of that dreadful day; that at the 
 close of the fight, when victory was no longer 
 doubtful, the division to which his regiment 
 belonged was ordered off to Nantes by a route 
 diiFerent from the village ; and that in the mo- 
 ment of his departure, finding the impossibility 
 of making his way to the cottage, whose half 
 consumed ruins he saw smoking from the 
 heights, he had intrusted to a chosen comrade 
 the task of seeking it, of relating his safety to 
 Jeannette, if she still lived, and of delivering 
 her the purse which might have been so useful. 
 I must not attempt to describe the sensations 
 of our heroine on hearing this wondrous recital ; 
 nor the grief of La Coste on learning the fate
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 of his friend. He went on, however, to state 
 that, arrived at Nantes, he had been too par- 
 ticularly occupied to know of the approach of 
 the poor remnant of the villagers, whom report 
 had stated to have every soul perished in the 
 sack and conflagration of their homes, but that 
 he had heard within a few minutes of her adven- 
 ture, and ascertained her identity, in a chance 
 conversation with the sentry of the prison, a 
 man wholly unknown to him, who was relating 
 the circumstances to a group of his fellow sol- 
 diers. He said that he had but one line of 
 action to pursue. He promptly followed it-^ 
 and she was now his nominal wife. 
 
 He kept the girl with him under this title 
 for three months, but no ceremony had made 
 them one. He treated her, however, with a 
 tenderness and respect more than is to be found 
 in many a legitimate union; but Jeannette 
 clearly perceived that gratitude was the only 
 spring which actuated his bosom with regard 
 to her. She had never hoped for more, nor 
 reckoned on so much; yet satisfied and even 
 happy, she had some moments of alarm when
 
 ^24} LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 she reflected that stronger feeUngs might some- 
 time or other break the ties which thus bound 
 them together. Her apprehensions, and the 
 strength of his attachment, were soon put to 
 the test, for invasion just then advanced on 
 every side; and his regiment, among others, 
 was ordered to the frontiers at a notice of one 
 day. Jeannette, feehng that she had no further 
 claim upon him; that he had overpaid the ser- 
 vice she had rendered him ; and that such a 
 wife as she was could be but an encumbrance 
 to such a man as he ; — ^told him frankly, that 
 miserable as it would make her, she wished him 
 to consider himself perfectly free ; and that 
 being now able to work her own way in the 
 world, she hoped that no delicacy to her would 
 make him risk the ruin of his own prospects in 
 life. La Coste was delicately and difficultly 
 placed. I have said that he was handsome and 
 pleasing. His figure and his manners were, in 
 those days of equality, a certain passport to the 
 best — that was the richest — society in Nantes. 
 He was very generally admired, and had been 
 particularly distinguished by the daughter of a
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 225 
 
 wealthy and violent republican. She was beau- 
 tiful and accomplished. She had solicited his 
 attentions, and he had even a regard for her 
 person. Had he married her, he was certain 
 of both rank and riches; — but if he did so, 
 what was to become of Jeannette ? He summed 
 up in one of those mental moments, which can 
 grasp at a glance such multitudes of calcula- 
 tions, the manifold advantages of such a match, 
 — He then turned towards Jeannette, and 
 though I cannot say that looking on her face 
 made him " forget them all," I may safely as- 
 sert, that picturing to himself her forlorn and 
 desolate perspective, he felt some spell strong 
 enough to make him renounce the mighty 
 temptations to abandon her. — The struggle was 
 short, for he married her on the moment, and 
 the next morning they marched off together for 
 the seat of war. — How many ready mouths will 
 exclaim, " He only did his duty!" Would 
 that such duties were more commonly per- 
 formed ! 
 
 For twenty-one years La Coste served as a 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 private soldier. He was brave and well con- 
 ducted, but he had not the good fortune of 
 promotion. For this entire period Jeannette 
 was his faithful and affectionate wife. She 
 earned, by her industry, sufficient to add some 
 scanty comforts to his barrack-room or his tent. 
 Through Germany, Italy, and Spain, she at- 
 tended him in many a bloody campaign, and 
 stood unflinching by his side in many an hour 
 of peril and distress ; and at length, after all, 
 watched by his death-bed in his native town 
 when peace gave him time to die. They had 
 one daughter, beautiful and good. She, too, 
 married a soldier, who was discharged when 
 war became out of fashion ; and following his 
 trade of gardening, he now supports with com- 
 fort his wife and five children, and gives refuge 
 to his mother-in-law, whose declining years do 
 not prevent her from usefully exerting her 
 talents as a washerwoman. 
 
 I have seen the whole group in a cottage, 
 which I thought happier than some homes of 
 prouder dimensions ; or sporting in their garden.
 
 LA VILAINE TETE. 227 
 
 which is as fragrant and flourishing as others 
 surrounding less enviable, though more refined, 
 societies. Jeannette, or, if the reader should 
 prefer the title, Madame La Coste, has not lost 
 her appellation of La vilaine tttCf and, perhaps, 
 her claim to it is somewhat strengthened by 
 the ravages and wrinkles of increasing age, 
 and the deep bronzing of the southern sun. 
 This tale was given from her own recital, and 
 most likely the reader requires not to be told 
 that my old washerwoman, of the village in 
 Medoc, was herself the identical heroine. If 
 I have sometimes enlarged on the details, or 
 substituted my own language for that of the 
 narrator, I have probably done mischief, when 
 I thought I was embellishing. The effect pro- 
 duced on me was, perhaps, too overrated in 
 my estimate of its possible power on others — 
 while sitting before me in my inn bed-room, 
 my old and ugly washerwoman broke suddenly 
 off from counting my linen to the subject of her 
 own eventful story; and carelessly lolling on 
 her chair, commenced, with the naivete of a 
 peasant, and in the untranslateable idiom of
 
 228 LA VILAINE TETE. 
 
 La Vendee, to tell her simple tale ; interrupted 
 often by sighs for her husband, her grand- 
 mother, and her native village, whose name 
 now hardly exists but in her memory. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.
 
 HIGH- WAYS AND BY-WAYS; 
 
 OR 
 
 TALES OF THE ROADSIDE, 
 
 PICKED UP IN THE FRENCH PROVINCES. 
 
 BY 
 
 A WALKING GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " 1 hate the man who can travel from Dan to Beersheba, an<l 
 say 'Tis all barren !" Sterne. 
 
 SECOND EDITION. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 VOL. II. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED FOR G. AND W. B. WHHTAKER, 
 
 AVE-MARIA-LANE. 
 1823.
 
 THK 
 
 BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 "L'Enfant vint au moncle, sans crier ni pleurer." 
 
 De Perefixe. 
 
 VOL. II. B
 
 THE 
 
 BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 There is not in nature a finer spectacle than 
 a distant chain of mountains covered with snow, 
 and glistening in the sun. It is impossible to 
 describe this appearance, nor is it easy to define 
 the sensations it produces in the mind. The 
 object has in it something loftier than beauty, 
 and possesses a softened sublimity totally un- 
 associated with fear. Unlike other vast works 
 of nature, it does not speak to our apprehensions, 
 nor does it, like those of art, bring humiliating 
 notions of imperfection and decay : but stretch- 
 ing far away along the horizon, in celestial 
 splendour of colouring, it looks like the boundary 
 of the world, and might be believed a fitting 
 resting-place between earth and heaven. 
 
 Such were my reflections when I first dis- 
 covered the Pyrenees, at about thirty leagues 
 
 b2
 
 4 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 distance, from the rising grounds near the town 
 of Villeneuve de Marsan. I shall never forget 
 that moment. My dehght was of a kind to be 
 felt but once in life, but which stamped an im- 
 pression, vivid in proportion to its suddenness, 
 and more lasting than that produced by years of 
 calm and regulated enjoyment. In gazing on 
 the golden transparency which the mountains 
 seemed to present, I fancied myself transported 
 to some scene of fairy-land, and doubted for a 
 while their existence. They looked more like 
 the cloud-formed imagery of the skies, and I 
 many a time regretted, as I approached them, 
 the illusion which their solid reality put to flight. 
 Every league which brought me nearer lessened 
 the enchantment, but added to the romance of 
 the scene. The visionary and fairy-like aspect 
 gradually dissolved, as the charms of nature were 
 growing into life, and as the actual beauties of 
 ^istence appeared to force their way through 
 the veil of radiance by which they had been 
 covered. Step by step, the mountains rose into 
 height and majesty. Dark green masses became 
 evident, instead of the glittering heaps of snow
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 5 
 
 which I had seen at first. Woods, rocks, and 
 streams, made themselves next distinguished, in 
 all their variety of shade and form ; and in three 
 days, from that on which these magnificent hills 
 were first visible to me, I reposed at their base, 
 impressed with the fullest sense of their mighti- 
 ness and my own insignificance. 
 
 It is not for me to describe tlie beauties of 
 these mountains. Volumes have been poured 
 forth on the subject, and will be succeeded by 
 volumes, as long as the noblest scenes of nature 
 can excite admiration, or until some miracle robs 
 men of their desire to tell what they have seen, 
 and express what they feel. Those scenes are 
 certainly the region forA^omposition, Wander- 
 ing in their wild and exquisite paths, carried 
 beyond the world's realities, absorbed in con- 
 templation, and given up to the abandonment 
 of fancy, the mind willingly indulges its over- 
 flowings, and cares not whether they take the 
 form of poetry or prose. Indeed the productions 
 of such moments must partake of the nature of 
 both ; and it was in one of those silent, seques- 
 tered, castle-building moods, that the following
 
 6 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 lines forced themselves into uncalled-for utter- 
 ance : 
 
 These are the scenes where nature strews 
 Our way with wonders ; — where we lose 
 Thought's measured march for countless hours ; 
 When stretch'd beneath embranching bowers. 
 Deep in the lap of some soft vale. 
 Our languid minds its sweets inhale ; 
 Or wandering on some streamlet's brink. 
 We love to stop — to gaze — to think ! 
 Then Fancy peoples the broad glades 
 With groups of early friendship's shades — 
 Changes the greenwood's sloping dell 
 To life's young play-scenes loved so well — 
 Hears in the far sequester'd spot 
 Sounds hush'd, but ne'er to be forgot — 
 Clothes nature in a robe more bright — 
 Fills heaven with youth's empurpled light — 
 Casts o'er the coarse weeds' drooping fringe 
 A shapelier grace, and lovelier tinge — 
 While memory bends, as prone to lave 
 Its feverish flushings in the wave. 
 
 But the quick mind, with forward rush. 
 Bold as the mountain-torrent's gush, 
 .Springs from the thoughts of former years. 
 From faded hopes, from fruitless tears. 
 And bounding onwards, far and free. 
 Deserts dull fact for joys to be. 
 Then leap to life, in fairy train. 
 Those fond illusions of the brain ;
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENR^ IV. 
 
 Those shadowy structures that we raise 
 To hoard the bliss of unborn days ! 
 Those lights from hope's ethereal beam. 
 Which sparkhng through each treacherous dream. 
 Seem the false fabrics to enfold. 
 Like clouds by sunbeams bathed in gold. 
 ■ Lightly the floating fictions rise. 
 As desert cheateries on the skies, 
 Till shatter'd by some thought of care, 
 The loosen'd fragments melt in air ; 
 And worldly waters back reflect 
 The visionary architect ! 
 
 And there are heaven-revealing times 
 Which reason's radiant flame sublimes ; 
 When nobler views the heart inspire. 
 And faith lights high her beacon fire. 
 The clay-clogg'd powers of thought to guide 
 Across the waves of passions tide. 
 Moments, when earth's rude hum is still, 
 And higher raptures lead the will ; 
 When on the topmost mountain's breast 
 We lay our length, and all is rest : 
 Deep, deep beneath the plains are spread — 
 But motion slumbering seems, or dead. 
 To our far gaze the world below 
 Stands fix'd and silent : even the flow 
 Of the live rivers seems to cease. 
 And the eye marks their winding trace 
 But as a line of liquid light. 
 Noiseless, and motionless, and bright.
 
 8 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 A soothing softness gathers round : 
 
 The wind sleeps stilly on its couch 
 Of fragrant wild-iBowers ; while no sound 
 
 The drowsy senses comes to touch. 
 Nor wakes the seraph calm that steals 
 Across the soul, whose trance reveals 
 Scenes of high heaven, no longer hid 
 From the full eye — each half-closed lid 
 Shuts out all earth ; and only sees 
 
 On the broad ocean of the air. 
 Slow sailing onwards, though no breeze 
 
 Is felt which could have borne them there, 
 A tide of white, self- wafted clouds 
 Come rolling on like snow- wreathed floods. 
 And round the summit of the peak 
 In shattered splendour softly break. 
 But soon the fleecy fragments join'd. 
 Float on their course, yet leave behind 
 One lovely, vapoury shade, that seems 
 
 To hover lingering slowly nigh. 
 As if upheld by those bright beams. 
 
 Whose radiance lights it through the sky ; 
 And o'er its breast such colouring flings 
 As fancy gives to angels' wings. 
 Oh ! who such shadowy couch could mark. 
 Nor wish, nor hope life's deathless spark 
 In disembodied splendour spread. 
 Like light on this aerial bed ; 
 And borne, beyond the beams of day. 
 On ray-form'd pinions far away 
 To the pure realms, for which we sigh 
 In pride of immortality !
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. V 
 
 But in all the varieties of the Pyrenees, their 
 pics, valleys, rivers, and grottos, there is no part 
 which conveys such a combination of rational 
 delights as the ancient province of Beam, the 
 country of Henry IV. Natural beauties are 
 every where scattered with a hand at once so 
 liberal and just, that it is hard to particularize 
 the parts most deserving of notice. Beam has 
 its ample share of loveliness and grandeur ; but 
 in point of moral charms, none of the others can 
 bear comparison with it. 
 
 The inhabitants of this district, viewed in what- 
 ever point we will, are one of the finest and most 
 interesting people of the earth. Whether looked 
 at in their physical aspect, as the best formed, 
 the handsomest, and most active race existing; 
 or in their national character, as uniting nobility 
 of feeling with true politeness, hospitality with 
 temperance, and courage with humanity, they 
 command our admiration and regard. Con- 
 sidered with respect to their history, they merit 
 a . deeper attention, for they are perhaps the 
 people who present the most perfect example of 
 an indigenous and uncorrupted race, preserving
 
 10 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 its language, its customs, and its character, as 
 they existed in the most remote antiquity. 
 
 From the period of the dechne of the Roman 
 empire, the confusion of races among the in- 
 habitants of the Pyrenees was extreme. Mixed 
 already with the Romans^ they were so after- 
 wards with the Alani, Suevi, Goths, and Francs ; 
 and, in some degree, with the Saracens during 
 their excursions into France. In fact, but this 
 one portion of the people preserved themselves 
 pure in the midst of confusion, ravage, and 
 defeat. This people, called by Roman writers 
 Vaccees and Vascons, appear to have belonged 
 to the country between the Pyrenees and the 
 sources of the Ebro. Unknown to the Phoenicians 
 and Carthaginians, who never crossed this river, 
 and avoiding Roman subjugation in the refuge 
 aiforded them by their mountain fastnesses, they 
 were able to resist successively the Visigoths and 
 Moors. Finally possessing themselves of the 
 country of the two Navarres, they penetrated 
 early into Beam ; subjected for a while a part 
 of the people of Aquitaine (who took from them 
 the name of Gascons), and their posterity exist
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 11 
 
 this day in the persons of the Basques, and per- 
 haps of the Biscayans, who claim a like origin. 
 
 While this extraordinary and ancient people 
 remained thus unaltered, all around them was 
 changed. The vivacity of the Gaul and the 
 Iberian was modified more or less by Roman 
 gravity and barbarian grossness. The inhabitants 
 of Upper Aragon, Catalonia, and Bigorre, all, 
 indeed, from the centre of the Pyrenees to the 
 Mediterranean, showed no longer their primitive 
 characters, a distinction destined for the people 
 alone of whom I am now treating *. 
 
 Such was the race of whom Henry IV. was 
 one ; among whom he was born and brought 
 up ; and of whom his person and his character 
 formed a distinguished and striking illustration. 
 To such an origin and such a training he owed 
 those fine qualities, inherited from his ancestors, 
 and fostered by his people ; and their obligations 
 were reciprocal, — for to him alone are they in- 
 debted for their chief celebrity in modern times. 
 The days being long since gone by when, ruled 
 
 * On this subject see Ramond's Observations sur les 
 Pyrenees.
 
 12 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 by their independent sovereigns, they made 
 themselves remarkable either by their manner 
 of choosing a king *, or by their conduct under 
 his sway, the people of Beam would have shared 
 the common lot of other nations amalgamated 
 and confused with their conquerors, had not the 
 brilliant qualities of Henry stamped them with 
 a proud distinction. As it is, they stand out as 
 it were before us in an attitude of commanding 
 and irresistible interest, and every individual 
 forms a fine epitome of the dignified simphcity 
 of his nation. 
 
 My readers may imagine with what pleasure 
 I ranged these mountains and valleys, peopled 
 by such a race, and consecrated by such re- 
 membrances. Abandoning the beaten track of 
 common-place intercourse, it was ever my habit 
 
 * In 1173, wishing a master of the blood of their last 
 sovereign, they sent a deputation to his sister to ask for 
 one of her twin children. The request being granted, 
 they had their choice. The infants both slept at the 
 moment. One had his hands closed, the other had his 
 open. The deputies saw in the latter attitude the sign 
 of a noble and generous character. They chose him, and 
 this monarch in his after-age acquired the title of Gaston 
 The Good.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 13 
 
 to throw myself into the by-roads of the hills ; 
 where, shut up, and in part identified with this 
 isolated region, I breathed the very spirit of 
 the people, and of the feelings by which they 
 were guided and governed. It was in these 
 rambles that I acquired a thorough esteem for 
 these hardy mountaineers, and an enthusiastic 
 attachment to the scenes they inhabit. My 
 affection for them and their country was consider- 
 ably strengthened from that sympathy excited 
 throughout by the memory of the hero so worthy 
 of his country and his people ; whose reign was 
 the real epoch of French glory, and whose name 
 is a rallying word for every thought ennobling 
 to humanity. But it was in an aspect less 
 exalted, but full as remarkable, that he was now 
 before me. As I wound through the passes of 
 the hills, tracked the winding rivulets, or climbed 
 the rugged rocks, Henry seemed always present 
 to my view, as in his boyhood he scrambled over 
 these mountain scenes, dressed like the peasant 
 children, his feet unshod, and his head exposed 
 to the sun and the wind *. 
 
 * Le grand-pere ne voulut pas qu'on le nourrist avec
 
 14 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 The Biddissoa was in my rear, Spain in my 
 recollection, and Bayonne in sight, when I turned 
 from the high route between that town and Pau, 
 and struck into one of the gorges leading to the 
 depths of these mountain solitudes. Nature was 
 fresh and fragrant. The sun was bright. The 
 branches of the young pines, and the mountain 
 ash, moved gaily in the breeze, and the rivulets, 
 gushing from the hills, danced down their sides, 
 over beds of verdure which burst out in a pro- 
 fusion of richest vegetation. 
 
 I was so exhilarated and buoyant that, con- 
 trary to my usual wont, I walked remarkably 
 fast, so much so as to keep Ranger at a regular 
 dog trot. My thoughts were proportionately 
 active, and ran on in that wild and curbless way, 
 so frequently consequent on good health, good 
 
 la delicatesse qu'oii nourrit d'ordinaire les gens de cette 
 qualite, mais il ordonna qu'on Thabillast et qu'on le 
 nourrist comme les autres enfans du pais; et mesme 
 qu'on I'accoustumast a courir et a monter sur les rochers. 
 On dit que pour I'ordinaire on le nourrissoit de pain bis, 
 de boeuf, de fromage, et d'ail ; et que bien souvent on le 
 faisoit marcher nuds pieds et nue teste. — De Perefixe 
 Histoire du Roy Henry le Grand, Q. I, p. 18, 19, \6mo. 
 Elzevir, Ed. 1661.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 15 
 
 spirits, and mountain air. " Come on, Ranger !'" 
 cried I, " never fear ! our wanderings must have 
 a term, and who knows how soon ? Yes, yes, 
 there is something yet in store for us. For me 
 a snug cottage, a nice stock of books, good shoot- 
 ing, and a bottle of wine for a friend. — For you, 
 the chimney corner and a cushion. — Come along, 
 Ranger ; come along !" 
 
 A responsive wag of the tail acknowledged 
 the cheering address ; and a joyous roll on a 
 tufted bed of wild thyme, followed by some in- 
 describable capers and curvettings, announced 
 his sympathy with my ambitious hopes, 
 
 I never could reckon leagues, nor remember 
 time correctly ; and on the morning I now describe 
 was less than ever adapted to aught mathematical. 
 I was in that mood of utter abandonment, and 
 loss of self, which was never new to poets since 
 Horace, nor before him ; — when we " think down 
 hours to moments,'"* and slide over space un- 
 heedful of its measurement. I am thus unable 
 to say how far or how long I had journeyed, 
 when descending rapidly the mountain path, 
 which was skirted with flowers, and fringed by
 
 IG THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 two little streamlets running down the precipitous 
 banks, I was stopped suddenly by a peal of 
 laughter of enjoyments finest and clearest tone. 
 I was in tune for this cheerful note, and paused 
 for its repetition. It came on my ear again and 
 again — manly, honest, and hearty, and at length 
 died away in jovial echoings, till nothing was 
 heard but the chuckle of some staunch votary of 
 fun, who never got farther, most certainly, than 
 the mouth of Trophonius's cave. 
 
 The sounds were close to me, yet I saw no 
 one ; and I thought of the stories of Brownies, 
 Kelpies, and other supernatural beings, of whose 
 joyous revels I had many times heard from the 
 peasants of the Scotch highlands. I moved on- 
 wards, however, concluding that a harmless and 
 cheerful traveller had nothing to fear from mortal 
 or other company, with whom he was so much 
 in unison. 
 
 As I trudged along, I heard an occasional 
 voice which always seemed to utter a shout of 
 gladness and triumph. This was accompanied 
 by sounds, at irregular intervals, as if some 
 hard substance was struck by another, for they
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 17 
 
 rung echoing through the valley below me to the 
 left. 
 
 The sounds became suddenly fainter as I got 
 to a hollow part in the road ; and I had almost 
 lost them totally, when a quick turning in the 
 path brought me round a projecting rock, and 
 displayed to me, on the acclivity at the opposite 
 side of a beautiful glen, the secret of these moun- 
 tain mysteries. 
 
 Hanging on the slope of the hill was a village 
 of most romantic appearance. The ten or a dozen 
 neat cottages which composed it were built, with 
 little space between each, in the form of a semi- 
 circle ; by this means affording to all the inhabit- 
 ants an ample view of that noble and manly game, 
 which forms the pride and pastime of the Basques. 
 A group of the village youths was placed on the 
 green in the full exercise of their sport. They 
 were eight in number, fine, athletic, handsome 
 fellows, from fifteen years old to twenty-five 
 perhaps^ dressed in the smart costume of the 
 country One or two wore light cotton jackets, 
 the rest were in their shirts; some were bare- 
 headed, others with round flat caps, having a 
 
 VOL. II, c
 
 18 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 tassel of red worsted at the top, and all with short 
 
 breeches, tied at the knees with red or blue 
 knots, blue stockings, sandals laced to the ankle 
 and a scarf of scarlet cotton, tied sash-ways tightly, 
 round the waist. On each right hand was a glove 
 of thick leather, which struck with incredible 
 force and velocity the hard ball, that seemed to 
 
 ■*■■ 
 
 carry death in its whizzing course. Not being 
 initiated in the game, I leave its various details 
 to the imagination of my readers, but I may safely 
 say, that in no match of English cricket, Scotch 
 goif, or Irish hurling (and many a one of each 
 have I seen and joined in), did I ever witness 
 such agility, skill, and elegance of attitude, as in 
 this party oijeu de paume. 
 
 On the benches were four or five old men, 
 with about as many women, delighted spectators 
 of the scene, and glad echoes of the bursts of joy 
 which followed each superiorly successful effort. 
 Some younger females were occupied in various 
 ways about the houses, while two or three were 
 washing at the rivulet below. One stepped up- 
 wards towards home, with a pitcher on her head, 
 a white scarf thrown fancifully over her neck.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 19 
 
 and tied with a bunch of blue ribbons, and her 
 petticoats sufficiently short to show a pair of 
 exquisite legs, to which every part of her form 
 was suitable. The loveliest nymph of Greece, or 
 even those goddesses whose imagined symmetry 
 might have dipped the pencil of Apelles in his 
 brightest tints, or shaped and polished the marble 
 of Praxiteles, would not, I am convinced, have 
 borne away the palm in a competition of grace 
 and beauty with this rustic maid. 
 
 While my attention was taken from the sport 
 of the young men, and fixed upon this still more 
 attractive object, her eye seemed riveted on the 
 group, or some one member of it, which mine 
 had rejected ; and so intently did she gaze on the 
 progress of the game, that she forgot her own, 
 and, her foot catching in a bramble, she stumbled 
 and fell. A slight scream broke from her com- 
 panions at the river, who saw the accident. An 
 old couple, who had watched her with affectionate 
 looks as she came up, hobbled towards her. The 
 game was in an instant abandoned. The players 
 ran to the spot ; but I remarked that one of them, 
 whose station had been at the other extremity 
 
 c2 
 
 7
 
 20 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 of the ground, overtook the whole party before 
 they reached the prostrate beauty. It was the 
 affair altogether of a couple of minutes. She 
 was unable to rise higher than her knees ; not 
 that she was in the least hurt, but her scarf had 
 got most awkwardly entangled in the briers 
 which had tripped her foot, and during her en- 
 deavours to extricate herself, the whole population 
 of the village had thronged round her. Every 
 one offered assistance; but I observed that she 
 repulsed all the hands stretched out to relieve 
 her, with a sort of blushing and bashful peevish- 
 ness at her situation, until she discovered the 
 identical youth who had outstripped his compa- 
 nions, but was now confounded with them. She 
 gave him a smile peculiarly gracious; and he 
 ' had the honour of helping her on lier feet, and 
 replacing her pitcher, which lost its contents, but 
 was not even cracked in the fall. 
 
 The scene ended gaily and good humouredly. 
 Many a joke, was, no doubt, bandied at the ex- 
 pense of the maiden, who darted once more down 
 the winding path to refill the vessel; while her 
 young squire sprang after her, probably to keep
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 21 
 
 her eyes steady when she next descended. The 
 old couple returned to their seat, their counte- 
 nances showing that little agitation which grand- 
 fatherly and grandmotherl?/ faces generally display 
 on such harmless accidents. 
 
 The whole party were resuming their places, 
 when I caught the general attention, in the ad- 
 vanced position to which I had involuntarily 
 sprung, and where I now stood, my feet crossed, 
 and my hands supported by the muzzle of my 
 gun. When I saw that I was observed, I took 
 off my hat and made a low obeisance. It was 
 unanimously returned; and on my showing an 
 inclination to descend to the stream, in a direct 
 line from the place where I stood, several hands 
 were waved, and three or four voices addressed 
 me together. I did not understand a word that 
 was spoken, but the purport was evident; for the 
 stream was broadest in that particular spot, and 
 a little plank was thrown across it, about fifty 
 yards higher up, and to which the villagers 
 pointed. But it was one of my moments of weak- 
 ness and vanity; and, wishing to give a proof of 
 my activity to these muscular and agile peasants.
 
 22 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 I ran down the slope, my gun in my hand, de- 
 termined to leap the stream. It was tolerably 
 wide, but not within a third of the breadth 
 which I was confident in my ability to cross at 
 a running jump ; but, as if to punish my vain- 
 gloriousness, my foot slipped as I made the 
 bound, and I came with my breast against the 
 opposite bank, and up to my knees in water. It 
 was vexatious as well as laughable, and I suppose 
 there was a frown mixed with the smile which I 
 could not repress as I scrambled up the side. 
 All the young men ran to my assistance; the 
 old people rose from their seats ; the girls ceased 
 their washing; but I did not see any smile re- 
 flected on a single face. One of the girls, indeed, 
 who had laughed the heartiest at the fall of her 
 young companion a few minutes before, turned 
 her back towards me. I fancy she was forced to 
 give way to her merry feelings at my ludicrous 
 mishap, but she had the true-born politeness to 
 keep their expression from my view. 
 
 I was soon on my legs, and was hurried to the 
 nearest cottage, where a chair was placed for me 
 before the kitchen fire. I here formed a centre
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. J23 
 
 of attraction (if not of gravity) for the inhabitants 
 of the village, who came, of all ages, to gratify 
 their curiosity at the novel sight of a stranger. 
 It was well for me that I had few personal secrets 
 to conceal from these good people, for I became 
 an object of the most minute and indefatigable 
 scrutiny, A custom-house officer, a fox-hound 
 in cover, or a ferret in a rabbit warren, could not 
 have made a keener search in their respective 
 pursuits than did the little black-haired urchins, 
 from eight years downwards, in my knapsack, 
 my game-bag, and my pockets. I know not 
 what they looked for, if not the mere gratification 
 of curiosity, for they certainly took nothing. 
 The young men examined my gun, shot-pouch, 
 and powder-horn, with critical attention; and 
 the old fathers of the hamlet eyed me with a 
 gaze worthy of craniological acumen and obser- 
 vation. 
 
 Fortunately for me, two or three of the party 
 understood and spoke French. Among them 
 was a young fellow, who, in resuming the cos- 
 tume of his native district, had not entirely 
 thrown aside some of the distinguishing marks
 
 S4 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 of military service. He wore mustachios, and a 
 black stock, and looked stifF-necked and formal 
 in comparison with his elastic and loose-limbed 
 companions. His manners, too, had something 
 of ostentation and parade, and he seemed in- 
 clined to lord it over the others. He pushed 
 himself forward in his civilities, and would have 
 drilled his comrades into a more distant demeanor 
 than was natural to them, or pleasing to me. 
 He had not, however, any thing actually dis- 
 agreeable in him; and had I met him in any 
 other circle than among the children of nature, 
 of whom he once was one, I should have pro- 
 bably singled him out as a soldier, but a little 
 spoiled by the foppery and pomp of his pro- 
 fession. 
 
 Among the objects of wonder discovered in 
 my knapsack (when, searching for a pair of 
 stockings, I first opened it to the admiring gaze 
 of the observers), two seemed to attract parti- 
 cular regard, viz. a pocket map of France, and 
 an eleven-keyed flute. The first was greedily 
 gazed on by an old man, whose keen quick eye 
 seemed meant by nature for the study of the rule
 
 THR BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 25 
 
 and square ; and had I but the requisite know- 
 ledge of the science of sciences, I think I should 
 have found the algebraical bump particularly 
 prominent on, what appeared to me, his smooth 
 round pate. He was evidently much pleased, 
 and not a little puzzled, by the mathematical 
 mysteries displayed before him. His eye asked 
 for information, but he could not make himself 
 understood. He was forced to apply to the 
 young soldier, who acted as interpreter, and by 
 this medium I explained the purposes of those 
 mystic lines, over which the old peasant had been 
 
 pondering. 
 
 He was delighted when I pointed out Pau, 
 and the windings of the Gave, on the banks of 
 one of whose tributary streamlets we were then 
 making our harmless partition of districts and 
 provinces. But the parallels of latitude were 
 quite beyond his powers ; and I was not a little 
 amused at the air of importance and learned 
 research with which he announced his conjecture, 
 that they were meant to designate the course of 
 rivers ; heedless, like many a profound theorist, 
 whether they flowed up or down hill — over or
 
 ^ THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 under mountains-^or had their sources in the 
 sea, or out of it. , 
 
 As for the flute, it excited an admiration as 
 boundless as it was general. Nothing like it 
 had ever found its way into these remote parts. 
 The slender reed of the mountain-shepherd, or 
 the simple fife of the village musician, had no 
 claims to those gorgeous and embarrassing di- 
 stinctions which rifle the pockets of fools, puzzle 
 their fingers, and falsify their instrument. In 
 short, the monstrous improvements of a late im- 
 mortal projector had probably never penetrated 
 to the vale of Oleron, had not my knapsack been 
 furnished identically as it was. I was deter- 
 mined, however, to make the best of a bad bar- 
 gain ; and when, yielding to the solicitations of 
 the lads, and the wistful looks of the lasses 
 around me, I took up the flute, to prove the pos- 
 jsibility of using it, I made a clatter among the 
 jk^ys (clumsily enough had I chosen to confess 
 it), which fixed my reputation as firmly as the 
 principles of the music I so marred. I received 
 in acknowledgment an ample dose of that silent 
 applause so palatable and easy of digestion ; and 
 
 ,/
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 27 
 
 luckily for me, there was no Plato of the party, 
 to ask what I meant by the noise made. 
 
 All this while the good woman to whom the 
 cottage belonged was preparing for me a truly 
 pastoral meal. Eggs, milk, honey, butter, and 
 bread, were placed before me, all perfectly de- 
 licious in quality, and in such proportions as are 
 fitting for mountain appetites. 
 
 As the table filled, the room emptied ; and 
 the delicacy of my rustic circle in thus retiring, 
 caused me full as much pleasure, I warrant it, 
 as they had experienced from the most extra- 
 vagant exhibition of my musical skill. My kind 
 entertainter appeared to enjoy high respect 
 among the villagers. She spoke French well, 
 and had a smattering of Spanish. I had no time 
 to inquire the particulars of a history which, 
 from her erudition, intelligence, and good man- 
 ners, promised something above her station, I 
 only learned that, in her youth, she had lived at 
 Bayonne, where her father had been employed 
 in the customs, and where she acquired her know- 
 ledge ; and that on his losing his situation and 
 his head, during the troubles of the Revolution,
 
 28 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 she had retired to the protection afforded by the 
 honest Basques, and their obscure village. 
 
 Having told me so much, she left me to the 
 discussion of my exquisite repast. While I, ate 
 and cogitated, I heard a confused murmur, like 
 the humming of a mighty swarm of bees ; and 
 in that kind of restless curiosity which often 
 breaks in on our most important moments, I 
 looked out of the window into the little garden, 
 and on the lawn, to discover whence the sound 
 proceeded. But it became fainter as I approached 
 the open air. I was fain to sit down again un- 
 satisfied, but the buzz continued ; and, deter- 
 mined to explore the whole apartment, I opened 
 a couple of little closets, a clothes-press, and a 
 saltbox, without any result but disappointment. 
 I next groped round the walls, and one side of 
 the room being formed by a wooden partition 
 papered over, I clapped my ear close to it, and 
 found myself on the high road to information. 
 The sounds were louder and more distinct; so 
 feeling for a chink between the planks of the 
 partition, I pierced a little hole through the 
 paper with the screw attached to my pocket
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 29 
 
 knife, and applying my eye to it, I perceived 
 about a dozen of the peasant children seated on 
 a form, and conning over their lessons ; while 
 placed before a little rickety desk, in an old oak 
 arm-chair, was my hostess, in all the tempered 
 majesty of a village schoolmistress. 
 
