■mm^m LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS \\ AT URBANA-CHAMPAIGN 823 L186f v.l ,^^ FLORENCE, THE BEAUTIFUL. BY ALEXANDER BAILLIE COCHRANE, ESQ., AUTHOR OF " LUCILLE BELMONT ;" " ERNEST VANE," &C, IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. L LONDON: t T AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, ':)ESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, - , GEEAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 1854. LONDON: Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. ^^3 \i .1 kl^tf TO THE LADY ELIZABETH DRUMMOND, THE QUALITIES OF WHOSE HEAKT, INHERITED FROM A LONG LINE OF ANCESTRY AND TRANSMITTED TO HER CHILDREN, HAVE BEEN TO ME THE SOURCE OF MUCH HAPPINESS, I AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATE THESE VOLUMES. ALEXANDER BAILLIE COCHRANE. FLORENCE THE BEAUTIFUL. CHAPTER I. THE TOURAINE. If there be any one part of France which justifies to its enthusiastic admirers the epithet of " La Belle," it is assuredly the Touraine. Sheltered from the cold sea-breezes of the east, surrounded on all sides by mountain ranges, the valley of the Loire presents at every turn pictures of unsurpassed beauty and interest ; nothing more pleasing than to wander without guide or guide-book through this favoured country ; it is Httle known to the regular VOL. I. B 2 THE TOURAINE. Madame Starke-ridden tourist, and this seclu- sion perhaps lends to it an additional charm. The iron rail traverses, but has not invaded its repose, peaceful hamlets rest on the banks of the noble Loire, which rolls on its course with the stillness of a strong and mighty spirit conscious of a great purpose. Here commerce recals to the happy, hstless tra- veller, idling on the river banks, that, separate himself as he may from the world, there are links which cannot be broken, and that even the silent, unconscious river binds man to man, and nation to nation ; but here it is commerce in her most graceful form, such as artists love to paint, and poets to describe her. Large rafts like those on the Rhine, guided with admirable skill through shallows, and over rapids, move along dream- like on the bosom of the rolling waters. Slow creeping barges float down at times lazily and sluggishly ; at others, when the reach of the river permits it, with their swarthy, wlde-swelUng siiils set to catch the breeze. THE TOURAINE. 3 La Touraine has been called, and not in- appropriately so, " Le pays de rire et de rien faire," where the soil is as light as the hearts of those who till it, and the harvest of corn and wine as abundant as man can desire. Each hamlet is in summer time frequented by admirers and artists, some, who truly travel for the sake of art, and others, by far the more agreeable kind, who make their pencil the excuse for travel ; but it is rarely that these travellers ever diverge far from the river-side, and there are to be found in general, within a short distance of every post, so many objects of varied interest, that the time devoted to excursions is nearly occupied in examining these. And so it happens that the people of this district are rarely studied, for wherever many travellers are in the habit of passing, national habits are speedily eradicated, but in the interior of the province, where the presence of a stranger is rare as it is welcome, the people retain all their primitive qualities, and these, for the honour B 2 4 THE TOURAINE. of La Touraine, may be said to be copied from its nature. Here all the tints are soft and mellowed ; distance blends into distance in unbroken harmony ; here are no abrupt effects, no lofty mountain ranges to appal the awe-stricken traveller ; all is soft, genial and peaceful. Such is the character of the people, gentle, mild and peaceful as the climate ; and to climate the character owes more than we at first think, for the severity of the northman, and the gentle indolence of the eastern, alike arise from the climate. Hospitable, as all primitive people are, the traveller is wel- comed wherever he appears. Sad to say, that mistrust and suspicion arise from inter- course with the w^orld, but here the people are unsuspecting, because they live secluded. Many a month may be passed pleasantly in visiting scenes of surpassing loveliness ; nor are objects of historic interest wanting, on each side ; chateaux which rival any feudal remains in Europe, frown over valleys, or lie buried abbe\like in their seclusion : above THE TOURAINE. 5 all summer, real, warm, glowing summer, smiles over the scene ; the sun, not obscured by fog and damp as in our climate, here delighteth to run his course ; men shade their eyes as they turn towards him, the colours of the distance are so blended by the haze, that at mid-day the outline of forest and hill range can scarcely be distinguished, the veil of glory is cast over every object, soft- ening their asperities, and mingling their beauties. In the immediate vicinity of the picturesque village of Montrichard, is a spot where four roads meet ; and the traveller, who is merely loitering by the way, anxious to visit the objects of deepest interest, would find himself puzzled which road to select, for each of them leads to some object of romantic or historical importance ; but before he determined his choice he would pause a moment to revel in the contemplation of the beautiful scenery which there bursts upon the view. It is said that the only defect in the character of the in- 6 THE TOURAINE. habitants of this neighbourhood is, that they are naturally indolent ; nor is this surprising, for where nature has done so much, we can scarcelv wonder that man should do so little ; but, though most beautiful, the prospect here is not extensive, no very lofty moun- tains intercept the view, but the ground undulates with endless variety, as if each vineyard were gently heaving towards the rich clusters of grapes, which bend towards the bosom of the mother that bore them. Here again, wild acacia hedges, luxuriant orchards, a picturesque confusion of hollow heath and height, while they limit the pros- pect, leave nothing for the heart to desire ; but to prevent a monotony even of beauty, bright ridges of yellow corn peep through the foliage, lightening the scene like smiles on the lips of the beautiful. Whoever has once stood on this spot, must recall it oftentimes, for there is not within the boundary of the Touraine a sunnier vale tiian that of Montrichard. THE TOURAINE. Amid all the busy, ambitious scenes of life, the remembrance of this sweet spot breathes a repose which the worldly and the ambitious may well pine for and envy. 8 THE CROSS CHAPTER II. THE CROSS BY THE WAYSIDE. In the centre where the four roads meet, there stood a Cross. It was a Cross primitive and simple as the faith which it represented, among these peaceful, lowly people. The travellers, from whichever side of the country they chanced to be journeying, paused for a moment at its foot in gratitude or love. There was no attempt at any fanciful carving ; simple, of plain, unornamented wood, hkc that which saved the w'orld. But this absence of all BY THE WAYSIDE. 9 decoration or symbol did not arise from neglect, for wreaths of immortelles hung around it, and these were constantly renewed. There they were, emblems of that piety, humble as its offering. It would have furnished matter for curious and not uninteresting reflection, to have watched and judged the various characters who bent their knees before it, in the course of each day ; but most beautiful was it to see the old man, when he laid aside his hat, and the whitened locks fell over his shoulders, as he knelt in prayer ; or the young child, clasping her tiny hands, as she hurried through her short suppHca- tion, and then reverently crossing herself. It had stood, that Cross, for many long years ; it had survived, like the faith of ♦ which it was the symbol, many shocks, many dangers. But it was soon to be up- rooted; for at this date, the spring of 1789, the days of mourning and darkness for France were at hand. The moss-grown 10 THE CROSS wood had long braved the furious tempest the thunder-stroke and the lightning's flash, but it could not defy the passions of men. It was a bright evening in early spring, and after a shower in the Touraine, can anything be wanting to complete the dream of beauty ? Standing by that Cross, the first object which presented itself was the little village of Mont d'Or, worthy of its name, to judge by the yellow fields of waving grain by which it was quite surrounded ; in the distance the chateau of La Tour Beau- port, stood like a proud monument of that feudal character and age, to which it owed its foundation, at a time when men possessed high and noble ideas of great works to be performed in their generation, and the spirit to realize them for the benefit of succeeding ones. But between the chateau and the village, a distance of some three miles, the freshness and softness of spring breathed on bloom and bbssom ; high hedges and nar- BY THE WAYSIDE. 11 row lanes, such as Love and Hope frequent in their youth, rendered back in fragrance to the atmosphere, some of the beauty which the scenery owed to its glorious tints. It was an evening for Hope to anticipate a happy morrow ; so soft and joyous that, like the dreams of youth, we think they can never pass or grow old, or the glory of such a sunshine sink into darkness. It seems that, at eventide, there is always in Nature a sweeter perfume, rose tints cover the heavens, and there are low, soft murmurs of many insects. Bride-like, the earth and sky appear to be more lavish of their beauties, as the night draws on apace. And is it not so? The morn- ing dawn may be like manhood, bright and vigorous, the pulse beats high, and the brow^ is erect ; but it is in the evening that the nature of all men is softened and subdued, and that the heart beats more warmly for others, it may be, perchance, more warmly to others. 12 THE CROSS But the world is not without, it is within us ; it must be so, or it were impossible that, on such an evening, a broken heart could be kneeling at the foot of this time- worn Cross. But, after all, what to the sad heart was the bloom on the tree, or the blossom on the flower ? With her soul concentrated in one emotion, indiffe- rent to all external impressions, a broken- hearted, world-driven woman, with a fair young girl by her side, prayed for a strength which the world cannot give, but which we know at the same time the world cannot take away from us. It was a picture not ill adapted to the scene ; the stilhiess of nature, and the still- ness of prayer, the mystery of twilight, and the mystery of the heart : there was some sympathy between the actors and the scene. It suggested thoughts removed from ordinary curiosity ; or the earnest attitude of the woman, and the singular grace of the young girl, must haV^e excited attention; but, as BY THE WAYSIDE. 13 it was, the few people who drew near to bend the knee, kept at a reverential distance, as though unwilling to intrude on the heart's deep expression, and then passed on, at once unobservant and unobserved. One poor girl, indeed, as she wended her way, perchance with a deeper affliction at heart, turned when she had advanced a short way on her road, to gaze on the group at the foot of the Cross. It may be, that her heart beat in harmony with their's ; and as she recalled the weeping Magdalene, she learned in her sympathy for others to mourn for herself. After a short time the mother turned towards the young girl, who had dropped her hand, and now sat at her feet, on one of those worn stones, which testified by their ap- pearance to the piety of those, who knelt upon them in their progress towards their devotions. The mother and daughter rose and sat on a bank covered with flowers, w^hich afforded a more extensive view of 14 THE CROSS the surrounding country. Not a word passed for some time between them. The daughter gathered some of the flowers which were near her, and from mere thoughtlessness, or from depth of thought, picked off the buds, which fell at her feet. She seemed subdued but not unhappy ; and from time to time looked into her mother's countenance, as if anxious, but unwilling to ask the cause of this sorrow. " Mamma," she said at last, as if desirous to break through this painful scene, " I thought you told me that, if you came into the Touraine, you would be then happier. You know," she continued, with a smile, " you have often blamed me for giving way to feelings, and yet how unhappy you appear." " Florence, it is true I have cause to grieve, both for you and for myself." " Not for me, mamma," said Florence ; " 1 shall be much happier in the country than in Paris'. I've led so lonely a life BY THE WAYSIDE. 