 The temple was homely, the priestess plain, 
 and the votaries of little worth ; but knowledge 
 was the goddess they invoked ! That was suf- 
 ficient for me; and I protest, that the most 
 dazzling display of academical pomp never in- 
 spired me with a deeper devotion for learning 
 than I was filled with on beholding this humble 
 tribute to its value. 
 
 Being refreshed and satisfied, I prepared to 
 set out ; but my proceedings being carefully 
 observed by the young people on the green, they 
 no sooner saw that I had finished my meal than 
 they advanced towards me in a body. While I 
 had been eating they had all prepared them- 
 selves for dancing, and they now came gaily 
 forwards to request my performance on the flute. 
 That being easily accorded, I took my station in 
 front of the house, on a bench overhung by vines
 
 30 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 and honeysuckles. The dancers were soon in 
 their places, and the opera never showed a dis- 
 play of more natural agility and taste. Flowers 
 and ribbons had been hastily twined in the hair 
 of the females. They all, to use an Irish phrase, 
 " handled their feet" with uncommon grace, and 
 the whole group was a fine specimen of the 
 living picturesque. Two of the girls had casta- 
 nets, the use of which they had learned from 
 some straggling Spaniards who had tarried awhile 
 in the village. Two of the young men carried 
 those little tambourins which form a constant 
 accompaniment to the dances of the Basques ; 
 and I, discarding the use of a good two-thirds 
 of my eleven keys, contrived to play, in tolerable 
 time and tune, some of those sweet country 
 dances in which the French do positively excel 
 all nations. 
 
 The dance being ended, I fairly began to take 
 leave. I shook hands with every one around 
 me ; and the reader may believe me, that when 
 I relinquished the grasp of my erudite hostess, 
 she blushed a deep blush of offended pride on 
 finding a piece of money in her palm. She did
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 31 
 
 not speak a word, but stepping briskly up to 
 me as I turned round, she replaced it in my 
 hand, and there was in her manner a modest de- 
 termination which utterly forbid a renewal of the 
 affront. 
 
 My old mathematician was sitting under a 
 lime-tree musing on the map. He stood up, and 
 offered it to me with a look as if he had been 
 parting from a dear friend. I put it between 
 his hands as I cordially shook them, and in a way 
 to mark that such was its final destination. He 
 looked quite surprised and happy; placed one 
 hand on his heart, and with the other took off 
 his cap, and swept it down to the grass. I 
 wished to say " good bye" to the soldier, but I 
 saw that he skulked round a clump of acacias, 
 and evidently avoided me. 
 
 I asked the schoolmistress if she knew the 
 cause of this caprice. '' Alas ! my dear sir,*" 
 said she, " you know not the wound you have 
 unconsciously given to the vanity of the poor 
 fellow. He is the musician, par excellence^ of 
 the whole village ; but the shrill tones of his fife
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV, 
 
 are, I fear, for ever hushed. Nothing, I think, 
 could console him for this day"'s disgrace.*" 
 
 No, no, said I to myself, after a moments 
 pause, it is impossible. By Jove, I cannot, will 
 not, be always a fool ! To buy it was bad enough, 
 but to give it away in this manner would be 
 worse. " My good hostess, I am indeed sorry 
 that my gaudy instrument should have put the 
 poor lad out of conceit with his more simple, 
 but, no doubt, sweeter one. Tell him so for 
 me, and that I hope he will soon change his key, 
 and discard all discord from his feelings. To 
 you I should be glad to give some little proof of 
 my esteem. Do take this little edition of Mas- 
 sillon's Petit Car erne: I have carried it in my 
 pocket for some leagues, and it has helped to 
 shorten many of them. It is not of value enough 
 to be refused, and only worth acceptance for the 
 excellence of the matter, and the good will of 
 the donor." 
 
 " I take it with pleasure, and thankfully," 
 replied she ; " and the only thing I can offer you 
 in return is this scrap of a pamphlet, which, as
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 33 
 
 relating to our country, may interest you for 
 half an hour."" 
 
 I took her present, and glancing my eye on 
 the title, found it to be, in French, " The Birth 
 of Henry IV.''"' I rolled it up and put it carefully 
 in my pocket to be read at my leisure. 
 
 Several handkerchiefs and berrets were waved 
 after me as I wound down the hill, followed by 
 Ranger, whose round paunch and sober pace did 
 honour to the hospitality of the village. Tlie 
 last thing I saw of these unsophisticated people 
 was the lovely girl, whose fall I have recounted, 
 walking slowly in a shady path with her lover — 
 for I would lay a good round wager that he was 
 her lover, ay, and her favoured lover too. 
 
 As I passed them, they both, by signs and 
 looks, wished me a pleasant walk — a compliment 
 which I thought it quite unnecessary to return. 
 My eyes said something to them in reply, how- 
 ever, which was answered on the part of the 
 
 nymph 
 
 With a smile that glow'd 
 Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue ; 
 
 and by the lover with a look of self-content, 
 
 VOL. II. D
 
 S4j the birth of henry IV. 
 
 which seemed to say that he agreed with me 
 perfectly. 
 
 The echoing sounds of the ball, which once 
 more came upon my ear, told me that the much- 
 loved game was again in full play. I believe 
 I had one passing thought of something like 
 chagrin, to think that my departure had left so 
 slight an impression on the villagers. But this 
 was quickly replaced by the consoling fancy that 
 they had recourse to their sports to banish their 
 regrets; and one self-sufficient notion followed 
 another, as fast as vanity could string them 
 together, or folly give them utterance. It is, 
 however, certain that I hurried my pace at a 
 marvellous rate, to the great discomfiture of 
 Ranger's digestion; and any ill-natured reader 
 may account for my speed, by supposing that I 
 feared to encounter a new burst of jollity, which 
 might have thrown me back into the sad belief 
 that I was no longer thought of, 
 
 I walked in a beautiful valley. A clear stream, 
 as is usual in these mountain hollows, ran in the 
 middle, and the hilly banks were covered with 
 woods. A few straggling cottages, like outliers
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 35 
 
 from the village herd, were perched in litde 
 nooks upon the heights, and the dark green of 
 the vegetable garden, attached to each, formed a 
 rich contrast to the yellow corn fields and bright 
 meadows which surrounded them. The variety 
 of position in these lofty regions makes a variety 
 of climates within a small compass. In some of 
 the exposed and open places the harvest was far 
 advanced. In others, more sheltered from the 
 sun, it was just begun. The upland meadows 
 were in some parts mowed : in others, the crop 
 of after grass was springing, under the influence 
 of continual irrigation from a dozen everflowing 
 streams. The low grounds near the rivulet were 
 now yielding their treasures to the labour of the 
 mower, and in one spot, where I stopped to gaze 
 on the lovely scenery, I heard the flail, the 
 scythe, and the sickle joined in a harmony of 
 rural sounds. 
 
 Just there the confluence of several streamlets 
 from the hills had formed a basin of water, which 
 worked out a considerable excavation in the 
 banks. The earth was quite washed away from 
 the base of a large rock at the side where I walked, 
 
 D S
 
 36 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 and my path was abruptly terminated on the 
 pebbly edge of the little lake. To have climbed 
 the rock, by means of the creeping shrubs which 
 covered it, would have been very difficult if not 
 dangerous, and no one being in sight to stimulate 
 my love of fame, I did not attempt it. Besides, 
 I considered that if I even got to the top, I might 
 have to descend again in search of an outlet. 
 Something told me, too, that I was not the first 
 who had arrived at the termination of the little 
 road; and I thought the chances were against 
 its having been made for the mere purpose of 
 leading people into a scrape. I therefore de- 
 termined to call for help, hoping, at least, that 
 the genius of the stream would deign to come to 
 my aid. I loudly hallooed " Boat ! boat !" and 
 my call was not long unnoticed. Close to where 
 I stood, and almost touching the rock which pro- 
 jected over the water, a little pointed prow came 
 suddenly towards me ; and as the full length of 
 the boat came in view, it swung up to the beach, 
 by the management of a rope and pulley attached 
 to the rock, but which escaped my previous ob- 
 servation. No living thing appeared, but I did
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 37 
 
 not hesitate to accept the courteous but silent 
 offer of a passage, and, stepping gallantly over 
 the side, I put myself under the protection o^ 
 all the nymphs and naiades that ever ruled or 
 sported in these waters. 
 
 As soon as I was embarked, the little canoe 
 swung round again, and was pulled by some in- 
 visible hand round the rock, to a romantic little 
 cove about ten yards at the other side. Still 
 there was no one to be seen. This looked cer- 
 tainly very like enchantment — but it was no 
 enchantment after all. For while I stood with 
 one foot on the gunnel and another on shore, 
 looking my inquiries from hill and dale, a hoarse 
 gruff voice called out, " Here ! this way !" I fol- 
 lowed the direction of the ungracious tones ; and, 
 at half a dozen paces from me, observed a kind 
 of grotto, or hut, or hovel, which was a puzzling 
 mixture of the architecture of beautiful nature 
 and rude art. Wishing to describe it by an 
 epithet clear and concise, I shall call it the 
 rustic-composite ; and I shall be happy to show 
 to any of my curious readers a copy from this
 
 38 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 model whenever it pleases the Fates to allow 
 me to 
 
 Call one spot of all the world my own. 
 
 Peeping out from a little loop-hole in this rest- 
 ing-place was a rough-looking personage, of an 
 aspect such as Charon might have shown had he 
 been a toll-gatherer instead of a ferryman. Having 
 no strongly developed taste for mechanics, I did 
 not feel any desire to examine the contrivance 
 by which he brought his boat to harbour and 
 then sent her out again for a new freight ; and 
 not finding any thing inviting in his physiognomy 
 or address, I paid him his souSf and made my way 
 up the path which ascended a tolerably high hill. 
 I meant to indulge myself, when I should reach 
 the top, with a view of the country, and a perusal 
 of the schoolmistress'*s pamphlet ; but a new ren„ 
 contre retarded for a little the gratification of 
 my curiosity, and the reader cannot grumble if 
 he shares the same fate. 
 
 As I prepared to ascend, my eye was caught 
 by a figure descending rapidly towards me. It
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 39 
 
 was that of a man, tall, stout, and vigorous. A 
 broad-leafed hat covered his head. He wore a 
 blue tight cotton vest, small-clothes of the same, 
 with large ties of red tape. His legs were bare ; 
 and sandals of undressed cow hide, the hair in- 
 ward, were tied round his ankles with thongs of 
 leather. In a broad belt buckled round his 
 waist were attached a small hatchet, for clearing 
 his passage through the glaciers, and a pair of 
 iron-spiked shoes, without which it is impossible 
 to traverse the snowy regions at the summit of 
 the mountains. Across his shoulders was flung 
 a short carbine, and in his hand he bore a staff 
 spiked at one end, to aid his ascent in the passes 
 of ice then glittering far above us. 
 
 The moment he perceived me, he stopped 
 short, sprung half behind a large stone ; and in 
 an instant his carbine was cocked, and his eye 
 fixed fiercely on me. " Friend or foe .?'' asked he 
 in Spanish, and in a tone which sounded like a 
 positive declaration of war. 
 
 "I am a traveller,*" rephed I, "and a foe to 
 no honest man.*" He looked at me a moment 
 sternly, but not so fiercely as at first ; and seeing
 
 40 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 nothing hostile in my attitude or manner, he 
 stepped towards me, his carbine in his hand, 
 ready for action if required, and taking care to 
 keep the advantage of the high ground. As he 
 approached, I rested the but-end of my gun upon 
 the ground, and waited his address. " If I am 
 not mistaken, sir," said he in French, " you are 
 not a Frenchman."" 
 
 " You are right," replied I. 
 
 " English, by the Virgin !" exclaimed he, and 
 
 springing forward, he stretched out his hand. 
 
 Though not quite in unison with the impetuous 
 
 warmth of his friendship, I gave him my hand, 
 
 and received a squeeze that tingled through 
 
 every nerve of my body. His eyes at the same 
 
 time brightened ; a flush of swarthy red showed 
 
 itself on the dark brown of his cheek, and he 
 
 smiled as if he was sincerely and heartily pleased. 
 
 Viewing him in this light, without a shade of 
 
 the ferocity which first struck me, I thought him, 
 
 and still think he was, the handsomest man I 
 
 ever saw. His black hair curled down upon his 
 
 shoulders. He did not wear mustachios, but 
 
 his upper lip only was shaved, and his beard and
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 41 
 
 whiskers were bushy and short, such as we give 
 to a Roman hero of from thirty to forty years 
 of age. His shirt was open at the neck, and ex- 
 posed his breast covered with curly hair, and 
 displaying a most imposing breadth and strength. 
 " You are English," cried he, " I Spanish — are 
 we not then friends?" He spoke his own lan- 
 guage. I replied in French, which was easier 
 to me, that I hoped our nations were and would 
 be always friends. 
 
 '* I hope so too,"" cried he, " for many a day 
 have I fought side by side with the noble En- 
 glish. From the Ebro to the Adour we marched 
 step by step together; and the passes of these 
 hills have many a time heard the echo of my 
 carbine joined with that of Wellington's cannon.**' 
 
 " You are no longer a soldier ?" asked I. 
 
 "No, I am now nothing more nor less than 
 a smuggler. Ever since the affair of Orthes, 
 there below us, where I got a French bullet 
 through my body, I have trod the roads of these 
 my native mountains, making out life and cheat- 
 ing the king just as well as I could. You see I 
 tell you frankJy what I am, lest you might take
 
 4^ THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 me for worse. A smuggler, mind you, not a 
 robber. But, if you would know me better, ask 
 Mina. — They say he is at Paris. Ask him the 
 character of Josef Ramirez, the Guerilla of Jaca ! 
 But time presses. I have a long road before me, 
 and must not tarry. God be with you ! Adieu l" 
 
 Repeating, with these words, the friendly and 
 forcible squeeze of the hand, the smuggler parted 
 from me, and was in a minute or two in deep 
 conversation with the toll-taker at the rivulet 
 side. The latter pointed to me, as if counselling 
 caution ; but the other, without looking at me, 
 shook his head, and clapped his companion on 
 the shoulder, as much as to say, " Fear nothing — 
 he is English," 
 
 The short conference being ended, the smug- 
 gler stepped into the boat, without once turning 
 his head to salute friends or look for foes. He 
 wheeled round the cliff, and was in a moment 
 lost to my sight, but not for ever. In about an 
 hour afterwards, as I gazed from the top of the 
 hill, at whose foot we parted, at the splendid 
 view, and thrilled with a delight ever new to 
 me, at the near prospect of these stupendous
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 43 
 
 mountains — I saw a dark cloud come sweeping 
 down their side ; and marching stoutly to meet 
 it, the hardy figure of the smuggler caught my 
 attention. He had made most rapid way ; yet the 
 various winding of the vales, and the lesser hills 
 which he had crossed, kept him still sufficiently 
 near to enable me to view him distinctly. Wish- 
 ing to give him a signal of recollection and good 
 will, I fired a shot, which reverberated in a hun- 
 dred echoes round me, but he either did not hear 
 the report, or scorned to pay attention to it. 
 
 I sat down at the moment on a smooth spot; 
 and on one of the fragments of rock which were 
 scattered round me, I sketched the following 
 lines. It was not the fault of either the subject 
 or the scene that they were not better. 
 
 THE MOUNTAINEER. 
 
 Brave^ enterprising, firm, and proud. 
 
 He boldly steps the dangerous path. 
 Faces the gathering thunder-cloud. 
 
 Indifferent to its rising wrath : 
 Scorning the shelter of the rock — 
 Shrinks not, but dares the hail-storm's shock ; 
 Or in some wind-worn crevice laid, 
 A granite cushion for his head.
 
 44 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 Proof gainst the blasts unharm'd by cold. 
 Alike from fear and sorrow free ; 
 
 His rough bed freedom's vantage-hold. 
 His shade the wings of liberty. 
 
 The riot of the heavens gone by. 
 Once more the sun relumes the sky. 
 And strikes the hill with burning glow, 
 "VVliile lightnings scorch the vales below. — 
 But the bold mountaineer defies 
 These fierce contentions of the skies : 
 Bounds from the earth with active spring. 
 And like the untamed forest-king. 
 Who quits his couch, uproused by rain. 
 Shaking the big drops from his mane. — 
 This mountain monarch leaves his lair. 
 Dashes the cold shower from his hair ; 
 Unfearing tracks his prompt advance. 
 Nor deigns to cast one backward glance. 
 No dastard doubts may linger near 
 The free-born breeze that wantons here. — 
 Pure as the fine and subtle breath 
 
 That sports o'er Erin's circling wave. 
 Wafting to every reptile death. 
 
 But health and welcome to the brave. 
 
 Such vigorous essence, pure and wild. 
 Inhales the mountain's roving child ; 
 But the best boast of Erin's pride. 
 Soft, social joys, he casts aside. 
 He owes no binding ties to man ; 
 
 But such as he is, fiercely free — 
 He scorns the jargon that Would scan 
 
 The different shades of rank's degree.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENIIY IV, 
 
 To him all equal. By one proof 
 He measures mind and body both. — 
 
 Strength is his standard — far aloof 
 He flings all goods of meaner growth. 
 
 And judges by this general scale 
 
 The lowly hind of Lasto's vale ; 
 
 The somewhat civilized^ who bask 
 
 In the dull freedom of Venasque ; 
 
 Polish'd or rustic ; vile or good ; 
 
 Plebeian,, noble, learn ed^ rude. 
 
 The beggar, wretch, or him who reigns 
 
 Lord of Iberia's wide stretch'd plains — 
 
 Feeble and false in every thing ; 
 
 By force a patriot as by fraud a king ! 
 
 Such is the tide of thought that fills 
 The wayward wanderer of the hills. 
 Boundless as Nature's self he roves. 
 And Nature for her grandeur loves. 
 No weakling power his passions stirs ; 
 His friendships are with her and hers : 
 Unknown to him each siren charm. 
 Which lures the listening wretch to harm ; 
 Those arts refined, which, meant to bless. 
 Sink into sorrows and excess. 
 His the bold intercourse that grows 
 To greatness from the things it knows : 
 His fellowship is grand and high ; 
 He talks with tempests. The vast sky — 
 The massive glacier, huge and hoar — 
 The rushing blast — the torrent's roar — 
 These his familiars stern and strong ; — 
 He lisps in youth the^r lofty tongue, 
 
 45
 
 46 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 Grows in their spirit, takes their tone. 
 And makes their attributes his own. 
 Such sure was man's primeval state. 
 Like Nature, noble, wild, and great ; 
 Meant for a monarch, not the slave 
 Of self-born conquest ; — proudly brave, 
 "With lion look and eagle eye. 
 Firm foot on earth, and thoughts on high. 
 So came the being, rudely grand. 
 Warm-glowing from his Maker's hand ; 
 So stalk'd in Eden's bowers, till sin. 
 Damping his energies, crept in. 
 And art entwined its chill caress 
 To tame his godlike savageness. 
 
 It is not necessary to state how often the 
 verses have been reconsidered and retouched, nor 
 the exact time occupied in the first rough sketch : 
 but the mountaineer was out of sight when I 
 had finished ; and luckily for me, a cottage was 
 in view, where I made sure of a lodging for the 
 night, which was not far distant. But before I 
 quitted my resting-place, I took out the school- 
 mistress's pamphlet ; and fancying that I had, in 
 even this one day, seen enough to give me a just 
 notion of the people of Henry IV., I thought I 
 was fitly prepared to read the account of his 
 birth.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 47 
 
 I found, on examining it, that what I had got 
 of the pamphlet was but a part of a whole. All 
 that preceded or followed the subject of Henry's 
 birth was torn away ; but these few pages were 
 perfect, and seemed from the conclusion to have 
 been recently published. When I thought of 
 turning it into English, I did not conceive my- 
 self bound to adhere very closely to the original 
 meagre sketch, nor the errors it contained ; and 
 I therefore made some most unmerciful inter- 
 polations. The reader being thus informed that 
 I am not responsible for all of this trifle, will, I 
 trust, make an equitable and candid distribution ; 
 viz. to place any thing that may please him to 
 my credit, and give the merit of what he does 
 not like to the French writer, on whose founda- 
 tion my labours were built. 
 
 ''Make haste, wife — I am just ready to set 
 out. Make haste, make haste !" 
 
 At the voice of her impatient husband, the 
 good wife called her son and grandson to receive 
 the orders of the old man. The son came first.
 
 48 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 "Joseph, you will remain all night upon the 
 hill, until you see the flame glowing on the towers 
 of the royal chateau. You will then light the 
 faggots which are ready prepared, that the whole 
 valley may learn at once that a child is born to 
 our good king. You know, a single fire announces 
 a girl : three — ah ! if it was but a boy ! woe to 
 the Spaniards ! our beautiful Navarre would not 
 be long in their hands. But now our king is old, 
 and the husband of his daughter sheds, in the 
 service of Henrv II., that blood which should be 
 poured out in reconquering the paternal estates. 
 And the Princess Jeanne ! why, with all the 
 courage of a man, oh ! why is she a woman T'' 
 
 Joseph set out for the hill, and Enriot waited 
 for his grandfather to speak again. " My child,"" 
 said the old man, after a long pause, " you are 
 to-day twenty years of age. To-day I should 
 like to present you to your king: — you must 
 come with me.'"* The lad trembled with joy; 
 the grandsire went on. " Wife, give me my 
 arms — those which I carried in our last battle 
 against the Spaniards. Alas ! it is a long time 
 since then. I that day had the glory of shielding
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 49 
 
 with my body my wounded king/' The dame 
 obeyed the order ; the arms were taken out of 
 the family chest, and the old man^ brought them 
 to the door of the cottage. The sun was sinking 
 behind the hills, and threw a stream of dazzling 
 light upon these relics of the veteran's glory. 
 They were brilliant, for he took a pride in keep- 
 ing off the ravages of rust. He placed the glitter- 
 ing helmet upon his head ; a battered cuirass 
 covered his broad and manly chest ; in his leathern 
 belt he hung the broad-sword which had parried 
 the stroke meant for his monarch's life ; and 
 lastly, he flung across his shoulders the scarlet 
 cloak, on which were embroidered, in blue worsted, 
 the two cows — the arms of Beam. 
 
 Enriot was quickly prepared. A graceful cap 
 half hid his long, brown hair ; an open vest, 
 loose breeches, woollen stockings, embroidered in 
 diff'erent colours, and worked by his mother's 
 hands, with thick shoes, completed his dress. In 
 one hand he lightly balanced the knotted staff, 
 which served for support in climbing the hills. 
 The other carried a small basket, into which his 
 grandfather had put a piece of coarse bread, a 
 
 VOL. ir. E 
 
 /-f*"
 
 ^ 
 
 50 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 clove of garlic, freshly gathered, and a bottle of 
 old wine of Jurangon. 
 
 After the old man had reminded the women 
 to take to their prayers, the moment the- bells 
 should announce the commencing labour of the 
 princess, and cautioned them to pray strongly 
 for a boy, he and Enriot set out. For several 
 days the whole district had awaited with anxiety 
 this important event. Rising in the morning, they 
 thought it impossible that it could be delayed 
 till night; and many a sound- sleeping peasant 
 had been startled from his rest, during the week 
 just passed, with fancied tinglings from the 
 steeple of Pau — while some, amongst whom was 
 Ibarria, for so the old man was named, made 
 regular daily pilgrimages to the castle gates. 
 The result of these expeditions had been hitherto 
 only disappointment, but a new dream every night 
 promised positive intelligence for the following 
 day. He moreover remembered well, that when 
 he was a stripling, full half a century before, a 
 reputed magician had foretold, that the day on 
 , which he had a grandson twenty years old would 
 be the proudest day he had ever known. That
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 51 
 
 might, to be sure, have been the case from na- 
 tural feeling alone, unconnected with the birth of 
 princes ; but Ibarria insisted that there was some- 
 thing great woven into the prophecy : and this 
 day being also the day of full moon, he reckoned 
 with a certainty, in which he was borne out by 
 the opinions of all the old women around, that 
 the Princess Jeanne was to become that day the 
 mother of a race of kings. 
 
 Ibarria, having served for a long period in the 
 body guard of the king of Navarre, had accom- 
 panied his master in his retirement to Pau. The 
 grateful monarch had given to his old soldier a 
 house at Juran^on, and had appointed him to the 
 care of the royal vineyards. There this faithful 
 follower, in his honourable trust, passed his quiet 
 days ; recounting to his children the virtuous 
 and courageous actions of the master whom he 
 loved so well. He nourished in their breasts two 
 powerful passions — affection for his prince, and 
 hatred of his foes. He had long indulged the 
 expectation of seeing his king reconquer Pam- 
 peluna, but it was nearly dissipated, when the 
 situation of the Princess Jeanne awoke his 
 
 E 2
 
 52 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 slumbering ideas, and flattered his ancient hopes. 
 He waited with impatience the promised infant, 
 the anticipated redressor of his master'*s wrongs. 
 There never was a people more devoted to 
 their sovereign than were the people of Beam. 
 There was a noble frankness in the character of 
 the old monarch that associated admirably with 
 their own. They loved him as a father ; and 
 his daughter shared their hearts with him. The 
 circumstance of her having first felt the move- 
 ments of the child within her bosom while in 
 camp with her husband in Picardy, amidst the 
 sound of drums and trumpets, flattered their war- 
 like superstitions ; and they had with one voice 
 settled (and it was prophetic) that this forth^ 
 coming child was to be first a boy, and then a 
 hero. Animated by this joyful hope, they waited 
 the announcement of a prince with that respectful 
 confidence inspired by faith in the goodness of 
 the All-wise. 
 
 It was now the commencement of winter ; but 
 it was one of those winters into which the warm 
 farewell of the departing season blends, as does 
 the brilliant green with the dusky purple of a
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 53 
 
 rainbow; when the trees retain their leaves ' 
 beyond their wonted time, and a casual nightin- 
 gale is still heard to pour his melody upon the 
 last traces of the dying year. The heavens still 
 kept their serenity, and the earth its verdure; 
 and the day seemed ruled by the lingering spirit 
 of autumnal mildness. 
 
 As the travellers pursued their route, after 
 evening had closed in, Ibarria had taken up his 
 favourite strain : he was talking of the wisdom of 
 the king, and the virtues of the princess. It was 
 the first time, perhaps, that Enriot had listened 
 to his grandfather with a forced attention, for 
 they were close upon the dwelling of the venerable 
 and gallant Franke. " Let us quit the road and 
 take the mountain -path," said the old man sud- 
 denly, on perceiving the chesnut-trees which 
 shaded the roof of his ancient fellow-soldier. 
 *' The way will be longer, but my heart will not 
 throb with indignation against the perfidious 
 friend who betrayed my confidence. My rage 
 surprises you, perhaps. — Listen to me, child! 
 Learn, that before I married my good wife, whom 
 God bless and preserve ! I had long loved a
 
 54 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 young maiden of the vale of Maia. Franke was 
 my friend — became my rival — and, during my 
 absence in the wars, possessed himself of her for 
 whom I would have given my life. Oh, but she 
 was good and handsome! You have seen her 
 grand-daughter Laurinette? She is her very 
 image. You must have remarked her — Is she 
 not lovely ?"" 
 
 Enriot made an inclination of the head, for he 
 had remarked the girl. He followed his grand- 
 father awhile in silence ; but just as they came 
 to a little grove of acacias, he cast a look among 
 the trees, and coughed. Receiving no answer, 
 he suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead and 
 exclaimed, " What a head I have here! Dear 
 grandfather, will you forgive me.'^ I have left 
 behind me the bodice which sister Catrine has 
 worked for Mademoiselle de Montbrun, and which 
 I so positively promised to take to Pau. I must 
 step back for it." 
 
 *' You must not step back for it, stupid boy !" 
 said old Ibarria, sharply, " What, keep me 
 waiting at a time like this, when all the country 
 is pressing to the castle — and for a paltry bodice.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 55 
 
 forsooth !" — " But, consider, sir, it is meant to 
 do honour to our princess, and the young prince 
 she is S7ire to give us ! And you know, my dear 
 grandfather, that walk as fast as you will, I shall 
 overtake you with ease before you reach the 
 river."" 
 
 This reasoning was conclusive with Ibarria, 
 for he was fond of the notion of honouring the 
 princess and the prince he was so sure of; and 
 nothing was to him a trifle which tended to that 
 point. Besides, he was proud of Enriot's agility, 
 and loved to follow him with his eyes as he 
 bounded along the mountain-paths, full as grace- 
 ful, and almost as fleet, as the Izard which he 
 chased from pic to pic. " Go along then, puppy !" 
 cried Ibarria — and Enriot was in a moment at 
 full speed. 
 
 Laurinette, whom Enriot had remarked, was 
 at this identical moment in one of her most 
 peevish and fretful moods ; but her peevishness 
 had something so gentle and bewitching in it, 
 that it was often preferred to other people'*s good 
 humour. Her temper, was now, however, tried
 
 56 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 to the utmost, for Franke, her grandfather, had 
 made her sit down to her usual evening'*s task of 
 reading him to sleep; but, by an uncommon 
 perversity, had not begun to doze at the second 
 or third page, as was his regular custom. Lau- 
 rinette turned her eyes oftener towards a little 
 acacia grove^ visible from the window, than she 
 fixed them upon the old history of the Kings of 
 Navarre. The breaks which she thus made in 
 the narrative kept up the attention of the old 
 man, defeating her own object, and the natural 
 effects of the narrative itself. 
 
 She thus went on for some time, but was at 
 last on the point of losing all command of herself, 
 for she^saw the moonlight slowly mixing with the 
 gray vapours that covered the mountain tops ; 
 and she would certainly have burst into tears had 
 not her grandfather begun to nod in his chair, 
 and in a moment more given a nasal notice that 
 he was fast asleep. Laying down her book, she 
 was preparing to steal towards the door, when a 
 voice, not new to her, warbled from the garden 
 the following
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 57 
 
 RUSTIC SERENADE. 
 I. 
 
 Laurinette dear, the sun is down. 
 
 His last glance fades on the mountain's peak ; 
 And the drooping heads of the herbage brown 
 
 Are faintly tinged with his yellow streak. 
 The moisten'd foliage warmly weeps ; 
 
 Still is the villagers' evening hum ; 
 Nature is hush'd, and echo sleeps — 
 
 Laurinette dear to thy lover come ! 
 
 II. 
 
 Mark in the eastern heavens a light 
 
 That shines on the flowers which the dews have wet ; 
 'Tis the wakening glance of the queen of night. 
 
 And, slothful girl ! thou comest not yet. 
 The nightingale warbles his notes of love, 
 
 Perch'd on the quivering branches high. 
 While the fluttering leaves might be thought to move 
 
 In time to his moonlight melody. 
 
 III. 
 
 The rivulets gush from the mountain springs 
 
 To freshen the still warm breath of the vale ; 
 Zephyr is out on his silvery wings. 
 
 And pleasure is floating abroad on the gale. 
 But pleasure, and beauty, and music, all 
 
 To the heart of the lover are chill and dumb, 
 AFhile the maiden he dotes on slights his call. 
 
 Then Laurinette dear to //m/ lover come !
 
 58 TKE BIRTH OF HENRY IV* 
 
 The echo to this last line was a sweet embrace 
 from the lips of the lovely girl ; and Enriot forgot 
 for a moment all else in the world. It will be 
 divined by the reader that this young couple had 
 been a long time very good friends, unknown to 
 their grandsires, whose enmity had kept them 
 asunder. It will probably be suspected too, that 
 the asserted forgetfulness of the bodice was 
 wholly a fabrication of the amorous Enriot. Such 
 was the truth ; for the bodice had been snugly 
 deposited in his bosom on his leaving home, and 
 had he but had a glimpse of Laurinette in passing 
 the acacia grove, he would not have been forced 
 to the falsehood. As it was, I hope it will be 
 held venial in such a good cause, without any 
 serious injury to religion or morals. 
 
 This stolen interview was as rapid as lightning, 
 and as brilliant too. The moment it lasted might 
 be called a drop of " the essence of time," The 
 hearts of the lovers was the alembic in which it 
 was doubly distilled; and its fragrance had not 
 evaporated when Enriot rejoined his grandfather 
 at half a league''s distance from the house of 
 Franke. " Well, sir, I have caught you," cried
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 59 
 
 he, panting for breath. " You are a good boy," 
 replied the old man, and they went silently on. 
 
 The birth-day of an heir is joyous for a family. 
 How glorious for a kingdom is the birth-day of a 
 sovereign ! Hardly were the first strokes of the 
 bells heard by the anxious inhabitants of Pau, 
 than they rushed out to inquire the news. The 
 lively sounds spread quickly over the plain, 
 through which the Gave winds tranquilly along. 
 They struck upon the ears of Ibarria and Enriot, 
 just as they had reached the rising grounds 
 which stretch before the town and towers of Pau. 
 They had both been for some time silent. Ibarria's 
 thoughts had swept over a space nearly as ex- 
 tensive as is allotted to the life of man — ^had dwelt 
 awhile on his early hours — then rushed back to 
 present days — and ended by subsiding into 
 mental prayers for a prince. Enriot was thinking 
 of something else. 
 
 " On, on, my boy ! we loiter, I would not 
 for my whole vintage be too late.*" They hurried 
 up the ascent. The straining eyes of the old 
 man would have penetrated the hill. Enriot 
 burned with impatience, but slackened his steps
 
 CO THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 to keep pace with his grandsire. At last the 
 fuller sounds of the bells came unobstructed on 
 their ears ; they reached the summit ; and the 
 whole enchanting panorama, lit by the full moon, 
 burst upon their sight. 
 
 The Spanish proverb says, that " they have 
 seen nothing who have not seen Seville." How 
 little have they seen who have not seen Pau ! 
 Its lovely sloping hill covered with gardens and 
 vineyards ; its neat buildings, rising in gradations 
 of beauty, and reposing in masses of verdure ; its 
 proud and glittering castle towering over all, with 
 white flags floating salutation to the rivers, the 
 forests, the mountains ! But who can describe it ? 
 O no one. — It is one of those views to be seen 
 and felt ; when the mind is raised by the contem- 
 plation of nature''s magnificence ; and the heart 
 softened by the fulness of her bounty. 
 