15 lately; and a large town, with a constant movement, is even more solitary and lonely than the country. But then this scene is so full of beauty ; if you will only live in this neighbourhood, mamma, I will promise you never to be dull or melancholy. It would be quite happiness for me to watch the beauty of the scenery, as we do now." " I hope, Florence, we shall be able to live here," said her mother, trying to smile, and she passed her arm round her daughter's neck, to kiss her fair cheek. It was beautiful to see love between two who were in themselves so lovely, for the mother's age could not exceed five-and-thirty years, only it seemed that womanhood had brought with it more than its usual share of responsibilities, sorrows, and broken hopes; her noble and sad-looking brow was shadowed by luxuriant dark hair, gathered into one large bandeau, and borne to the back of her head in that graceful sweep which we know classic 16 THE CROSS beauties loved to adopt, for classic sculpture has transmitted it to us. Her cheek was as full, and the chin as dimpling as the daughter's who sat by her side ; the fixed gaze betrayed the deep interest of her thoughts. Beautiful as the prospect was, those thoughts were evidently far away. Even in this rural spot, her dress recalled the memory of the scenes she had left ; it was on the whole far better adapted for the atmosphere of the Chaussee d'Antin than for a woodland vallev in the Touraine. Every article was scrupulously neat ; but the least shrewd of observers could at .a glance have detected that it was not made in the provinces, and it possessed a nameless simplicity and grace which all nations strive to attain to, but in which the French alone succeed ; for the truly impartial must admit that the French have the happy facihtv of renderin": aii; subservient to woman's grace. Every article she wore seemed to bt'long to her, as though the BY THE WAYSIDE. 17 fashion could never have been successfully worn by any one else ; she did not, however, follow the prevailing habit of powder, which was by no means of universal adoption in the provinces; over her dress, which was black, a light cloak was thrown, and the road to Montrichard could seldom have pre- sented so graceful a scene, as the group on the bank of flowers on this warm spring evening. So it appeared that others thought, for a man, who had been engaged in his prayers, while he allowed some cows, which he was by way of attending to, to crop off all the vine-leaves from the top of the bank, stared at them for some time in a kind of mute astonishment, with one hand half-raised, as if inclined to touch his cap, wdth the other going through the monotonous occu- pation of knocking off the heads of some thistles. There is something magnetic in an intense gaze, and both the mother and daughter VOL. I. C ]8 THE CROSS t turned towards the man, who looked con- fused as though he had been detected in an improper act. However, taking off his cap, he stammered out that he was ordered to meet the lady w^ho had sent on her luggage from the diligence on the road to Tours, for a boy was waiting with it at La Belle Etoile. It was Florence who answered : " Mamma, Monsieur has come to tell us that the luggage has arrived at the inn — is it not so, Monsieur ?" The man bowed, and looked again at the group, but immediately turned away his head, for he saw that the cheeks of her whom he had addressed were bedewed with tears. And there is at all times, and in most hearts, regard for the silent dignity of sorrow. " How came you to look for us, my friend ?" she said, seeing that, after another uncomfortable pause and a second awkward bow, the man was about to leave. " And BY THE WAYSIDE. 19 how did you know what road we had tra- veUed ?" " Ma foi, Madame, it is not so often that strangers visit Mont d'Or," replied the man. " Sometimes we have the grand carriages of the Grands Seigneurs who travel post crack, crack, crack, through our little narrow street. Madame Blanch ard looks after them — trust her for that — although they gene- rally drive direct to the Poste, and seldom stop at La Belle Etoile ; or the marquis himself sometimes passes, and, diable, he makes them travel fast enough. Then there is Mademoiselle de la Pompi^re, in her magnificent carriage ; but except these and some artist who sketches the old chateau, or any pretty girl he may come across — Pardon, Madame ! but artists like to sketch pretty faces." And here he burst into a silly laugh, whether at the recollection of sundry pas- sages in his life, or because he had involved himself in a soliloquy from which c 2 20 THE CROSS it was impossible to extricate himself, it were difficult to say. " But you have not told me how you knew^ by which road we were to be ex- pected ?" " Ah, by the bye, I forgot this, Madame. But you know — " and here he looked a little confused, while he readjusted his cap, and completed the sacrifice of sundry nettles he had beheaded. " What I mean to say, Madame, is, that when any one does arrive at La Belle Etoile, it is a great event. So we asked the boy who brought the luggage, and he told us that two ladies had left the diligence on the road about two miles distant, and rested in a house, saying that they would walk to Mont d'Or; and then you see, Madame, that I looked at the boxes and read the address. It is quite natural — is it not? It w'as evident that Madame had come from Paris, because all the boxes from Paris are marked with the name. So I said to myself: 4 Pierre, BY THE WAYSIDE. 21 you will do well to go and meet these ladies. Perhaps they may require some one to show them the road.' So I told Madame Blanchard what I intended to do, who told me it was all right." "And who is Madame Blanchard?" " You do not know Madame Blanchard ! Madame, how should you ? She is a good woman — every one knows Madame Blan- chard, and likes her — gentle as a lamb ; and for the poor, ma foi, I have seen, when old Blanchard — and he was not really old — but we call every one old who is married — why, when old Blanchard was alive, the kitchen was quite an hospice. Nothing was too good for the poor. As for poor Pierre — that is myself, Madame — I had a hard life of it, running about to look after all these vagabonds. Since Madame Blanchard — " "Thanks," said the lady, with a move- ment of impatience, which showed that her thanks were intended to express enough. 22 THE CROSS " Does Madame Blanchard keep the Belle EtoHe ?" " Yes, Madame." " I am happy to hear it, for we intend going there." It was evident that if, by leaving the diligence at the junction of the high roads, the lady had intended to elude the curiosity of the inhabitants of Mont d'Or, she had singularly failed in her object; and at the recollection that her name and recent resi- dence were now known in the village, the colour mounted into her cheek as she rose with a movement of impatience, and said : "Let us proceed, Florence." At that moment, a butterfly of more than ordinary beauty lit on a rose, which grew in wild luxuriance in the hedge. Florence sprang forward to catch it like a mere child as she was ; and an expression of sorrow passed across her countenance, when the beautiful insect flew to the other BY THE WAYSIDE. 23 Side, until she observed that the rose was one of that deep, blushing, kind which the soil of the Touraine produces in fragrant abundance. Then she plucked the rose, and reverently placed it in the centre of a fresh chaplet, which some young children had hung that morning on the Cross after a village wedding. Whether it was that her mother shrank from observation, or that she was acquainted with a shorter road to the Belle Etoile, she led Florence down a narrow lane, which turned to the right, immediately before the road entered the village. The man who had commenced the conversation had, up to this time, accompanied them, leaving his cattle to ravage all the banks and hedge- rows, while he evidently proposed to con- duct them to the inn ; but when they came to the turn of the road, a kind but dignified bow of the head checked his intended civility. He paused, as if in 24 THE CROSS BY THE WAYSIDE. astonishment, at this sudden dismissal, and then muttered to himself: " She has a daughter more beautiful than an angel, this Madame Brinville !" MADAME BRINVILLE. 25 CHAPTER III. MADAME BRINVILLE. A VERY few moments brought Madame Brinville and Florence to the garden of La Belle Etoile, which extended some little way at the back of the building. She must have been well acquainted with the locality and with the arrangements of the house, for, in place of going at once to the principal entrance, she opened a small wicket, which conducted, by a narrow gravel walk, to the back-door; but when she turned round, after having closed the gate, she saw a middle-aged, neatly-dressed 26 MADAME BRINVILLE. womaiij who was occupied in examining the progress of the bees in a glass hive. On hearing footsteps, she t urn ed round sud denly ; but her attitude of surprize and in- quiry was soon exchanged for one of respect, as she contemplated the grace of Madame Brinville and the beauty of Florence. " Are you Madame Blanchard ?" inquired Madame Brinville. " Yes, Madame," replied the hostess, dropping at the same time, in her attempt at a curtsey, some of the roses which she had been gathering, and was carrying in her apron. Florence ran to pick them up, and was about to replace them in her lap, when Madame Blanchard prevented her. " No, Mademoiselle, keep them," said Madame Blanchard. " In-doors I will get you a piece of thread, and tie them up for you. You will come in, will you not, Madame ?" *' I have come for my luggage," said Madame Brinville. " A bov brouGrht it on MADAME BRINVILLE. 27 here from the Tours diligence. You will have seen the name on the boxes ; it is Madame Brinville." " Oh ! Madame Brinville," said the hostess, and she dropped a curtsey even lower than before. " But Madame must be tired wuth her long walk ; she would like to rest herself ; and this dear young lady, she too must be fatigued ;" and the good woman took Florence's hand, who pressed hers kindly, for she was pleased with her voice and manner, and the flowers which she had given her. Moreover, that greatest of all charms, a kind and gentle voice, won her heart immediately. The young and innocent are the best judges of character ; they can detect deception in the voice, and falsehood in the glance, when the ablest diplomatists might be deceived. Madame Brinville was touched, and she thanked Madame Blanchard with a warmth of manner, which showed that such kindness was of rare occurrence to her. 28 MADAME BRINVILLE. " Does Madame intend to remain a long time at Mont d'Or ?" asked Madame Blan- chard. " If so, I could accommodate her with two rooms, which look into this gar- den ; and as they are on the first floor, there is a beautiful view from them. Perhaps Madame will come up and see them ;" and forgetting the dignified ceremonial of the landlady, in her sympathy with the strangers, she opened the door for Madame Brinville, and preceded her up-stairs into a room, when at once the windows were thrown open, and assuredly Madame Blanchard had not exaggerated either the neatness of the apart- ments or the beauty of the view which they commanded. The rooms were small, and nothing could be plainer than the furniture. Each pos- sessed an alcove in which a small bed was placed, and plain, white curtains, which in the daytime were drawn across the recess, gave to the whole an appearance of clean- liness and comfort that no finer material MADAME BRINVILLE. 