 Ibarria and Enriot had many a time viewed 
 this scene ; but they stopped, even now, awhile 
 in involuntary admiration, and gazed upon it till 
 a dark cloud, covering the face of the moon, 
 robbed the landscape of its lustre, and warned 
 them to proceed. The bells are still ringing;
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 61' 
 
 they have now a downhill path, and they gain 
 upon the road. But just as they reach the 
 borders of the river, and at the instant that they 
 put their first step upon the bridge, the bells 
 suddenly cease, and a fire bursts high from the 
 castle's central tower. The travellers stop short 
 — their expectant eyes are fixed upon the other 
 towers. Let imagination fancy their appear- 
 ance. — Their quickened pulse, and breath ar- 
 rested — their gazing countenances, flushed cheeks, 
 and flowing hair — their picturesque attire — their 
 graceful figures ! 
 
 Thus they stood for some seconds, every one 
 of which appeared an hour. " But one fire — 
 but one, grandfather ?" asked, rather than ex- 
 claimed, Enriot. " Great God, thy will be done !" 
 cried the old man. The suspense continued — 
 it was intolerable. They could not have borne 
 it longer, when a little gleam spread flickering 
 on the western turret, and in an instant the com- 
 bustible matter shot upwards its flames upon the 
 sky. Another fire, on the corresponding turret, 
 completed the signal for a boy; and salvos of 
 artillery roared out. The shouts of enthusiastic
 
 62 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 thousands joined the joyous chorus ; and the 
 hills sent on from crag to crag reverberations of 
 the sounds. 
 
 Where are the travellers ? Ah ! behold them 
 — on their knees ; their heads uncovered ; their 
 hands clasped together, and raised towards 
 Heaven ; their eyes fixed upon the blazing sig- 
 nals ; their cheeks streaming with tears ! 
 
 They are soon again upon their feet, and 
 quickly ascend the rapid path which leads from 
 the river to the castle. They pause but one 
 moment to look back towards home, hoping to 
 see their little signal-fire. They turn their heads, 
 and do see their signal-fire, no doubt — but it is 
 in vain that they would hope to distinguish it 
 amongst a hundred blazing from the summit of 
 a hundred hills. 
 
 They reached the castle. The portcullis was 
 raised, the draw-bridge down, and no guards 
 were seen to obstruct the rush of the crowd. 
 The court-yard was already filled when Ibarria 
 and Enriot arrived. The uniform of the old 
 soldier, his respectable character, as well as the 
 well-known friendship of the king, were all so
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 6S 
 
 many causes for clearing a way for his approach. 
 He penetrated through the crowd, and directed 
 his steps to the private staircase, by which he 
 was privileged to enter, leaving the grand ap- 
 proach to the thousands who were, for the first 
 time, promiscuously admitted. As he mounted 
 the steps, followed by Enriot, a strain of music 
 seemed to invite his approach. Instead of the 
 plaintive cries which he expected to have heard,,, 
 he distinguished an old song of the country, and 
 was surprised at any one venturing to sing at 
 such a time. The air was one of mingled ten- 
 derness and solemnity, and the words were pro- 
 nounced in a feeble and tremulous tone. Fatigued 
 by his long walk, and by the height of the stair- 
 case, Ibarria stopped awhile to recover breath., 
 Enriot stood wrapped in astonishment and awe v 
 and they heard the following 
 
 SONG OF THE PRINCESS JEANNE*. 
 
 L 
 
 Sing ! for the voice of the newly born 
 Falls in sweet sounds on the mother's ear; 
 
 Like the sun-beam mix'd with the cloud of morn. 
 On her cheek is a blended smile and tear. 
 
 * Jeanne d'Albret wishing to see her father's will, he 
 promised to show it to her, " A condition que dans Ten-
 
 64 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 II. 
 
 The vows of her lover, her husband's kiss. 
 
 Were dear when in joy's young hours she smiled ; 
 
 But feeble and faint to her matron bliss 
 
 As she clasps to her bosom her first-born child. 
 
 III. 
 
 When the child is a man, to the battle field 
 He will follow his father the foe to meet ; 
 
 And in victory's pride lay his foeman's shield. 
 
 With a high-throbbing heart, at his mother's feet! 
 
 During the last stanza of the song Ibarria 
 and Enr'iot had reached the head of the stairs. 
 The door before them was open and unguarded. 
 They hesitated an instant whether they should 
 enter or not, and interchanged looks of mutual 
 uncertainty. While thus silently, mentally de- 
 bating, a woman, from the apartment within, 
 perceiving them, ran forward, and exclaimed in 
 a transport of joy, " Come in, come in ; he is 
 
 fantement elle luy chanteroit une chanson ' qfin,' luy dit 
 11, ' que tu ne me fasses pas un enfant pleureux et rechigne* 
 La Princesse le luy promit, et eut tant de courage, que 
 malgre les grandes douleurs qu elle suffroit, elle luy tint 
 parole, et en chanta une en son langage Bernois." — Hist, 
 du Roy Henry le Grand, par de Perefixey t. i. p. 16. 
 
 Notwithstanding this authority of the Bishop of Rho- 
 dez, it will be observed that I have made the princess 
 sing after the birth.
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. G5 
 
 born !" She drew them along, and led thern to 
 the chamber of the princess, where they had been 
 preceded by a multitude admitted without di- 
 stinction or inquiry. 
 
 The old monarch was leaning over his daugh- 
 ter's bed. He took the infant from her arms, 
 and raising it in his own, he turned towards the 
 crowd, and showing it to all, he cried aloud, 
 " You see it is a boy !" It was at this moment 
 that Ibarria, taking from his grandson's basket 
 the clove of garlic and the wine, presented them 
 to the king, who kindly smiled, on recognising 
 his old preserver. The monarch himself then 
 rubbed the clove of garlic to the infant's lips, 
 and having poured a little of the wine into a 
 goblet, he offered it to the child. He drank it 
 with avidity, and without uttering a cry; and, 
 as though his imperfect vision had acquired its 
 powers, he turned round the circle his half-open 
 eyes. 
 
 " What is his name ?" asked a voice. Ano- 
 ther exclaimed, " Call him Henry, after his 
 grandfather !" " Be it so," said the old king ; 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 66 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 and all cried, " Long live Henry !'' The crowd 
 which waited on the staircase, in the halls, the 
 chambers, and the court-yard, echoed the cry 
 thus sent forth ; and the sound of its genuine 
 honesty would have been a good lesson for the 
 venal and the factious, who sometimes open out 
 their roaring throats. 
 
 The monarch caused a window to be thrown 
 wide, and advanced upon the balcony. A tear 
 of joy trickled down his hollowed cheek. The 
 child which he carried in his arms seemed, to the 
 admiring crowd, to wear a smile upon his un- 
 conscious lips; and his little hand, which was 
 entangled in the grey beard of his grandsire, 
 they would have it was playing there by design. 
 The old king held up towards Heaven this son 
 which it had bestowed upon his people; and 
 making a sign that he would speak, an imme- 
 diate silence succeeded the buzz which had pre- 
 vailed in the crowd. " A child is born to all, 
 said he. " He will love you as I love you. 
 Observing near him an old soldier of Navarre, 
 who could not restrain his tears, " Be joyous 
 
 11 
 
 11
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 67 
 
 and happy, my gallant friend," added he, with 
 a tone and bearing that seemed like inspiration. 
 '^ My Lamb has brought forth a Lion* !" 
 
 A burst of acclamation and delight, still louder 
 than the former, welcomed these words of the 
 monarch. Every approach to the chamber of 
 the princess was then thrown open by his orders, 
 that all might come and gaze upon the child — 
 the hope of his race. 
 
 There was in the castle a large tortoise-shell, 
 which some sailors of Bayonne had formerly 
 found on a distant shore, and which they had 
 presented to the princess as one of the curious 
 productions of the sea. This shell was placed in 
 a large hall adjoining the chamber of the princess, 
 and it was in this extraordinary and unostenta- 
 tious cradle that the old Henry placed his new- 
 
 * Les Espagnols avoient dit autrefois par raillerie sur 
 la naissance de la mere de notre Henry, " Miracle ! la 
 vache a fait une brebis/' entendent par ce mot de vache, 
 la Reine Marguerite, sa mere, car ils I'appelloient ainsi, et 
 son mary, le vacher, faisant allusion aux amies de Beam, 
 qui sont deux vaches. Le Roy Henry se souvenant de 
 cette froide raillerie des Espagnols, disoit de joye, " Voyez 
 maintenant, ma brebis a enfante un Lion !" — Dc Perefixcy 
 t. i. p. IT. 
 
 f2
 
 68 THE BIRTH OF HENRY TV. 
 
 born namesake. " I choose,"" said he, " that he 
 should sleep in a cradle the gift of my people ; 
 he who will one day be called on to wake and 
 watch over their welfare."" The crowd rushed 
 once more round the infant prince, and all ad- 
 mired his strength and beauty. The child was 
 not at all alarmed at the concourse — a thing 
 little extraordinary in one just born, but which 
 the people chose to consider a miracle, as if 
 some early instinct made him already distinguish 
 that he was in the midst of his devoted subjects. 
 Ibarria took this opportunity of approaching 
 the monarch, holding Enriot by the hand. '^ At 
 this moment of general devotion,"" said he, " my 
 sovereign will not disdain the offering of his 
 faithful servant."" Then kneeling, with Enriot 
 beside him, " Here, my liege, I give you this 
 full-grown lad to be the honest follower of this 
 noble infant, as I have been to your majesty."" 
 The king, putting his hand on Enriofs head, 
 said solemnly, " I bless you, my worthy lad. 
 Grow up in the steps of your gallant grandsire, 
 and a better blessing — that of Heaven — will be 
 with you ! And now, Ibarria, you must return 
 
 ■■*
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 69 
 
 me kind for kind. Here, give thy blessing to 
 this child. The benediction of fidelity and 
 courage must bring good luck with it." 
 
 Ibarria, with a half-diffident yet affecting so- 
 lemnity, approached the cradle. He contem- 
 plated the child for some time in silence, then 
 bending on one knee he cried, " I bless thee, 
 noble infant, hope of the people ! Thou wilt be 
 brave, for thy mother felt thee bounding in her 
 bosom in the middle of a camp. Thou wilt 
 be good, for thou wilt resemble thy grandsire. 
 Thou Avilt be just, for thou wilt follow his counsel 
 and example. Thou wilt be the joy of thy 
 people, for cries of gladness, and not tears, have 
 awaited on thy birth ! Be blest, then, royal 
 child ! In thee finishes the name of Albret — in 
 thee begins the name of Bourbon. May this 
 glorious name become more famous than all the 
 names of kings ; and may God accord to thee 
 and thy posterity the favours reserved for his 
 well-beloved !" 
 
 Then, drawing his long rapier, Ibarria touched 
 the cradle with the blade. " Now it is conse- 
 crated," said he, placing the sword in the hands
 
 70 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 of Enriot. " You will carry it to defend him, 
 since age disables me." But Enriot knew nought 
 of this appeal. From the moment that he felt 
 the royal hand upon his head, both sense and 
 feeling seemed to have abandoned their throne. 
 He remained fixed on his knees, his eyes fastened 
 on the floor, his neck bent low, and his arms 
 crossed upon his breast. He was aroused from 
 his waking trance by the rough jokes of his young 
 companions, who had formed a circle round him ; 
 and starting up, confused and ashamed, he hur- 
 ried after his grandfather, whom he saw slowly 
 making his way through the crowd. Enriot con- 
 fessed, in many an after day, that the memory 
 of this moment — when the dreams of wealth 
 and ambition had made him forget awhile hu- 
 mility and love — was his best preservative against 
 the temptations which many a time assailed him 
 during life. 
 
 Returning towards Jurancon, Enriot wished 
 to lead his father from the high road, by the 
 path they had followed in going to Pau. " No," 
 said the old man, '' my heart is filled with joy; 
 and there is no room for hatred to find a place
 
 THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 71 
 
 there." He then walked straight up to the house 
 of Franke, pushed open the door without knock- 
 ing, and entered the kitchen. This unlooked- 
 for visit astonished Franke and his grandaugh- 
 ter, who were sitting by the fire, late as it was, 
 conversing with some of their happy neighbours 
 on the subject of the auspicious birth. Franke 
 got up, and advanced towards Ibarria, whom he 
 did not at first recognize. " Franke," said the 
 latter with a faltering voice, and taking him by 
 the hand, " we are old enemies — but older friends. 
 I forget every thing now but our early regard. 
 The birth of this prince should reunite all good 
 royalists, who may perhaps require this union 
 when the child is big enough to lead them to 
 battle. Alas ! I forget my years. No matter. 
 Franke, we were once friends — let us be so 
 again, and always !" 
 
 The warm-hearted and generous Franke threw 
 himself into Ibarria's arms, exclaiming, "• Oh ! 
 why is she not alive to see this happy hour? 
 She, who was till death your truest friend !*" 
 
 While the old men embraced each other, the 
 whole circle around them shed tears of joy at the
 
 7^ THE BIRTH OF HENRY IV. 
 
 reconciliation. The news spread quickly over 
 the neighbourhood. Enriot, who had remarked 
 Laurinette, married her amidst blessings and re- 
 joicings; and it is even said that, to this day, 
 their descendants are prouder of tracing their 
 ancestry up to such a couple, than of the worldly 
 distinction which has followed a long course of 
 industry and virtue.
 
 THE 
 
 EXILE OF THE L ANDES. 
 
 With great courage and elevation of sentiment, he told 
 the court that '* the crime of which he stood accused was 
 not a deed performed in a corner ; the sound of it had gone 
 forth to most nations; **** that for no temporal advan- 
 tage would he offer injury to the poorest man or woman 
 that stood upon the earth ; * * * * and that he had still, 
 through every danger, held fast his principles and his 
 integrity." 
 
 Hume's History of England, vol. vii. p. 356.
 
 %
 
 THE 
 
 EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 Every body has heard of the Landes of 
 France, and many of my countrymen have tra- 
 versed them in their route from Paris to the 
 Pyrenees ; but few who have not seen them, or 
 similar tracts, can form a notion of these mono- 
 tonous sohtudes. 
 
 Being unwiUing to infringe on the rights of 
 my brother scribblers, who dress up their loose 
 thoughts in the form of tours and travels, I shall 
 not enter into regular description, or details of 
 distances. I shall content myself with saying, 
 that the Landes stretch from the Gironde to the 
 Adour, between north and south — are washed by 
 the bay of Biscay on the west — and lose them- 
 selves to the eastward, by insensibly mingling 
 with the fertile plains of Aire and Villeneuve de 
 Marsan. A gazetteer and a map will tell the 
 rest.
 
 76 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 Extensive pine- woods cover this ocean of 
 sands. Here and there a hut or a hamlet forms 
 the centre of a patch of green, on which troops 
 of ragged sheep or goats are seen to browse ; 
 while the unmeaning look of the being who at- 
 tends them marks his mental affinity to the flock, 
 as his sheep-skin mantle gives him an external 
 similitude. 
 
 I left Bordeaux to explore these wastes, on a 
 summer''s morning, when the first beams of day 
 were opening on the heavens ; and the birds were 
 shaking off the drowsiness of night, stretching 
 out their little wings, and arranging their ruffled 
 plumage — with the coquetry of a fine lady, 
 settling her dishevelled ringlets, or the trimming 
 of her cap. 
 
 It was then that I was forcibly struck with 
 the belief that vanity was not peculiar to man- 
 kind : that the prancing of the steed, the strut 
 of the cock, and the contortions of the monkey, 
 were but some of those gradatory shades exhi- 
 bited by poor mortality from pride to dandyism. 
 Be it so ! thought I ; let the brute creation rival 
 the genus homo, and share with us another of
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 77 
 
 our privileges. — God knows we often meet them 
 half-way in coming to a level ! 
 
 I was roused from the train of thought which 
 followed these reflections, on finding my pro- 
 gress impeded by the nature of the soil I trod 
 on. I was wading through sand, having wan- 
 dered into one of the by-roads, which branch 
 off in a hundred directions, on the borders of the 
 Landes. I made an effort to reconnoitre my po- 
 sition, but with little success. Around me, on 
 every side, were tall pines. No vista showed me 
 the track I had travelled, for the road had wound, 
 in most irregular meanderings, into this forest. 
 Above was the dark blue sky, and below the sandy 
 soil, deep and parched by the meridian sun. I 
 was for a moment^a little embarrassed, but I soon 
 recovered myself. I first looked at poor Ranger's 
 discontented face, but got no information there. 
 He was stretched panting at the foot of a fir- 
 tree, and his eyes were turned on me, as if ask- 
 ing for refreshment or consolation. 
 
 Having utterly lost my way, I had only to re- 
 mark the direction of my shadow on the ground, 
 and, making towards an opening which allowed
 
 78 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 this observation, I quickly discovered that it 
 pointed towards the east. Knowing that the sea 
 lay in a contrary direction, I was satisfied, and 
 went onwards, without fear of retracing my steps ; 
 and coming in a little while to a scanty patch of 
 herbage, I sat down upon it, and produced from 
 my wallet my stock of cold meat and bread. 
 
 After our repast, which the want of water 
 rendered rather defective. Ranger and myself 
 seemed inspired alike with fresh vigour. We 
 set out again ; and while he made some circular 
 excursions in the wood, fruitlessly hoping to 
 light on a rivulet or a covey, I plodded onward 
 in whatever path presented itself on my route. 
 
 I calculated on falling in with some straggling 
 village or hut, where I might repose for the 
 night, if I found it impracticable to reach La 
 Teste, a little town on the coast, to which I was 
 more immediately bound. As I relapsed into 
 my reverie, I forgot myself again ; and I saun- 
 tered onwards in this mood, until the sun had 
 sunk in a misty and threatening sky. The earth 
 was overhung with clouds, and a wind of evil 
 omen swept gloomily across the desert, and
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 79 
 
 shook the branches of the dark tall pines. I be- 
 gan now, in good earnest, to look about me, and 
 increasing my speed in a straight-forward direc- 
 tion, I reached, in about half an hour, the ex- 
 tremity of the wood in which I had so long Avan- 
 dered. My path opened out into an almost 
 boundless plain, but I saw at first no habitation 
 nor living object. I felt excessively fatigued, 
 from the heavy sandy soil through which I had 
 all day laboured. I was also a second time 
 hungry, and I had besides some inquietudes for 
 Ranger. Those woods abound with wolves ; and 
 if night had actually closed in before I got to 
 shelter, we might both have been in jeopardy. 
 
 While I thus communed with myself, I marked, 
 on the dusky horizon, two figures of gigantic 
 height, which I at first thought two isolated fir- 
 trees bending to the blast ; but their motion soon 
 betrayed them to be no inanimate production, 
 as with long and rapid strides they were quickly 
 crossing the waste. Determined to bring them 
 to, I discharged one barrel of my gun. They 
 stopped ; and, as I concluded that they turned 
 towards me, I quickly fired off the other, and
 
 80 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 then shouted with all my might, at the same 
 time making towards them. They perceived 
 me, and strided to meet me, with a speed at 
 once ridiculous and appalling ; and I may safely 
 say, that since Gulliver was in Brobdignag, no 
 traveller had reason to think less of himself. 
 
 As they approached, I saw them to be men 
 mounted on monstrously high stilts, and I then 
 recollected the accounts I had read and heard of 
 the shepherds of the Landes. These were the 
 first specimens which had come within my ob- 
 servation ; and I had, in my abstraction, quite 
 forgotten what I might so naturally have looked 
 for. 
 
 When these singular beings neared me, I dis- 
 cerned every particular detail of their appear- 
 ance and costume. The latter was composed 
 of a coarse woollen jacket and breeches, loose 
 at the knees. A round worsted cap, such as is 
 worn by the Aberdeenshire shepherd, was placed 
 on the head. Long masses of lank, black hair 
 flowed over the shoulders, covered with a cloak 
 of sheep skin. Their legs were defended with 
 rude garters of the same, and an uncouth
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. Bt 
 
 caricature of sandals was fastened to their feet. 
 They both carried long poles, to aid their 
 march and keep them steady ; and they each 
 actually held in their clumsy hands a coarse 
 stocking, and a set of knitting rods (I cannot 
 call them needles) ; thus putting art and in- 
 dustry in the only light in which they could ap- 
 pear a mocker3^ 
 
 They were both about the middle age, if I 
 might form a judgment from their bushy beards 
 and furrowed cheeks ; but as to their dispositions, 
 capabilities, or propensities (which some theorists 
 are so fond of discovering at a glance), I could 
 not even guess. They had faces fit for the study 
 of Lavater : no one else could have made any 
 thing of them. 
 
 When they came near me, they made a full 
 stop. I accosted them in French, and asked if 
 they could direct me to an inn, which I under- 
 stood was somewhere in those parts ? 
 
 A negative shake of the head was their reply. 
 
 I next demanded if I was near La Teste ? 
 
 The answer was repeated. 
 
 I then begged them to inform me whetlier 
 
 VOL. II. G
 
 82 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 there was any cottage at hand, where I might 
 obtain shelter ? 
 
 A positive " no" seemed shaken from each 
 silent head. 
 
 I thought this the acme of inhospitality, and 
 so unlike what I had met hitherto in the coun- 
 try, that I could scarcely credit my senses ; but 
 the immoveable and petrifying unsociability of 
 the faces I gazed on confirmed the worst, and I 
 wished for a moment that I were with a couple 
 of Bedouin Arabs, on their native deserts. 
 
 During our short conversation, of which I had 
 all the words, and they the eloquence (as far as 
 it lies in action), I could not trace a change of 
 muscle or variation of expression in their coun- 
 tenances. To finish the fruitless and uncom- 
 fortable conference, I rather abruptly asked 
 them where I was ? 
 
 A silent shake of the head left me as wise as 
 before. 
 
 It was not till then that I began to suspect, 
 what my intelligent readers will by this time, no 
 doubt, be sure of — that the poor shepherds did 
 not comprehend one word of my discourse. No
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 88 
 
 sooner did this notion strike me, than I strung 
 together such words of Gascon as I had picked 
 up during my sojourn in the Perigord ; but it 
 was now quite as useless as French had been ; 
 and I had a new proof of the truth, that in this 
 part of France each district has its patois per- 
 fectly distinct, and scarcely to be understood by 
 the inhabitants of parts almost adjacent. I was 
 thus at length reduced to that universal and na- 
 tural language, in which fingers supply the use 
 of tongues, and gestures that of sounds I pointed 
 out, by every possible intimation, my wants of 
 eating and repose. Bless your bright intellects ! 
 thought I, as one of them gave me a significant, 
 assenting nod, which was silently echoed by the 
 pate of his companion. They then muttered 
 something to each other ; and, fulfilling the strict 
 forms of desert etiquette, they advanced in 
 mincing strides, beckoning me to follow their 
 guidance. 
 
 Ranger and I gladly took the hint. Our con- 
 ductors moderated their pace ; we increased ours, 
 and thus contrived to produce a harmony of move- 
 ment. I shall not weary the reader with a de- 
 
 g2
 
 ^ THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 tail of our march for the first half hour, which 
 was beguiled bj the shepherds, by a commu- 
 nication in their own peculiar jargon, and by 
 Ranger and his master in the selfsame way. 
 
 As we went on, in a westwardly direction, the 
 wind blew fiercely, but not freshly, in our faces. 
 It was hot and smothering. The labouring skies 
 seemed preparing to discharge their overloaded 
 breasts, and distant thunder rolled along the 
 horizon, still reddened by the departed sun. The 
 masses of clouds which came upon the earth 
 quickly shut out the day, and rose at opposite 
 extremities into huge mountains of vapour. They 
 were illuminated by fitful flashes of lightning, 
 and looked like giant batteries erected in the 
 heavens. As they rushed onwards from the 
 west, they shot down vivid streams, which at 
 times pierced to the very earth, like quivering 
 blades of fire. Again the electric fluid took a 
 horizontal direction through the skies; and its 
 dazzling streak fluttered like a radiant streamer, 
 till it lost itself among the clouds. Darkness 
 came on with a suddenness such as I had never 
 before observed, and the gusts of wind were ter-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 85 
 
 rific. They swept across the waste like floods of 
 air, lashing the sands like waves, and bearing 
 down all before them. Every single-standing 
 tree within our sight was shivered into atoms; 
 but the crash, when these whirlwinds met the 
 opposition of the pine-woods, baffles description. 
 It appeared as if whole chasms were rent away 
 in the forest ; and between each blast we heard 
 the howling of the wolves, terrified at the storm, 
 or probably wounded by the shattered branches, 
 and angry with the element, which must have 
 dashed them at intervals to the earth. 
 
 As for me, my guides, and my poor dog, we 
 were in the opening of the tempest repeatedly 
 thrown to the ground. The shepherds were 
 early obliged to quit their stilts, and I found 
 them in every way on a level with me. Their 
 experience furnished them no resource that I had 
 not at hand; and when at length a desperate 
 gust whirled us round like spinning-tops, I flung 
 myself prostrate on the sands ; one hand encir- 
 cling Ranger, who clung trembling to my bosom, 
 and the other grasping the stem of a newly- 
 shattered fir-tree. The shepherds followed my
 
 86 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 example, and throughout the whole scene showed 
 less presence of mind than stupid apathy. 
 
 This magnificent and awful war of nature con- 
 tinued about twenty minutes. The wind then 
 dropped suddenly still, as if forced from the 
 heavens by the torrents of rain which poured 
 upon us. We raised ourselves up, and the shep- 
 herds pursued their course. They mounted 
 again upon their stilts, and I followed their 
 track. Reiterated claps of thunder burst directly 
 over our heads, and the broad lightnings gleamed 
 in liquid sheets through the sea of rain which 
 every cloud cast down. 
 
 I was nearly overpowered with fatigue, for 
 the wet sand was to me almost impassable ; 
 while my wooden-legged companions found but 
 little obstruction from it. My delight may then 
 be imagined when I saw them stop suddenly be- 
 fore a house, which the darkness of the night 
 prevented my observing, till we were actually 
 against its wall. They shouted together, and 
 the door was cautiously half-opened by a woman 
 with a resin taper in her hand. 
 
 At the welcome prospect of the open door.
 
 J 
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 87 
 
 our whole party made a simultaneous rush for 
 entrance. Ranger, who was the first on the 
 threshold, had scarcely put his foot there when 
 a huge shaggy dog, of a breed peculiar to the 
 Landes, darted upon him, seized him by the 
 throat, and tossed him to the ground. I used, 
 for a while, every effort to tear the ruffian from 
 his hold, and called vociferously to the woman to 
 take him off; but the demand being unheeded 
 or unheard, I cocked my gun, and by a desperate 
 threat (which the drenched state of the piece 
 made probably very harmless) I strove to alarm 
 the house for the safety of its guardian. I saw 
 several men seated within, who took my appeal 
 with indifference; and, resolved in my rage to 
 attempt the perpetration of my threat, I was in 
 the act of putting my finger to the trigger, when 
 my arm was forcibly seized from behind, and I, 
 at the same time, thus accosted : " Young man, 
 what would you do? Shoot that animal, and 
 you are sure to die upon the spot f 
 
 '^ Let me go,'' cried I, with impatience ; '* my 
 dog is strangling in the gripe of that monster — 
 by heavens! I'll ;*" but before my sentence
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 88 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 was finished, the^savage had loosed his hold, and 
 was fawning at the foot of the man who had 
 spoken to me, 
 
 A word from him had saved Ranger, his as- 
 sailant, and, if this stranger was to be believed, 
 perhaps myself. Ranger crouched between my 
 legs, as I reproached the man for keeping a dog 
 so dangerous. He calmly replied, " The dog is 
 not mine— but he only did his duty. He belongs 
 to the people of this house; and the group within 
 would certainly have revenged any harm done 
 to him. Permit me to say you are now in a 
 region where prudence is a useful virtue." 
 
 There was a tone of softness and benevolence 
 in this address; and the light from the house 
 showed me his figure as he spoke. He was tall, 
 and wrapped in a large blue Spanish cloak, 
 fastened at the collar with a silver clasp. He 
 wore a handsome fur-cap. His face was quite in 
 unison with his voice— dignified and tender. 
 
 I was much struck with his appearance and 
 manner ; and expressed my thanks for his inter- 
 ference, and for the service he had done me. 
 *' Ah ! sir," said he, " you know not how much
 
 9 
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 89 
 
 I owe a life of servitude to mankind. This poor 
 deed weighs hght in the balance against a load 
 of crime." 
 
 He seized my hand as he said this, and pressed 
 it hard, without seeming to know what he did. 
 He as suddenly let it drop — started back — pulled 
 his cap upon his brow — muffled himself in his 
 cloak, and turned from me. 
 
 " Good God, sir !" cried I, " you are not 
 surely going out in this dreary night .?" 
 
 " Yes, sir, I am," replied he sternly, " and let 
 me see who dares to follow me !" 
 
 I stared after him, but he was lost in the 
 darkness. I felt a thrill of curiosity, admira- 
 tion, and, I believe, awe; but I turned in a mo- 
 ment, and entered the house.
 
 :'i^^ 
 
 90 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 My first impulse was to address the woman, 
 whose busthng mien pronounced her to be mis- 
 tress of the mansion ; while the whole decoration 
 of the kitchen, in which I stood, stamped upon 
 the house itself the joyous character of an inn. 
 To my rapid question of " Who was the gentle- 
 man that has just gone out ?" I got at first no 
 reply. The hostess eyed me from head to foot, 
 with an unflattering and suspicious look. The 
 four or five rough fellows near the fire stood up 
 and gathered round me. I appeared not to heed 
 their curiosity, and persisted for the gratification 
 of my own. I repeated my question. 
 
 " And pray, my friend,'"* asked the hostess, 
 " what business is that of yours ? Who are 7/ou ? 
 A spy, perhaps, sent here to entrap a better 
 
 man."" 
 
 (( 
 
 It seems so,"" — " like enough," and other
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. Ql 
 
 such expressions, were echoed from the group 
 by which I was encircled; and I saw there was 
 no friendly feeling towards me breeding among 
 the party. " Foreigner !" and " Englishman !" 
 and " sacre''' and '' pesteT and exclamations of 
 like import were sent mutteringly round; and, 
 knowing that prevention is easier than cure, I 
 thought it wise to avert a storm which I might 
 not be able to allay. Assuming, therefore, an 
 air of frankness and confidence, which I never 
 knew to fail, which I never saw even a gloomy 
 group of Spaniards able to withstand, but which 
 acts like a spell on the sociable disposition of the 
 French, I told shortly my situation and pursuits. 
 I convinced them that I was neither a spy nor 
 an enemy ; that my inquiries concerning the 
 mysterious stranger proceeded from gratitude 
 and good will ; — and I was in five minutes seated 
 down among them, quite one of themselves, and 
 placed, by acclamation, in the warmest corner 
 of the chimney. Similar regard was shown to 
 Ranger, who stretched himself in great enjoy- 
 ment before the crackling faggots, happily forget- 
 ful of the roughness of his first reception.
 
 92 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 Many civilities were showered on me, in the 
 shapes of sundry articles of dress (my knap- 
 sack and its contents being wet through and 
 through), drams from the brandy bottle, and in- 
 numerable kind speeches and offers of service. 
 
 Having got myself dry and warm, a craving 
 appetite was next to be gratified. I asked the 
 good and handsome hostess what I could have ; 
 and she said that Bordeaux contained few de- 
 licacies which she could not give me as well. A 
 long list of luxuries followed this assurance, and 
 her tongue ran glibly over the niceties of a 
 traiteur's ordinary catalogue. But, lest I should 
 be led away by hopes of these proffered dainties, 
 one of the jovial fellows, who sipped a twopenny 
 bottle of wine beside me, threw me a knowing 
 wink, as much as to say that mine hostess had 
 only 3i poetical licence for offering the good things 
 recapitulated ; and that ortolans, Bayonne ham, 
 truffled turkies, and perigord pie, existed only in 
 the larder of her imagination. As to me this 
 was but little disappointment, for my appetite 
 could ill brook the delay of such high-sounding 
 preparations; and my eye seemed to turn in
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 93 
 
 natural humility to viands more homely, and 
 more appropriate to the place. 
 
 Thanking the good lady, therefore, for the 
 civil list with which she had been willing to 
 cherish my expectations and regale my fancy, I 
 begged her to give me a supper more suitable to 
 present circumstances and pedestrian travellers. 
 In a moment a coarse, but clean, cloth and napkin 
 graced my little table. A bottle of sour wine, a 
 decanter of muddy water, a loaf of brown bread, 
 full three feet in length, a salt-cellar filled with 
 salt, and another with pepper, a plate, a drinking- 
 glass, a heavy, ill-formed silver fork and spoon, 
 and a knife, which the clumsiest apprentice of 
 Birmingham would be ashamed to own, were 
 quickly scattered before me — in the fullest spirit 
 of that want of order, which so peculiarly marks 
 the preparation for a French repast. 
 
 My bustling landlady was aided in every thing 
 by a rosy, smooth-faced lass, in a close and stiff 
 starched cap, blue bodice, and red woollen petti- 
 coat; and in a little while they placed on the 
 table a small earthen tureen, whose brown ex- 
 terior was not a shade more dark than the mess
 
 94 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 of soup which smoked within, and which sent 
 up a savoury fume, where the odour of garhc had 
 a proud pre-eminence. An omelet of six eggs, 
 mixed well with herbs of all varieties, was already 
 in the frying-pan, and the plump brown arm of 
 Cazille was stretched out to place it on the fire. 
 The hostess's hand was in the act of cutting 
 from a string of black puddings one whose di- 
 mensions seemed suited to a Patagonian mouth. 
 I was preparing with my spoon to dive into the 
 cloud-enveloped mysteries of the tureen, when 
 all our operations were suspended, and all our 
 attentions roused by the tramping of a horse, 
 and a loud accompanying shout from a voice of 
 stentorian tone. 
 
 '* Heavens l"*' exclaimed the landlady, " It is 
 Monsieur the inspector of the forests!'' 
 
 Monsieur the inspector ! 
 
 The inspector ! 
 
 Inspector ! 
 
 Spectre ! 
 was re-echoed by every mouth, from Cazille's 
 down to my own, in all the gradations from sur- 
 prise to inquiry. Ranger himself filled up the
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 95 
 
 climax by a note, which might be something 
 between admiration and interrogation. Every 
 one started up and made towards the door, carry- 
 ing with them all the candles and resin matches 
 which the kitchen had alight. The string of 
 black puddings dangled uncut upon the wall — 
 the embryo omelet was upset into the fire — and 
 the spoonful of soup remained untasted in my 
 
 hand. 
 
 This moment of awful suspense was followed 
 by the entrance of the important personage, to 
 whom such unconditional homage had been ren- 
 dered by mistress and maid, man and beast, black 
 pudding and omelet. Monsieur the inspector 
 came bustling in, with that air of moistened 
 dignity, which sits so naturally on a great man. 
 dren died with rain. 
 
 He was a broad-set figure, with dusky skin 
 and frizzled whiskers of vast expansion. His 
 huge jackboots, redoubled doubles of silk hand- 
 kerchiefs, and a multitude of many collared coats, 
 had been all unable to secure him from the wet. 
 He streamed like a river God, from the rowels 
 of his spurs up to every corner of his large cocked
 
 96 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 hat. In each hand he carried a pistol, and as he 
 strode forwards to the fire, a long sabre rattled 
 against the tiles of the floor. 
 
 He made his way over every obstacle, upset- 
 ting two chairs, a warming-pan, and a basket of 
 fish. Every one made way Jbr him, so that he 
 was not long in reaching the wide and comfortable 
 hearth. It must not be supposed that all this 
 was done in silent majesty — no such thing. Every 
 step was accompanied by an exclamation, and 
 every exclamation echoed by an oath, 
 
 « What a night of hell ! * * * * ! What a 
 rascally storm! *****! What diabolical 
 weather I *****(" 
 
 The asterisks stand for oaths ; I am hteral in 
 every thing else, but they, thank God ! defy 
 translation. Of these disgraces of the language, 
 and the peculiar scandal of this part of France, 
 he was most prodigal, and would have reminded 
 every reader of Gressefs Vert-vert^ of the foul- 
 mouthed parrot, when 
 
 Les , les — , voltigeaient sur son bee, 
 
 Les jeunes socurs cnirent qu'il parlait Grec. 
 
 The inspector rapidly disencumbered himself
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 97 
 
 of all extraneous matter, flung aside his great 
 coat, hat, boots, pistols, belt, and sabre; and 
 almost threw himself into the embraces of the 
 flames, which the crackling pinewood sent out in 
 broad folds across the chimney. I was so much 
 amused with the scene, that I suspended all my 
 projected operations, and fixed my attention on 
 this new object. 
 
 He was at first gruff and surly, receiving 
 without any acknowledgment, but an occasional 
 curse, the officious attentions of the landlady and 
 Cazille, and the humble addresses of the men 
 around him. He flung himself into the arm 
 chair which was placed for him, and, his back 
 being towards me, he quite overlooked me sitting 
 in my nook. As the warmth of the blaze dried 
 up his exterior it seemed to melt his heart, for he 
 threw a " thankye" at the hostess, as she adjusted 
 the second worsted stocking round his knee ; and 
 he chucked Cazille under the chin, and kissed 
 her forehead, while she stooped to place the 
 slippers on his feet. 
 
 The rest of the party came in for their share 
 of kindness, in the way that follows. " And 
 
 VOL. TI. H
 
 98 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 who have we here, eh ? A gang of blackguard 
 smugglers, * * * * ! Oh ! I beg pardon, gentlemen 
 — fishermen ! Egad, one might have known your 
 trade by your smell, * ^ * * ! Stand back, friends, 
 I hate perfumery. Well ! what have you got 
 in your baskets to-night? Turbot and brandy 
 sauce, ^- * * * ! I'll warrant it the bottoms are as 
 well lined with bottles of Cognac, as the tops with 
 stinking mackerel, * * * * | But take care ; I '11 
 give a hint to the Octroi*, be sure of it; and if 
 you are once caught at the barrier you shall lie 
 in the Fortt till you are as withered and rotten 
 as a'piece of salted cod, * * "^ ^' 1" 
 
 A burst of laughter from the speaker pro- 
 nounced this to be wit ; and an answering peal 
 from his circle told that they knew the time to 
 acknowledge his joke. Several smart and plea^ 
 sant sayings were retorted on the inspector ; but 
 the most substantial repartee, that is the best of 
 the good things, appeared in the shape of a noble 
 turbot, which one of the fishermen produced from 
 
 * The toll-house. 
 
 t The prison of Bordeaux is an old castle called the 
 Fort du Ha, but familiarly " The Fort."
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. " 99 
 
 his Stock. This spokesman " hoped, in the name 
 of himself and comrades, that Monsieur the in- 
 spector would do them the honour of accepting 
 the fish, and give himself the trouble of smelling 
 it, to be sure that it was fresh." 
 
 «**#*! (jne can't refuse," was the reply ; 
 and he pulled out his purse, as with a would-be 
 effort, to pay for the compliment. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh !" cried the fishermen in concert, 
 " what is Monsieur the inspector going to do ? 
 Pay for it ! Always like himself, generous and 
 noble ! No, no, no ! It's the least we can do for 
 monsieur ; and we shall be too well rewarded, if 
 he will do us the honour of giving himself the 
 trouble to write a little word to the gentlemen 
 of the Octroi at Bordeaux, to let us pass the 
 barrier without search, that we may get to the 
 market early, and pull up for the time we have 
 lost in the storm." 
 
 "Oh, willingly !" cried Monsieur the inspector. 
 " God forbid I should refuse so slight a kindness 
 to such honest fellows as I know you all to be. 
 Give me a pen, Cazille ! But hark'ye, my friends ! 
 you are sure there is no brandy ?" 
 
 h2
 
 100 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 " My word of honour !" burst from every 
 mouth. 
 
 " Hold !" cried the inspector, tender of their 
 consciences, " Hold, don't finish the sentence, 
 my good fellows ! I know you are honest, 
 healthy-lunged lads, and you'll want all your 
 breath to puff off your fish to the fat merchants 
 of the Chartrons * to-morrow. There ! (giving" 
 the paper). But, hark'ye, stuff the sea-weed well 
 to the bottom ; I thought I heard the shaking of 
 glass in that basket.'"' 
 
 " Nothing, nothing, monsieur, on my word of 
 honour !" protested one of the party, " but two 
 or three bottles of salt-water, a cure for Madame 
 Dupuis at the Red Cross. Monsieur knows, 
 
 perhaps, that Madame Dupuis"* legs are ."" 
 
 " Yes, yes, — very well, — I know it all. Be off ! 
 Be off 1 the moon is up, and I want my supper, 
 Cazille, prepare that turbot for your mistress's 
 master-hand. You "'11 find a fresh bottle of capers 
 in my saddle bags."" 
 
 " Adieu !" " Good night !" " Safe journey !" 
 
 * The rich and commercial quarter of Bordeaux, lying 
 near the river.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 101 
 
 &c. &c. were bandied backwards and forwards ; 
 and as the fishermen reloaded their little carts 
 with the baskets, which they had placed in the 
 house to shelter them from the rain, I thought 
 the care with which they lifted them up denoted 
 a cargo more brittle than flat fish, and more 
 valuable than a couple of bottles of salt water. 
 
 I came at length under the eye of the in- 
 spector, who seemed for an instant disconcerted, 
 but as soon recovered his swaggering mien. He 
 examined me as keenly as if he had been going to 
 strip the bark or lop the branches off a fir-tree. 
 He next turned his looks towards the landlady 
 and Cazille, and I saw that a stifled inquiry was 
 lurking under his eyelid, and trembling on his 
 tongue. 
 
 Fond of being first in the field, I addressed 
 him, and proposed in civil terms that he would 
 partake of my supper. A curl of contempt stole 
 over his lip, as he exclaimed, " Supper, ***=*! 
 And has madame then nothing better to give 
 her guests than Spartan broth and water of the 
 Tiber ?" 
 
 The landlady was preparing her defence, but 
 he cut her short with " No excuse — not a word
 
 ,f -«^' 
 
 li)2 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 — ^'tis infamous ! Cazille, place another cover at 
 my table, * * * >* i must travellers be served in 
 this way ? You have read the Greek and Roman 
 histories, sir?" 
 I bowed assent. 
 
 ** Well, sir, if you cannot sup with Apicius, 
 you shall not fare like Lycurgus, depend on't. 
 You are English, sir ?" 
 
 I replied that I was a subject of his Britannic 
 Majesty. 
 
 '' So much the better," replied he ; *' I love 
 the English. Many a fat capon our king owes 
 to yours. This is the time to stick to one's 
 friends, * * * * ! and the king of England's sub- 
 ject shall sup to-night with the king of France's 
 inspector of forests. Come along ! Make haste, 
 madame ! Cazille, light us in I" 
 
 I promptly accepted the uncouth bidding. I 
 thought the inspector was a precious morsel for 
 such an appetite as mine ; and as I followed him 
 down a narrow passage leading to an inner 
 chamber, our ears were assailed with a storm 
 of snoring, which it seemed utterly impossible to 
 sleep through. 
 
 "****! what do I hear P"" cried the in-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 103 
 
 spector. "Is the thunder at work again, or is 
 it your lazy slug-a-bed of a husband that thus 
 outrages all decency ? What ho ! Batiste I awake, 
 you brute !" 
 
 This obliging reveillee was speedily replied 
 to by a hoarse and feeble voice, and by a bound 
 upon the planks of a room above stairs, as if the 
 sleeper had shot out of bed in sudden terror — as 
 well he might. 
 
 A red night-cap quickly protruded itself from 
 a door at the top of the stairs, and a red nose, 
 projecting far from a thin, but rubricated visage, 
 snuffled out a welcome, as imperfect as the ex- 
 clamations of a troubled dream. At length we 
 comprehended some such words as these. " Aha ! 
 Monsieur the inspector ! Aha ! I have been watch- 
 ing for you. I knew the steady-going trot of your 
 horse ; old Tf'ois-jpied's hoof could not escape me. 
 Ay, ay, I heard you humming your favourite air 
 (singing). 
 
 L'on revient toujours 
 A ses premiers amours. 
 
 Aha! I knew we might look for you this fine 
 moonlight night."*"*
 
 ^. 
 
 104 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 " Away, thou shadow of an impudent lie !" 
 vociferated the inspector. " The trot of my 
 horse, forsooth ! I galloped at least three leagues 
 through the forest, and came up at full speed to 
 the house. Humming my favourite air, * * * * ! 
 the wind was near forcing open my fast-closed 
 mouth, and choking me with my own teeth ! 
 This moonlight night ! The moon is shining now, 
 'tis true; but the moon is not falser than your 
 flattery, nor the clouds it broke through thicker 
 than your skull. Why, madame, why do you let 
 the dog lie thus through storm and fair weather, 
 
 soaking in his bed ?"" 
 
 " Alas ! Monsieur the inspector, what else can 
 
 I do Avith him ? 'Tis the only place where he 's 
 
 good for any thing." 
 
 " And not for much there even, I '11 warrant it, 
 
 * * * * P' cried the inspector. 
 
 The jest-proclaiming laugh burst out at this 
 
 sally, and he paused for a moment for the echo. 
 
 The fishermen were unluckily gone ; I did not 
 
 take the cue ; the hostess thought the subject 
 
 too serious for merriment ; Cazille could only 
 
 give a significant but silent smile ; — so poor
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 105 
 
 Batiste, who knew the inspector's humour, was 
 obliged himself to reverberate the laugh. Having 
 forced out a drowsy titter, he disappeared ; and 
 before we were seated in the inspector's room I 
 lieard him snoring away, as merrily as if he had 
 not been aware of the interruption. 
 
 The chamber into which we were ushered was 
 one of more comfort than was promised by the 
 other parts of the house. It was low but spa- 
 cious, boarded, and cleanly papered. Two beds, 
 with white cotton hangings, filled a recess ; the 
 furniture was neat, and a joyous blaze sprang up 
 from the pine- wood faggots, which took fire like 
 tinder. 
 
 A table had been placed for supper, by the 
 quiet assiduity of Cazille ; and the difference 
 which it presented to the one intended for me was 
 striking. Every thing was of a finer and better 
 order : the bread was white, the water filtered, 
 and the arrangement had altogether an air of 
 costliness in comparison with that which I had 
 left. We seated ourselves by the fire, which 
 even at that hot season was not unpleasant ; for 
 the house lay low and damp, and the late torrents
 
 106 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES, 
 
 had nearly set it afloat. We soon got into con- 
 versation on public topics, which, however, were 
 speedily suspended for one of more immediate 
 interest — the private history of my companion ; 
 with every particular which he chose to reveal, 
 of his birth, parentage, education, and adventures. 
 
 With not one of these details do I mean to 
 gratify my inquisitive (or 'twere perhaps better 
 said my curious) readers. It is enough to know 
 that the narrator had been for many years a 
 Serjeant of hussars, and was now an inspector of 
 forests. He had served, he told me, in many 
 campaigns, from the sands of Egypt to the snows 
 of Russia; had been known to and noticed by 
 all the marshals, and most of the generals ; had 
 performed on many occasions prodigies of valour ; 
 and, to crown the business, had received thirteen 
 wounds, which all the surgeons had successively 
 pronounced mortal, but none of which had proved 
 so as yet. 
 
 Now my little knowledge of life has taught 
 me, as a positive lesson, rarely to believe more 
 than half what I hear ; and whenever I chance to 
 hght on a member of the Munchausen family, my
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 107 
 
 credulity diminishes again one half. In this case 
 I should not perhaps have believed so much as 
 the fourth of what was told me, had I not counted 
 one scar on the inspector's forehead, one across 
 his face, and saw that he was minus a finger 
 from the left hand. That made fairly three 
 wounds, which was the fourth of thirteen, all 
 but a fraction, and that I made up by giving 
 him credit for a spent ball, or some such slighter 
 hurt in parts to me invisible. 
 
 I had thus satisfied myself that the inspector 
 had fairly made out his title to that proportion 
 of belief, which gave him the right of being re- 
 garded as a credible witness ; and while I was 
 occupied with the calculation, the supper was 
 gradually appearing, under the auspices of the 
 hostess and Cazille ; the former more than ful- 
 filling the promise of her first bill of fare. 
 
 I am here held in doubt between the desire 
 of recording our excellent cheer, and the know- 
 ledge of the eff^ect produced by leaving important 
 
 incidents involved in mystery. Well ! I have 
 
 decided the point to my own satisfaction, and I 
 hope to that of my I'eaders. I will describe the
 
 108 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 supper, for I think the sin of amplification more 
 venial than that of neglect. 
 
 First, then, came a soup of really good ma- 
 terials, known to the lovers of French copkery 
 by the title a la Julienne, and only approached 
 in Great Britain by Scotch broth, and that di- 
 stantly indeed. A piece of houilli flowing in 
 tomata sauce, and a large melon with salt and 
 pepper succeeded. A plate of Bordeaux oysters 
 followed, and I am borne out by a work *, well 
 known to fame, in pronouncing them unrivalled. 
 Next came mutton cutlets, dressed a la maitre 
 (T hot el. Then the turbot, flooded with melted 
 butter, and thickly strewn with capers. Next a 
 brace of partridges stewed in cabbage, a favourite 
 dish in these parts, and in high odour with the 
 inspector. After that a capon richly stuffed with 
 truffles ; then another plate of oysters ; then four 
 ortolans, so fat, that they seemed to melt before 
 the inspector's longing gaze. Next a large dish 
 of custard, with a tart of raspberry, or currants, 
 I forget which ; and finally a dessert of grapes, 
 green figs, peaches, and Roquefort cheese ; with 
 * Lord Blaney's Forced Tour.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE L ANDES. 109 
 
 a plate of royans^ a little fish, not inferior nor 
 less esteemed than sardignias. To moisten well 
 this feast, were bottles of various kinds of wine 
 of the country. During supper, Barsac and 
 Sauterne ; specimens of all the best growths o 
 Medoc, from Lafitte to Leoville, with the des- 
 sert ; and after it a bumper of that luscious 
 liqueur the sweet white wine of Bergerac. 
 
 When enough had been disposed of, of solid 
 and liquid enjoyment, a cup of strong coffee, fol- 
 lowed by a glass of Annisette, from the authentic 
 and unadulterated still of Messrs. Roger, of Bor- 
 deaux, concluded our repast — on the merits of 
 which it would not be becoming in me to pro- 
 nounce any judgment. 
 
 Our conversation during the period thus oc- 
 cupied was short and pithy. The words were 
 few, but well chosen, and seldom stretched to 
 a sentence of greater length than " Excellent !" 
 " Very good !" " Not bad !'' " Another slice r' 
 "Help yourself."" " DeviHsh hot!" and some 
 others of the same tenor. 
 
 Two things surprised me in this supper. The 
 excellence of the provisions, and the merit of the
 
 110 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 cookery. But to relieve my readers'* astonish- 
 ment in much less time than my own was re- 
 moved, I shall tell now that my hospitable en- 
 tertainer had for his greatest failing, if it was 
 one, a love of good living, which his situation 
 allowed him amply to indulge ; that he was in 
 the constant habit of sending a stock of delicacies 
 to this miserable inn, a day or two before his 
 visits of inspection ; and that the landlady had 
 been established in the house, by his particular 
 patronage, because of her talents in the arts of 
 the kitchen, and for other reasons, which, being 
 of a private nature, I am sure not one reader in 
 a thousand would give a pin to know. 
 
 I had been hungry, and ate heartily ; but be- 
 fore the prowess of the inspector my efforts were 
 feeble indeed. Not one dish escaped his inves- 
 tigation ; he drank in proportion ; and at many 
 intervals I saw him slip his hand under the nap- 
 kin, which he had at the commencement carefully 
 tucked under his chin. A short and convulsive 
 snap followed each of these movements, which 
 puzzled me much, until, on his throwing away 
 his napkin, with the last change of plates, I per-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. Ill 
 
 ceived his waistcoat unbuttoned and buttonless, 
 from bottom to top ; and I easily divined that he 
 had made successive but too dilatory efforts to 
 relieve himself, by what is in the technical phrase 
 of epicurean philoso — no, philology, called letting 
 out a reef. 
 
 Being at length fairly freed from the labours 
 of the table, and settled quietly to a bottle of 
 exquisite claret, I turned my attention to what 
 was after all my main object in this convivial 
 ttte-a-ttte. I had not, for one moment, forgotten 
 the mysterious and interesting stranger, who 
 had so forcibly fixed my attention, and excited 
 my curiosity. I had from prudence suspended 
 my efforts to obtain information from the hostess 
 or the fishermen, but was resolved to renew 
 them, when the abrupt entrance of the inspector 
 had stopped the development of my plans. 
 After a little while, I thought that he himself 
 might become the means of affording me the in- 
 formation for which I panted. Thus in our con- 
 versation before supper, I had endeavoured, from 
 time to time, to lead him on to the subject of 
 local concerns, but to every attempt of that kind
 
 112 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 I had an evasive answer. If I spoke of the coun- 
 try we were in, he said he knew httle of home, 
 and that soldiers were more famiUar with the 
 field of battle than their native plains. If I men- 
 tioned any striking domestic event, he always 
 quoted some cotemporary action, — Marengo, the 
 Pyramids, Jena, Austerlitz, and so forth ; and 
 when I spoke of dates, it was always " yes, yes, 
 I was then making the campaign of Germany — 
 Portugal — Moscow — or some other." 
 
 His loquacity and boasting always baffled me, 
 and when Cazille had finally closed the door, 
 leaving us to our claret, he burst out in a new 
 but not less fluent ebullition. 
 
 " Well, sir, have you been able to sup ?" I 
 paid all due acknowledgment to the good fare. 
 
 " Well, well, I do believe that after all the 
 disasters we have suffered, and with all our faults, 
 the world will not deny us the glory of knowing 
 what's good, ** * * ! Ros-bif, bifteck, blom-poid- 
 ing, and Woich-rabet*% are all very well in their 
 
 * Such is the orthography used by Mons. BeauviUiers, 
 who would introduce roast beef, beef steak, plum pudding? 
 and Welsh rabbit, to his countrymen.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 113 
 
 way, ****! but when you put them beside a 
 petit pate a la bechamel, a dish of carpe a la 
 matelote, a tete de veau en tortue — et cetera, et 
 cetera, et cetera, * * * * ! What a figure they cut ! 
 I ""U tell you what, sir, your nation knows nothing 
 of cookery. An Englishman in Paris is no 
 better than a Scythian at Athens, ****! Sir, 
 you eat your meat raw, and call that cookery ! 
 So does an American Indian, or an African 
 negro. You despise the arts of the kitchen, 
 ****! But you forget that Gallienus, though 
 an emperor, was chiefly famed for his culinary 
 knowledge ; — and that Cadmus, the great-great- 
 grandfather of Bacchus, and founder of Thebes, 
 began his career by being cook to the king of 
 Sidon ! Do you know, sir, that to fulfil such an 
 honourable station, 'tis not enough to have the 
 finest constitution, the purest health, and your 
 senses in the utmost perfection ; but the brightest 
 talents must be joined to knowledge the most 
 profound? I don't speak, ****! of the dirty- 
 work of your kitchen, I only show myself there 
 to direct the action of the fire, and to see the 
 effect of my operations, * * * * 1 Seated in an ad- 
 voL. ir. I
 
 114 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 joining room, I give my orders, ****! which 
 my subaltern workmen execute. I muse on the 
 productions of nature, leaving them sometimes 
 in their exquisite simplicity; again arranging 
 and disguising them according to new propor- 
 tions, and fitting them to flatter the palate. Do 
 you wish, for example, a sucking pig, or a large 
 piece of beef? I simply boil the one and roast 
 the other ! Must you have a well-dressed hare ? 
 If it is young, ****! it wants nothing but its 
 merit to make it appear with distinction and 
 honour. — I put it on the spit, and serve it up 
 smoking hot ! But it is in the depth of combina- 
 tion, ****! that my science is most sublime. 
 
 Salt, pepper, oil, and vinegar ." 
 
 " Hold, hold in mercy, my good sir,*" cried I, 
 astonishment, I am certain, stamped on my coun- 
 tenance, for it filled my brain. " This burst of 
 eloquence and erudition is too much for me. 
 You could not have been more at home had you 
 been yourself a cook.*" 
 
 a ****! "What do you say,****! A cook, 
 ****! — I am a Frenchman, an officer, a man 
 of honour, one of the inspectors of the royal
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 115 
 
 forests, highways, and bridges, * * * * ! What do 
 you mean ? ****»" 
 
 At this tremendous explosion of indignant and 
 irritated honour, my companion bounced up and 
 thumped the table with his clenched fist, loud 
 enough to alarm and bring in the landlady and 
 Cazille, and sufficient to have awakened any 
 one of the seven-sleepers — whose name was not 
 Batiste. The glasses rung, and the decanters 
 danced on the board. The hand that produced 
 such powerful effects was next instinctively 
 clapped upon the thigh, where fortunately the 
 sabre was not ; so the inspector had no remedy 
 but to seize his glass, and wash down the 
 imagined insult, which he had not the imme- 
 diate means of wiping away in a more becoming 
 manner. 
 
 The appearance of the hostess and her hand- 
 maid brought him to himself, and calmed in 
 a moment the transports of offended feeling. 
 Having paid this involuntary tribute of devotion 
 to the influence of female charms, he ordered 
 them to retire in a tone more fitting a high- 
 priest than a votary. They obeyed the man-
 
 116 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 date, and I, finding the moment favourable, 
 quietly told him many civil things in explanation 
 of what I had said. He received the atonement, 
 and the matter dropped ; and I, thinking the 
 opportunity favourable, turned the conversation 
 abruptly to the object of my chief solicitude. 
 
 " And pray, Monsieur the inspector,*" said ^I^ 
 *' is this large tract of desert solely inhabited by 
 miserable shepherds and goat-herds ?" 
 
 The inspector shook himself a moment, as if 
 this sudden transition from sharp to flat had 
 grated on his well-organised mind. 
 
 Recovering himself, he replied, " Eh ! why I 
 yes, * * * * ! and much worse than shepherds and 
 goat-herds, believe me. Why do I travel armed 
 through these tracts, eh ? Do you think I carry 
 pistols and sabre for show ? ****!" 
 " You fear robbers, then ?*" asked I, 
 '* Fear I ****?■" vociferated the inspector, 
 " what's fear.? **** ! IVe often heard talk of 
 fear, but never knew it yet."" 
 
 I explained away once more, and he was once 
 more appeased. 
 
 " Yes,*" replied he, to a less offensive way in
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 117 
 
 putting my former question ; " yes, there are 
 robbers here sometimes, but I never meet them. 
 These fellows know their men, ****! But 
 there are worse than robbers — refugees, revo- 
 lutionists, republicans, =^***! who plunge into 
 these forests and escape the law. Had I my way 
 with the scoundrels, I 'd set fire to the pine woods, 
 **** ! and consume the rascals with pitch, tar, 
 and resin — provided the king gave me another 
 forest, ****!" 
 
 Here came in the laugh of acknowledged drol- 
 lery, with which I was now familiar, and even 
 inclined to join in to keep the inspector in good 
 humour. I resumed the conversation. 
 
 " Have persons of any rank or importance 
 found shelter here for political opinions ?" 
 
 " Ay, that they have — ^and find it at this mo- 
 ment too. There is now, this very night, one 
 man lurking in these deserts, whose head would 
 pay for the trouble of arresting him, * * * * f 
 
 " A tall man,"" said I hastily, and without a 
 moment's thought, " in a Spanish cloak and fur 
 cap ?'' 
 
 " He is a tall man certainly, but as for the
 
 118 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 cloak and cap, they have little to do with his 
 description. If you met him in that dress to- 
 day, you might see him wrapped in a sheep-skin 
 to-morrow, ****!" 
 
 " A handsome, dark, noble-looking man, about 
 fifty ?" was my next inquiry. 
 
 " Ay, all that," replied my companion. " He's 
 handsome enough outside — but as gloomy as his 
 complexion within. As for his nobility, it is all 
 in his looks, * * * * 1 for he 's no more noble than 
 I am." 
 
 " I have met such a man,"*"* said I, recovering 
 my caution. " What is the crime which forces 
 him into these wilds ?" 
 
 " I '11 tell you that,"" said he ; and I was pre- 
 pared to listen with my whole attention, when 
 we were both attracted towards the kitchen, by 
 the noise of persons dismounting from their 
 horses, and entering the house. 
 
 f^
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 119 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ^5^" Who the devil can this be at this hour of 
 night ?*" cried the inspector " Hold, let 's listen 
 a moment." 
 
 I had my hand on the latch of the door, but 
 he seized it as he spoke. In spite of myself, I 
 did for this once, what must be, in any circum- 
 stances, considered an unworthy thing ; and the 
 instrument which compelled me, that was the 
 inspector, did not rise in my estimation. 
 
 m 
 
 " Ah ! madame, is it you ?''"' cried the land- 
 lady. 
 
 '' He is here ! my dear father is here !" ex- 
 claimed, in a tone half questioning, half certain, 
 •one of the sweetest voices I had ever heard. 
 
 " Hush !*" said the landlady; and a low whis- 
 per followed. I was more delighted at it than 
 if I had heard a long and valuable secret. I 
 fancied I saw in an instant through the whole 

 
 120 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 affair. The lovely inquirer, felt I (for some- 
 thing told me that tones so sweet must have pro- 
 ceeded from a beauteous instrument, and what- 
 ever it was which said so told no lie), the lovely 
 inquirer, prompted by duty and affection, has 
 wandered here through this drear desert, to meet 
 her proscribed and virtuous father — for such a 
 being could not reverence or hold communion 
 with guilt. My presence drove the sufferer from 
 his shelter; and this coarse inspector is one of 
 those prowling wretches, which we are told all 
 governments must employ, lying in wait to 
 pounce upon his victim. 
 
 " Not now, at least,'"* said I, throwing aside his 
 iron hand, which grasped my arm, flinging open 
 the door, and running into the kitchen. A scream 
 burst from the lady, who was young, and indeed 
 most beautiful. The hostess and Cazille gazed 
 on me with astonishment, mixed with alarm; 
 and the inspector himself, who followed close 
 upon me, did not know what to think of my 
 abruptness; — and, for a moment, as he told me 
 afterwards, returned upon me the compliment 
 which my suspicions had affixed to him. 
 
 '^^^^W'
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 121 
 
 I advanced towards the lady, and was going 
 to address her, God knows how ! when a young 
 man, of distinguished deportment, rushed in, 
 attracted from the stables, by the scream of his 
 lovely wife; and with fire in his eyes, which 
 were fixed upon me and the inspector, and 
 frembling tenderness in his accents, he called 
 out, " What's this, dearest Stephanie? what has 
 happened f' 
 
 *' Nothing, nothing," replied she, " but this 
 
 gentleman .'" 
 
 " What has he dared to do?" cried he, ad- 
 vancing fiercely towards me. I made some con- 
 fused apology for my awkward intrusion, which 
 I saw was received in rather a shy and suspicious 
 way. I never made an explanation less to my 
 own satisfaction, and was not surprised that it 
 was so little to theirs. I got no reply, and re- 
 tired a few paces, while the inspector advancing, 
 addressed tlie stranger with humble familiarity, 
 by a name which it is not necessary to mention 
 here. 
 
 The young man received his address with in- 
 finite haughtiness, and a reproachful look, which 
 
 «^
 
 122 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 seemed to me to say, " you have betrayed us." 
 The other made a nearer approach, and in a 
 lower tone appeared to defend himself from the 
 reproach of a connexion with me. I was -little 
 flattered by all this, and full as anxious as the 
 inspector appeared, to cut the slender thread 
 which bound our acquaintance. 
 
 Advancing, therefore, to the door, I looked 
 out upon the desert, and thought that it would 
 be for the common comfort of the whole party, 
 if I trusted myself to the moonlight, and pur- 
 sued the road to La Teste, which lay before the 
 house. I strolled out, and by chance directed 
 my steps towards the stable, a building larger 
 than the house itself, and entering the open door, 
 I saw by the light of a resin match, which burned 
 in a distant corner, a man, in the act of arranging 
 the clumsy cordage of a pair of oxen. 
 
 He came towards the door, and led them after 
 him by the magic of some words in Patois, 
 proved, by his tone and their compliance, to be 
 soothing and affectionate. I wished the man 
 " good night," and he repeated my salutation 
 in French, which was at least understandable.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 123 
 
 He was a comely young fellow, and of a civil 
 demeanour. I asked him where he was going ? 
 He replied, " to La Teste." I proposed myself 
 as his companion, and he readily consented. He 
 proceeded forthwith to adjust his oxen, and yoke 
 them to his little cart, which was loaded with 
 packages, and covered with a canvas awning. I 
 was inquisitive — he communicative : thus, while 
 he got ready, I discovered that he was a carrier 
 from the little town just mentioned, the only son 
 of a poor widow woman, and now on his return 
 from Bordeaux with a cargo of groceries and 
 other matters for the La Testians. He finally 
 informed me that he was in the constant habit of 
 stopping at this half-way-house, for the purpose 
 of reposing his oxen, and of refreshing himself — 
 with draughts of wine or beer from the hostess''s 
 cellar, and draughts of love and hope from the 
 reservoirs of Cazille''s melting black eyes. 
 
 The preparations for departure were simple 
 and soon completed. As I re-entered the inn to 
 arrange my baggage, I heard the inspector as- 
 suring the lovely traveller, that he thought any 
 sacrifice slight for the daughter of so worthy a
 
 124! THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 father, or the wife of so generous a benefactor. 
 This speech was accompanied by many obse- 
 quious bows, as he lighted the lady and her 
 husband to the chamber where we had supped, 
 and which I took it for granted he had resigned 
 to them. 
 
 They passed down the corridor accompanied 
 by the hostess, who was loaded with a warming- 
 pan, sheets, and pillows. As my eyes were fixed 
 on the elegant figure of the lady, I saw her start 
 and stop, while her head was turned in the di- 
 rection of the flight of stairs formerly noticed. 
 I was too far removed to hear the cause of her 
 alarm; but a murmur of explanation, and a 
 closing curse from the inspector, made it plain to 
 me that the interruption was caused by the nasal 
 salutation of poor Batiste, with a comment in the 
 inspector's peculiar style. 
 
 I looked round the kitchen in search of Cazille, 
 but she was not to be found ; so, arranging the 
 contents of my knapsack, which the fire had 
 completely dried, taking my gun under my arm, 
 and rousing Ranger from the corner where he 
 reposed, I waited the return of the landlady,
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 125 
 
 and announced my intended departure with the 
 carrier. 
 
 " Faith, you are right, my good sir," said the 
 hostess ; " better repose in a carrier's cart than 
 He in a hayloft, or sleep on a kitchen chair. I 
 could have offered you no better accommodation. 
 You see, monsieur the inspector has given up his 
 room, and we liave only one bed more, which he 
 must occupy."" 
 
 I assured her that I was much better pleased 
 to go on my journey, than interrupt the arrange- 
 ments of so obliging a lady as she had proved 
 herself to be ; and I begged her to let me know 
 how much I was indebted for the entertainment 
 I had received. 
 
 " Indebted, sir.? Nothing, to be sure. Didn 't 
 you sup with monsieur the inspector .f*" 
 
 " Very true ; but I have given a good deal of 
 trouble, and then there 's the lodging and feeding 
 the shepherds who guided me here, and to whom, 
 no doubt, you have given beds and supper." 
 
 " Bless you, sir! The poor fellows are long 
 ere this at home. They paid me for the glass of
 
 126 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 brandy they had on entering, and left the house 
 before you had changed your wet shoes.*" 
 
 I protest I felt a blush, of a mixed and 
 almost undefinable origin, overspread my face. 
 Compunction for my own neglect of these honest 
 creatures, shame at my unrewarded obligation to 
 them, and pleasure at their disinterested conduct, 
 were pretty nearly, I believe, the materials which 
 composed the colouring of my cheek. I had 
 nothing for it but to place a trifle in the hands of 
 the landlady on their account; and she carried 
 an air of honesty about her, so much in unison 
 with what I have most commonly met regarding 
 points of confidence and honour in people of her 
 class in France, that I was certain my remittance 
 would reach its destination. 
 
 " And now, madame, for your own trouble — ^'' 
 " My dear sir, I am more than paid by this 
 proof of trust, — but if your generosity prompts 
 you to remember the girl — ^" 
 
 " I shall not forget her, believe me, nor her 
 mistress neither : but where is she ? I am anxious 
 to set off, as I keep the carrier waiting.'"
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 1S7 
 
 " Rest tranquil, he is in no hurry," replied the 
 hostess, with a good humoured smile. " He also 
 has a little account to settle for his evening'^s 
 entertainment, and Cazille and he are, no doubt, 
 making up the reckoning." 
 
 Being already in the secret, this intimation 
 did not surprise me. As I was never disposed 
 to interrupt the tottings up of love's ledger, I 
 quietly sat myself down on a chair beside the 
 landlady, leaving Cazille and her lover to balance 
 their account in their own way ; and I have no 
 doubt but that hope and happiness were placed 
 at the profit side, while not even time was allowed 
 to burthen the columns of loss, 
 
 " Your pretty house-maid has chosen well, 
 madame."" 
 
 " Why yes, one must tell the truth. There is 
 not in the department a better lad than Geoffroi 
 the carrier. I believe he never did harm to man 
 or beast but once, when he threw a bale of sugar 
 on my poor man, who, in his haste to join Cazille 
 he overlooked taking his evening's nap by the 
 stable door." 
 
 I had no time to ascertain whether this injury
 
 128 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 to Batiste was cited as an exception to GeofFroi's 
 good treatment to man or beast. The reader 
 will therefore take it as he pleases. 
 