29 could have conveyed ; tables, a few chairs, and chest of drawers, was really all the furniture which they contained ; but these were kept so scrupulously clean and zealously polished, that the most fastidious person must have been satisfied with them. The floor was of that rich, dark colour which all good femmes de menage in France strive to obtain ; a piece of carpet laid under the table in the centre of the room, and a small stove, proved that even the Touraine is not wholly exempt from the mischances of the season — from winds, and frosts, and autumn chills. Each of the rooms possessed the usual decoration of a clock, supported on either side by vases of anything but classic shape. These, like the clocks, had been pur- chased at one of the fairs from one of those itinerant merchants or pedlers who barter at every village, in their progresses, and, with their wares, are regarded by the village children as the embodiment of Oriental magnificence, and bearing with them in 30 MADAME BRINVILLE. their packs the fabled riches of Haroun Alraschid. The walls of one of these rooms was covered with a quiet, sober paper ; on one side, opposite the window, hung a print of St. Jerome, as he is always represented, in a long monastic habit, fastened round his waist by a cord, a small rosary in his clasped hands, with his eyes turned to Heaven in the attitude of prayer. Beyond this master- piece of village art, the walls were, like the mantel-piece, indebted to the itinerant mer- chants for their decoration. There were two coloured prints of Louis XIV., one of them representing the grand council which was held when Philip of Anjou was pro- claimed King of Spain ; another the entry of the Persian Ambassador into Paris. This, with a small mirror, completed the decdration of the bed-room ; but the next, which was intended for the sitting-room, and possessed a fire-place, was more highly ornamented ;. the walls were covered with MADAME BRINVILLE. 31 that bright old French paper — which mo- dern innovation has discarded, but which, after all, is gayer than that which has re- placed it. Groups of peasants sitting under trees, or some Orpheus by the side of a very blue lake, delighting the woodlands and wild animals with his melodious pipe ; very pink hills in the background, and very bright skies overhead ; and then immediately swept on- ward troops of mamelukes or janizaries in the gaudiest apparel, scouring the yellow plains after imaginary foes. The chimney-board represented a Bedouin bargaining at his tent door for the sale of his favourite mare, while in the corner of the tent, pistol, firelock, sword, and shield were thrown together in the most inextricable confusion. The floor was po- lished, even to a higher degree of intensity than the other room, and it was with conscious pride that Madame Blanchard threw open the door, and, having cast a careful glance round the room to see that 32 MAD amp: brinville. everything was in its right place, looked into her visitor's countenance with an inquiring gaze, as much as to say, " Madame will be very well here." But it was the view from the window which at that moment occupied Madame Brinville's attention. Bv a wise arrang^e- ment the back of the house, in which the best rooms were situated, looked to the south. The front into a Httle narrow street, scarcely worthy of the name, but which the loyalty of the inhabitants had distinguished with the appellation of La Rue Royale. The point of view w^as the same as that which Madame Brinville had been contemplating so long from the hill-side; but here the objects were brought much nearer. At the foot of the garden was a tiny rivulet, which fretted and sti-uggled like a wayward child, hurrying forward to join the great river of life ; a bank rose abruptly from the edge of the stream, and on every available spot of ground the vine was planted, while here and MADAME BRINVILLE. 33 there pieces of the naked rock peeped forth, and moss and wild heather mino^led with the graceful vine. A large meadow, of a green so bright that it indicated more rain than the inhabitants of Touraine would be disposed to allow could fall, extended far away to the foot of a noble wood-crowned hill, forming a part of that immense forest which is spread over the whole country from Chambord to the neighbourhood of Tours. At the end, as it were, of a point of land stood the old chateau of Tour Beauport, built in the sixteenth century, of a dark grey stone ; it was stamped with the appearance of more antiquity than it could really lay claim to — a long, huge pile, turret-laden, the numerous towers and pinnacles seemed to overlook the loftiest branches of the ancient woods which clung to its base. The centre of the chateau formed a broken line, which undulated with the ground on which it was built ; for our simple ancestors adapted their buildings to the ground on which VOL. I. D 34 MADAME BRINVILLE. they were erected, whereas we endeavour to make nature yield to our fancies. The few windows and heavy projecting eaves conveyed an impression of melancholy not at all in accordance with the surrounding scenery. It was not such a structure as buoyant ft f youth conjures up, but a fit habitation for the lovers of the marvellous, and calculated to strike the observer rather with awe than pleasure ; but if the centre wore this sad and melancholy appearance, on the other hand, one of the wings, which had been recently added, conveyed more agreeable impressions. Without departing from the picturesque style of the old French chateau, it had been adapted to the ideas of modern comfort. A wide terrace ran along the principal story ; and even from this distance it was easy to see the graceful and light balcony, by which it was protected. The incongruity, if indeed the eye of the practised artist could have detected any, was only that of youth and age, in which the likeness is MADAME BRINVILLE. 35 preserved, at the same time that the contrast, though striking, is far from being unpleasing. From the modern wing of the chateau an avenue of chesnut-trees swept down into the valley ; and their proud, rounded tops stood out in relief against the sky, as though they were the conscious guardians of the place. It was not, however, the stately chateau, or the neat odour-breathing garden beneath the window, that occupied Madame Brin- ville's attention. All her gaze was concen- trated on the valley, where two or three picturesque cottages were scattered about ; the luxuriance of the gardens, and the beauty of the glades, proving that the spots had been judiciously selected for the richness of the soil and the advantages of situation. The most distant of this group was attached to one of those beautiful old buildings, remarkable for their admirably mullioned windows, their projecting eaves, and quaint water-spouts. The lofty, steep, sloping roofs, D 2 36 MADAME BRINVILLE. and queer old gables have been long since adopted in the old Scottish mansions, but had their origin in Brittany and La Vendee, although they may be traced in some of the manor-houses in the west of England. One portion of this time-hallowed struc- ture was almost buried in ivy and honey- suckle, but whoever occupied it was possessed of that quality of refinement — good taste; for the roses, instead of being permitted to grow wild, and thus conceal the beautiful stone-work of the windows, were trained along the walls, although here and there, as if to show their power and ambition, they clambered up until they joined the roof. The porch, which was evidently of very recent date, was not quite in character with the rest of the building, but any archi- tectural deficiencies were concealed bv the clusters of roses under which it was buried. It was to this spot that all Madame Brin- ville's attention was directed. So concentrated was it, that it seemed MADAME BRINVILLE. 37 as if she were anxious to discover from the form of the building the traditions which belonged to it — if erected some centuries since, when men looked backward to their ancestors, and desired to leave some memo- rial of their love of home to their descend- ants. What changes must that structure have witnessed ! How many the tenants of those rooms, in which the huge rafters had accu- mulated the dust of ages ! What various groups round that hearth, where the wide seats invited the whole family to gather near the blazing wood, and the fitful blaze cast its vivid light on the rude decorations of the hall ! How many eyes had looked forth from those beautiful oriel windows ! How much youth had perhaps wasted itself in sweet and passionate dreams upon the green bank, which in terraces of formal symme- try sloped down to the glen-side, doubtless preserved less for their beauty than for their associations. Madame Brinville's contemplation was not 38 MADAME BRINVILLE. extended to the whole, or indeed, to the most picturesque portion of the structure ; she was gazing on a small window, which peeped forth from its bower of tendril and blossom. She pictured herself as a young child, sitting at that window, listless and idle, in that still- ness which for youth and beauty is sufficient excitement. She seemed to see a cage with some favourite bird hung from the window-sill : to hear voices not harsh and loud, but gentle and soft as the voices of love, when they speak of their home. Again a few years, and the blossom of the child had changed into the bloom of girlhood — in that glorious state in which nothing in life is long permitted to remain, out of the bud, but scarcely in the flower — the rose which we select, before its beau- ties are all unfolded. The picture her fancy drew was one, which an artist would have endeavoured to depict and a poet to sing. The whole countenance fraught with hope, the lip* full and trembling more in MADAME BRINVILLE. 39 love than in sorrow, the eyes ht with such intelligence — such as though, to her soul, the word had been uttered, " Let there be light," and the light broke over her spirit, soul, and feature ; or again another picture, with her handkerchief tied round her head, sitting on the terrace, beneath the acacias' shade, listlessly reading, or fashioning her life into tales of love and romance. Dream followed dream ; and as the evening breeze swept by, it wafted to Madame Brinville the memories of long years. While the glories of that twilight were blended with the sunshine and shadows of the past, how long she sat in that position, she knew not ; but she was startled by the sound of her own voice as in youth. It was Florence, who had been in the gar- den ; and seeing her mother in an attitude of contemplation, had stolen gently behind her, and said: " Mamma, you are still unhappy !" It was quite true. Madame Brinville 40 MADAME BRINVILLE. wept as only those weep, who mingle in the same flood of tears their passions, and regrets, and repentance. She looked up for one moment to Florence, and endea- voured to force a smile ; hut the effort was too painful, and the grief too deep, for again she buried her face in her hands, and the hum of joyous spring was inter- rupted by her sobs. At this moment, Madame Blanchard knocked gently at the door ; and hearing no answer, she entered the room. "Madame is ill?" she said. There was something in the voice of that kind landlady which touched Madame Brin- ville. Sympathy wins so immediately the aifection w^hich it claims. The lady of fashion, before whom the golden youth of Paris had at one time ])owcd, took the hand of this new and simple acquaintance, and pressed it to her heart. The touch of sympathy was mutual. Madame Blanchard remained silent for a few minutes, 'and allowed the feelino^s to MADAME BRINVILLE. 41 express themselves in sighs and in tears ; and then there followed a few kind offers of sun- dry remedies which the good lady thought must, in some shape or another, be adapted to the hysterical disposition of her guest. Madame Brinville, by the slightest pos- sible shake of the head, had declined them all, when suddenly she moved her hands from her face, and taking Madame Blanchard's hand in her own, she pointed to the old manor-house just described, and inquired if she knew who resided there. It seemed that when Madame Blanchard came to Mont d'Or, the place w^as unte- nanted; but, a few months pre\dously to this conversation, a young married couple had arrived there. The man held some situation in a public office at Tours, and, although frequently absent, from home, he always seemed so happy to return, and his wife to see him back again, " that," added the tender-hearted Madame Blanchard, " it 42 MADAME BRINVILLE. alwavs brinf^s tears into my eves to recal the happy days I passed avec ce pauvre Blanchard." " Then you have not been here long ?" asked Madame Brinville. " Oh, no !" replied Madame Blanchard. *' Jacques kept an hotel at Tours, in the Rue de la Ville Eveque. It was a magnificent hotel, and he became bankrupt. The house was sold, and we retired here to this pretty little spot, where, thanks to some kind friends, I get on very well. The marquis and his family come to see me constantly ; and in the fishing season they send me a ffreat manv customers. If Madame only knew what an excellent trout-stream it is — there is nothing like it in the Touraine. We are preparing some for Madame*s supper." And again sentiment and commiseration were merged in the good housewife. Madame Brinville smiled at the earnest- ness of the kind efforts of the hostess to MADAME BRINVILLE. 43 comfort and distract her ; and, at her earnest request, she again descended into the garden, where Florence was sitting amid a perfect wilderness of wild but beautiful flowers. " Madame Blanchard will not thank you, Florence," said her mother, " if you rob her of all her flowers." " Oh, it was not I who picked them, mamma !" said Florence ; " it was Made- moiselle — " Madame Brinville turned, and saw a girl of about Florence's age sitting in an arbour. She was dressed in white, even to her shoes, and there was not one shade of colour in the dress to vary its monotony. A small net contained the hair at the back of the head, while a few stray locks, which fell over her shoulders, showed how long it would have been, had it been permitted to float at will. The face was full of interest for one so young ; there was an air of fixed melancholy — and the peculiar, 44 MADAME BRINVILLE. sad expression of the eye proved that the child had felt some of the shadows of maturer years. When Madame Brinville looked at her, she rose, and then, for the first time, she observed two crutches lying by her side. An expression of annoyance flitted across the young girl's face at Madame Brinville's inquiring glance. It was sad to see so youthful a person suffering under such an infirmity, and Madame Brinville was, in a moment, recalled from her own melancholv but selfish impressions. She pretended not to see the cloud on the girl's face, spoke to her in the kindest voice, put a seat for her near Florence, and then turned, in a low voice, to inquire of Madame Blanchard how long the poor girl had been thus afflicted. " From a child," was the reply : and then the good woman added in a low tone : '* She is, Madame, a brother's child. Ho married very early in life, and then went to sea, to the MADAME BRINVILLE. 45 West Indies, where he was carried off by the yellow fever, leaving this poor, crippled girl to my care. He was always an excellent brother to me, so I determined to do my duty towards her. She is good, kind, and gentle, as any girl can be ; but you see that she is but of little use. Sometimes she has tried to attend to the cows ; then they stray, and she is unable to run after them, and I am forced to employ a boy to see that they are safe, at least two or three times a day, so as you may imagine, there is a great expense in keeping a boy on purpose. But she has a kind heart, and such a good disposition ; every one must love her in spite of her infirmity ; poor thing, I took her once to the doctor at Tours, who says that she can never recover. Marie," called Madame Blanchard, " come and speak to Madame." She placed her crutches under her arms, and approached slowly and painfully. The colour was still in her cheek, but her eye was calm and meek. Madame placed 46 MADAME BRINVILLE. her hand on her head, and stroked the beau- tiful hair with a hand as kind and gentle as though she had been her mother. The night was closing in apace ; even the hum of busy insect life was dying away. Long streaks of orange and purple showed where the sun was sinking into his glorious repose ; while the topmost branches of the forest trees w^ere still surrounded with a halo of light, against which the dark bed of foliage stood forth in relief as in a golden frame ; the ripple of the burn, as it murmured amongst the pebbles, appeared to grow louder w^ith the stillness of evening : the good-night of each peasant rung on the air like heartfelt blessings ; it seemed that the flowers exhaled a richer perfume ; that the night-breeze was more soothing than in the daytime : it is said of the blind, that deeper and keener per- ceptions are bestowed upon them to com- pensate to them for deprivation of sight, so on the night doth it seem that nature sheds sweeter and gentler blessings of repose and MADAME BRINVILLE. 47 stillness, to compensate it for the absence of the glorious light. Florence and Marie soon retired to rest, presently asleep under the same roof were two young girls, to both of whom, even as children, the world had assumed a scornful aspect. Two children, while yet so young, destined to lament the affections which cherished them ; and that love, which should be as light to the universe, overshadowed their cradles, and darkened their destinies. 48 THE HOMESTEAD. CHAPTER IV. THE HOMESTEAD. Once beloved and self-respected. Give me back all thou hast taken, God's own love for man's forsaken, God's own love for man's rejected. From winged dreams of fancy bright I wake, but only wake to weep ; Like one, who, murmuring in his sleep, Wakes with hope, then finds it night. Sadder than night my soul, for mom. On dreariest winter always breaks, But heaven's sunshine oft forsakes A heart like mine so tempest worn. THE HOMESTEAD. 49 So give me back my peace again. Or bid my spirit love thee less ; My love to thee is bitterness. To me it is e'en harsher pain. It was scarcely six in the morning when Madame Brinville rose ; yet even at that early hour the whole valley was radiant with the joy of the morning. A light haze rested on the meadows, but the tops of the stately pine, the pride of the forest, and the wide- spreading branches of the chesnut, appeared above it like islands on an ocean. The base of the chateau of Tour Beauport was shrouded in vapour, which rose curtain-wise, until it enveloped tower and pinnacle, and then dispersed itself into the blue atmosphere. There was every promise of a warm and sultry day. It was a day to caU forth happi- ness, and on which the happy would have selected the brightest colours from their wardrobes, as most in harmony with her sensations. Not so Madame Brinville ; she chose a dark dress. She could not prevent VOL. I. E 50 THE HOMESTEAD. the elegance of the fashion, which was so wtU adapted to the form of the w^earer, but in every other respect she evidently endea- voured to study the greatest simplicity. So soon as she was dressed, she sallied forth, not to the garden entrance, but into the street. It was Sunday morning, so no one was astir. The hard labouring m.en were resting after the repose of the sveek, and snatching some moments of that gi'eatest blessing which nature can bestow — repose of mind and body. Madame Brinville walked quickly, and looked round frequently, as if anxious to escape observation. She had her prayer-book in her hand, and, there- fore, whoever met her might have concluded that she was on her way to some holy office of religion in a neighbouring parish. After following the road for about a mile, a secluded lane led down to the old manor- house, which she had contemplated with so much interest on the preceding evening. A sudden turn of the road brouirht the house THE HOMESTEAD. 51 in full view, which had until then been con- cealed by the garden and a bank of ever- greens. Here Madame Brinville, whether over- come by the heat of the morning, or by the pace at which she had walked, turned very pale, and paused a few minutes, clasping her hand to her heart, as though to still its beatings. She must have been well ac- quainted w^ith the grounds ; for she walked on until she came to a small orchard, where a path, rich in all variety of flowers, led to a fresh, trickling spring, which, after being col- lected in a small vase, flowed from its lips in a gushing, purling rivulet to the burn at the foot of the garden. Madame Brinville seated herself, screened by the shrubs from the observation of any one in the house, while through the foliage she could in some degree trace the outline of its architecture. There, seated by the fountain, the soft trickling of the water fell like a wondrous symphony on her soul, she E 2 tlfiRARY ^ UNlVERSin OF ilunoj: 52 THE HOMESTEAD. seemed to recal all the past, as drop by drop, it sunk into the overflowing basin, and then flowed languidly away like a monoto- nous existence, the lights and shadows of memory flitted across her soul. Oh ! these memories, how they crowd at moments upon the brain ; long-forgotten years, words no more remembered, thoughts and visions we fondly or sadly imagined were long since entombed and grass-grown, sounds of loved voices, even the very odours of the Past sweep, iEolian harp-like, through our hearts, borne by the breezes which fanned our youth. As Madame Brinville sat there, it seemed that each moment was frauijht with its in- spiration ; two hours had passed away, and the lio'ht breeze blew across the meadows tlie sound of the village bells. Without a mental efl^ort, her thoughts reverted to the day of her first communion, when, clothed in white, as emblematic of innocence, she had knelt with manv of her THE HOMESTEAD. 53 young companions at the altar. She saw as though it were yesterday the kind old cure, and felt the touch of his hand as he laid it on her head, pronouncing the blessing of the Church. Then her mind, by a sudden change, passed to scenes far different, to the grace- ful fashions of a great city, and from these again to the vast interests of a mighty nation, with which her own individual troubles were as insignificant as the rivulet, by which she was sitting, was to the rapid river which flows through Paris. Then her own loveliness in golden youth, her vanities, the features which allured while they gratified, the words of love, the sweet confidence, the silence and stillness of two hearts beating in unison, the maiden affections, all passed before her. There was a sad gratification in renewing all these impressions ; she felt that she was repeating her youth, re-entering the por- tals of that new world which Paris had 54 THE HOMESTEAD. opened to her view ; the friends who had bid her welcome were again standing by her side — Elise, who had been her earUest friend, and received her wdth that winning confidence which is the life of voun": hearts, a confidence which on an evil dav was fully returned, and of which she ever re- pented. Involuntarily, she then looked at a locket w^hich she always wore, and gazed on features which it required no locket or picture to recal, and she remembered when she had first seen them. It was on the occasion of a visit to Fontainebleau. There was a party of young men and maidens, all about the same age, on one of those brilliant days which make Paris the queen of cities. They had passed all the morning strolling through the noble forest ; wild glen, fantastic .rocks, and green alley had been all visited in turns ; and the fancies of many were filled with thoughts of love which bud like violets in the spring. THE HOMESTEAD. 55 On that occasion one was present un- known to the general society, for he was of higher rank, but invited by a friend, by one of those accidents apparently so immaterial, but on which the destinies of life depend. Elise, who was acquainted with him, pre- sented him to her friend Louise, and from that moment he never left her side. It was the sport of others, even amid their own interests, to watch her dawning feelings. It was not surprising that the young man singled her out from amongst the rest ; they were all, it is true, graceful and pretty, with those gentle manners and happy negligence, which achieve triumphs art cannot attain to ; but in Louise there was a languor of expression which lulled the heart of those that looked at her into repose, a lip pen- sive, but which sometimes sweetly smiled, rather, as it were, from sympathy than from inward gaiety. Her figure gracefully undu- lating, gave to her step, when she walked, a stateliness of womanhood which the girlish- 56 THE HOMESTEAD. ness of her countenance belied. She looked one of those whom poetry and imagination claim as their own, one of the favoured beings, who furnish the romance of the many and the felicity of the one. How often has the tale been told ! how often will it be told ! how many have walked, as on that evening, through fragrant glades, when the deepened glow and quick- ened breath were felt, although unseen ; how throughout that day he never left her side, for an instant ; for long hours, which passed like moments of time, when, apart from the rest of the gay society, they strolled side by side, and not a word was spoken except when, to break the silence, her companion sometimes called her atten- tion to the streaks of brilliant light, which darted through the branches of the ancient forest trees, and the sunny gleams wliich here and there peeped through the con- fusion of trunk and stem, or pointed out to her, ' as the haze, from the heat THE HOMESTEAD. 