 " But what retards the union of this young 
 couple V asked I. 
 
 " Faith, sir, but a trifle, after all. You must 
 know, sir, that Geoffroi has the whole support of 
 his aged mother on his hands, and, poor fellow, 
 he is tightly put to it these hard times. He is 
 just able to make both ends meet ; but, barring 
 his cart and oxen, he has not a louis or a louis' 
 worth. Cazille is one of the best lasses in the 
 world, but she has but forty-eight francs a year 
 wages ; and since the courtship began, about six 
 months ago, has been able to save only the half 
 of that towards defraying the cost of the wed- 
 ding.'^ 
 
 '' Why, how much would those expenses 
 amount to ?**' 
 
 " Oh ! sir, what with fees, and flowers, and 
 favours ; and a white dress for the bride, and a 
 treat for the friends, and paying the priest, it 
 would take a good hundred francs besides what 
 she has by her."
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 129 
 
 " But has she no friend who would advance 
 her the money V 
 
 " She has friends enough, but all people as 
 poor as herself.'"* 
 
 " Would not you, my amiable hostess, your- 
 self give such a trifle for the happiness of so good 
 a servant ?'' 
 
 " Why, to tell you the truth, I might, perhaps, 
 if I chose to strain a point, afford a hundred 
 francs, and it might be worse disposed of. But, 
 my dear sir, if I were to give the money, and the 
 girl got married, what would become of me? 
 Where should I look for so faithful, so indus- 
 trious, and so good tempered a lass in her place ?**' 
 There was so much naivete and frankness in 
 this avowal that it overpowered the displeasure 
 rising up at the woman's selfishness. Instead of 
 answering her, I asked myself a question. 
 
 " Is it not hard," thought I, " that I am almost 
 always thus thwarted when I wish to give people 
 my entire esteem ? That in the very moments 
 when my heart is flattering itself with having 
 found something wholly deserving its regard, an 
 unlooked for flaw, or crack, or stain, presents 
 
 VOL. II. K
 
 130 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 itself to my eye, and checks the current of my 
 good will ? But let it be so. I see it is our na- 
 ture ; and henceforward I will only look at the 
 smooth portions of character, and step over the 
 inequalities by which every individual disposition 
 is defaced." 
 
 Then turning to the landlady and our subject. 
 " But the inspector ? Would not he be disposed 
 to forward the good work ?^'* 
 
 " Lord bless you, sir ' not he. Not that I 
 would speak ill of monsieur the inspector, for, 
 in truth, I have no right. He has made my 
 children, and my husband, and myself, what we 
 are; and we owe every thing to him. But he 
 has enough to do now with every sous, in buying 
 dainties, without which he could not live." 
 
 There was much in this last speech that ad- 
 mitted of various constructions, according to dif- 
 ferent fancies. But it was no business of mine 
 to examine closely as to what the inspector had 
 made of my hostess or her spouse. I turned then 
 boldly and abruptly to another topic. 
 
 " Surely,*' said I, " the gentleman whom I 
 surprised here on my arrival, and his daughter,
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 131 
 
 who is now in the house, have ability and in- 
 cHnation to step forward in a case like this." 
 
 *' Ay, that they have, good souls ! and it is 
 from them that Cazille's happiness will come at 
 last." 
 
 " Is the name of that gentleman a secret V* 
 " It is no secret here, sir, and, unfortunately 
 for himself, is too well known every where." 
 
 '' Is it not strange, that a man so good, as I 
 think he is, should find it a misfortune to be 
 known, or feel concealment necessary ?" 
 
 " Alas ! sir,"" replied my landlady with a pen- 
 sive tone, " how little does our happiness depend 
 on our being known ! The world always hears 
 what is bad. A hundred virtues speak less 
 loudly than one crime."" 
 
 *' But can such a man have committed a 
 a'ime T' 
 
 " Which of us, my good sir, has not some 
 failing, which society calls a fault, or has not done 
 some deed which it looks upon as a crime .'^'" 
 
 This tallied so well with my late reflections, 
 that it threw me back a little upon myself, and I 
 
 kS
 
 132 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 paused for a reply. I saw that I was gaining 
 fast on the landlady's confidence, and, expecting 
 to be in a few minutes in possession of the grand 
 secret, I forgot how precious time was in. such 
 conjunctures. I sought for an answer to the last 
 observation, which might advance the progress 
 of disclosure ; but before I found one fitting, the 
 hostess cried to me hastily, " For God's sake, go, 
 sir ! I hear monsieur the inspector preparing to 
 leave the inner room. He must not see you 
 with me alone. Adieu ! sir. Here, Cazille ! 
 Cazille! give a kiss to Geoff'roi, and come and 
 warm the beds l" 
 
 This last part of her speech was uttered out- 
 side the door, where she had moved, leading me 
 gently by the arm ; and the commands thus 
 given to Caz'dle were answered from the bench 
 in the front of the house, by a smack which 
 echoed loudly, and sounded to me as chaste as 
 any kiss which ever sent up its music to the 
 moon. 
 
 Cazille came towards us, her head reclining a 
 little, and her eyes cast down. Geoffroi sprang
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 133 
 
 lightly on the seat of his cart, crying, " Come 
 along, sir ! Good night, madame ! Adieu ! dear 
 Cazille! Adieu! adieu!" 
 
 I shook hands with the hostess. I did as 
 much, but no more, by Cazille, and lightened 
 myself of a little load of obligation for her ser- 
 vices; but neither got rid of, nor wished to be 
 rid of, my gratitude, for the smiling attentions 
 with which they had been performed. 
 
 As I flung Ranger into the cart and stepped 
 up myself, a word which had, I am positive, 
 nothing cabalistic in it, for it was fairly and 
 honestly pronounced, but which was to me in- 
 comprehensible, set the oxen in motion. The 
 whispered inspiration of an Icelandic driver to 
 his rein-deer could not have had a more ani- 
 mating effect. The oxen set off in a full and 
 steady pace, slowly pulling away their master 
 from the spot where all his affections were 
 centred, and me from a place which had, during 
 the last four hours, awakened much of my in- 
 terest on more accounts than one. 
 
 It was just midnight when we started. Every 
 thing was hushed and still. Neither the wheels
 
 134! THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 of our little carriage nor the steps of our team 
 were heard upon the sands. Geoffroi looked 
 back a moment at the house, heaved a sigh, and 
 sank into silence. It was then my turn to throw 
 a parting glance at the scene of my late ad- 
 ventures, and I did so, more, I must acknowledge, 
 from the common-place wish of fixing its ap- 
 pearance on my memory, than from any thing 
 approaching the tender sentiments which my 
 companion connected with it. 
 
 The landlady and Cazille had re-entered, as 
 the reader will have inferred from Geoftroi''s 
 sigh, which had all the tone of parting love. 
 The little building, its outhouses, hay-rick and 
 garden, seemed all to sleep quietly in the shade 
 of the taU pines ; while the moon shone far and 
 wide across the desert, and silvered the tops of 
 the woods. Having made myself acquainted 
 with the exterior appearance of the inn and its 
 immediate vicinity, I turned round, and, affected 
 by the taciturnity of my companion, I uttered 
 not a word. 
 
 Nothing could be more beautifully calm than 
 was the night. At one hand, as far as I could
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 135 
 
 see, before me, was a forest, and at the other 
 an open waste, thick set with stunted fir-trees, 
 which gave it an appearance of low brush-wood, 
 and hid the sandy soil. Occasional clusters of 
 sheep showed here and there a patch of dusky 
 white, and the dul] tinkling of a bell told that 
 the flock was awake and browsing, while all 
 around them was in deep repose. A wide cut 
 drain marked at each side the boundary of the 
 road, which was in this part quite straight, and 
 very hard. It was generally smooth and safe, 
 but the violent jolting in some parts made me 
 examine it more closely, and I found that the 
 causeway was formed of large pine-trees, thrown 
 across and covered with layers of sand, and 
 occasionally stones. It was, however, in very 
 few places out of repair ; and in half an hour we 
 had entirely passed those uncomfortable spots. 
 Affected not more by my previous fatigue than 
 by the present monotony and the easy motion of 
 the cart, I felt myself softly dropping asleep. 
 I gave way to the gentle inclination, and re- 
 clining under the awning, and supported by the
 
 136 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 packages, I soon forgot the world, its tumults, 
 joys, and sorrows. 
 
 As I was dozing away, I heard Geoffroi ex- 
 claim, " Ah ! he sleeps. He has left no cares, 
 no agitation, no mistress behind him ! I "^ll war- 
 rant it he is a happy feUow.*" 
 
 I felt a deep sigh rising from my breast, but I 
 was resolved it should not have utterance ; while 
 Geoffroi, influenced, perhaps, by somewhat of 
 the same feeling, sprang lightly on the sand, and 
 addressing a cheering; word or two to his beasts 
 trudged on beside them, 
 
 I slept soundly for, I should suppose, a couple 
 of hours ; and was awakened by the rustling of 
 branches against the awning which covered the 
 cart. I started up, and looked out upon the 
 narrow road which we travelled. At either side 
 of us were trees thickly planted, the passage 
 being scarcely sufficient to allow the breadth of 
 our vehicle. The overhanging boughs struck 
 from time to time against the awning, and no 
 other sounds were to be heard, but the soft 
 movements of the wheels rolling over the natural
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 137 
 
 carpet, which thick-strewn leaves, acorns, and 
 fir-cones formed upon the sand. We were in 
 the depths of a thick wood, not composed of 
 pine-trees alone, but containing all the varieties 
 of the forest. Instead of the tall and straight 
 monotony of the unvarying fir ; beech, ash, and 
 oak-leaves glittered in the moon-beams, and flung 
 their canopy across our path. 
 
 As we proceeded the passage became darker, 
 whether from the greater thickness of the wood, 
 or the temporary concealment of the moon, I 
 could not judge; but the effect of the scene, 
 which soon broke upon me, was considerably 
 heightened by this increased obscurity. While 
 nothing around was to be distinguished, at even 
 arm's-length from me, and the oxen and their 
 driver were quite lost to my sight, a sudden turn 
 to the left brought us suddenly to a spacious 
 opening, and presented a view which enchant- 
 ment seemed to have conjured up. 
 
 The whole expanse of heaven, lighted by the 
 ^ull moon and studded with stars, shone brilliantly 
 above ; and all its splendour was reflected in the 
 unruffled breast of a lake spreading wide before
 
 138 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 me. The road, which ran straight along the 
 bank of this hquid mirror, sloped smoothly to 
 its side, and the feet of the oxen were, at times, 
 washed by its waters. The forest by which it 
 was skirted threw down its dark reflection, and a 
 sighing breeze sometimes scattered loose leaves 
 upon the surface, stirring it with fairy undula- 
 tions. 
 
 I thought for an instant that I still slept, and 
 that imagination had raised for me a mirage of 
 unexampled loveliness. But as I grew convinced 
 of the reality of the scene, I marvelled how such 
 a lovely sheet of water could exist in this sandy 
 waste ; and was some time moving along its side 
 before I discovered that it was but a river, which 
 narrowed as we advanced, and whose opposite 
 bank I did not at first perceive, from tlie low- 
 ness of the road we travelled. The stream flowed 
 on, in scarcely perceptible motion, nor was its 
 beauty lessened by its decreased width ; for the 
 opposite bank, being formed of a ledge of the 
 purest and smoothest sand, shone in the moon- 
 light like a frame of polished silver rising above 
 the water. The dark edging of the forest formed
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 139 
 
 a fine contrast, and was at times thrown into 
 deeper shade by passing clouds, which could not, 
 however, prevent the moon from illumining the 
 whole scene, and giving the more distant parts 
 of it the full brightness of her rays. 
 
 Geoffroi was still walking, at the slow pace 
 
 which suited the inclination of his oxen, and 
 
 seemed in harmony also with his own frame of 
 
 mind. A low murmured melody kept time with 
 
 his sauntering progress ; and I know not whether 
 
 it was the peculiar softness of the scene or the 
 
 sweetness of his mellow voice, but I think I never 
 
 heard an air more tender, or warbled with a 
 
 simpler grace. It was a tune quite in the style 
 
 of those wild and heart-moving airs which make 
 
 the traveller in Ireland so often stop and listen : 
 
 then prompt him to look round at the desolate 
 
 grandeur of the scenery and the rustic songster, 
 
 and wonder how strains so exquisite had birth 
 
 in so rude a land, or found expression from so 
 
 rough a tongue. 
 
 The words of Geoffroi's song were Gascon. 
 I have already avowed my ignorance of the par- 
 ticular dialect of that language used in those
 
 140 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 parts^ but still I caught here and there an occa- 
 sional word, the meaning of which I knew. 
 
 Thus cla de lune means moonlight ; pin, pine- 
 tree ; beo'ttat, beauty ; foret, forest ; and Iq> vie, 
 life. And at the end of every cadence the name 
 of names, Cazille, filled up the dose. 
 
 I made meanings for the blanks, to please my 
 own fancy, and stringing together some lines 
 which suited the music, I found that I had almost 
 inadvertently composed a series of extempore 
 stanzas, which a less candid story-teller might 
 have called a faithful and literal translation. 
 
 SONG OF THE LANDES. 
 
 I. 
 
 The moonlight, through the branching pines. 
 Floats o'er the sands with silver streak ; 
 
 How like the chasten'd beam, that shines 
 Through dark-fringed lids on beauty's cheek. 
 
 When timid glances trembling steal 
 
 From thy bright eyes, mine own Cazille ! 
 
 II. 
 
 As o'er the desert-stream's smooth breast 
 The night- winds from the forest shed 
 
 Light leaves to break the waters rest. 
 It vibrates in its deepest bed. — 
 
 So doth my thrilling bosom feel 
 
 Thy soft-breathed words, mine own Cazille !
 
 THE EXILE OF THE L\NDES. 141 
 III. 
 
 I see thee not, but thou art here ! 
 
 Even as heaven's lamp, obscured awhile. 
 Still lights the desert far and near. 
 
 Through sorrow's cloud thy mellow smile 
 Makes life's dull waste bright spots reveal. 
 And lights me on, mine own Cazille ! 
 
 There were half a dozen stanzas more, pretty 
 much in the same sing-song style ; but I forget 
 half of them, and will not inflict the rest upon 
 my readers.
 
 142 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I WENT on contemplating and rhyming, while 
 GeofFroi continued his strain, the mechanical 
 cadence of which convinced me he was musing 
 too, till I was roused by the dull and hollow 
 sound of a horn, blown, as it seemed to me, on 
 the opposite bank of the river, and echoing or 
 answered in the wood beside me. The insinua- 
 tions of the inspector rushed upon my mind, and 
 I thought there were few more convenient places 
 for rifling a poor traveller's knapsack, and levy- 
 ing contributions on his purse. But the reader 
 will remark my forbearance, in saying nothing 
 of the determined air with which I cocked my 
 gun, nor the desperate resolution I formed, not 
 to be robbed by less than six highwaymen at 
 any rate. 
 
 I called out to Geoffroi (in whatever tone my
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 143 
 
 readers may severally fancy) to know what was 
 meant by these sounds. 
 
 " Ah ! sir, are you awake ? Well, you have 
 made a good sleep of it. Egad, I believe you 
 had a lesson from the worthy slug-a-bed Batiste ; 
 but you are far from coming up to your master 
 yet." 
 
 I confess I did not like this evasion, and I re- 
 peated my question somewhat sharply. 
 
 " Why, lord ! sir, are you afraid of robbers ? 
 Having got so far, you may make yourself easy 
 on that head ; for certainly the most convenient 
 time to have cut yours or any other gentleman^ 
 throat was while you were asleep in a dark wood 
 we left behind us an hour back."" 
 
 Here he laughed — with good humour or ma- 
 lice, just as it may be, thought I — and though 
 generally relishing a jest in my heart, I was se- 
 riously indisposed for this gaiety at present. 
 
 I do conscientiously believe that something 
 about cocking the gun flashed on my brain ; but 
 if such valorous thoughts were preparing to rise, 
 they were quickly put to rest by Geoffroi''s answer 
 to my exclamation, that
 
 144 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 " I would be satisfied, ****[■" 
 
 Yes, reader ! shower down your reproaches 
 Hke rain ! I do plead guilty to the whole line of 
 asterisks ; but magna Veritas est, &c. 
 
 I was just going to jump down on the road, 
 when Geoffroi seized me by the leg, and in 
 a supplicating tone entreated that " monsieur 
 would not give himself the trouble to make /iim~ 
 self angry (I like that idiom) ; that the sounds I 
 heard proceeded only from the postboy rousing 
 the watchman at the little bridge, which mon- 
 sieur saw so close upon the water, a little higher 
 
 up." 
 
 I looked up, and did see the little bridge ; and 
 in a moment more the sound of the horn came 
 again upon the breeze, evidently from our side 
 of the river, and in a little while more the crack- 
 ing of a whip, and the gallop of a horse was 
 heard, and presently the sand was flung up 
 around us ; and then the postboy pulled up his 
 little nag, and peeped under the awning, to see 
 who was there, I suppose. 
 
 OeofFroi's oxen stopped, out of civility, I dare 
 say, to the postboy's pony ; and the postboy him-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 145 
 
 self dismounting, and moving up to GeofFroi, 
 with the exact proportion of light and easy fa- 
 miliarity which a bearer of billets-doux should 
 assume towards the carrier of parcels, he touched 
 his white cotton nightcap, and then offered his 
 hand. 
 
 " How do you do, my little fellow V said 
 Geoffroi, cordially shaking the proffered hand. 
 " Why you are late to-night, Jean .? What kept 
 you back ?'"* 
 
 I thought this address a little out of the line 
 of separation which I wished to trace between 
 the parties ; but seeing that the spare boyish 
 figure of the courier did not reach to Geoffroi's 
 shoulder, I set down the freedom of the latter 
 to the score of seniority, which does and ought 
 to level distinctions. 
 
 The postboy's back was turned towards me, 
 and I could not help moralizing a moment on 
 the nature of his occupation, which so checks 
 and distorts the human form. " What a pity it 
 is,'' thought I, " to see this poor little boy doomed 
 for life to a drudgery of pitiful horsemanship, 
 which already begins to stiffen his joints, and 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 146 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 shrivel up his limbs to the true horse-jockey 
 standard !"" And it was so, in fact, for his dimi- 
 nutive legs and thighs were flattened and bowed 
 out by the friction of the saddle, so as to re- 
 semble a pair of old horse-shears, hollowed by 
 constant wear. His large bony knees offered a 
 resistance stronger than flesh and muscles, and 
 were not yet reduced from their unnaturally dis- 
 proportioned size. His long, tight, leather pan- 
 taloons were smooth-worn and polished, and, as 
 he did not wear boots, they shone brightly in the 
 moonlight, as he stood like a Lilliputian colossus, 
 his legs involuntarily straggled open, and his 
 arms akimbo. During my observations here de- 
 tailed, he replied to Geoffroi's question thus : 
 
 " What kept me back ! What always keeps me 
 back ? What has kept me back from the first, and 
 will to the last, my good friend ? Why love ! Love, 
 my boy ! But no matter — a pair of long spurs 
 make up for lost time, and a merry heart mends 
 a broken fortune. — Yes, I am late to-night; but 
 if that clumsy sack-of-meal of the -wooden head *, 
 
 * I cannot well translate, or even explain, the postboy's 
 pun. La Teste, where the miller livedo is a corrupt, or.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 147 
 
 Joseph Antoine Francois Xavier Dumoulin, the 
 miller, had smoked his tenth cigar, and drunk 
 his beer in better time, I should not have been 
 kept so long waiting to wish his wife good night ! 
 Now the secret's out, my boy ! Have you got any 
 thing in your flacon ?*' 
 
 "Always merry, always happy, always suc- 
 cessful, my tight little Jean,"" cried Geoffroi, 
 coming to the cart in search of his brandy 
 bottle. 
 
 As for me, I was almost stupified by the in- 
 tolerable impudence of the little brat, who ven- 
 tured to talk of intrigue with his squeaking 
 voice, and boasted of a conquest the meaning of 
 which he could scarcely know. What, then, 
 was my surprise, as he turned towards me, look- 
 ing for the expected dram, to see him raise his 
 cap, and wipe with his handkerchief, a head, bald 
 
 perhaps, a civilized construction of La tite de buche, the 
 proper name of the place, and by which the country 
 people always call it. Tlte (head) was in the old or- 
 thography written Teste. De Buche is the title of the 
 noble family to which the town belonged; and Buche 
 means a log of wood. The reader must arrange all these 
 combinations, and then turn the sentence into the most 
 convenient way to make out the pleasantry. 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 as a barber'*s unwigged block, which he felt no 
 shame in exposing to the heavens, — while he 
 raised full upon me a visage which showed the 
 chiseling of sixty summers at least ! 
 
 " Good God !" cried I, " can all this be true ? 
 Does this withered and worn-down abortion 
 think of these things, and is there a miller''s wife 
 in all France .*" But why bewilder my- 
 self or my readers, many of whom have, no 
 doubt, like me, observed and wondered at the 
 unaccountable freaks played by the fancies of 
 women ! 
 
 When the old sinner (for sinner he was either 
 ways, true or false) had quaffed a glass of 
 Geoifroi'*s brandy, he prepared to depart. He 
 placed his cap upon his head, and tightening the 
 straps which bound his cloth jacket to the pum- 
 mel of his saddle — the warmth of the night in- 
 ducing him to ride in his cotton vest — he gave a 
 finishing tug to his single and fragile girth, and 
 then sprang on his pony's back with wonderful 
 agility for a person of his years, though not, 
 perhaps, with the actual grace of Mercury or 
 young Harry.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 149 
 
 ** Adieu, then ! my dear Geoffroi," cried he ; 
 *' and what now for the black-eyed maid of the 
 inn ? Have you scribbled no notes of your jour- 
 ney, at the rate of a line a league ? Ah i curse 
 your father and mother, you dog, who didn't 
 teach you to write faster. — Never mind, I'll do 
 the business for you. Half a score kisses on 
 Cazille's pouting lips shall be the token of your 
 safety, and they will, moreover, keep me alive 
 till I meet my little Marie, in the Place Dauphine 
 at Bordeaux. Adieu, comrade ! Take care of 
 yourself !" 
 
 " Farewell, my lad ! farewell ! But remember 
 I trust to your honour," holloed GeofFroi, with 
 a laugh. The whip cracked — up flew the sand — 
 away went the little courier, shouting ''Love 
 for ever ! Love for ever T and in a minute or 
 two more the horn gave notice that he was gain- 
 ing on the road. 
 
 " Well, sir," asked GeofFroi, after a long pause, 
 " what do you think of that ?'"* 
 
 " Why I think, my friend, that you are a bold 
 man, to trust your mistress in such dangerous 
 hands.'^
 
 150 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 a 
 
 Dear Cazille P' exclaimed he, and I thought 
 he wiped a tear from his eye as he spoke, " Dear 
 Cazille ! I should be, indeed, an unworthy man, 
 if I could not trust you where there was danger."" 
 
 " Have you no fears from this redoubtable 
 fellow ?" asked I. 
 
 " Poor soul ! I only fear that yonder stumbling 
 little pony will break his neck one night. He 
 falls ten times a week, and it is well for little 
 Jean that there is no pave in the Landes.'' 
 
 " Does he always go at full gallop ?" 
 
 " Always, when there 's a chance of meeting 
 any one/' 
 
 " But is his time really lost in the pursuits he 
 boasts of ?" 
 
 " God help the poor little creature ! no, sir, to 
 be sure. Why I \e known him, over and over 
 again, shiver for an hour, concealed in the wood, 
 until he saw some one coming ; and then steal 
 out of it, as if he had a mighty affair on his 
 hands. That's pretty much the way he loses 
 his time, I assure you.'"* 
 
 f * Then you don't believe a word of his boast- 
 
 mg r 
 
 ^v>
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 151 
 
 ** Who could believe the word of a boaster, 
 my good sir? But tell me, sir, have you cha- 
 racters like this in England ?*" 
 
 " Why — really — perhaps — it is possible — that 
 — there — may — be — by chance ! — one or two — ^" 
 replied I, and here the conversation dropped. 
 
 We reached in a few minutes the little rustic 
 bridge, which, with the watchman's thatched 
 cottage, and a shed for the convenience of tra^ 
 vellers, gave a romantic finish to the landscape. 
 The watchman raised the barrier, and received 
 his toll, when GeofFroi began to untackle his 
 oxen, to whom he meant to give some hay and 
 an hour''s rest. 
 
 I descended from the cart quite recovered 
 from my fatigue. Geoffroi entered the shed, 
 against one of the posts of which he stuck a resin 
 taper, which he lighted at the watchman's hut, 
 and which threw its dull glare upon the river 
 banks, where the moonbeams were so sweetly 
 sleeping. Morning, too, was making rapid 
 strides in the east, and the landscape was thus 
 illumined by a combination of lights, such as a 
 painter would have gazed on for its beauty and 
 
 %
 
 152 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 difficulty. I strolled along the sandy edge of 
 the stream, and looked round upon the exquisite 
 scenery. 
 
 I do not think I overrated its beauty at the 
 time, but I could not at all events exaggerate, 
 did I venture to describe what I thought of it. 
 After pacing up and down for some time, I at 
 length lay down on the sand, and gave myself up 
 to meditation. 
 
 I retraced hastily in my mind the scenes of the 
 night; the varieties of character it had shown 
 me ; and the new interest with which they had 
 inspired me. But foremost in all my rumina- 
 tions was the mysterious stranger ; and I lost 
 myself in mazes of conjecture as to who and 
 what he was. I thought of this man so long 
 and so deeply, that I began to give credit to 
 some of those wild theories, at which I had often 
 laughed, of secret sympathies and spells — when 
 I at length started in doubt of myself and all 
 around me, at seeing this identical figure, stand- 
 ing at a short distance from me, by the water'^s 
 edge. 
 
 A group of dwarf firs was between us, and
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 153 
 
 concealed me from his sight; but as he stood 
 bending over the river, profoundly buried in 
 thought, I distinguished every feature of his ex- 
 pressive countenance, and I never beheld a finer 
 picture of contemplative melancholy. While he 
 thus stood for some minutes close to me, I felt 
 at once the strongest wish to address him, and 
 the utter impossibility of doing so ; but as he 
 turned from the river, and walked slowly away, 
 the spell seemed to quit me. I rose, and was 
 preparing to follow him, when the rustling of my 
 feet through the scrub-wood attracted his atten- 
 tion, and he turned quickly round. The mo- 
 ment he perceived me, he put his hand to his 
 bosom, and I saw the hilt of a stiletto appear 
 from under his cloak. I returned this menacing 
 attitude by taking off my hat and bowing. He 
 seemed a man of that sort which, in times of 
 least preparation, can see the state of things at 
 a glance ; and as I had disembarrassed myself 
 of my gun, which I left in Geoffroi's cart, he di- 
 vined at once that he had no hostility to appre- 
 hend from me. He therefore returned my saluta- 
 tion with easy pride.
 
 154 THE EXILE OF THE L ANDES. 
 
 " Sir," said I, " I make you no apology, for I 
 have not intentionally thrown myself upon your 
 privacy. Chance has brought me to this spot ; 
 but I cannot omit the opportunity of thanking 
 you for your kindness last night." 
 
 " I am unwilling to suspect that you pursued 
 me intentionally," said he. " Individuals of your 
 nation rarely lend themselves to unworthy deeds ; 
 but know, sir, that I am in need of secrecy, and 
 must not be broken in upon." 
 
 " I know it," replied I, " and" — 
 
 " You hnonso it ! You know me then ?" and 
 here his hand was raised to grasp the weapon. 
 
 " No, sir," cried I, " I know you not. In one 
 word, you have nothing to fear from me. I am 
 an utter stranger — an idle traveller — but fate 
 seems to have thrown me in your way, and I am 
 filled with interest for you. Mistake me not, 
 then, but let me tell you that your daughter and 
 her husband are at this moment in the inn where 
 we met last night." 
 
 " Indeed ! Arrived already ! — Sir, I thank you. 
 — Pardon my suspicions and my rudeness — they 
 are the effects of persecution, and not my nature.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 155 
 
 I go this moment to meet my child — my dear, 
 dear Stephanie !*" 
 
 " Hold, I entreat you : there may be danger 
 on your path. There is another person in the 
 inn — a government agent — one who knows you, 
 and whose servility to your daughter and her 
 husband seems to assort ill with the tone in which 
 he talks of you," 
 
 At these words my companion paused ; looked 
 steadfastly on me ; and seemed concentrating the 
 whole powers of his penetration. He spoke. 
 
 " You say, sir, you know me not. How am I 
 to reconcile these contradictions ? You call your- 
 self a mere stranger. Who is this agent, then, 
 with whom you are so familiar ? He has spoken 
 of me. Who am I, then ? Answer me f 
 
 " Your surprise and your doubts are too na- 
 tural to give me offence. I met the person I 
 allude to by mere accident in the inn. He is 
 inspector of these forests." 
 
 " Oh ! it is he ? Poor fellow ! he dare not harm 
 me. — He has not betrayed my name ?" 
 
 " No : I am totally ignorant of that ; — but I 
 fear, sir, it was interruption only that preserved
 
 156 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 any secret of yours which may be in his keep- 
 ing." 
 
 " Perhaps so— he is a babbling blockhead." 
 
 Then, after another pause, he advanced closer 
 to me, and held forth his hand. " Yes, sir,'* said 
 he, with warmth, as I took it in mine — " yes, I 
 am convinced of your sincerity. The frankness 
 of your manner makes it impossible to doubt you 
 more. Be satisfied, too, that I am in no danger. 
 The creature you mention is safe and useful. 
 With all his blustering, he has some good in him, 
 and his own interests bind him closely to mine. 
 Now, sir, farewell. I fly to embrace my sweet 
 child and her noble husband." 
 
 " But, sir, you must excuse me still. I cannot 
 part with you, except on condition that, should 
 we meet again, I may consider myself at liberty 
 to address you not quite as a stranger." 
 
 " Willingly — most willingly. But it is little 
 likely that we shall meet again. I am the sport 
 of fate, proscription, and tyranny. You are free 
 to walk the world at will. I am chained to these 
 arid deserts as my only safety — and dare not 
 quit them."
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 157 
 
 *' Is it indeed, then, possible that such a man 
 is a mark for vengeance and oppression ? You 
 have partly given me your confidence — you have 
 gained my entire esteem. I am free, it is true, 
 but not when an innocent and persecuted fellow- 
 creature may want such humble aid as I can 
 give him. Command me, then, every way, I en- 
 treat you — I am wholly at your service." 
 
 I spoke this just as I felt it, and there was 
 no chilling hesitation in my tone. Grasping my 
 hand in both his, he replied with solemnity — 
 
 " Go not too far, young man, in your opinion 
 of me. Be not rash in connecting yourself with 
 me. The day may come, when you may turn 
 your back on me, and shrink from seeing my 
 face !" 
 
 " Impossible !" exclaimed I ; " I can never turn 
 from undeserved misfortune, nor from a face 
 which is the mirror of a noble mind.'* 
 
 " Mark me a moment," said he. " You think 
 me innocent. For half the years of my exist- 
 ence, I have borne upon my conscience the brand 
 of guilt and infamy. Secret and deep it has 
 gnawed into my heart, and under the laurels of
 
 158 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 splendour and success has fixed these furrows 
 on my brow. I am guilty of a great crime — ay, 
 a heinous one ! The private punishment has been 
 ever with me, and now the public retribution is 
 at hand. — It is but just too ! — I dare not com- 
 plain, and did the scourge fall fairly on me, I 
 should meet it with a smile. But I am singled 
 out — harassed — hunted down ; — while those far 
 guiltier — atrocious, blood-stained sycophants — 
 are raised upon the ruins which have crushed 
 me. It is that which drives me mad — that, too, 
 which keeps me in this wretched world — for I 
 would not deign to drag this chain of degrada- 
 tion, if it were not gilded by the bright hope of 
 vengeance on those who have twined it round 
 me r 
 
 He seemed, at these words, worked up to 
 a pitch of frenzied animation. He stopped 
 abruptly ; then took my hand again in his, and 
 continued more calmly. 
 
 " But this is no place for such discourse. I 
 have, indeed, no right to hold it with you at all. 
 It is, however, soothing to me to repose upon 
 one compassionate heart — and, if your interest
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 159 
 
 is excited for me, we may meet again. I am 
 confined to the fastnesses of this desert for re- 
 fuge ; but there is amongst the woods on the 
 sea-side, not far off, a little forsaken church. 
 Near it I have secured a retreat, and in its vici- 
 nity you will be sure to find me. Any one at 
 La Teste will direct you to the church of Ar- 
 cachon. — You may, probably, see me there this 
 evening at sun-set — and if, on reflection, you will 
 run the hazard, you may be, perhaps, of service 
 to me. Now, sir, farewell for the present. I 
 have no time for further delay.'"* 
 
 I assured him of my anxiety in his fate, and 
 repeated my offers of assistance. We then 
 parted. He advanced towards the bridge ; and 
 as he walked across it with an air like that of a 
 sovereign prince rather than a refugee criminal, 
 I saw the toll-taker and Geoffroi salute him with 
 the most profound respect. While he proceeded 
 on his way, they seemed to follow him with looks 
 of sympathy and admiration. I advanced towards 
 them, and heard the concluding observation of 
 the toll-taker. 
 
 " Ay, ay ! I have taken tolls on this bridge
 
 IGO THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 for the twenty years since he had it built, and 
 I never knew man nor woman to pass it who 
 didn't give him a blessing. — They may take every 
 thipg else from him, but they can't rob him of 
 the good- will of the people/'' 
 
 Geoffroi was about to reply, for he gave three 
 or four consecutive pulls to the cuffs of his jacket, 
 rubbed his hands together, and slapped his 
 thigh with the energy preparative to real elo- 
 quence, when he observed me close to him, and 
 checked his warmth. He took off his cap to me, 
 and his example was followed by the toll-taker, 
 in a style still more obsequious. They bowed 
 to me over and over again ; and I was not slow 
 in perceiving that the civility which I had all 
 along met with from the carrier was increased 
 tenfold by my apparent intimacy with the 
 stranger. 
 
 " Well, Geoffroi,"" asked I, " are you ready 
 to proceed ?^'' 
 
 '' In a moment, sir. — Do but let me have one 
 look more at the count.'' 
 
 " The count? Does that gentleman bear so 
 high a title ?"
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LAKDES. 161 
 
 « 
 
 Ah f sir, you may well say that now. They 
 have taken his title, it is true, and doomed him 
 to death ; but he is just as sure of the first, and 
 as safe from the latter, as ever he was : — for we 
 will all call him count, and he shall not die while 
 the people of the Landes have strength in their 
 arms, and blood in their veins !" 
 
 " No,*" echoed the toll-taker, " sooner than 
 they should catch him, I would, with my own 
 hands, blow up this bridge to atoms — though 
 each stone of it seems somehow as dear to me 
 as my children, who have every one been born 
 and reared upon its arches ! Yes, yes, he is safe 
 enough at this side of the water ; but he hazards 
 too much in trusting himself at the forest inn." 
 
 " Nay, nay,"*' replied GeofFroi, " he has nothing 
 to fear there but from that swaggering inspector, 
 who, besides his obligations to the count, owes 
 his present place to the son-in-law. Depend 
 upon it he is too fond of a snug place and a 
 sound skin to venture treachery." 
 
 Then turning to me, he continued, '' God bless 
 you, sir ! you brought good news, I am sure, from 
 the countess, or madame Stephanie his daughter. 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 162 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 — See how quickly he walks through the heavy 
 sand ! Perhaps the appeal against the sentence 
 is decided in his favour ?"" 
 
 " I fear, Geoffroi, that you overrate my in- 
 timacy with that gentleman and his affairs. I 
 never saw him till last night — nor did I know his 
 rank till you told me of it."" 
 
 " What, sir 1" exclaimed the carrier, with 
 strong emotion — " what ! you don^ know him ? 
 My God, I have then betrayed him ! What have 
 I done ! what have I done I" 
 
 " No, my good Geoffroi, you have nothing 
 to reproach yourself with. Your error was quite 
 natural, nor have you betrayed any thing. I 
 know from himself that he is proscribed, and 
 you have not let his name escape you." 
 
 " Thank God I have not ! But who could 
 have thought, to see you together, that you were 
 not old friends !" 
 
 " We are friends, you see — and when you 
 know the world as well as I do, Geoffroi, you 
 will know that new friends are often worth more 
 than old ones." 
 
 " Ah ! my mother often told me so, true
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 163 
 
 enough, sir. Friendship, she says, is just hke 
 the shoeing of a cart-wheel — very tight and close 
 fitting at first, but that it seems to wear out 
 and slip away from one quite naturally, when 
 rubbed a little on the rough causeways of hard 
 fortune." 
 
 " Ay," said the tollman, " it is just like that 
 little gate there, which flies wide open to the 
 traveller that holds out money in his hand ; but 
 remains close-barred and bolted to the poor devil 
 who has not a sous to oil its hinges. — It's a poor 
 thing your old friendship !" 
 
 " That it is," said Geoffroi ; " but yours, 
 I hope, sir, for the count, isn't of such fast 
 wear." 
 
 " No, indeed, it is not, my friend. Be satis- 
 fied that I am sincere and warm in his interest ; 
 but you must not tell me his name for all that." 
 
 " Never fear, sir, never fear. I have had too 
 great a fright already not to keep my tongue 
 closer tied in future. Look, sir ! There he goes, 
 God bless him! He has just turned into the 
 wood." 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE EXILIC OF THE LANDES. 
 
 "^ Safe journey to him, and to you too, gentle- 
 men !"" cried the tollman, wheeling into his hut. 
 
 " Now then, sir," said Geoffroi, " when you 
 like we are all ready to start.'* 
 
 In a few minutes more we were in fact on the 
 road, which, being firm and well kept, allowed 
 me to walk without annoyance from the sand. 
 Every step brought us further into a cultivated 
 track. Large patches, at each side of us, were 
 reclaimed from the desert, and grass and corn- 
 fields, occasional comfortable houses, and planta- 
 tions of forest trees, enlivened the scene. 
 
 The sun was risen, rich and proudly, as we 
 came to the little town of La Teste. We pro- 
 ceeded at a lively pace down the neat street, and 
 many a nod of welcome was shaken to Geoffroi 
 from the rustic inhabitants, who stood at their 
 doors gaily chattering, and all armed with a huge 
 clasp-knife in one hand, and in the other a large 
 slice of bread, well rubbed with garlic, and eked 
 out with a green fig or a bunch of grapes. Such 
 is the common summer breakfast of these parts. 
 We stopped at a little cottage near the centre
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 165 
 
 of the town, where GeofFroi was received with a 
 truly maternal embrace by its decent-looking 
 mistress. I was presented to her in due form by 
 her kind-hearted son ; and her particular atten- 
 tions led me to believe that in his whisper, on 
 our arrival, he had connected my name in some 
 way with that of the stranger — or of the count, 
 if the reader will concede him his title. 
 
 I declined, however, entering the cottage, 
 being anxious to take up my quarters in the 
 neighbouring white-washed house, decorated with 
 the sign and title of " the French Crown ;" 
 which, meaning merely a piece of money so 
 called, must not be confounded with the regal 
 ornament attaching to the occupier of another 
 residence. Thither, then, as soon as Geoffroi 
 had put up his oxen, I repaired ; and Ranger, 
 my gun, and knapsack, very soon occupied their 
 usual places in my chamber. When I had 
 shaken off the dust and other encumbrances of 
 my twenty-four hours' journey, I had a break- 
 fast of caft au laity and then sallied out on my 
 task of observation.
 
 166 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 The district of Arcachon, including the little 
 town of La Teste, its capital, is probably one 
 of the most perfect retirements in any part 
 of civilized Europe. Standing on the remote 
 and uncultured border of the Bay of Biscay, it 
 is utterly out of the way of communication with 
 the world ; and its name is never heard beyond 
 the edges of the forest which surrounds it, 
 except when a maritime report is given of some 
 unhappy vessel beat to pieces by the breakers, 
 which are eternally lashing the desolate sands 
 of its beach. La Teste is very rarely orna- 
 mented with the appearance of a stranger : the 
 unbroken intercourse of its inhabitants with 
 one another gives them that sameness of thought 
 and similarity of expression, which is remarked 
 so often between man and wife, sufficiently un- 
 fashionable to live much together. Their views, 
 both physical and moral, may be said to be
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 167 
 
 bounded on three sides by desert, and on the 
 fourth by the wide-stretching sea. They are 
 either fishermen, or dealers in the products of 
 the pine-woods ; and a few leagues, by land 
 or water, seem the limits of their intelligence. 
 The aspect of the place is wild and flat, yet not 
 unpleasing. At that period of the day when 
 the tide is full in, it is delightful to gaze on the 
 placid lake of Arcachon, for such is the name 
 of the horse-shoe excavation, on the deepest 
 ridge of which the town is built. But when 
 the waves recede, and for three miles out 
 nothing is to be seen but a sedgy exposure, it 
 is not easy to imagine a more unattractive land- 
 scape. It has none of the sublimities of ocean, 
 for the great Biscayan Gulf is too far out to be 
 visible from this part of the shore. There is, 
 however, one remarkable feature in the pro- 
 spect, which is not without beauty — the accu- 
 mulation of those sand- heaps far to the right of 
 the lake, which shine in the sunbeams with a 
 dazzling brilliancy, and for a parallel to which 
 we must travel to another portion of the globe. 
 On the left stretches a thick forest, close up to
 
 168 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 which the waves reach at high tide, when a 
 long circuit must be taken to approach it ; but 
 the strand at low water is quite uncovered, and 
 permits those who love the shady solitudes of 
 the wood to reach them by a walk of about 
 half a league. 
 
 This wood was the chief object of my re- 
 search ; for I made myself informed that the 
 church of Arcachon stood buried in its shelter, 
 not far off. Having lounged away some hours 
 in the immediate neighbourhood of the town, 
 and in taking some rapid notes of the preceding 
 day's adventures, I ordered my own and Ran- 
 ger's dinner, that I might lose no time in com- 
 mencing my excursion, and advancing towards 
 the interesting interview which I looked for 
 at sunset. My homely, ill-dressed, unpalata- 
 ble meal, was a practical eulogy on the last 
 evening's repast; and as I bethought me of 
 the inspector's luxuries, I hoped, for his sake, 
 that the duties of his office never led him to 
 the unseemly accommodations of " L'Ecu de 
 France." 
 
 When I found myself on the borders of the
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 169 
 
 forest, I felt an anxiety which, Hke all anxieties, 
 was of a mixed nature. Doubt of the stranger's 
 meeting me, interest in his fate, curiosity in his 
 secret, vague and awful conjectures at the 
 nature of his crime, all tended to fill me with 
 a restless impatience. I pondered, and moved 
 onwards along the edge of the sea, without 
 observing any thing to intimate the existence 
 of the church in question. As I proceeded, 
 the broad expanse of the ocean grew upon my 
 sight, and I experienced all those sensations 
 with which it ever inspires me. Its vastness, 
 its measured motion, and the murmuring of its 
 soft waves, as they seemed to melt into the 
 sand, all spoke to me in different ways ; but, as 
 it were, in the varying modulation of a common 
 language. I hastened my steps to meet the 
 approaching tide, and was soon standing close 
 to the snowy wreaths, which every wave depo- 
 sited, like an offering, at my feet. I had laid 
 my gun among some scattered rocks behind 
 me, and Ranger took the opportunity of stretch- 
 ing himself in sleep beside it. I was a long 
 time gazing on the waters, as they floated in
 
 170 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 their self-impelled and waltz-like undulations. 
 There was nothing visible on their bright blue 
 bosom. No ship was in sight ; and a few white 
 seabirds, skimming along, were the only living 
 objects which appeared to dispute my quiet 
 sovereignty over this beauteous scene. 
 
 At some distance from the shore stood a low 
 and rudely constructed fort, the apparent re- 
 mains of a larger work of defence. It seemed 
 ungarrisoned ; and I should have thought it 
 uninhabitable, had not some thin curling smoke 
 risen from it, and pronounced it to be a signal 
 station, or the refuge of some poor fisherman, 
 living there on sufferance. This lonely mark 
 of the labours of man, in a scene otherwise the 
 exclusive work of nature, gained an importance 
 from its singleness, and fixed my attention. 
 There was something picturesque in its crum- 
 bling angles and weed-covered embrasures, 
 which tempted me to record it, in the rough 
 and hasty way in which my pencil usually per- 
 formed such duties. I took out my book and 
 began to sketch ; but had scarcely traced the 
 first rude outline, when I received a blow from
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 171 
 
 behind, full on the ear ; and before I had time 
 to stagger forward, a pair of lusty arms were 
 wound round me, pinioning mine to my sides, 
 while a chorus of triumphant but hideous shouts 
 nearly deafened me to the violent barking of 
 Ranger, who had flown to my defence. 
 
 I struggled with all my might ; and turning 
 round my head, saw a face resting on my 
 shoulder, which no natural sign proclaimed as 
 woman's, but which was marked as such by the 
 decoration of a cap like those worn by the 
 peasants of the country. 
 
 The large black eyes and open mouth which 
 met my view seemed strained beyond all ima- 
 ginable dimensions, by the exertions which she 
 made to hold me fast. I plunged and struggled 
 with all my energies, she shouting " Pierre ! 
 Pierre ! Pierre 1" with a voice of terrible sound ; 
 while a little amphibious-looking monster, some- 
 thing between a fish and a boy, was coiling a 
 huge net round my entangled feet, and shrilly 
 echoing the screams of my assailant. 
 
 We were up to our ankles in the water, 
 which flowed fast upon us, and the contest
 
 172 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 ended in a few seconds by our all three 
 tumbling dov/n into a frothy wave, which rolled 
 over as we sank into the sand. She never let 
 go her hold for a moment, but I had loosened 
 one arm, and, grasping her by the leg which 
 was next it, was gradually getting the mastery, 
 when another figure, still more formidable, came 
 to her succour. This was a man of most fero- 
 cious aspect, and in the fierce costume of mili- 
 tary service. He had but one arm, which 
 brandished a sabre over my head, and under 
 his stump was my fowling-piece, both barrels 
 pointed full in my face. He roared out to me, 
 in French, a summons to surrender, with a 
 horrible threat of cutting ofi my head, clear 
 and clean, in case of refusal. My assent was a 
 matter of course ; but when he ordered me to 
 stand up, obedience was not so easy. The 
 young imp kept twisting the net faster and 
 faster around me ; and the woman proclaimed, 
 by her yells, that she was entangled as firmly 
 as I. I do not know how we got clear, but by 
 simultaneous rollings up the sand, well washed 
 by the waves and wreathed round with sea-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 17.^ 
 
 weed, we at last got beyond the reach of the 
 water, and in a Uttle time were on our legs. 
 The woman, whose masculine voice and aspect 
 were truly terrible, snatched the sabre from the 
 hand of her associate, and never ceased voci- 
 ferating, in her jargon, abuse, I suppose, to me 
 and commands to him. He and I had a short 
 parley together, as he stood with my gun 
 cocked in his hand, the barrel resting upon his 
 stump, after the manner of an American rifle- 
 man, the muzzle close to my breast He told 
 me pithily that I was a spy^ and a prisoner, and 
 that I should not, on pain of instant death, 
 make any resistance to accompanying him and 
 his wife to La Teste, to be handed into the 
 keeping of the mayor. 
 
 I must confess that no prisoner, I believe, 
 ever felt greater pleasure at a release, than I 
 did at this threat of trial ; for the outrage I 
 had suffered, and the appearance of its perpe- 
 trators, promised any thing but legal and legiti- 
 mate consequences. I expressed my readiness, 
 and so we set off. The little urchin, following, 
 as I suppose, the orders of his father, waded
 
 174 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 away towards the ruined fort, of which I quickly 
 understood the latter was governor. The tender 
 helpmate of this veteran now carefully picked up 
 the sketch-book, and began to wipe the water 
 from its leaves, in which operation, to my utter 
 misery, she scoured out the traces of many an 
 hour's labour. I remonstrated, but in vain. 
 French was Greek to her; and she was but 
 little inclined to accommodate my wishes, even 
 if she had comprehended them. We walked 
 on : this marine Amazon in front, throwing 
 fierce defiance over her shoulder at every step ; 
 Ranger sneaking beside me, his tail between his 
 legs ; and the old soldier hobbling after, with 
 the gun in its unvarying attitude of hostility 
 and preparation. 
 
 The leader of the procession sturdily pro- 
 ceeded at a pace which the rear-guard found it 
 hard to keep up with ; and the tide now flowing 
 rapidly up to the bank of sand which the waves 
 had raised along the whole course of the bay, 
 we struck into a little opening in the wood on 
 our right. On this manoeuvre a halt was com- 
 manded by the soldier ; and a short counci*
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 175 
 
 seemed to be held on the propriety of our 
 taking to the forest, as I judged by their 
 gestures. It was decided that we should do 
 so ; and indeed the only alternative appeared 
 to be an attempt to wade through the sea to 
 La Teste, a hazardous, if not impossible, pro- 
 ceeding. 
 
 Our narrow path was now obstructed, by 
 branches above, and brambles below ; and in 
 addition to the risk of one of these catching in 
 the triggers of my gun, and so executing me on 
 the spot, was the possibility of my tripping up ; 
 on which they might put the construction of an 
 attempted escape, and found a fair excuse for 
 decapitating me or blowing my brains out — or 
 both. In this way I seriously began to calculate 
 the prudence and possibility of bolting and 
 giving the slip to my escort. But the sea was 
 at one side, and a tangled wood at the other ; 
 and I considered that, if even I succeeded in 
 escaping, it would only involve me in difficulties, 
 and mar the meeting with the stranger; while 
 by my making my appearance before the mayor 
 of La Teste, with GeofFroi and my passport to
 
 176 THE EXILE OF THK L ANDES. 
 
 testify for me, there could be no doubt of my 
 release. I therefore cautiously trudged along ; 
 and becoming more accustomed to my situation, 
 I began to perceive how much of the ludicrous 
 it contained. 
 
 While my conductors kept up an unceasing 
 chatter in their (to me unintelligible) patois ^ I 
 was running through every link of a chain of 
 thought connected with my adventure ; which 
 ended in the rather awkward reflection, that 
 some officious subaltern might implicate me as 
 an associate of the proscribed, and for ought I 
 knew, guilty refugee. I was turning in my 
 head a variety of ways for baffling such imputa- 
 tion, when the path we traversed opened out 
 upon a little inclosure of most verdant herbage, 
 and on raising my eyes, I discovered the iden- 
 tical church of Arcachon standing before me. 
 
 I stopped for a moment in unfeigned admira-. 
 tion. My conductors stopped also, for the 
 soldier was fatigued by his forest walk, and the 
 woman obeyed the orders to halt. " Great 
 God !" thought I, '^ if thou wert always wor- 
 shipped in the purity which such a temple and
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 177 
 
 such a solitude as these must inspire, how much 
 worthier would thy votaries be to call upon thy 
 name l" 
 
 This beautiful little structure, a chaste model 
 of Grecian architecture, was erected at the ex- 
 pense of the crew and owners of a ship which 
 was wrecked on the shores of the bay; and, 
 being out of the direct resort of the inhabitants 
 of La Teste, is known by the name of " The 
 Sailors' Chapel." A priest was formerly re- 
 tained, at a regular stipend, to perform duty in 
 it ; and a neat cottage, at the extremity of the 
 grass-plat in front of the church, was his 
 secluded and modest residence. At this time, 
 however, the house was vacant and the church 
 deserted, except on the anniversary of its patron 
 saint, or when occasional offerings were put up, 
 by crews escaped from the dangers of the sea, 
 or others on the point of embarking to meet 
 them. 
 
 I acquired all this knowledge from the fluent 
 communications of the one-armed soldier, who, 
 finding me very tractable, entered warmly into 
 the interest which the church inspired me with, 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 178 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 and answered many more inquiries than those 
 which led to the information above detailed *. 
 The woman, however, less conciliating, and 
 not understanding our discourse, showed signs 
 of impatience, and indulged in some flourishes 
 of rhetoric as well as of the sabre. ** March !" 
 was once more the word, and we plunged deep 
 into the embowering branches of the wood. 
 
 It was now nearly sunset. I thought of the 
 stranger, and hoped no ill had befallen him. 
 The path was narrow ; and as we walked on I 
 could see nothing before me but the stiff cap, 
 broad back, thick legs, and brawny arms of my 
 female escort ; until she came suddenly to a 
 full stop, and, with gesticulation worthy of 
 Grimaldi in one of his feminine metamorphoses, 
 she commenced a rapid succession of low cur- 
 tesies to some one advancing towards us. In 
 the momentary depressions of her head, which 
 bobbed up and down with incalculable vivacity, 
 I was enabled to see beyond it, and discovered, 
 with pleasure and mortification, the exiled wan- 
 
 * See note at the end.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 179 
 
 derer, his daughter and son-in-law, standing 
 in a group before us. 
 
 When they caught the eye of the old soldier, 
 he stepped up towards them ; and with all the 
 grace which his mutilated frame permitted, he 
 presented arms, standing stiff and erect beside 
 me. Astonishment was in the face of the 
 young man ; fear in the charming features of 
 his wife ; while the father, casting on me and 
 my companions a piercing glance, showed a 
 countenance on which suspicion, the twin asso- 
 ciate of guilt, was in full display. 
 
 There was, it must be confessed, something 
 to warrant a fear of bad faith, in the hostile 
 appearance of my companions, in the waylaying 
 air of our rencontre, at the very time and place 
 which the stranger had fixed on to meet me, 
 but still more in the mixed expression of my 
 look ; which might, by a doubting mind, have 
 been well supposed that of a rascally police 
 agent, rejoiced at having entrapped his victim, 
 yet cowardly enough to be ashamed of his 
 vocation. 
 
 But the exile was still himself. He never 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 flinched from the path, but addressed the 
 saluting veteran. " Why, how now, Pierre ! 
 What's this?" Then looking towards me. 
 " And you, sir — How am I to salute you, 
 friend or foe ?" 
 
 " Oh ! as neither one nor the other," replied 
 I ; " I am too shabbily placed for the first, and 
 too harmless for the last. I am nothing now, 
 but a positive prisoner and a suspected spy." 
 
 A prisoner and a spy ! Why, Pierre, I hope 
 you have not committed another outrage in 
 your capacity of signal-man. You have not 
 used this gentleman ill?"* 
 
 " 111 ! bless your heart, sir, quite the con- 
 trary. Except for that wet jacket, which he 
 got in rolling on the beach with my poor 
 Josephine here, I never granted quarter to a 
 prisoner who was better treated." 
 
 *^ But how comes it that you have dared to 
 make prisoner a stranger and a traveller of 
 such peaceable demeanor ?" 
 
 It would be rather a puzzling matter to give 
 a literal version of Pierre's reply ; but if my 
 reader will make allowance for foreign idiom
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 181 
 
 and blustering, and imagine the old soldier to 
 have been a Chelsea pensioner, recounting the 
 capture of a musing Frenchman near a Mar- 
 tello tower on our coast, the following may be 
 considered a free translation : 
 
 " Why, please your honour ! as to daring, 
 you see as how I never was backward in that, 
 and when a chap of a foreigner skulks along 
 the wood near my signal-post, I thinks it my 
 duty to take him into custody, without paying 
 compliments. Your honour knows as I keeps 
 a sharp look out both by sea and land ; and as 
 no English frigates were to be seen in the bay 
 this morning, something told me as how that 
 something was brewing ashore. It is peace 
 time, to be sure, but that signifies nothing ; 
 for we make peace and break it now, as often 
 as we change kings and emperors (touching 
 his hat), and it is in peace that spies are most 
 dangerous, for such folk rarely venture to show 
 themselves in war. Well, please your honour, 
 as I was saying, I had just twisted the telescope 
 round, and turned its muzzle towards La Teste, 
 and was pretty constantly clapping my eye to
 
 182 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 the touch-hole, as a body might say, when all 
 of a sudden I marks a man stealing quietly 
 along down the side of the wood. With that I 
 points the gun, the glass I mean, plump upon 
 him; and his knapsack, foraging cap, green 
 jacket, and brown barrelled piece, made me 
 dead sure as he was a rifleman scattering out 
 from a party coming to surprise the fort. Well, 
 I calls Josephine and little Nicolas and myself 
 together, to hold a bit of a council, and we 
 takes another peep at the lad as he sloped 
 down towards us. We sees at once, by his 
 fair complexion, fresh colour, and close-shaved 
 chops, that he was an Englishman ; so taking 
 my sabre in my hand, and loading my wife and 
 child with the large mackarel net, we makes a 
 quiet sortie out of the fort, and places ourselves 
 in the wood hard by. Well, at last up comes 
 the enemy, and we sees him halt and take up 
 a position just in front of the fort ; when think- 
 ing, no doubt, that it was abandoned, and 
 nobody near, he lays his musquet on a rock 
 close by the shore, and plants his dog, which is 
 prisoner also you see, as sentry upon it. If
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 183 
 
 any more proof was wanting, your honour, 
 what does he do, but pulls out a book and 
 begins taking a view of the fort, which made 
 me certain that he was nothing but a shabby 
 bit of a spy, and no scout nor rifleman after all. 
 So seeing as the dog was asleep on his post, 
 we steps out all three to seize the man, and 
 Josephine and Nicolas, being lighter-footed 
 than myself, they soon comes up with him ; 
 and what with her arms, and his net, he was 
 soon seized, as fast as the tall German general 
 which your honour and myself made prisoner 
 at Austerlitz. That 's all, your honour." 
 
 When this recital was finished, the stranger 
 frowned sternly, and cried, " Hark ye, Pierre ! 
 Your officious conduct will surely be your ruin. 
 Remember that you have now no friend to 
 screen your excesses. Return his gun to that 
 gentleman, and think yourself well off if he 
 pardons your outrages." 
 
 I took the proffered gun, thanked the 
 stranger, smiled on Pierre ; and marvelled how 
 a banished refugee maintained such influence 
 over a whole district, every individual of which
 
 184 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 seemed to know his situation, yet admit his 
 power. 
 
 Pierre turned with a scowling, discontented 
 look, to his wife, who had never ceased to bob 
 curtesies from the moment of our meeting the 
 stranger. He addressed her in Patois, and 
 seemed to inform her of the rebuke which he 
 had received, for she flung a surly glance upon 
 the party, and turned off abruptly towards the 
 church. Pierre muttered a few sentences in a 
 confused mixture of French and Gascon, and 
 then took his leave with the following speech : 
 
 " You were always hard on me, general, 
 always. You call every thing I do excess. 
 What if I did seize the old priest, who was 
 reading his prayer-book by the wood side ; or 
 the philosopher, who was gathering shells and 
 what not for the Bordeaux museum? Had I 
 not good reason for thinking that the one was 
 taking notes of some plan for surprising the 
 fort ; and the other sounding the depth of the 
 bay with his boat-load of instruments ! What 
 am I there for but to look sharp at all comers, 
 and what is a priest or a philosopher to me,
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 185 
 
 more than any other foe to fair play and plain 
 dealing ? But don't look angry, general. You 
 know I'd die twenty times sooner than offend 
 you ! God bless you, and prosper you always, 
 and every where ! Adieu, gentlemen and ma- 
 dame !" With these words he limped away 
 after his discomfited helpmate. 
 
 The stranger, then, took me by the hand, 
 saying in a kind tone, " You have not to boast, 
 sir, of the hospitality or politeness of our coun- 
 try. Suspicion and ill treatment have pursued 
 and fallen upon you, but you will excuse rude 
 manners and troublesome times. Stephanie 
 and Eugene ! receive this gentleman with that 
 consideration which only may atone for your 
 last night's surmises." 
 
 The lady and her husband each offered me a 
 hand, which I cordially accepted; and some 
 words passed, common-place in their nature, 
 but on which circumstances stamped a more 
 than common value. During the discourse of 
 Pierre, I had closely observed the interesting 
 group, and saw enough to tell me they were in
 
 186 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 deep distress. Her eyes were red and swollen, 
 and her cheeks pale. Her husband's counte- 
 nance bore marks of great agitation. The 
 father alone seemed composed in the midst of 
 the grief which his situation had excited. After 
 the interchange of the civilities just mentioned, 
 I prepared to take my leave ; but on my doing 
 so, the stranger said — " No, no, sir, you must 
 not part from us so. I see the delicacy which 
 actuates you, but your company is a solace to 
 us at this moment; and although the intelli- 
 gence brought me by my children precludes 
 the possibility of your serving me, you may not, 
 perhaps, dislike to pass with me the last even- 
 ing I shall ever see in my native country. Yes, 
 sir ! I am now denounced to certain death, if 
 discovered in the land that owes me no trifling 
 gratitude. The last hope for justice lay in an 
 appeal, which has been rejected; and those 
 who have confirmed the sentence of my destruc- 
 tion now pant for the means of inflicting it upon 
 me ; but I shall thwart them all ! — and I may yet 
 return, when least they think of it, to act such
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 187 
 
 part as has ere now been performed, and wipe 
 my injuries out. — But no matter! Excuse 
 me. — 
 
 He here grasped the arm of his son-in-law, 
 and they walked forwards at a hurried pace, 
 deeply conversing; while I, thus left to take 
 charge of the weeping daughter, offered her 
 the support of my arm, and closely followed 
 their steps. 
 
 As soon as her sobs allowed her to speak, 
 she exclaimed, in a voice of the most touching 
 sweetness, " Ah ! sir, is it not dreadful to see 
 such a being as that — the best, the kindest, the 
 bravest of men, thus driven from the country 
 he has loved so much, and served so well ? He 
 whose whole life, as long as my memory can 
 trace it, has been devoted to public services 
 and private virtues ; and whose only reproach 
 has been, that in days of passionate enthusiasm 
 he committed one act which in him is called a 
 crime, while his judges and persecutors are the 
 very men who urged, and some of whom parti- 
 cipated in the deed. Such, sir, is the justice —
 
 188 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 such the impartiality of our rulers ! Is it not 
 dreadful?" 
 
 " It is, indeed, afflicting," replied I, " to see 
 the instances of wrong inevitable in times of 
 public commotion. But your father has the 
 hope of pardon left him, as he seems secure of 
 escaping from his immediate danger T' 
 
 " Escaping ! Alas ! alas ! and must he fly as 
 a criminal from the shores which have so often 
 hailed him with shouts of triumph — from the 
 people who have so long enrolled his name 
 with the band of heroes unrivalled in ages of 
 glory ! Yes, yes, he must fly ; and this night 
 is the last in which I shall gaze on him, perhaps, 
 for ever!" Her sobs interrupted her, and I 
 offered no reply. 
 
 We had by this time reached the church, on 
 the green lawn in front of which the stranger 
 and his son-in-law were pacing up and down, 
 with papers in their hands, which seemed 
 wholly to absorb them. Unwilling to interrupt 
 them, and hoping to gain on the confidence of 
 my lovely companion, I led her towards the
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 189 
 
 church, and we walked silently awhile under its 
 classic portico. 
 
 There was something oppressively solemn in 
 the scene, yet I felt as if I would not have 
 changed it for one of life*'s lightest. As I con- 
 templated the figures, with whose sorrows I had 
 thus become associated, and while thousands 
 of varying imaginings rushed upon me, I was 
 astonished by the distant sound of vocal music. 
 The lady and I stopped at the same moment, 
 and I asked her, " Did you hear that strain ?" 
 
 She answered me by suffocating sobs. 
 
 After a short interval, the sounds came again, 
 nearer and more plainly. At this repetition of 
 them, the stranger and his son-in-law paused 
 suddenly in their discourse, and the former 
 stepped quickly towards the clergyman's cot- 
 tage and unlocked the door, which, taking out 
 the key, he entered and locked after him. The 
 husband came up towards us, and, having 
 spoken a few words to his wife in an under 
 tone, requested me to take charge of her for 
 awhile. I willingly undertook the office, and
 
 190 THE EXILE OP THE LANDES. 
 
 he stepped across the grass-plat, and knocked 
 at the cottage door. It was opened; he en- 
 tered, and the windows being all closely shut, 
 there was no appearance of the house being so 
 tenanted. 
 
 The sounds of the chorus became now more 
 distinct, and more continuous as they ap- 
 proached. It was evidently a religious song, 
 and chanted by a choir of not unpractised 
 singers. It harmonized well with all that was 
 passing, and threw a soothing melancholy over 
 the sensations I had experienced. Not so with 
 my lovely companion. As the voices came 
 more fully towards us, her agitation increased; 
 and my surprise was soon changed to painful 
 sympathy, when she whispered me, in snatched 
 and almost inaudible sentences, that the music 
 proceeded from the rustic choristers of La 
 Teste, accompanying a procession of sailors, 
 who came, as was the custom, to offer up their 
 prayers before embarking with the night tide, 
 in the little vessel which was to bear her father 
 from his country and friends. Having thus
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 191 
 
 explained the cause of her emotion, she drew 
 her cloak around her, and leaned on my arm to 
 witness the scene. 
 
 A verger first approached, and opened the 
 door, and was followed by some children carry- 
 ing baskets of flowers, which they scattered on 
 their path. The singers, male and female, 
 habited in white surplices, next came on, and 
 then the priest advanced with measured steps. He 
 was followed by the sailors, amounting to about 
 ten or a dozen ; each one carrying a taper, and 
 most of them bearing some simple ex votOf such 
 as a bit of cable, a rude daubing of a ship, or 
 other similar offerings. A large party of pea- 
 sants and inhabitants of the town closed the 
 procession. It entered the church : we followed, 
 and, as we stood leaning against a pillar, I had 
 full leisure to admire the beautifully ornamented 
 altar, the richly carved organ and pulpit, and 
 the windows of stained glass, shining with a 
 mellow richness, as the setting sun poured its 
 full splendor through them. The religious ser- 
 vice was soon performed ; and that part of it 
 which by its simplicity pleased and interested
 
 192 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 me most was the repetition of the sailors' part- 
 ing hymn. 
 
 HYMN TO THE VIRGIN*. . 
 
 I. 
 
 O virgin queen of Heaven, 
 
 To whom we raise our prayer. 
 Thy presence cheers the exile's fears. 
 
 And calms the perils that we dare ! 
 Let but thy murmur'd blessing breathe 
 
 Across the distant tide, 
 'T will smooth those waves the hero braves, 
 
 Whose bark we go to guide. 
 
 II. 
 
 For stranger-seas we 're bound. 
 
 Which wash the savage shore. 
 Where wild winds sweep, in chorus deep. 
 
 To swell the billows' frantic roar. 
 Send, then, a seraph from on high. 
 
 To fan with radiant wing 
 Our fluttering sails, while gentle gales 
 
 Waft thee the praise we sing. 
 
 * These lines were written for music, not yet published. 
 The allusion in the last stanza is explained in the note 
 which follows this tale.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 193 
 
 III. 
 
 Our angel-guide shall beam 
 
 Like that celestial form 
 Whose wings of gold, in times of old, 
 
 Hush'd on this strand the angry storm ; 
 And to our sainted patron gave. 
 
 In token of thy love. 
 That Heaven-wrought gift man may not lift. 
 
 Nor Hell have power to move. 
 
 During this hymn, the emotion of the afflicted 
 daughter increased to a violent degree, and at 
 its conclusion she yielded to the movement with 
 which I led her out. In every eye that gazed 
 on her, as we passed down the aisle, I plainly 
 discovered compassion and sympathy, but no 
 one seemed to recognize her; and I thought 
 these feelings were awakened by simple motives 
 of charity for its own sake, without being 
 dependent on any personal excitement. But 
 when we got into the open air, which breathed 
 freshness and relief to my companion, she in- 
 formed me that every one of the congregation 
 within knew perfectly who she was ; but not 
 one would give utterance even to the blessings 
 
 VOL. II. o
 
 194 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 which they silently poured on her, fearing to 
 add to her distress by any public display. Who 
 would exchange the consolation of such elo- 
 quent silence for the heartless and indelicate 
 condolence of the world ! 
 
 We walked apart, while the assembly left 
 the church, and dispersed in irregular groups 
 through the wood. When the doors were 
 closed, and no one to be seen, the lady advanced 
 to the cottage, and tapped gently at the window. 
 The signal was answered by the appearance of 
 her father and husband, who both offered me 
 their thanks for having accompanied her during 
 the ceremony, which they had thought it im- 
 prudent to witness. " For even here, sir," said 
 the exile, '* has the spirit of corruption spread 
 itself; and my being publicly discovered might 
 bring down the strong arm of persecution on 
 the whole of this district, whose devotion to me 
 is well known. I am prudent, for their and my 
 family's sake — but on my own account indif- 
 ferent. — Now," continued he, " we must go on 
 towards the town. The little bark which my 
 friends have engaged to convey me to another
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 195 
 
 shore lies riding at the mouth of the bay, and 
 at high-water a boat is to be in readiness on the 
 beach. The sand-heaps scarcely show the red 
 tinge of the sinking sun. We have no time to 
 lose. Stephanie, my love, retain that gentle- 
 man's arm : Eugene and I have much to talk of 
 yet — and at supper we shall have leisure for 
 our leave-taking. — Come on !" 
 