57 of the day, rose in fantastic shapes, the spire of some distant church, or the ruin of some old tower, which had usurped some portion of the wildness of the forest. Strange, that all this should have ap- peared to be without danger even to herself, but, in truth, this sense of security originated in vanity, and an overweening confidence in herself, of all perils the greatest. She forgot that ever and ever "Danger shall be In the hour, that thou deemest securest to thee." But, besides, at this very time she was engaged by her parents to marry a cousin, who resided in the vicinity of Bordeaux. He had paid her frequent visits at Mont d'Or, and was deeply attached to her; in compliance with the wishes of her friends, she had consented to marry him. Indeed, this visit to Paris had been permitted on 58 THE HOMESTEAD. the plea of its being a wedding visit to some relations who resided there ; and, to do Louise mere justice, she was led away, as so many are, by slow^ and im- perceptible degrees ; if, in the first instance, the \'isits of M. Langeac were remarked by her friends, they soon ceased to give rise to comment — habits of intimacy are so easily engendered. Friendship, sisterhood, were the topics spoken of, for Elise had warned the young man of Louise's engage- ment, and these were the names by which she designated her affection in her heart and in her prayers : ** Spesso I'amor sotto la forma D'amista ride e s'asconde, Poi si mischia e si confonde, Con lo sdegno e col rancor. " In pietade ei si transforma, Par trustullo e par dispetto, Ma nel suo diverse aspetto Sempre egli ^ 1' istesso amor." THE HOMESTEAD. 59 She did not notice that, whenever he came she sought the garden, which, small as gardens mostly are in Paris, and overgrown with weeds, seemed to her, when he was sitting by her side, more beautiful than the svlvan shades of her own Homestead: she did not notice how she told the minutes until his arrival, and how many hours a day w^ere passed in pensive idleness, and in reading and repeating over and over again the words he had uttered, as if she were counting the beads of the rosary she wore. He was in appearance worthy of her, and, as we have said, of far higher birth — the son of Baron Langeac, a new title, a new family, but of great wealth. His father had made a large fortune in trade, and his son at that time filled a lucrative situation in one of the offices of the fermiers-generauXy and it was understood, would soon succeed one the most eminent of those avai'icious gentlemen in a prominent situation. At the period when he first met Madame 60 THE HOMESTEAD. Brinville, or, as she was then called, Louise, he was remarkable among the extravagant youth of his day, and possessed that name- less, and sometimes really unaccountable fashion and prestige which, like all mystic and irregular qualities, exercises so great a fascination on the imaginations of the young. Is it, therefore, surprizing that Louise was at once captivated by him? Is it less surprizing that she carefully concealed the fact, except from her one friend, Elise? There was a book from which she loved to hear him read, for his voice was gentle and low ; many passages of this book were marked as expressing in language far more impressive than any she could command, the feelings nearest her heart, albeit eloquence is the child of true feeling ; and then there were flowers, and bits of moss placed between the leaves, and each of these possessed its separate interest, but iill relating to the one object that filled her mind. He used to read chapter after chapter, and she sat THE HOMESTEAD. 61 there in heart attentive, but idly, or to con- ceal her emotion, sometimes tearing a flower to pieces ; and as he read, his voice would falter, and the colour of her cheek would deepen. Once he paused suddenly, and then unwittingly he took her hand, and at the touch her whole frame trembled, perchance he anticipated the reply, when in a low whisper he said : " Louise, do you love me ?" and she murmured : " Yes, for ever." Call it Love, dignify it by what name you will, but the question will be asked : Is it love for the sake of self, or for the sake of the woman ? Surely that w^ord cannot be prostituted to self, which cast a bright light even on the darkness of the middle ages, which gave its name to the holiest feasts of the Church, which lent to the minstrel his harp, and tied a kerchief on the arm of the cavalier. Surely that word, if any word, possesses a signification deeper and holier than many imagine. It must 62 THE HOMESTEAD. be associated with tenderness for its object, with something of gratitude towards her who has called forth the noblest qualities of the heart. The poor Indian worships the sun as the source of w^armth and happiness, and of that light which penetrates into the darkness of the forest ; and must w^e not bow before that mysterious power which sows within our hearts the seed of all its best fruits, and is as light penetrating to the darknesses of the soul. Is it possible, save in a moment of mad- ness and delusion, to descend from the dignity of this noble passion, to degrade the glorious image of her we love? Is this not to uproot the Hower which has blessed us with its beauty, and gladdened us with its perfume, to plant wild and noxious weeds in its place ? Is it not to remove the cross from the altar, and replace it by vain and unworthy idols ? Surely, whatever the temptation to- sin, thire wiU flash across tht THE HOMESTEAD. 63 heart of a man so tempted, the infinite per- fection of the thing he is about to destroy, and pity will enforce those claims of mercy which love urges in vain. 64 VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. CHAPTER V. VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. Still the fountain never ceasins:, trickled on, after she had with M. Langeac left her home, forgetting her vows and promises. Counselled by the false friend Elise, in an evil hour she consented to marry him, only to learn soon after the birth of Florence, that the marriage was a delusion, and that he was wedded to another. Since that time, how many had landed on death's silent shore, how many had left that homestead for the lasting mansions of the dead. Her father and mother had died, and not from old age. Bitterly had they lamented the false step VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 65 which she had taken, wronging a worthy and noble-hearted young man to whom she had been long betrothed for one of most indifferent reputation, and when they learnt the truth, the blow was fatal to both. Years rolled by, and then it was that, bear- ing a different name, she thought to return to that home she had left now eighteen years since. She longed to see again all those spots she had so loved in her youth ; hence the cause of her visit to Mont d'Or, of her sorrow, of her interest in that spot. Eighteen years had passed, eighteen years of her life's history. She left her home in the spring, and in the spring she returned again, and all around her seemed unchanged in its beauty. Here was the garden she once delighted in, not a spot which had not its interest, and which was not associated with her infancy or girlhood. That little plot of ground, bounded by the stream, contained within itself, to her mind, as much beauty as any one heart could enjoy. Tour Beauport and La Palice had, it is VOL. I. F 66 VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. true, larger gardens, richer fountains, many more flowers, but what matter? As she looked around her, when the bitterness of thought was quenched, the dew of her youth seemed again to refresh her heart. In a secluded spot she remembered, there was a fairy little house, made of shells, which she had built with one of her young companions. She recalled as though it were but yesterday, how carefully she had selected the spot, so that her mother should not discover it in her daily walks ; and yet her mother knew it well, but with what special care did she, if she passed it perforce, pretend not to see it. Madame Brinville rose to discover if this slight relic of the past remained untouched. She went straight to the place, and there indeed it was, even a light fence had been put round it for protection ; probably her mother had done this, but at all events, those who now occupied the house, had respected this monument of affection. Here, VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 67 then, was the Eden of her early life ; and as she gazed around, the freshness and bright hues of youth's morning, which so rarely expand into noonday, fell upon her; there were the graceful ash trees, the sweet, flowing lilac; even the rustic seat on which she had so often idled away the day, or where her mother, when the weather was hot and sultry, took her work, while she sat at her feet reading some fairy tale, on the issue of which she huns; with breathless interest. Then, in addition to the local interest attaching to each spot, w^ere the recollections of sweet and kind words, such as pure and holy affections can alone inspire ; there was the place where forgiveness had been asked and granted for some light and venial omission, but which, in those days of in- nocence had, to her eyes, assumed gigantic proportions ; and close to the fountain was a walk which passed through the garden into a small adjoining copse, where, on the morn of her departure to Paris on her F 2 68 VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. marriage visit, her mother had led her, in order to give her that advice which was to guide her through the dangers of that new world she was about to enter, but which was interrupted by many tears shed by both. As she stood there again, the full conviction of her loneliness in spirit as in body flashed on her soul. The old homestead, her father, her mother, her friends had all passed from her — she was alone in the world, in the world without her God. She threw herself on the bench, and wept bitterly. Sob followed sob unchecked ; but sud- denly she started at the sound of some one approaching. A man was coming along the path that led through the wood. She could not be mistaken in his hobbling gait, the broad shoulders bent with age ; it must be — it could only be the old gardener, Joseph. Yes, there he was, in apparently the same waistcoat he wore on Sundays eio^hteen VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 69 years since, elaborately decorated with the brightest flowers, for it had once belonged to a set of curtains, and her mother had cut a piece off them to make him a waistcoat, which on fete-days was the glory of the parish church. Surely all the intervening time was a dream ; she was still a girl, and this was her home. She did not then consider that so marvel- lous is nature, that no single impression, no thought, no word ever perishes ; that years may roll by, but the old man retains within himself, and unknown to himself, powers of memory some day to be revealed to him. All that the cunning of modern art can accomplish, all the marvels of Mesmer, of Weisshaupt, or Cagliostro resolve themselves into this, that they can so entirely cast the mind into a state of vacancy, that it can receive whatever impression is chosen to be conveyed, provided it has once passed through the brain of the patient, but one spot known to childhood, one note of music, 70 VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. even one perfume will produce the same effect, and vision after vision of the past will arise to the recollections of those who thought them long since entomhed in the past. " Joseph !" she exclaimed. The old man looked round to see whence the voice came. Presently she heard him say: " Mon Dieu, it was certainly the voice of Mademoiselle Louise. Mais comment done, mais ce n'est pas possible," and then when he saw her, there was an expression of de- light that gladdened Madame Brinville's heart. He drew near the seat, and then he observed how much she had been weeping ; and the kind old man, without ])recisely divining the cause, felt the tears fill his eyes, as he recalled the many years that had elapsed since they had met. " Ah ! Mademoiselle Louise," ho said, " I never thoug^hf to have seen vour sweet face VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 71 again. Ah ! what happiness ! They are good people who live here now ; but your father and mother, how good and kind they w^ere ! She was an angel ; and as for him, he was quite reverenced, as though one w^ere to say he was treated like the archeveque when he went out. When your poor mother died, Mademoiselle Louise, the whole village followed her to the grave ; and old Olivier, who you remember, Mademoiselle, as the sexton, told me that he sold on that occa- sion more immortelles than he disposed of in any one month. And then you, Mademoiselle, every one wondered that you did not come home again — by the bye, pardon, Madame, I forgot we heard that you had married. This made us all very happy, but it would have done us more good to have seen you again as I do now." As he spoke, each word was a dagger' to her heart, and yet, as in Northern climes, when a fire has burnt down the forest, fruits and flow^ers spring into life again from 7*2 VISTONS OF CHILDHOOD. the ashes ; so in this heart, fresh hopes were springing from the waste and decay. "The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new light through chinks that time has made." It is ever found that the darkest hour of night is next the morning. " And who resides here now ?" asked Madame Brinville. " It is very extraordinary," said Joseph ; " it seems that it was almost intended for Madame, if she chooses to take it. The young people who resided here left only the day before yesterday ; his father died, and he was forced to return to Bordeaux ; thev were very sorry to leave it. I do not know, I am sure, whether they will return. La Petite Ang€^le left me her birds to take care of, as if she hoped to come back ; but as his father was a wine-merchant at Bordeaux, he will probably be compelled to reside there ; and if so, Madume could purchase the place, or hire VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. 