 The assumed cheerfulness with which he 
 spoke did not conceal from me the melancholy 
 of the speaker, nor produce the effect he wished 
 for on his daughter. We walked onwards ac- 
 cording to the arrangement he had made, and 
 for a few minutes no words were exchanged. 
 But there is something in the French heart that 
 must have vent, whether in joy or sorrow. The 
 first is increased, and the latter seems dimi- 
 nished, by communication ; and if sympathy is 
 discovered in the listener, his being a stranger 
 is no obstacle to the confidence. — My fair com- 
 panion soon, therefore, sought the solace most 
 natural to her sex and nation, and she freely 
 told me, as we walked towards La Teste, much 
 of the secret of her father's situation. On two 
 
 o2
 
 196 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 points, however, she observed a caution, which 
 I did not feel at all inclined to remove. She 
 neither mentioned his name, nor the nature of 
 that crime which had called forth his banish- 
 ment and remorse. The first, she said, she 
 dared not reveal until he was safe from the pos- 
 sibility of detection or betrayal. The latter 
 she could not venture to tell me, lest my national 
 or private prejudices might destroy the sympa- 
 thy which had been so forcibly excited in her 
 father's favour. I participated in her precau- 
 tion on both points, and guardedly avoided any 
 expression that might lead to the knowledge of 
 one secret, which must almost necessarily have 
 carried with it that of the other. The fear of 
 learning that the stranger had been guilty of 
 some really serious crime made me shudder. 
 I was not much of a politician, and had great 
 leniency for state offences, which often sprung, 
 I knew, from private virtues. I hoped that the 
 crime of the stranger was of this nature, until I 
 recollected his self-upbraidings ; and then the 
 memory of d'Enghien, Wright, Palm, and Piche- 
 gru, flashed all together across my mind. — But I
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 197 
 
 would not dwell upon the possibility, and strug- 
 gled to get rid of my bewildering conjectures. 
 
 " Whatever may have been his error," said I, 
 in reply to an observation of the lady, " it can- 
 not, surely, have sprung from a vicious heart ; 
 for had it, I am convinced that though your na- 
 tural affection might make you overlook it, it 
 would have utterly prevented that devotedness 
 which is displayed towards your father by all 
 who know him, from your noble husband, down 
 to the meanest peasant of the land."*' 
 
 " If, sir," said she, " the act for which he 
 now suffers was a crime, its effects upon him 
 almost raise it to the dignity of virtue itself; 
 for such has been his remorse, even through 
 years of splendid prosperity, the consequence 
 of that act, that his whole life has been spent 
 in deeds of benevolence and goodness, from a 
 principle of retribution to mankind." 
 
 I did not then stop to examine deeply the 
 pardonable sophistry of this observation, nor 
 shall I now. It will be more interesting to my 
 readers to learn an instance of that philanthropy 
 by which the affectionate daughter thought her
 
 198 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 reasoning justified. For the sake of concise- 
 ness, I shall relate the circumstance in my own 
 way, but I deprive it of much of its effect by 
 not giving it in her colloquial phrase.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 199 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 This best loved daughter of the then exile, 
 but once count, general, and man of influence 
 and wealth, was sought for in marriage by some 
 of the first characters of the day — anxious for 
 an alliance with such a man as her father, and 
 for the possession of such loveliness as distin- 
 guished her. Amongst her suitors was one of 
 those marshals of France, who, with a title of 
 almost the highest rank, possessed a celebrity 
 which none of his illustrious brother-soldiers 
 eclipsed. He was incalculably rich ; and his 
 alliance might, at that period, be considered as 
 one of the most splendid which the country 
 afforded. The father, mother, and family of 
 the beautiful Stephanie were delighted with the 
 offer, for they knew nothing of her secret at- 
 tachment to a younger lover. Eugene de S 
 
 the marshal's aid-de-camp, was twenty years of 
 age. The marshal had numbered more than 
 fifty summers, and his blanched locks did not
 
 Ji^ 
 
 ^00 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 form a stronger contrast to the dark chestnut of 
 Eugene's flowing hair, than did his stiff and 
 uninviting manners to all that was beautiful and 
 manly in Eugene's person and demeanor. The 
 marshal and his aid-de-camp had been presented 
 to Stephanie on the same day. The public 
 courtship, and the secret attachment, proceeded 
 at the same time, and nearly at the same pace : 
 two or three interviews had decided both, and 
 the rapidity of each was astonishing. The 
 marshal and his aid-de-camp were equally the 
 sport of their feelings. The one was sure of 
 marrying Stephanie, and was raised to the 
 highest pinnacle of an old man''s rapture. The 
 other was sure of losing her, and sunk in the 
 depths of youthful despair. 
 
 The whole business was so sudden, that 
 Stephanie was half bewildered. Her consent 
 to the alliance had been scarcely demanded : it 
 was proposed, and she made no objection. The 
 surrender of her affections had never been 
 asked ; yet they were irrevocably disposed of. 
 The conduct of the rivals, too, was not a little 
 embarrassing. The marshal had never talked
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. ^01 
 
 of love, but a great deal of the importance of 
 his functions, and the dignity of his station. 
 Eugene had never declared his sentiments, but 
 Stephanie suspected them from his looks, and 
 other tokens which lovers only can understand. 
 But he had not dared to speak out ; and the 
 preparations for the union were all arranged, 
 and the day fixed, without his venturing to tell 
 Stephanie, in plain terms, that he loved her. 
 She knew very well that he did love her not- 
 withstanding, and he saw that his passion was 
 returned with an ardour that fully equalled his 
 own. But it seemed utter insanity to indulge 
 the slightest hope ; and the young couple mu- 
 tually and tacitly submitted to the certainty of 
 their despair. 
 
 Eugene was the marshal's favourite officer, 
 and it was on him that the negotiations devolved 
 which led to the matrimonial preparatives. 
 Public business occupied the marshal inces- 
 santly up to the very day of his projected 
 wedding; while his youthful deputy was con- 
 stantly despatched with messages and letters. 
 He had strict orders to bring matters to as
 
 ^02 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 speedy a conclusion as possible; for, as the 
 marshal used to say, " The affairs of a great 
 nation ought not to wait on the trifling of in- 
 dividuals." 
 
 On the morning fixed on for the wedding, 
 Eugene was sent with a verbal message from 
 the marshal, to be delivered to Stephanie her- 
 self. " You will tell her," said the marshal, 
 " that I am in utter despair at being obliged to 
 disappoint her anxiety, and strike such a blow 
 to her affection" — (Eugene's heart was bound- 
 ing, and almost bursting through his breast) — 
 " but that matters of state have unexpectedly 
 occurred, which make it totally impossible for 
 me to fulfil my engagement to go to church 
 this morning" — (Eugene nearly fainted from 
 emotion) — " until half an hour after the ap- 
 pointed time." Eugene made an obeisance, 
 staggered out of the house, and, more dead 
 than alive, hastened to mount his horse, and 
 rode up to Stephanie's dwelling. 
 
 When he arrived, the bustle and magnificence 
 of preparation nearly drove him mad. A Pa- 
 risian marriage is a grand and boisterous affair.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 203 
 
 and this was intended to be one of the most 
 distinguished every way. Eugene asked for 
 the count. He was dressing. " The countess ?" 
 " Dressing." " Mademoiselle V " She was al- 
 ready dressed, and anxiously waiting the mar- 
 shal in the drawing-room." 
 
 " Anxiously ! I must see her, then, imme- 
 diately," cried Eugene, in a fierce tone, of which 
 the servants did not comprehend the meaning, 
 and of which Eugene was himself unconscious. 
 He was ushered in, and there sat Stephanie 
 alone, decked out in roses which had no fellow- 
 tinge upon her cheek, and in finery which ill- 
 assorted with her heart''s misery. Eugene 
 stammered forth his message in a voice so 
 choked and faltering, that Stephanie, unable to 
 restrain herself, burst into tears. To what 
 frenzy does not excessive love at times drive on 
 his victims ! Eugene, for a moment, believed 
 Stephanie's tears to flow from offended vanity 
 and pride, and little suspected that she did not 
 comprehend one word of the marshal's message, 
 while shocked at the appearance and manner 
 of its bearer. The hapless messenger stood
 
 204 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 awhile dumb and stupefied; but she wept so 
 bitterly, that he could not resist her distress, 
 and advancing some paces towards her, asked 
 if he should summon the servants. 
 
 " And would you, for the poor triumph of 
 displaying your power over me, expose my 
 despair ?" 
 
 " Despair ! Power over you ! What do I 
 hear ? Oh ! speak out, speak out, my Stepha- 
 nie! — Tell me, do I deceive myself, or are 
 these your real sentiments ?" 
 
 " Spare me — spare me their confession,'"* cried 
 she ; " surely you are conscious of my misery !'' 
 
 " You love me, then !" exclaimed he, throwing 
 himself on his knees before her — "now, then, 
 let me die ; I have lived long enough !" 
 
 He here took her hand, on which he im- 
 printed a thousand burning kisses — and a scene 
 ensued which not even the actors could describe. 
 They had recovered their calmness in some 
 degree; and were exchanging consolations on 
 their mutual despair, when an outrider of the 
 marshal galloped into the court-yard ; and in a 
 moment more a servant entered the room, to
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. S05 
 
 inform Stephanie that the impatient veteran 
 had abandoned all matters of state and busi- 
 ness, and was driving up to the house in the 
 utmost haste. At the abrupt delivery of this 
 message, Eugene started up, hurried to the 
 window, and seeing the superb open carriage 
 containing the marshal, and followed by his 
 splendid suite, he attempted, without knowing 
 what he did, to fly from the scene ; but tottered 
 when he reached the middle of the chamber, 
 and fell, without sense or motion, on the floor. 
 The wretched and fainting Stephanie, roused 
 to sensation, and half frantic, flew towards the 
 sufterer, and threw herself on her knees beside 
 him. She would have cried for help, but she 
 was almost suffocating, and could not utter a 
 sound. In this crisis the door was flung open, 
 and, with all the pomp and solemnity suitable 
 to his state — in came the marshal, ushered by 
 the happy father, leading the mother in his 
 hand, and followed by a crowd of common 
 friends. Imagination may picture the surprise, 
 the disappointment, and the compassion which 
 actuated more or less the several witnesses.
 
 SOG THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 " You love him, then ?" said the father, after 
 some broken explanations on the part of Ste- 
 phanie. " Indeed, indeed, I dol" replied she. 
 
 " And you, Captain de S , you love my 
 
 daughter V* 
 
 " To distraction, count I" cried Eugene, who 
 had recovered his senses, and burned with hope 
 at the turn which affairs were taking. 
 
 " Then, by heavens you shall be her husband 
 — and no one but you I What say you, mar- 
 shal ?" 
 
 " Why, my dear count, I am a man of few 
 words, and it strikes me that little can be said 
 on an affair like the present. — Besides, public 
 business of great importance waits for me — and 
 my functions are manifold. I can only, there- 
 fore, assure you, that the happiness of your 
 daughter being the first object of my desires — 
 next to the duties which my public functions 
 impose — I am enchanted to have discovered 
 the method of promoting it. I shall, therefore, 
 beg to retire, offering to Mademoiselle Ste- 
 phanie the assurance of my profound homage, 
 the use of my equipage which waits below, and %
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 207 
 
 my advice that she and my friend Eugene set 
 off to the church without delay, nor disappoint 
 the priest and the amiable society which sur- 
 round me.*" 
 
 The marriage of the lovers was in conse- 
 quence celebrated, but not quite so quickly as 
 the marshal had recommended ; and the count 
 had soon good reason to rejoice in his noble 
 conduct, for the changes of affairs hurled the 
 marshal from all his grandeur, and he soon after 
 died : while Eugene''s father having gone over^ 
 and remained firm in his allegiance to the new 
 sovereign, the son was enabled to afford very 
 considerable protection to his wife's family and 
 dependents, although without power to screen 
 her father altogether, as has been already seen. 
 
 In addition to this trait of disinterestedness 
 in the character of her father, Madame de 
 
 S made me acquainted with several others 
 
 of equal liberality ; and she accounted for his 
 present influence and security among the people 
 of the Landes, by informing me that he had 
 been intimately connected with the district, by
 
 SOS THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 public employments and constant efforts for its 
 improvement, for the last twenty years. 
 
 The short twilight of this climate was now 
 passing rapidly over, and when we reached La 
 Teste, it had become nearly dark. As we ap- 
 proached " The French Crown," the exile and 
 Eugene stopped till w^e joined them, and we 
 then walked all together towards the inn. " Here 
 are, no doubt, your quarters, sir ?" asked the 
 exile. " Yes," replied I. " And here, too, are 
 we going to take our last repast together, my 
 daughter," added he, taking one of her hands 
 in both of his. 
 
 " Oh say not so, my dear father !" she replied. 
 " There may be yet bright days in store for 
 us : once escaped to a land of liberty, you may 
 securely look forward to some change — and 
 none can be for the worse. Cheer up, my fa- 
 ther. I cannot express to you how my heart 
 feels lightened from having communicated to 
 this amiable stranger so many acts of your vir- 
 tue. Heaven will not, surely, cast off so good 
 a man.""
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 209 
 
 " Ah !" said he, mournfully, " If Heaven did 
 always favour the good in this life, how few 
 would take the trouble to be vicious ! But we 
 must hope for that justice hereafter, which we 
 find not here. — But how durst I speak thus ? 
 Am I not justly punished? Heaven knows my 
 guilt, and will not be appeased. — Then let me 
 suffer !" 
 
 With these words, rapidly uttered, he rushed 
 into the inn, and mounted the stairs. Eugene 
 and Stephanie followed ; and they all three en- 
 tered a chamber where I observed a table laid 
 with preparations for supper. I was glad to 
 leave them awhile to themselves — so I retired 
 to my own room, where I had the luxury of 
 getting rid of my clothes, still soaked from the 
 adventure on the beach. The operation of 
 changing being completed, I descended, and. 
 resolved not to intrude upon the privacy of the 
 party above — I was making my way to the 
 kitchen, the usual resort for amusement and 
 information in houses of this kind. As I ap- 
 proached the door, I heard first loud speaking, 
 
 and then a burst of merriment from several 
 VOL. ir. p
 
 210 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 mingled voices, but one of which appeared 
 familiar to my ears. This was succeeded by a 
 hushed attention, while some one spoke to the 
 following effect — in sounds which I thought I 
 recognized. 
 
 " Yes, my lads ! as I was saying, * * * * ! 
 many a gentleman follows by choice what an 
 artist pursues professionally. If I choose, for 
 example, to cook a supper for a friend, I 
 honour my office, * * * * i instead of it de- 
 grading me. — Hand me that frying-pan, Marie ! 
 Jump ! * * * * I if you had but half the ac- 
 tivity of your cousin Cazille, there might be 
 some hope of you ; but you '11 never be more 
 than a slovenly kitchen- wench, never !'* 
 
 Astonishment and alarm for my friends above 
 held me breathless, as he went on . 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen, you may despise the arts 
 of the kitchen ; but you forget, * * * * » that 
 Gallienus, though an emperor, was chiefly 
 famed for his culinary knowledge — that Cad- 
 mus the great, great grandfather of Bacchus, 
 and founder of Thebes, was cook to the king 
 of Sidon ! do you know*' —
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. Qll 
 
 Although sure of my man, I wanted still a 
 visual proof of his identity, and I gently pushed 
 the door, which was already partly open. Be- 
 fore me was the kitchen fire, on one side of 
 which were four sailors drinking, and at the 
 other stood Monsieur the Inspector of the 
 Forests, with his back towards me, his head 
 covered with a white cotton cap, his coat off, 
 his shirt sleeves tucked up, a long apron tied 
 round his waist, a knife in one hand, a frying- 
 pan in the other — and altogether, in short, a 
 figure fit for the frontispiece of a cookery book. 
 The flow of his eloquence was for a moment 
 interrupted by his occupation ; and as I had 
 seen and heard enough to satisfy me every 
 way, I made a precipitate retreat up stairs, and, 
 without any ceremony, entered the room where 
 the party was seated. 
 
 ** Pardon me, sir," said I, addressing the 
 principal personage ; "I do not wish need- 
 lessly to alarm you, but I fear there is danger 
 of your being discovered !" 
 
 " How !" exclaimed the two gentlemen, start- 
 
 p2
 
 
 212 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 ing from their chairs, "Have you seen any 
 one r 
 
 " Yes," said I, " that very questionable per- 
 son the inspector of the forests is at this mo- 
 ment in the house." 
 
 " Indeed '. In the kitchen, I hope," said the 
 father. 
 
 " Is that all V cried Eugene. 
 
 " Oh ! poor La Broche !" exclaimed Ste*- 
 phanie ; and a smile which would, in happier 
 circumstances, have expanded to a hearty laugh, 
 was exhibited on each of their countenances. 
 
 " To remove your astonishment, my good 
 sir," said the stranger, " know that that poor 
 fellow was my cook for many years, until, 
 through the interest of my son-in-law here, 
 when I was ruined, he got the appointment 
 which now brings him to this place — that he 
 has been the chief instrument in procuring 
 means for my escape — and is at this moment 
 dressing my supper, as a last mark of his 
 respect." 
 
 Your cook I Is it possible !" exclaimed I — 
 
 u
 
 THE EXILE OF THE L ANDES. 2\S 
 
 '* but He has been a soldier — a serjeant of dra- 
 goons V' 
 
 " Yes, yes, he had the rank to entitle him to 
 forage and allowances.'' 
 
 " Known to, and distinguished by all the 
 marshals, and most of the generals, for his 
 courage ?" 
 
 " For his cowardice, his conceit, and his 
 cookery." 
 
 " He has made the campaigns of Italy, Ger- 
 many, and Russia?*" 
 
 " True ; in my kitchen." 
 " Then his wounds r 
 " His wounds !" 
 " Yes ! the loss of his finger ?" 
 
 " Oh 1 in chopping off the tail of a leg of 
 mutton." 
 
 " The scar on his forehead?" 
 
 '' Received in falling over an iron pot one 
 evening, when drunk." 
 
 " The cut across his cheek V 
 
 " Given him by a scullion with a carving 
 knife, in return for a volley of curses, and the 
 stroke of a soup-ladle on the shoulders."
 
 
 214 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 " But his fluent discourse — his knowledge of 
 ancient names — his acquaintance with Cadmus, 
 Bacchus, Gallienus, Lycurgus, Apicius V 
 
 " Picked up here and there from books 
 which touch upon cookery, and strung together 
 for his use, most probably by some poor peda- 
 gogue.'' 
 
 Is it possible ?" 
 Are you satisfied V* 
 « Perfectly !" 
 
 " Then sit down to supper, for here it comes." 
 
 And true enough the supper was coming, 
 for the savoury fumes of soup appeared at the 
 door ; and in the midst of them was enveloped 
 the fiery face of the inspector, who bore him- 
 self the smoking tureen. He advanced with 
 proud strides towards the table, and was just 
 in the act of placing the tureen in the centre, 
 when, by ill luck, his eyes encountered mine, 
 fixed full upon him with a stare of many com- 
 binations. The shock was like that of an elec- 
 tric battery, and made him bound and spring 
 sideways, plump against Ranger, who lay 
 stretched under a corner of the table-cloth,
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 215 
 
 when he stumbled and fell upon the fragile 
 table, which broke down with a crash, mingling 
 in one common ruin soup, dishes, plates, glasses, 
 and all the paraphernalia of the forthcoming 
 repast. 
 
 Curses from the inspector — roars of laughter 
 from Eugene and myself — screams of inquiry 
 from the landlady, and of explanation from the 
 maid — with piercing yells from poor Ranger, 
 who was more frightened than hurt, formed 
 the accompaniments to this exhibition of mis- 
 hap. Even the exile and Stephanie found it 
 impossible to resist a momentary feeling of 
 mirth — but he soon relapsed into serious looks, 
 and Eugene and I caught the contagion ; the 
 landlady and the maid hushed their screams, 
 and put on grave faces, from veneration to the 
 count ; Stephanie was silent and sad ; so when 
 the mortified inspector scrambled out of the 
 ruins and stood before us, wiping the soup 
 from his face with his drenched and scalding 
 night-cap, he met nothing but a group of blank 
 and dismal countenances, on which to repose 
 his agitation.
 
 S16 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 (( 
 
 * * * * !" said he, looking wofully at me, 
 *' what devil has brought you here to catch me 
 in this pickle, and destroy the best consommee 
 ever tasted veithin the walls of The French 
 Crown r 
 
 He was quite crest-fallen, and had totally lost 
 his bullying tone. I pitied the poor fellow, for 
 I remembered his hospitality ; and I liked the 
 humility which made him, for gratitude, de- 
 scend from his new-born honours to his former 
 station. I therefore stretched out my hand to 
 him, saying, " Never mind, never mind. Mon- 
 sieur the Inspector: we can all sup without 
 soup, I am certain." 
 
 " Oh yes ! that we can," was echoed round ; 
 and he looked somewhat consoled. 
 
 " But * * * * ! to be caught in a cook's cap 
 and apron !" 
 
 " What of that !" said I. " A gentleman 
 often follows by choice what an artist pursues 
 professionally — and if you choose to cook a 
 supper for a friend, you honour the office, in- 
 stead of its degrading you.*" 
 
 " A generous sentiment,* * * * ! and expressed
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 217 
 
 in my own words ! Yes," added he, winking 
 significantly yet respectfully towards the others, 
 ^' yes, these gentlemen and this lady know that 
 I have dabbled in the kitchen as an amateur, 
 and like now and then to relax from my labours 
 — fanning myself with a gridiron, or shaking 
 hands with a stewpan*.''' This sally was fol- 
 lowed by the self-approving laugh (which yet 
 tingles in my reader's ears, I hope), for it ap- 
 peared that the inspector could not restrain his 
 jocularity, even in the presence of his patrons. 
 
 " Well, well. La Broche," said the exile, 
 " forget the soup, and think now of what fol- 
 lows it. Go, change your uncomfortable trap- 
 pings, and join us at the supper which we owe 
 to your skill. Make haste ; for you know time 
 does not wait for me, nor tide neither." 
 
 The inspector bowed low, and retreated to 
 
 arrange his toilette. The exile heaved a deep 
 
 / 
 
 * This last remark appears to have been borrowed, 
 
 heaven knows how, from that savoury work " The Cook's 
 Oracle;" — a book which every man must relish, who 
 likes sound sense garnished with genuine humour, pages 
 of " sauce piquante," and precepts at once philosophic 
 and palatable.
 
 218 THE EXILE pF THE LANDES. 
 
 sigh, the first which had escaped him in my 
 presence. His children echoed it more heavily ; 
 and their sadness infected me. The new mo- 
 delling the architecture of the tables diverted 
 my attention for awhile ; and supper was soon 
 followed by the appearance of the re-organized 
 inspector, who took a chair at one end of the 
 table, with an ease, as if he was quite in his 
 proper place ; and he was treated by his former 
 master with a cordiality which would look odd 
 to persons not accustomed to the continent, 
 but which, somehow, does not there seem at all 
 undignified or degrading. 
 
 The repast went silently on, four-fifths of the 
 party lost in thought — the remaining one more 
 substantially employed. When the inspector 
 appeared to be about half-done eating, and the 
 rest of us were entirely satisfied, the door was 
 opened by the landlady, who advanced, with a 
 corner of her apron to her eyes, and sobbed out 
 to the exile that a poor fellow below-stairs en- 
 treated permission to come up, and express his 
 gratitude and duty. 
 
 " No, my good woman, not now," said the
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 219 
 
 exile : " do spare me any unnecessary scenes 
 of sorrow." 
 
 " Ah ! sir, it is not sorrow that makes me 
 weep just now. There will be time enough for 
 that in half an hour hence — when you are going 
 to leave us for ever, and perhaps to be swal- 
 lowed up in the wide ocean, or dashed to pieces 
 against the rocks. You will see that I can be 
 as sorrowful then as any one in La Teste ; but 
 at present I am crying for happiness, because 
 poor GeofFroi, the carrier, is laughing and 
 crying, and singing and dancing altogether in 
 the kitchen, half wild with joy."" 
 
 This combination of methodical sentiment, 
 horrible anticipations, and ill-timed happiness, 
 was sufficiently ludicrous to light up the features 
 of the exile with another gleam — but it was like 
 the latent glimmer of an expiring lamp, for he 
 smiled no more that night. 
 
 " Then let poor GeofFroi come up. It will 
 be a comfort to me to see one heart happy in 
 this heavy hour, and honest enoughv to put on 
 no mask of sorrow. Send him up !" 
 
 The landlady tripped across the room, and
 
 S20 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 called shrilly at the door for Geoffroi, who an- 
 swered in person, by popping in his head, as 
 soon almost as she had pronounced his name. 
 
 " Here I am, sir," said he ; "I knew you 
 would let me in, so I followed Madame Benbist 
 up stairs, and waited outside. Oh ! my noble 
 count — for I would give you your title though 
 your neck was under the guillotine — how am I 
 to thank your bounty ? My heart was break- 
 ing for your sake, and you have mended it all 
 for my own — and a little for Cazille"*s, to be 
 sure. Oh ! sir, your generosity has been near 
 killing me — but I am easier now that I can 
 thank you."" 
 
 " Your discourse is quite a mystery to me, 
 my good fellow — you owe me no thanks. — I 
 have shown you no bounty. — What do you 
 mean V 
 
 " Ah ! I knew how it would be, count ; and 
 I told my mother, and Madame Benoist below- 
 stairs, and Marie, and the sailors all, that you 
 would deny the fact as flat as a criminal at the 
 place of execution.'" 
 
 These home strokes, sent out by Geoffroi in
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 221 
 
 the way of illustration, did not at all ruffle the 
 exile ; but they were torturing to Stephanie 
 and Eugene, and dyed my face a deep scarlet ; 
 while the inspector took them so much to heartj 
 that he started up, and, with genuine delicacy, 
 called out fiercely to GeofFroi, 
 
 " What do you mean, * * * * ! you sneaking 
 dog, to talk of executions and guillotines to the 
 count there, who is condemned to and flying 
 from both the one and the other ? Have yoii 
 no sense of decorum in your stupid head? 
 Monsieur, you must excuse the fellow's blunts 
 ness for his honesty's sake. He's an honest 
 feflow, * * * * ! after afl." 
 
 " Thank you. Monsieur the inspector," re- 
 plied Geoffroi ; " it is well for every man who 
 has so good an excuse for his roughness. And 
 thank t/ou once more, noble sir, in my own 
 name and that of my dear Cazille. These 
 hundred francs (chinking five gold Napoleons 
 in his hand), these hundred francs will make 
 us the happiest couple in the Landes ; and we 
 will bless you for them every day, night and 
 morning — after to-morrow, when, God willing,
 
 222 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 we shall be married, and not much at leisure 
 for any thing else." 
 
 He here blubbered like a child, and laughed 
 most irresistibly; and was meanwhile bowing 
 his way backwards towards the door, when the 
 exile addressed him, in that benevolent and 
 soothing tone which so fixed my attention on 
 our first meeting. " My good GeofFroi, I must 
 not suffer you to load me with unmerited praise. 
 This money did not come from me. My daughter 
 here, or her husband, perhaps, has taken this 
 method of rewarding poor Cazille's attentions 
 and fidelity. For myself, I must candidly con- 
 fess that I forgot both you and her." 
 
 " Why yes,'" said Stephanie, " I did, indeed, 
 give this sum to Cazille on leaving the inii this 
 morning; but I scarcely know how GeofFroi 
 could have received it without knowing who it 
 came from."" 
 
 *' You gave a hundred francs to Cazille, ma- 
 dame V exclaimed GeofFroi, hysterically ; " then 
 we are rich indeed, for this money came from 
 some other source. I got it half an hour ago 
 from the post-office, enclosed in this paper."
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 He here produced a letter addressed to 
 " Monsieur GeofFroi, the Carrier, 
 
 Living with his mother, 
 
 La Teste." 
 
 Within was written, " From a friend ;" and 
 in it had been enclosed the ^\e gold pieces. 
 
 " Then,'"* exclaimed the exile, " this secret 
 doer of good must have been no other than La 
 Broche himself! Come, come, La Broche, do 
 not be ashamed of a generous deed. Look up, 
 man, and receive the honest fellow's thanks." 
 
 The inspector waved his hand, in rejection of 
 praise or acknowledgment — rubbed his whiskers 
 — pulled up his shirt collar — muttered a few 
 nothings — and, in short, displayed all the pitiful 
 and paltry flirtations of those who accept of 
 thanks for services never performed. 
 
 " What a scoundrel !" thought I to myself, 
 as I turned in disgust towards the window, and 
 while poor GeofFroi loaded his supposed bene- 
 factor with blessings, and offers of himself, his 
 cart and oxen, for ever and ever, to carry 
 Monsieur the inspector from La Teste to Bor- 
 deaux and back again, with all his stores of
 
 ^^4 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 eatables — barring fish, which he never admitted 
 among other goods ! 
 
 The whole party joined in honouring the in- 
 spector's liberal donation ; and I warrant that 
 GeofFroi is to this day ignorant to whom he 
 owes his wedding gift. 
 
 The hour of departure now fast arriving, La 
 Broche was despatched to make the final ar- 
 rangements with the sailors who waited below. 
 The exile seemed to summon up every energy 
 of his soul to meet the separation from all that 
 was dear to him. His daughter was quite over- 
 powered as the moment arrived ; and her tem- 
 porary calm was succeeded by a whirlwind of 
 anguish and despair. She threw herself on 
 her father's neck, as though she would have 
 clung there for ever ; and the scene becoming 
 insupportably painful, I retired from the cham- 
 ber, quitted the house, and walked out upon 
 the beach. 
 
 The night was quite dark, for the moon had 
 not yet risen. There was not a breath of wind. 
 Nothing was to be seen near me but the little 
 boat, just beginning to float on the tide which
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 225 
 
 was now full in, and three or four fishing vessels 
 with the dusky huts of their owners close by, 
 made visible by their scanty lights. The waves 
 rippled onwards with a mournful murmur, and 
 I thought every thing was suited to the melan- 
 choly of the moment. In less than ten mi- 
 nutes I distinguished the party leaving the inn, 
 lighted by the landlady, the inspector, and 
 GeofFroi. The exile seemed in the act of con- 
 soling his daughter, while Eugene stepped on 
 before to place some trifles in the boat. No 
 sooner did they reach the beach, than a number 
 of the poor inhabitants came round them, weep- 
 ing real tears of honest attachment, and sending 
 up prayers which came from the bottom of their 
 hearts. The exile walked through these groups 
 with an air at once noble and gracious; and 
 approaching me, he took me by the hand. 
 
 " Well, sir," said I, returning his cordial 
 pressure, " this farewell is surely consolatory." 
 
 " It is," replied he, " I acknowledge it. I 
 was always an ambitious man, and loved to be- 
 lieve myself the people's idol. This is the first 
 
 VOL. II. a
 
 226 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 moment in which I could be certain of their at- 
 tachment, and it is delightful f 
 
 As the resin torches threw their red glare on 
 his face, I saw that his eyes were swimming in 
 tears. 
 
 " No," said he, " they will not out. I would 
 weep, but that is a luxury long, long denied 
 me. You see me moved — I am not ashamed 
 of it. Shouts of victory — ^my personal suffer-. 
 ings — my children's anguish — the memory of 
 my mourning and desolate wife — nothing could 
 have brought the moisture to my eyes but this 
 unquestionable proof of public regard. This 
 is my proudest triumph. I will and must 
 cherish it." 
 
 He then turned to the people, and addressed 
 them for a few minutes in a strain of exalted 
 eloquence and feeling. His discourse having 
 been chiefly political, it is not necessary to 
 attempt a skeleton record of it here. Every 
 sentiment was noble, and every sentence well- 
 expressed. He spoke to them of their duties 
 as citizens and subjects ; gave them honest and
 
 THE EXILE OP THE LANDES. 2^7 
 
 sound advice; and compressed into this brief 
 and unpremeditated harangue matter which a 
 less skilful orator might have swelled to ten 
 times its extent. The effect of this address 
 was prodigious on both the speaker and his 
 audience. Every one of his listeners seemed 
 elevated beyond the common height of feeling 
 and character; and these simple fishermen 
 showed like a band of bold and well-informed 
 beings, while the very women participated in 
 their looks of energy and intelligence. 
 
 When he ceased, a murmur of applause ran 
 round the circle which encompassed him ; and 
 one voice, more daring than the rest, ventured, 
 or perhaps could not repress, a shout. The 
 impulse thus given, a cheering and simulta- 
 neous burst escaped from the crowd, and re- 
 sounded in a dozen distinct repetitions along 
 the beach. 
 
 " Now, my friend," said he, addressing me 
 with a mien of glowing energy, " now then, 
 farewell ! Your generous sympathy has sunk 
 deep in my heart ; and we may meet, perhaps, 
 again — when I shall be able to express my gra- 
 
 q2
 
 2^8 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 titude in the way I like the best, I am no 
 longer sunk in gloom. Hope sheds her lights 
 upon my soul; and this night, so lately the 
 most miserable, is transformed by her magic 
 touch to the happiest of many a year. — In thus 
 parting from you, I have but one request to 
 make. My name is unknown to you. Do not 
 seek to find it out ; for I would not have it 
 reach your knowledge, unaccompanied by the 
 explanation of that crime which has most di- 
 stinguished it, and which none but I could give 
 you. Should you, however, discover it by 
 chance, and with it learn the secret of my 
 shame and my remorse, shrink not from my 
 recollection as from something monstrous ; but 
 remember I am mortal, punished, and peni- 
 tent!" 
 
 I made no answer but by a pressure of the 
 hand— for it was one of those moments in which 
 I dared not trust to words. — He acknowledged 
 my reply in the same way, with equal warmth ; 
 and then turned towards his daughter. Her 
 aspect was quite changed. She was no longer 
 depressed or in tears. The eloquence and
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 229 
 
 heroic bearing of her father, and the enthu- 
 siasm it produced in the people, had worked 
 on her as on the rest. She embraced him 
 with fondness, but at the same time with 
 animation. While they were locked in each 
 other's arms, a flash appeared far out in the 
 bay, and then the report of cannon rolled along 
 the waters. 
 
 " Hark ! The signal for saihng !" exclaimed 
 the exile. 
 
 " Away, then, my father, away!" said Ste- 
 phanie. 
 
 " Adieu, noblest, best of men !" cried Eu- 
 gene. 
 
 " Bless you ! bless you !" burst from every 
 other tongue. The exile stepped into the boat 
 and seized the hehn, as I gazed on his face for 
 the last time. The sailors took their oars — 
 another, and another gun sent out its signal- 
 flash and its swelling peal. — Answering shouts 
 from the shore returned the salute — the splash- 
 ing of the oars on the water soon died away — 
 and the sparkling lustre which they struck from
 
 S30 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 the waves was in a little more lost in the dark- 
 ness. 
 
 I stood for a while riveted to the spot, as the 
 actors of this scene gradually retired. I soon 
 found that I was alone, and I turned my steps 
 towards the inn. In the yard stood Eugene 
 and Stephanie. They were just preparing to 
 mount their horses, being determined to gain 
 the forest inn that night, so as to reach Bor- 
 deaux the next morning. They only waited 
 for the inspector, who was to accompany them 
 to the borders of the Landes, where they were 
 to separate, for fear of attracting observation ; 
 and, finally, GeofFroi was setting out on foot, to 
 throw himself into Cazille's arms, and entreat 
 her to accompany him to the altar on the mor- 
 row. 
 
 I took a cordial farewell of the affectionate 
 daughter and her well-matched mate. He 
 parted from me like a friend. Her voice did 
 not falter when she bade me adieu ! but I saw 
 her face in the faint light of the hostler's candle. 
 It was deadly pale, and I thought the excite-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 231 
 
 ment which hitherto supported her had nearly 
 died away. But on observing her more closely, 
 I remarked a brilHancy in her eyes, which 
 seemed the offspring of some high resolve, and 
 shone on her pallid cheeks— like the sun on a 
 bed of snow — with painful and almost unnatural 
 lustre. 
 
 They rode off; and, as I entered the house, 
 the inspector caught my attention, making his 
 way out of the kitchen — his mouth crammed — 
 his jaws at work — a huge unpicked bone in one 
 hand, and a bottle in the other — the first of 
 which he was striving to stuff into his mouth, 
 and the latter into his pocket — while a confused 
 jumble of suffocating sounds was vainly strug- 
 gling for utterance from his overloaded maw. 
 Geoffroi was ushering him out and carrying his 
 sabre, pistols, whip, and great-coat, with the 
 willing obsequiousness of gratitude. I thought 
 them a fine contrast, as I walked up the stairs, 
 and gave to one a smile of good-will, and the 
 other a sneer of contempt, while I compared 
 their characters, and shut my door behind 
 me.
 
 232 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 I set out the next morning, in a different di- 
 rection from that by which I had approached 
 La Teste ; and that part of the country having 
 no farther interest for me, I left it to be exa- 
 mined more minutely by those to whom it 
 might offer new attractions.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Distant countries and different pursuits 
 soon called off my attention from dwelling on 
 these scenes ; and in some time from my leaving 
 La Teste, my mind only retained the recollec- 
 tion, but had lost the fresh imprint of my ad- 
 venture. It so happened, that immediately 
 after having bade adieu to the Landes, I quitted 
 the country altogether, and seas and mountains 
 intervened to cut off the sources of information 
 respecting it. I heard of proscription lists and 
 pardons, and deaths, and other casualties among 
 the condemned or exiled persons obnoxious to 
 punishment, or considered worthy of mercy; 
 and many names reached me publicly, but not 
 one which gave me any clew^ to the knowledge 
 of the Exile's fate. I felt also his last request 
 as a serious obligation, and I therefore sought 
 no direct means of obtaining any intimation of 
 his name. 
 
 Circumstances threw me once more into 
 France in eighteen months after my parting
 
 234 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 with him ; and in the midst of that season, when 
 frost and snow with us wrap comfort in its 
 winding-sheet, and famine stares the wretched 
 in the face, I found myself walking in a richly 
 swelling country — where the olive, the pome- 
 granate, and the fig-tree were still in bloom ; 
 where the hum of bees, and the sighing breath 
 of the south, formed the music of the air ; while 
 orange-groves and myrtles poured a fragrance 
 upon months, which were elsewhere wintery. 
 
 I had entered France at a quarter far distant 
 from that which had been the scene of this 
 story, and was, as usual, musing my way through 
 the by-roads of a beautiful landscape, when I 
 came, at the approach of evening, to a village 
 that seemed decorated with all the preparations 
 for a fete. The houses were decked out with 
 the whole finery of their interior ornaments; 
 curtains and counterpanes were hung upon the 
 walls; the treasures of the gardens were dis- 
 played in the windows ; festoons dangled across 
 the little street ; preparations for bonfires were 
 ready on the road; and every one was dressed 
 in the high-holiday costume of the country.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 2S5 
 
 On a rising ground, close to the village, the 
 upper part of a handsome mansion was dis- 
 coverable through tasteful plantations and vine- 
 yards. It had every appearance of wealth and 
 respectability ; and, as the gate which opened 
 on its fine avenue of palm-trees seemed to in- 
 vite the crowds of peasantry, collecting from 
 every point, I deposited the appendages of my 
 journey in the village inn, and, with my stick in 
 my hand, joined one of the groups which were 
 ascending towards the house. 
 
 Whenever I want information on occasions 
 of this nature, I invariably address myself to 
 some old peasant, from whose frankness I am 
 sure of sincerity, while the garrulity of age 
 makes such a chronicler invaluable. 
 
 " A joyous scene this, my friend,*" said I, sa- 
 luting a little, active old man, in whose sharp 
 chesnut-coloured visage, and fiery black eyes, 
 shone the intelligence which marks the charac- 
 ter of his country. 
 
 " You may well say that, sir. When an 
 honest man returns to his home, after nearly 
 two years banishment, the scene which wel-
 
 2S6 THE EXILE OF TI^ LANDES. 
 
 'V. 
 
 comes his coming should be joyous ; and when 
 the returning exile happens to he of conse- 
 quence, by rank and wealth, as well as by 
 virtue, it is a proud day for the country." 
 
 By one of those irresistible strokes of convic- 
 tion, which sometimes determine us, on lighter 
 proof than this, I was on the instant satisfied 
 in my own mind that fate had thrown me here 
 to witness the triumphant return of the perse- 
 cuted and pardoned Exile of the Landes. I 
 burned with excessive curiosity, or any better 
 feeling the reader likes ; but I would not suffer 
 a question to escape me that might lead to the 
 mention of the name, which I was now resolved 
 not to hear but from his own lips. I was, how- 
 ever, anxious to be certain that my belief was 
 well grounded, and I went on. " When is the 
 count expected to arrive ?" 
 
 " In an hour certainly." 
 
 " Is the countess at home V* 
 
 " Where else would she be on such a day as 
 
 this r 
 
 ^* And his daughter and her husband?" 
 
 ** Oh ! they are at the house too, I suppose."
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 237 
 
 
 These answCTfe left me no doubt, and I walked 
 up the avenue without any more hesitation; 
 and filled with a nervous yet pleasurable anxiety, 
 which — like a summer breeze on the breast of 
 ocean — seemed at once to ruffle and warm my 
 bosom. 
 
 When we arrived close to the house, the 
 appearance of every thing was beautifully strik- 
 ing. It was an edifice of noble structure, built 
 in the regular and simple majesty of Grecian 
 taste. All was on a princely scale — facade, 
 columns, balcony, and balustrades. In front 
 was an extensive lawn, bounded by a terrace 
 of considerable extent. Here were laid out 
 tables, covered with a profusion of costly re- 
 freshments, of which all comers seemed indis- 
 criminately to partake. Several groups of 
 dancers exhibited on the grass — and the music, 
 the flowers, the silk flags, and other emblems 
 of rejoicing, seemed all as it were reflections 
 from a sky of the brightest hue and purest 
 serenity. 
 
 My eye sought, amidst the crowd of well- 
 dressed gentry and gaudily-attired peasants,
 
 238 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 for Stephanie and her husband, but in vain. 
 It then asked for the mistress of the fete, and 
 soon fixed itself upon the person of a tall and 
 handsome female, whose air of happiness, and 
 hospitable activity, pronounced her to be the 
 object of its inquiry. Knowing that my foreign 
 appearance must have attracted notice, and 
 impatient to explain that I had some claims to 
 offer, in excuse of my apparent intrusion, I 
 advanced towards the lady, and told her that, 
 having arrived by accident in the neighbour- 
 hood, I had taken the liberty, though a stranger, 
 to join myself to the crowd of visitors who 
 had assembled to hail the joyous event of the 
 day. She replied, with a demeanour of noble 
 courtesy, that none were strangers at such a 
 time — but that all who felt an interest in the 
 return of her husband must be considered in 
 the light of friends. 
 
 " Then, madame,'' said I, " since as a mere 
 unknown you favour me with that title, I cannot 
 resist the pleasure of advancing a claim to it — 
 on slight grounds certainly — but stronger than 
 that universal feeling to which you grant the
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 239 
 
 privilege. In short, madame, I had the honour 
 of the count's acquaintance, as well as that of 
 your amiable daughter and her husband ; and 
 it would be difficult to express the sensation 
 with which I anticipate their recognition of me, 
 on such a day as this." 
 
 " You are then, sir, really a friend of my 
 husband's ! — I say a friend, for all who know 
 him are so. You formed his acquaintance, 
 then, during his hours of exile ? You are an 
 American V 
 
 '' No, madame, I am a British subject." 
 
 " A British subject, and yet my husband's 
 friend 1 Where then, or under what circum- 
 stances, could you have known him ?" 
 
 At this question I began, for the first in- 
 stant, to fear that I might be going too far, and 
 was, perhaps, mistaken. It was very possible 
 that some other person might be in question, 
 instead of my exile, and I felt a momentary em- 
 barrassment, which prevented my replying di- 
 rectly to the countess's question. 
 
 " Ah ! sir,"" said she, " I think I understand 
 you. You are, perhaps, one of those persons
 
 240 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 who fled from England, during the late order 
 of things, with intelligence to our government 
 — and you may not, under present circum- 
 stances, wish to compromise yourself. Keep, 
 then, your secret, sir, — and excuse my impru- 
 dence." 
 
 The devil! thought I — am I, on all occa- 
 sions and circumstances, to appear to the mem- 
 bers of this family — if it is the same family — in 
 the loathsome aspect of a spy, an informer, or a 
 traitor ! 
 
 " Madame, you mistake me," exclaimed I 
 with warmth. " If I could have the pleasure 
 of seeing your daughter or her husband, they 
 could give an answer to your dishonouring 
 supposition." 
 
 " Pardon me, sir, I intreat you,'* cried the 
 countess — " in the confusion and flutter of my 
 feelings, I scarcely know what I say. — But 
 
 here comes my daughter, Madame de V , 
 
 and her husband, who will receive you accord- 
 ing to your merit, and make my apologies." 
 
 The reader may well believe that at the 
 name of Madame de V I was thunder-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 241 
 
 struck, for no sound could be more unlike than 
 
 it was to that of Madame de S . I turned 
 
 round, only to have my worst fears most fully 
 confirmed ; for in the lady who approached I 
 saw a total stranger, young and handsome cer- 
 tainly, but not half as handsome as Madame de 
 S , of short stature, and inclined to embon- 
 point — while the gentleman, on whose arm she 
 leaned, was a meagre, stiff-looking, powdered 
 personage, of upwards of forty. 
 
 " Here, my dear Lucille,''' said the countess, 
 in an habitually gracious, but hurried tone, as 
 if her mind was any where but with me — "here 
 is a very particular friend of yours and Mon- 
 sieur de V , as well as of your dear father" 
 
 Madame de V dropped me a low and 
 
 astonished curtsy ; her husband flung upwards 
 a supercilious salutation ; and I exclaimed — 
 
 " Your pardon, madame. I said neither old 
 nor particular — I said a mere acquaintance- — 
 and did not even mention the name of Monsieur 
 
 de V . In short, madame, I am all error 
 
 and confusion. — I quite mistook your house, 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 24^i THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 family, and husband, who I now find is a totally 
 different person from the count, my friend." 
 
 " Sir, I am sincerely sorry for your embar- 
 rassment. — Who — what count could you have 
 meant in similar circumstances with my hus- 
 band r 
 
 «' Who— what count? — Why, niadame — 
 really and — ^honestly — I cannot answer your 
 question ! I am quite ignorant of his name — it 
 is now a long time since I saw him — and then 
 only once. I can only say, madame, that his 
 daughter, for whom 1 had mistaken this lady, 
 was much handsomer — that is, rather taller, 
 madame — and not so fat — somewhat more slen- 
 der, I should say. — In fact, madame, her hus- 
 band was not so old — I mean he was a good 
 deal younger than this young gentleman. — In 
 short, their names were Monsieur and Madame 
 
 de S , and that is really all I can say on 
 
 the subject." 
 
 " Heavens !"" cried Madame de V , not 
 
 at all annoyed or confused at my blundering, 
 " the gentleman means my dear sister, Ste- 
 phanie."
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 243 
 
 " The very same, madame !*" exclaimed I, in 
 the utmost delight. " Stephanie — your dear 
 sister, Stephanie — and her husband Eugene — 
 your dear brother-in-law Eugene — and your 
 husband — (How stupid !) — your father, I mean, 
 madame. Quite a different looking man — 
 much older — that is, not quite so young looking. 
 — In short, ladies, I am enchanted, and almost 
 beside myself, to find that I am right after all," 
 cried I, wiping away the dew of agitation and 
 confusion which overspread my brow. 
 
 *' And you did really know our dear Stepha- 
 nie, Eugene, and my father?" 
 
 ** Yes, to be sure I did, my dear madame, 
 and passed several hours with them in the 
 Landes of Gascony, at the very latest moments 
 of your father's stay in France !" 
 
 " What ! what !" cried the mother and 
 daughter together. " Is it then, indeed, tiiie 
 that we see before us that liberal and generous 
 traveller, who was the solace of those dreadful 
 hours ? Are you, sir, that man, and have we 
 hesitated an instant in acknowledging you, my 
 dear, dear sir !*" 
 
 r2
 
 244 THE EXILE or the landes. 
 
 Here they took each a hand ; and I am cer- 
 tain that had I given my countenance to their 
 wishes, they would have each possessed them- 
 selves of a cheek as well. 
 
 " Ah ! my friends," said the mother to the 
 persons around her, " look upon this gentleman 
 as one of yourselves. This, then, is he so fondly 
 mentioned by my Stephanie — who was the com- 
 panion of my dear husband's last lingerings on 
 the shores of his beloved country — and whom 
 Heaven has sent to be the witness of his 
 triumphant return !" 
 
 While the company made me their acknow- 
 ledgments, she continued, " Now, then, sir, you 
 will enter our dwelling in your true capacity as 
 a friend of the house *. Follow me ; and as you 
 have only seen my husband in the poor disguise 
 of an exiled criminal, let me show you his sem- 
 blance in his days of rank and distinction." 
 
 I follow^ed, with Madame de V , by the 
 
 grand entrance into the house ; and, passing 
 through vestibule, ante-chamber, and saloons, 
 
 * Ami de la maison.
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 245 
 
 reached at length a Httle boudoir — that elegant 
 sanctuary of every Frenchwoman with any pre- 
 tension to fashion. The furniture and decora- 
 tions were in a style correspondent to the whole 
 appearance of the house. A recess contained 
 a bed of the most costly kind, from which the 
 countess drew aside the curtain, and displayed, 
 hanging against the wall, a portrait of her hus- 
 band in the full costume of a general officer, 
 and glowing in the splendid colouring of manly 
 beauty and military distinction. This fine ex- 
 hibition filled me with delight ; and I anticipated 
 with new pride my meeting the noble original 
 as a friend. The transition to his daughter 
 was a matter of course ; and I inquired if I was 
 not to have the pleasure of seeing Stephanie 
 and her husband. 
 
 " See her ! oh ! that you shall, sir ;" replied 
 the countess with brimful eyes, " and in a situa- 
 tion fitting so rare and inestimable a daughter. 
 You shall see her the returning companion of 
 her father— she who was the comfort and sup- 
 port of his banishment." 
 
 " How, madame ! I do not comprehend you.
 
 246 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 Surely Madame de S did not accompany 
 
 her father?" 
 
 " No, sir, but she followed him almost im- 
 mediately. When my dear Stephanie, over- 
 . powered by grief, had nearly sunk under its 
 excess, and was roused to a new existence by 
 the eloquent farewell of her father — to which 
 you also were a listener — she took at the mo- 
 ment the inflexible resolution of sharing his 
 exile and his fate. Under that impulse, she 
 hurried his departure, as you saw ; and having 
 communicated her intention to her husband, 
 whose thoughts were as her own, they only 
 returned here to embrace me and my dear Lu- 
 cille. Then hastening with the whole speed of 
 duty and affection, they embarked at the nearest 
 port, and, by a happy chance, the ship they 
 sailed in reached the shores of my husband's 
 exile some days before that which carried him ; 
 and when he at length landed on the beach, 
 worn out and miserable by his agitated feelings 
 and long voyage, the first signals that he saw 
 were the outstretched arms of his daughter, 
 and his first harbour of repose her throbbing
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 247 
 
 and affectionate bosom. — From thenceforward, 
 till the hour when his pardon reached him, did 
 she and her husband pay back their debt 
 of gratitude by entire devotion to his service; 
 and they now — even at this moment — approach 
 together, to share the rapturous welcome of 
 myself and my friends." 
 
 Before I had time to express any one of the 
 emotions which this recital excited, the countess 
 resumed. " But at this instant I recall to mind 
 that a letter is in my possession for you, sir."" 
 
 " A letter for me, madame !" 
 
 " Even so — a letter written by my husband 
 on board the vessel the very night you parted 
 from him, and sent by a fishing-boat to La 
 Teste the next morning. It was enclosed to 
 
 Monsieur de S , to be given to you ; but 
 
 he and you had alike quitted the place, and it 
 was forwarded to him here, and reached him 
 the very day of his and Stephanie's voluntary 
 banishment — which was indeed that of their 
 arrival from the Landes. Not knowing where 
 to discover you — being ignorant even of your 
 name — and willing still to hope that there was
 
 24)8 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 a chance of your being one day led to this 
 house — they entrusted it to my care ; and here 
 it is with the seal unbroken, and the contents 
 sacred from every eye." 
 
 During this speech she had opened a satin- 
 wood secretary, where, after a little search, she 
 discovered the letter, which she put into my 
 hands. I took it with a mixed sensation of sur- 
 prise, gratification, and curiosity ; and, being 
 anxious to indulge those feelings unobserved, I 
 begged the countess's permission to retire into 
 the shrubbery, where I might be able to do so. 
 She assented — I bowed to her and Madame 
 
 de S , and passed out upon the lawn. The 
 
 crowd had considerably increased ; and much 
 bustle was excited by the arrival of an avant 
 courier, who announced that the travellers were 
 little more than a league distant, and that their 
 arrival could not be delayed beyond half an 
 hour at furthest. 
 
 My heart palpitated with pleasure ; and, re- 
 solved not to lose a moment in perusing the 
 letter, which I felt an almost necessary pre- 
 paration for my meeting the count, I passed
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 249 
 
 hastily along the terrace to a little arbour at its 
 extremity. I had a full view of the road, the 
 avenue, and the grand entrance ; and I saw the 
 long train of dancers, with their garlands and 
 gay dresses, lining the approach as far as I 
 could distinguish. The air resounded with 
 music — every combination of pleasure seemed 
 to raise my mind to its highest pitch ; — and in 
 this mood I broke the seal. The letter was 
 addressed 
 
 " TO THE GENEROUS STRANGER. 
 
 " On board my vessel. Thursday night. 
 
 " We have only just parted ; yet I feel the 
 chain of circumstances which brought us to- 
 gether still unbroken — for something whispers 
 me that we shall meet again. Under this im- 
 pression, I cannot resist the impulse which leads 
 me to address you. One of a thousand pro- 
 bable chances may inform you of my name; 
 and I cannot endure the thought of your learn- 
 ing who and what I am, without knowing why 
 and wherefore I am so. 
 
 "In the hurry and confusion which surrounds
 
 250 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 me, and in the agitation of my harassed mind, 
 I can perform this task but in a broken and 
 imperfect manner. — I cannot presume to call 
 you friend — I will not address you by a colder 
 title — and I expect from your mind that libe- 
 rality which is promised by your manners. 
 
 " You have heard me accuse myself of a 
 great crime — you have heard the expressions 
 of my remorse. I spoke truly in the first in- 
 stance, and did not exaggerate in the latter. 
 Yes ! to me, and me alone, must be attributed 
 the act which, more than all the congregated 
 crimes of ages, stamps the foulest stain upon my 
 country. Yet do not shudder — this act was 
 mine — ^virtually mine, though many were con- 
 cerned in its accomphshment. I had the power 
 to have prevented it — to have saved, by one 
 word, my country from shame — myself from in- 
 famy — and my but I outrun myself. 
 
 " This self-accusing is all too true — yet, para- 
 doxical as it may seem, this very act was the 
 offspring of excess of virtuous feeling — of that 
 overstrained enthusiasm in politics, which, like 
 religious fanaticism, hurries its blindfold votaries
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. S51 
 
 to the most monstrous deeds. — But when this 
 deed was done — when the veil fell from my eyes 
 — when the body of my virtuous and innocent 
 victim was stretched in death, and his blood 
 reeking to the heavens — 'twas then that I awoke 
 from my dream — that conviction of my enormity 
 burst upon me, and the demon of vengeance, 
 uprising from the blood-drenched scaffold, 
 seemed to shake before me the scorpion whip 
 of retribution ! — Even now I see the phantom 
 scourge — my pores send forth a flood of suf- 
 fering 
 
 " In the full flush of youthful vigour, I was 
 thrown into the midst of awful events. — I saw 
 the monstrous march of despotism, and I flung 
 myself before the fiend, to stop his strides or 
 be crushed in the struggle. It was no common 
 contest. It was the immortal rights of man 
 opposed to the powerful yet paltry workings 
 of tyranny — the wrestlings of liberty with op- 
 pression — the clash of intellect with intolerance 
 — the manacled but mighty arm of millions 
 against the nervous pressure of corruption. — 
 The popular mind was phrensied-— what could
 
 252 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 be looked for from its actions? We were 
 forced and goaded on to desperation — and the 
 crimson flood of guilt swept alike over tyrants 
 and slaves. 
 
 " Will the warning be Hstened to ? Will the 
 despots of our days look back on those which 
 are no more ? Or will a bold, yet thoughtful 
 band throw themselves between mobs and 
 tyrants, and force them to their own salvation ! 
 The people never cast their eyes behind them. 
 — Let their rulers think on the fact, and profit 
 by its knowledge. 
 
 " I entered that assembly which was to open 
 the path to my country's freedom, like a yoimg 
 lover burning to embrace the idol of his heart 
 and his mind. My passions were roused — my 
 head on flame. Discussion followed discussion 
 — and frantic denunciations against royalty were 
 the forced fruits of the madness of monarchs. 
 They defied and denounced us. We dared 
 their contempt and their anathemas — we met 
 them in the conflict — and we triumphed ! 
 
 ** In the assembly of the nation, of which I 
 was such a member as I paint myself, I had
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 25S 
 
 three friends, over whom my control was so 
 unlimited, that they swore to follow my lead- 
 ing on every question, great or small. The 
 greatest of all questions came. — I had no waver- 
 ings — I gave my vote — my friends echoed the 
 sound — fatal and horrid sound ! The die was 
 cast — the lists were reckoned — the majority an- 
 nounced. Four voices had decided the question 
 — or rather one voice, and that one mi7ie ! The 
 sentence was death — my king was sacrificed 
 — and I — 
 
 A REGICIDE r 
 
 The first effect of this letter upon me was a 
 stupified astonishment — next came a bitter sor- 
 row, as if I had lost a friend by death — I then 
 resolved to quit the place for ever. 
 
 I do not mean to make here a confession of 
 my political faith ; but I unhesitatingly avow 
 one of my political prejudices, the rather as it is 
 one which I intend religiously to preserve. I 
 mean my repugnance to the persons who con- 
 demned Louis XVI. to the scaffold. That some 
 of those persons may have been good men is a
 
 254 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 startling, but, nevertheless, a very proveable 
 theorem. That a vile deed may be done from 
 a mistaken principle of right is too true — but in 
 the cause of liberty even — the noblest cause of 
 all — there is something which makes us shrink 
 from the name of an assassin. But in the case 
 where it is murder for its own sake — where the 
 victim is the victim of his virtues — where policy 
 and humanity alike forbid the blow — and where 
 it is struck merely that blood may follow it, the 
 mind is almost withered by the influence of the 
 deed it execrates. There is a sorcery in crime 
 of this sort which raises up a spirit of ever-en- 
 during horror. — Such I have ever considered 
 the deed in question ; and although I have 
 striven to depict one of its perpetrators in the 
 light through which many of them should, no 
 doubt, be viewed — I could not venture the con- 
 tact of an intimate connexion with even such a 
 man — lest sympathy for the actor might weaken 
 my abhorrence for the act. 
 
 My resolution on reading his letter was then 
 instantly formed, I took a path leading to the 
 village, which was visible below me ; and as I
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 255 
 
 neared the bottom of the descent, a shout of 
 triumph told me that the count had arrived. I 
 looked to the avenue gate, and saw the carriage 
 stop. The countess and her daughter were there 
 in the midst of the crowd. They received in 
 their arms first Stephanie and her husband; 
 and, lastly, I saw the fine figure of the exile 
 bound upon the earth, and rush into the em- 
 braces of his wife. 
 
 I caught no glimpse of his face ; but turning 
 abruptly to the inn, I made my preparations for 
 immediate departure. While my resolution was 
 unshaken, I determined to place myself out of 
 the reach of temptation — so I took my place in 
 a diligence just then passing through the village, 
 and night quickly fell upon me and the scene 
 from which I fled. 
 
 It may appear strange to my readers, but it 
 is, notwithstanding, true, that I am to this day 
 ignorant of the exile's name. Two reasons 
 prevented my becoming acquainted with it —
 
 256 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 want of inclination, and want of opportunity. I 
 never asked it from any one ; and being out of 
 the way of public people and events, it never 
 reached me accidentally. 
 
 I have, however, made inquiries respecting 
 some other personages connected with this 
 story ; and late accounts from the neighbour- 
 hood of the Landes have informed me of some 
 important changes. 
 
 Monsieur the inspector, from his unhappy 
 prating propensities, found it utterly impossible 
 to keep secret his connivance at the exile's 
 escape. His own blabbing betrayed what his 
 honest associates never would have divulged ; 
 and in the summary punishment of the day, he 
 was deprived of his place, shorn of his honours, 
 and stripped of every thing but his culinary 
 knowledge ; to which he now owes his support, 
 and devotes his whole attention. He is now, 
 and has been for several years, simply and un- 
 adornedly, " La Broche, Traiteur, Restaura- 
 teur," at the sign of Le Grand Gourmand, in 
 which the wag of a painter has hit off to the 
 life a likeness of the host himself, and which
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. ^5*7 
 
 hangs over a shabby Httle shop off one of the 
 Boulevards of Paris — where any of my readers 
 may dine, any or every day in the year, on soup, 
 three dishes, half a bottle of wine, and bread 
 at discretion — for eighteen pence, and a penny 
 to the waiter. 
 
 The Forest Inn is no longer in existence. In 
 one of those terrible conflagrations which fre- 
 quently desolate the pine-woods in those parts, 
 the little inn was burned to the ground. Poor 
 Batiste, its nominal master, fell a victim on this 
 occasion to his old habits. Sleep, which was 
 his greatest enjoyment in life, was also his 
 latest, for he was smothered in his bed, after 
 having resisted every effort of his wife to make 
 him rise from his danger. The disconsolate 
 widow, seeing her house destroyed, and her old 
 protector removed, had nothing left for it but 
 to abandon the site of the one and follow the 
 fortunes of the other, — whose helpmate and 
 partner she now is, under the title of Madame 
 La Broche, and ostensibly his bar-woman, 
 housekeeper, and marketmaker. 
 
 VOL. ir. S
 
 25S THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 Little Jean, the postboy, lost his place, or, as 
 I am told he expressed it, was flung from his 
 saddle, soon after my acquaintance with him. 
 In a general movement of the great political 
 machine, even this poor atom was displaced. 
 — From the postmaster-general down to the 
 postiUions, all were turned out, Jean among the 
 rest — when casting his eyes to the capital — ^like 
 all other aspirants for distinction or intrigue — 
 he worked his passage up to Paris on board 
 the back of a diligence near-wheeler ; and is 
 now proprietor and conducteur of one of those 
 *little cabiaolets which ply between St. Germain 
 and the Place Louis Quinze, and to which 
 people give, among other homely appellations, 
 that of " les coucousJ" 
 
 Geoffroi and Cazille ply their several trades 
 of carrying dry goods between Bordeaux and 
 La Teste, and giving practical essays on popu- 
 lation, at the rate of a boy or a girl a year. My 
 correspondent could not tell whether Geoifroi 
 was happy or miserable in his home — but it has 
 been remarked, by almost all who meet him on
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 259 
 
 the road, that he continually hums one unvary- 
 ing ditty, the concluding words of which seem 
 to be «* Mine own Cazille." 
 
 NOTE. 
 
 By far the greatest curiosity of the forest of Arcachon, 
 and one, indeed, of the greatest any where, is the chapel 
 of St. Thomas Iliricus, originally huilt by the contri- 
 butions of the fishermen of those parts, and dedicated to 
 the Virgin, in gratitude for a miraculous favour conferred 
 upon their neighbourhood in the lifetime of the saint, 
 and somewhat about the year 1521, if the traditionary 
 records of the old people (the only chronicle of the La 
 Testians) be a sufficiently accurate vouch ei\for the date: 
 The venerable Thomas was celebrated, in -his time, as a 
 great preacher, and for having exerted his uncommon 
 eloquence against the heretical encroachments, then creep- 
 ing in upon religion in France ; and after sermonizing 
 and anathematizing for some time to little purpose — for 
 the impious work of enlightening the human mind gained 
 ground in spite of his forensic hostility — he resolved on 
 withdrawing from the world, before the vexatious ripen- 
 ing of intellect, which was then in the bud, should over- 
 power, in its blossoming odour, the fragrance of his own 
 sanctity. He, in pursuance of this sage and saintly re- 
 solution, turned his steps towards the west. 
 
 ♦' The world was all before him where to choose," 
 
 and, passing through the hamlet of La Tete de Buche, 
 the original appellation of La Teste, he arrived on the
 
 260 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 borders of the Lake of Arcachon, where he scooped him- 
 self a hut, the site of which is still marked out by the 
 pious visitations of many a pilgrim. Thomas was fond 
 of a solitary ramble, which formed, in spite of time or 
 tide, his daily exercise for body and mind. One evening, 
 while pursuing his favourite walk during the continuance 
 of a tempest, that would probably have driven him to 
 his hut, had not a secret inspiration urged him still to 
 keep abroad, he discovered a vessel far out at sea, in 
 great distress and apparently on the eve of perishing. 
 Not being able to render the least possible assistance 
 otherwise than by his prayers, he betook himself to 
 his knees, and had scarcely commenced an impassioned 
 invocation, when the little vessel, as if it had been pos- 
 sessed of the powers of mortal vision, perceived him, and 
 instantly turned its prow towards the spot where he knelt, 
 and with a rush of sail that belonged not to any human 
 management, it cut through the mountain-billows, and 
 in an instant traced its frothy path from the utmost verge 
 of the horizon to the edge of the strand on which the 
 anchorite was placed. He, bewildered and fixed in ad- 
 miration of the miracle, lost all power of speech, for he 
 beheld upon the prow a bright form robed in white, and 
 surrounded by a radiance that he knew to be of Heaven. 
 The hands of this celestial being were raised above his 
 head, as if something was suspended in them. Its bright 
 wings fluttered a moment in the foam of the waves which 
 sparkled in the sunny tints — an instant more and all was 
 a blank. The vessel had totally disappeared ; whether 
 it sunk in the furious element, or *' vanished into thin 
 air," the monk by no means could divine ; and all that 
 he heard to give him a clew for unravelling the miracle, 
 was the flapping of wings above him, and a strain of ex-
 
 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 261 
 
 quisite melody, that seemed to die away in the upper re- 
 gions of the heavens. Thomas arose from his posture of 
 devotion, and gazed with a holy wonder on the scene 
 around him. The waves were in a moment still — the 
 wind was hushed — the sun darted from the clouds, which 
 were scattered across the firmament in a thousand beau- 
 tiful and fantastic forms of brightness — the roaring of the 
 surge was changed to the gentle murmur of the tide, as 
 it flowed in upon the sand, and seemed to sink into it, as 
 if in repose from its recent agitation. At the feet of the 
 monk lay a small image of the Virgin. He approached 
 it with a mixture of devotion and awe ; when, to his de- 
 light and admiration, it sprang up into his arms, where 
 he folded it with a rush of overpowering sensation that 
 may be better imagined than described. He brought the 
 heaven-sent relic to his hut, where he erected a rude altar 
 to its honour; but the rustic inhabitants, thinking such 
 a shrine unworthy the miraculous image, built him a 
 little chapel around the spot. The overflowing of the' 
 lake, in one of its accustomed inundations a short time 
 afterwards, levelled the little building to the ground ; and 
 when, wonderful to tell, the pious erectors attempted to 
 move the little image from its shrine, which the waves 
 had no power to overthrow, it resisted the eflTorts of 
 dozens of men to remove it; and it was only by the 
 powerful prayers of Thomas that forty pair of the strongest 
 oxen had force sufficient to effect that object. The 
 image, be it known, is full twelve inches in height! 
 Another chapel was built, and another catastrophe was 
 at hand. It was utterly cast down by one of the moving 
 sand-hills, which spared not in its impious progress the 
 holy place, but the image defied its rage. It stood erect 
 amid the desolation, and was seen in the morning after
 
 262 THE EXILE OF THE LANDES. 
 
 the tempest, perched on the topmost point of the mound 
 that covered the ruin. Once more a fitting receptacle 
 was prepared, and that is the present chapel, the simple 
 elegance of whose outward construction, and whose 
 richly-ornamented interior, are remarkable specimens of 
 good taste and gorgeousness blended together with sur- 
 prising harmony. The desolate wilds around—the pro- 
 found seclusion of its site— the deep-embowering woods — 
 the superstitious veneration of the simple souls who there 
 offer up their orisons— all the union, in fact, of natural 
 solemnity and religious enthusiasm, give to the place an 
 indescribable and irresistible charm. There is a her- 
 mitage close by, inhabited in the summer season by a 
 good and enlightened curate, who is looked on with a 
 veneration more than common, as the direct descendant 
 of the holy Thomas. But it is on the 25th of March, 
 when the ftte of the village is held, that the traveller, 
 who enjoys such primitive and touching scenes, should 
 place himself at the porch of the chapel, to witness the 
 ceremony of devoting the earliest fish of the season to the 
 Virgin, from whom the image is believed to have been 
 directly sent from Heaven. They believe that it de- 
 scended directly from Heaven, like the Palladium of the 
 Trojans — or like the Liafail, the enchanted stone brought 
 to Ireland by the first settlers, from which the island re- 
 ceived the name of Innisfail. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY THOMAS DAVISON, WHITEFRIARS.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 084211033 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS-URBANA 
 
 V^. 3 0112 084211017 V:;";