73 it at a very low rent. M. Ponthieu, to whom it belongs, lives at a very short distance." As Joseph continued, Madame Brinville's countenance was radiant with light. Every heart, like Petrarch's, seeks some Val Chiusa — some spot where it can repose, and live in the past instead of the present. In a moment, with a woman's fondness, and faith in destiny, she imagined the place her own ; she rose and visited the room where as a child she had played, and as a girl she had felt. If she could but realize this purchase, she thought she could be again happy. She would people the solitude with the voices of the past. To her every spot would have its interest, even the very stream would recal the youth that had flowed with it into the eternal waters of Time ; and for a moment, in this state of mental activity the flame of happiness seemed to burn again with something of its former glow, like meteors which owe their splendour to motion, but 74 VISIONS OF CHILDHOOD. die away when they are in rest and re- pose. The hours sped by, and it was long after noon when she returned to La Belle Etoile. With her heart composed and chastened, for a time she had forgotten the world, and its systems and its forms ; she had suffered, but it was a suffering which ennobles while it saddens, for it was mingled with love for others ; and the tears were tears of affection. LA TOUR BEAUFORT. 75 CHAPTER VI. LA TOUR BEAUFORT. We are told that this is a great age, and the age of great cities. Pre-eminently we will admit that it is the age of vast cities, but how far these cities deserve the epithet of great, is another question. If the cha- racter of an age or of a nation is to be judged by its architecture, the present age — and, above all other countries in the present age — our own fiills far below the standard of excel- lence. The cities, vast emporiums as they are, stand on the surface of the soil ; but they have as little pretension, and offer as little resistance to the ravages of time as those 76 LA TOUR BEAUPORT. painted canvas towns, which were placed on the horizon, when the Empress Catharine of Russia travelled, in order, in her rapid pro- gress, to give her an exalted idea of the populousness of her dominions. Commerce is the magician which in all times has, with her magic w^and, called great cities into existence ; but commerce is in these days more selfish, more exclusive, less generous than of old. She does not keep her state in marble palaces ; and the great merchants are no longer the merchant princes of the nation. Thebes with her hundred gates, purple Tyre, imperial Car- thage were the offspring of commerce. The tideless Adriatic and the azure Medi- terranean wafted commerce to the stones of Venice and the marbles of Genoa ; then it was that men possessed noble thoughts, and couW greatly realize them. It was the proud boast of the great Caesar that he found Rome brick, and left it marble. Werare content to leave nothing but LA TOUR BEAUPORT. 77 bricks to our descendants. But it is not only in great cities that there is a change ; Faith and Charity no longer win the earth wanderer by the same noble structures. The beautiful abl)eys, where formerly Faith knelt at the altar, and Charity bade welcome at the gates, are now left to claim our love and sympathy only from the glory of their ruins ; and where are the noble chateaux and princely towers, which, while they added to the pride of illustrious lineage, protected the lowly who loved to dwell beneath the shade they cast ? How seldom is it that in these days we see raised such a glorious pile as that of La Tour Beau port, or as it was more generally and briefly styled in its neighbourhood, Tour Beauport. Built on a point of land which juts forth like a promontory into the vale, it overlooked a vast extent of plain, and many streams, which flowed on gently like happier natures, fertilizing and blessing in their course. The gloomy forest spread its vast masses behind it along the ridge, and then 78 LA TOUR BEAUFORT. expanded fan-like till it blended with the distance. The dark sand-rock on which the chateau itself was built, served as a solid foundation, as well as a defence, to the struc- ture which it supported. Within a three-mile circuit there was no hill that could command the castle ; and therefore, even in the days of formidable artil- lery, it was well calculated to stand a siege. Clustering at the foot of the castle were a few houses placed against the sand-rock, which, while they availed themselves of its strength, appeared from a distance to give it some support — a not unapt illustration of serf- dom in the middle ages, which rendered back to the feudal baron some of the support which it owed to his countenance. In front of the castle, at a very short distance, was a steep bank, on the top of which were the mins of an old abbey almost concealed by the wild forest trees, and the luxuriant under- wood which had sprung up in those courts and cloisters, where a genial hospitality had LA TOUR BEAUFORT. 79 formerly been exercised, and vespers were wont to be sung. The Abbey of Briare had long flourished under the protection of the Seigneurs of Tour Beauport. A subterranean passage was said to unite them ; and report, ever free with the characters of feudality, pretended that some of these puissant barons, after violating all the canons of decency and reli- gion, were wont to avail themselves of this passage to seek absolution, and sometimes even sanctuary, when justice did — as it rarely did — venture to penetrate into the wild forests, which in former days overspread the whole valley as far as the Loire. The massive turrets of the old chateau, the fantastic spouts, which, in the shape of griffins' heads and grotesque mouths, after a heavy flood almost poured their waters upon the roofs of the houses below, the heavy parapet at the top, behind which were planted watch-turrets, ser^dng at the same time for warders to warn of 80 LA TOUR BEAUFORT. danger, as well as to guard the avenues, in the event of an enemy approaching along the ridge of land — all this was a confusion of building not very picturesque in detail, but very successful in its general effect. In the centre of this vast pile, and carved out of the same grey stone of which it was built, were the arms of the familv. The fleurs-de-lis were cut in such gigantic pro- portions, that they could be plainly distin- guished from below, and testified to the importance which the family De Soligny attached to the drops of royal blood that flowed in their veins. These fleurs-de-lis were blended with the quarterings of half the noble houses of France, the De Mont- morencis, the De la Tremouilles, whose arms have so frequently added illustration even to the emblazonment of royalty. To support this heavy shield and the nu- merous devices, on one side stood a wild Hun- garian with a massive club, who certainly was calculated to impress beholders with LA TOUR BEAUFORT. 81 terror, if any dared to defy the motto, " Gare qui touche." And on the oppo- site side, in strange contrast, stood an angel with an olive-branch in the one hand, while the other rested on the shield. In the days of the wildest period in the annals of the house of De Soligny, one of the barons was disposed to discard the angel as of too peaceful a character, and to replace it by a wild boar, or some other savage emblem of his nature. But the venerable fathers in the neighbouring abbey were so outraged at the idea, that they threatened to anathematize him every Sunday, if he did not leave the angel in peace ; and all he could manage was to get rid of the olive-branch, which he re- garded as a tacit insult (but which the milder piety of some descendant restored), while he satisfied himself by adding every possible rude quality to the unfortunate Hungarian. On a large tablet, again, below the shield, VOL. L G 82 LA TOUR BEAUFORT. the style and titles of the first Baron de Soligny were distinctly visible. There men read how the first baron, in the thirteenth century, was Lord of Selles, of Chevilly, of Mont Louis, Briare, and Cler- mont ; that he was hereditary Capitaine des Gardes de Sa Majeste Tres-Chretienne, et Commandant-en-chef of the Frank Archers. Moreover, although he had despised the mediation of the angel, he did not scruple to engrave the prayer, " that God might hold in his Sainte et digne garde, le Premier Baron de Soligny." Whether all these assumptions of rights, styles, and dignities were well founded, may be doubted ; but, on one occasion, a neighbouring count, very much annoyed at the incessant persecutions which he en- dured from this Christian baron, boldly pro- claimed his undue appropriation of many seigneuries. But unfortunately for himself, he had not power to maintain this heresy ; and the bones, found in one of the dun- LA TOUR BEAUPORT. 83 geons, were the only memorials of his having fallen a victim to his candour, after having, before his death, under pro- mises of a most favourable nature, not only recognized the Barons de Soligny in all their old titles and as many more be- sides, but also making over to them all the chateaux and their appurtenances belonging to himself, and swearing that he made all these submissions, declarations, and rehn- quishments of his own free will, and gratefully acknowledging the kindness and attention that had been shown him by his friend the Baron de Soligny. So this episode in the history of the barons entitled the founder of the for- tunes of the family to the gratitude, if not of the public, at any rate of his descen- dants. The approach to this strange and stately pile, was by a gradual slope through the wood. At the top a clearance had been made, not G 2 84 LA TOUR BEAUFORT. only to show off the castle itself, but also to protect it against any sudden surprise. A large court-yard was entered by a draw- bridge, which, even in these modern times, was drawn up every night, and the whole forms of pass-words and of watch and ward were duly gone through, partly be- cause the present marquis liked everything which reminded him of his feudal descent, and also because at this time the state of politics was not such as to give confidence to the possessors of castles. The court was surrounded by buildings ; three sides were occupied by the inhabitable part of the castle, and the fourth by stables, capable of containing half-a-dozen squadrons of the chevaux-legers, which the present marquis for- merly commanded in his capacity of Capitaine des Gardes. The more modern wing of the chateau itself was approached by an archway, and a lono; descent w^as ofuarded bv two portcullises, proving that, whoever erected LA TOUR BEAUFORT. 85 the more modern structure, did not possess such confidence in the times or in the efficacy of the guardian angel who pro- tected his shield, as to reject the wise precautions of his ruder ancestors. 86 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. CHAPTER VII. THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. It was in the evening of that Sunday which Madame Brinville had passed in the garden of the old manor-house, that the present possessor, no longer a baron but a marquis, was walking on the terrace which ran in front of the whole of the modern portion of the building. The said terrace was filled with flowers, w^hich the first baron would have hurled with contempt at the roofs of the houses below, as proofs of shameful efi^eminacy. That such was not, however, the mood of the marquis, was evident, for from time to time he stopped to pick a flower THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 87 and to remove a dead leaf from the walk ; and the apparent interest with which he looked on the prospect showed that he was a great lover of nature. Nowhere could he have indulged this passion better than here ; on the one side, clusters of dark green trees mingled with w^ild blossoms climbed up to the foot of the terrace, and beyond the terrace a wide ex- panse of plain extended in broken, undulating ground to the banks of the Loire, which might be seen, as it were skirting the horizon, and winding like a stream of silver round the landscape ; on the other, the view was bounded by the rich country in which the village of Mont d'Or was situated, and there was some- thing striking and beautiful in the appearance of this valley. The sounds of village bells were borne by the breezes across the meadows, the green vines clambering to the hill-tops contrasted with the fields laden with golden spring flowers ; the cottages peeped through the foliage in which they were buried ; so still and quiet, it seemed in such a place there could be no room for passions, no self-inte- 88 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. rests, no ambitions, no vanities, but only those gentle qualities which render home beloved. The vein of thought which was passing through the mind of the marquis was apparent from his glancing up from time to time from the lowly cottages to the sculp- tured arms, whose emblazonment we have described ; then walking to the extreme end of the terrace, he looked down on the deep curtain of rock which formed its security from the ravages of nature and of man. He had just returned from the chapel, where the monuments of his ancestors, some in armour, and others in ecclesiastical dress — for the De Solignys had not disdained to give their younger scions the advantages of sundry abbayes and cardinalships — had recalled to him the splendour and havoc of the past. It is not surprising, therefore, that, as he stood gazing on his wide possessions, and observed the strength of the proud castle which he called his own, something of sadness shoidd have filled his mind at the idea of the glory of such a life, and the uncertainty of its tenui*e. But still, while THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 89 his thoughts were glancing in this direction, there was so much kindness and benevo- lence in his look, that it did not seem he could be long abstracted in melancholy contemplations. He walked to the end of the terrace, and there he was joined by the Abbe Louis, who generally officiated at the castle on Sundays and high fete days. They stood opposite an opening which had been made in the wood, and through which, far away in the distance, might be seen the outline of the Chateau of Loches. " Now, Abbe," said the marquis, " you have not been here since that wood was cleared away ; look steadily, and you will see Loches ; it is no less than ten leagues from here. You will scarcely guess why I made this opening ; I will tell you. It was that Henri may always learn a moral lesson when he walks this terrace, and see the prison where his grandfather passed the greater part of his life." 90 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. " M. Henri has told me the whole histor\\" said the Abbe, " and it is a sad reflection that any monarch calling himself tres Chretien should have been guilty of such atrocities.'* " No, no, my friend,-' said the marquis, " kings may be like other men, and nobles too like other men, and my ancestors were neither better nor w^orse than the majority. They conspired against the king when it suited their purpose, and he put them into prison when he caught them. The fact is, Abbe, I fear that in my great-grandfather's time the nobles were little better than a set of freebooters. Society was differently con- stituted to what it is at present : we," and here the marquis raised his plumed hat, " pay all honour and reverence to the sovereign. I cannot, Sir, with my feelings, understand how all these i2:reat illustrations have from time to time been banded together against the crown, and too frequently led by princes of the blood." *' Perhaps on the principle of schoolboys," said the Abbe, smiling, " that of breaking THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 91 windows. You remember, marquis, that the followers of the Prince de Conde were nicknamed frondeurSj on account of the sling, the child's weapon, w^ith which they were armed. But we must admit," he added, " w^ith all deference and respect to the principle by which His Most Christian Majesty reigns, that formerly, from time to time, each in its turn, all classes had good grounds for irritation ; at one moment it was the nobles, just at the present time it is the people. Besides the power which, even when it was not abused — the power of a lettre de cachet — how contrary to the spirit of that love of freedom which nature and education have implanted in the hearts of all men !" " Oh, for that matter," replied the mar- quis, " a series of lettres de cachet were as necessary as the emblazonment to the nobility of a house. The chronicles of the Bastille and of Loches were as aristo- cratic as those of any palace ; and in those days, I believe that state prisons were 92 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. not what we imagine them to have been." " And what do you imagine ?" asked the abbe. " Have you ever visited Loches, Sir ?" '* Once," said the marquis. " Sad enough — sad enough on a clear blue day," continued the abbe — the mar- quis nodded assent — " when the bright sun shines through the crevices which Time has made in these frightful dun- geons ; but I have seen it by night, and what I then saw, no fancy could picture. I thought," continued he, cross- ing his arms reverently on his breast — " I thought that I almost heard Heaven's curse pronounced on the head that could plan, on the skill that could erect, and on the cmelty that could people so hon'ible a solitude." " What were you doing there one night ?" asked the marquis. " Not one night — many nights !" replied THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 93 the abbe. "If you remember, Sir, about ten years since, a man was sentenced to death for a most atrocious murder ; and he was confined, after his trial and con- demnation, in the castle. I was at that time on a visit to a friend in the neigh- bourhood of Tours. It so happened that he was sent for to attend this criminal. He was very ill, so I undertook the pain- ful duty. When I arrived, and was in- troduced to his cell, I found a raging blasphemer, not possessing one idea of repentance or of religion. I determined to devote myself to that man's salvation until his death. I did so, and, thank God ! he died, so far as I could judge, penitent ; but these days I shall never forget !" " What, you heard mysterious wailings, and saw ghosts !" said the marquis, half- smiling. " It is true, I saw fearful sights," con- tinued the abbe. " It is true that the 94 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. walls gave forth mysterious sounds — the echo of sufferings long since undergone. Some day," and here his form dilated, and the colour mounted to his cheeks — " some day to be revenged ! You know, Sir, the White Donjon Tower, with its massive ramparts, which beetle over the precipice? Well, the poor man I speak of was confined there. It matters not that while I inhabited the prison no state cri- minal was expiating the crimes of minis- ters or the vanities of roval mistresses. I knew the history of Loches w^ell, and peopled it with sounds, until my heart felt like lead. Vast and gloomy corridors lit by mere slits in the wall, practised less for the advantages of light than to show the captive the thickness of the fortress in which he was confined ; vault over vault, and sub- terraneous passages, fit monuments, in their blackness and gloom, of the hearts that constnictcd them ; massive stones everywhere seemed to entomb tlie soul, THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 95 and every door to shut out that last blessing of life — Hope. " But this description, you will say, is universal, and not peculiar to one prison, and that misery, solitude, and sorrow are its natural occupants; but Loches repre- sents the refinement of all cruelties; stand- ing amid those horrible vaults, where the light of day and the sun's warmth never penetrates, I recalled the times of Louis XL, when £his prison was crowded with the suffering, dragged there by the vanity, the caprice, and the cowardice of one man. Yes, all the pitfalls and the terrors which we are told, in those days, surrounded Loches and Plessis, well repre- sent the approaches to thrones; and well, indeed, would it be were all men to avoid them. Have you a conception, M. le Marquis, of cachots, placed below and below each other, into which the victims had to be lowered by ropes, and there supplied with barelv sufficient food to sustain life; and 96 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. the only light which ever broke upon them was when another prisoner passed through the dungeon into one, if possible, more terrible ; while, to enhance the tor- ment, some even in these dungeons were suspended in iron cages. "There Cardinal Balue expiated, by a terrible existence, the iniquity which in- vented and which gave his name to these cages ; there Phihp de Comines learnt to estimate those punishments, of which he could treat so lightly ; there, at one time, when tyranny struck high and low, the best blood and the humblest of France mingled, if it mingled nowhere else. While I was there, a van with a prisoner arrived. I heard, at midnight, the shrill cry of the guard, the draw- bridge was lowered, the rattle of the lumbering wheels echoed fi*om court to court. My room was at the top of the White Tower, and 1 could catch a glimpse of the prisoner as he was taken out, by THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 97 the light of flambeaux, and led to his dungeon. I felt that there was an errand of mercy for me, so I rose to breathe comfort to his soul. " I passed rapidly down the stairs and through the large hall, which was sur- rounded by three benches, round which formerly the judges used to sit when such a mockery of justice was enacted, but down which now the damp was slowly dripping to the floor, and settled in large patches of mildew on the walls. I saw, in the distance, the reflection of the torches of the soldiers, and had just time to catch a glimpse of the features of the poor wretch, who was driven ruthlessly into his cell. His horror-stricken glance wiU ever haunt me. The gates were soon closed on him, all the bars were drawn across, and his moanings grew fainter and fainter as the dungeon was left in the distance. " It was on the same evening," he con- tinued, " 1 remember with a horror of VOL. 1. H 98 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. which language almost fails to convey the idea, three hours of mental agony which I passed within those walls. On my return, I found that grey morning was breaking, and the poor wretch condemned to die was to be executed at ten. One of the guards conducted me to his cell, where he was lying in a sleep of anguish — at least I concluded so, for his whole frame heaved and groaned at each breath of the sleeper — chained to the w^all by one arm and leg; all his other limbs were convulsed, and his hands were clenched in the bitterness ol despair. " He recalled to me that fearful type ot suffering, the Prometheus bound, only the vulture was gnawing at his soul, and not at his body. His complexion had caught the damp, sickly, livid hue of his cell ; his pitcher of water had been thrown down in one of his paroxysms, and the water was flowing around him, but he heeded it not: some crusts of black bread were Ivino: THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 99 near him, which he had evidently striven to eat from sheer hunger. When I entered, he turned his head slowly round, and his eyes gleamed with all the intensity of delirium. Vainly I tried to preach to him the words of comfort and of truth; his only answers were groans, and these were wrung from his despair. " Finding that everything was useless, I placed my lamp on the floor, and reflected that, horrible as all this was, at all events, in these days, there was one comfort, that torture did not add its horrible pangs to this load of misery ; when suddenly turning round, my eye was attracted to a stone door of immense weight, which swung on a concealed hinge. One of those strange fascinations peculiar to some states of mind seized me, and with an efl'ort I rose and opened it, while, for its immense weight, it moved with Jncredible facility. I took the lamp and entered the cell, where, to my infinite horror, I saw arranged on the H 2 100 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. walls all those instruments of torture which belie the intelligence or the civilization of those men, who laud the darkness of the middle ages. On the floor were the staples to which the feet of the prisoners were fastened, while their arms were attached to a block in the ceiling, and on this rack the frame was stretched until nature was on the point of extinction ; there were the instruments for the peine forte et dure, and others which it would weary you to mention. " How long I sat there I know not, for 1 was quite buried in fearful and sad meditations, and no morning light could penetrate to break my reverie. Presently my lamp flickered up like expiring life, and then I turned to leave the cell, when, to my horror and terror, I found that the door was closed upon me. At flrst I thought that my unaided strength could open it, and then I remembered having heard that these doors could only be opened THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 101 by means of a peculiar instrument — so cunning was the instrument, so refined the tyranny. " Overcome by a paroxysm of fear, I shouted until the echoes of my cries in this dreadful cell alarmed even myself; a cold dew sat on my brow, and my knees were seized with tremblings. It is true, I was well persuaded that the guards, who knew I had entered the cell, must at an early hour take means to release me ; still the idea of this imprisonment alarmed me, and the shadow, as of the grave, fell upon my soul. Hours — or rather minutes that seemed like hours — passed ; pale and ghastly visions rose before me — dull, cold and dreaiy glances gleamed upon me. As I sat on the stone bench, the cold iron that had fastened many a perishing wretch to the wall, seemed to pierce my flesh. Then it was that, in mockery as it were, I recalled the days when Francois I. re- ceived his treacherous guest, the Emperor 102 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. Charles V., and I imagined all the gay scenes of the royal palace, which at that time stood in the centre of the square. There met on that occasion youth and beauty, grace and chivalry ; the feet that beat to measure, and the hearts that beat to love. And then I remembered that they danced over such dungeons as I was at that moment confined in, and that the echo of the joyous fete was the groan of the suffering. " Presently, with a wild and irresistible expression of delight, I heard the sound of a grating instrument, and then a voice which sounded like a whisper; soon the clang of axes rang on my ear, and after a long delay, the door was cut through. Unhappily for human nature, the secret instrument for opening these cells of torture had been lost (they closed of themselves), so that the whole door had to be wrenched away. Again I stepped forth into life, my footsteps falling like my voice, when my ears were saluted THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 103 with a hideous laugh, and with one finger pointed at me, the poor wretch doomed to die in a few brief moments told me by his attitude the secret of my incarceration; he had, by a desperate effort, reached the door with a hunch of bread which lay by his side, and so admirably were the doors hung, that at the first touch it closed, while all the efforts I made to open it only fixed it more irretrievably. "And now, marquis, I will pass over all the misery of that morning, I have been led away by my feelings to say so much ; it must have been experienced to be under- stood ; no one can adequately describe it." *' It is wonderful and terrible," said the marquis, with all his attention fixed on the chateau in the distance. " I only saw a few of the vast apartments when I visited it, but I can fully appreciate all you tell me." " Ah !" said the abbe, with a deep sigh, as if his heart had been relieved by the account 104 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. he had given, " with what joy did I leave the chateau, after the terrible scene was completed. I went forth into the light, after a soul had been hurried forth to meet its God. It seemed as if a new life now filled my pulses ; gate after gate closed after me, and I stood under the rays of Heaven's own sunshine. All nature, animate and inanimate, was radiant with its warmth ; the guard were lying idly reposing at the outer gate ; far down in the valley the light smoke of many a happy cottage curled in fantastic shapes ; dark forest, purple hills, and purling rivulets, blended their beauties. I turned to gaze on the pile I had left, strange, solemn, and grand in its conception and its execution ; the massive white ramparts, again protected by others behind them, and supported by high buttresses, glared in the sunshine with lurid brightness. There was a chapel on a hill adjoining the castle, which I entered. It was very small, and it contained windows of painted glass, which had been broken in THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 105 pieces in stormy times, but which modern art had combined again in such a manner that, although it represented no perfect idea, the general effect was one of extreme beauty. In one of the aisles, on a low pedestal, was a kneeling figure, which no heart save one which was full of devotion or love could have rendered so beautiful : it represented a woman in early youth, of ex- quisite grace. A sweet, sad smile dwelt on her lips, such as hearts wear which have cause for sorrow, and yet possess an inw^ard peace. She was on her knees, with her head bowed as in prayer, while two angels expanded their wings over her, and one seemed to breathe into her ear the language which called forth that smile. On the ground lay a lily, which she had unconsciously broken ; but its seed appeared to have taken root, and fresh flowers to spring up at her feet, from the remains of that which she had destroyed. Then I recalled the frail compliances, but the almost redeeming qualities of the gentle 106 THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. Agnes Sorel, a broken lily, indeed, but winning others to virtue. Well might she exclaim : ' If I had loved my God as I have loved my country, I should have been blessed.' " *' I am not sure," said the marquis, " that I stopped to look at that monument ; but how comes it, Abbe, that the Church admits within its precincts a memorial of one whose life was passed in error ?" " Strange," said the abbe, " that such should be the general feeling, and that the Church is less intolerant to the erring, than that very society which was the original source of the error. Agnes Sorel made her love her god, and worshipped it ; but none more bitterly expiated their sin. Do you remember Sir, the beautiful remark of Madame de Neuilly, at one time mistress of Louis XV. ? Going to mass when the crowd on the steps was very great, a friend begged some young officers who were standing there to clear her a passage. ' Comment done,' one THE CASTLE OF LOCHES. 107 of the officers remarked, ' pour une teEe femme/ ' Messieui's,' said the fallen but penitent and humbled woman, ' Messieurs, puisque vous me connaissez, priez Dieu pour moi.'" The marquis turned suddenly, for sundry recollections flashed across him, and for some time he paced the terrace in silence. 108 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. CHAPTER VIII. MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. The marquis and the abbe soon after turned to re-enter the castle, at the first sound of a bell which pealed forth from the central tower, and bore far and wide on the breeze the important announcement, that the dinner-hour of the chateau had arrived. In the year 1789, the preparations for dinner were less elaborate than those w^iich modern civilization enforces. When the dinner-hour was invariably three o'clock, tlierc was less inducement for ladies to be so lavish in the countrv of the resources of the Victorines and Camilles of that day ; after dinner the gentle- MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. 109 men rode and the supper which answered to our modern dinner, was too light and informal to require much preparation. Whether the present system is more refined, and calculated to improve the tone of society by requiring more preparation for it, and without which preparation society is too apt to degenerate, is not a point which we are prepared to discuss ; the only object in calling attention to the fact, is to explain why it was, tbat on the present occasion Mademoiselle de Pompiere entered the large dining-hall ten minutes after the bell had sounded, without having made any alteration in her toilette since eight in the morning, at which hour the same party had assembled to breakfast. This party consisted of Mademoiselle de Pompiere, the marquis, the abbe, and an old officer who had been a kind of tutor in early life to his only son Henri. He was a short-built, well-made, little, wiry man with a curious mixture of cunning and bene- volence in his features, while a shrewd 110 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. glance which broke from under the heavy pent- house of grey eyebrow, was belied by a good- natured smile which played about his lips. He wore powder, which had been the fashion of that day, but which recent innovations had almost banished; but the Comte de Levet, as he was styled, in order to brave these moderate innovations, and destructive opinions, wore more than the usual quantity, which fell down his shoulders, and thence was scattered on his back, from his queue which hung down to a most unreasonable length. He had on an old violet-coloured velvet coat, which had done him good service, and was decorated w'ith tarnished silver lace, whose very antiquity rendered it of value in his eyes ; on the left side was embroidered the only portion of the coat which was constantly renewed, the star of the Saint Esprit ; it had been won at Kirch Denkern, where he commanded a squadron under Marshal Broglie, at which engagement he received a wound which compelled him to leave the army. MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. Ill With the vivacity of his age, and of the age, he had managed during fifteen years of military life, to play away all his fortune, when, by great good luck, he met his old friend, the Marquis de Soligny, who offered him a home ; and to avoid wounding the feelings of the old military beau, the marquis pretended that he engaged him to educate his son in the rudi- ments of military science. By a fortunate co- incidence the count was as highly esteemed by the marchioness as by her husband. It was a sad dav for the count, as well as for the whole household, when the marchioness died, but it also rendered him more than ever necessary to the marquis. He had, however, for some time past been travelling, the marquis's liberality having furnished him with the means of doing so. The only point on which the count was tenacious was his clothes. He clung to the w^ardrobe in which his conquests had been made at the court of Louis XV. some thirty years since ; the consequence was, that with 112 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. all his care, the coats became worse and worse ; while new styles were creeping in, he gloried in the old fashions. The quaint old soldier in his powder, his wide-shouldered velvet coat, his long embroidered waistcoat, tights, and military boots, looked like one of those ancestral pictures, which glance down upon us, and our innovations, from the family frames. Meanwhile, Henri, the only son of M. de Soligny, paraded Mont d'Or in the latest Parisian fashions. At the commence- ment of 1789, freedom in dress like free- dom in thinking, pervaded all classes, the highest as well as the lowest. For a long time the vieille noblesse did not see what events were tending to ; and it was not until tyrant fashion dispensed with powder, cut off shoulder-knots, clipped the wigs, and sacrificed high red heels, and even ladies' voluminous ribbons, that they began to be really alarmed for their order. Henri, who was well aware how stronirlv his father and MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. US his old tutor felt on all these points, did not venture to adopt the very extremes of the fashions of the day ; but the coat was plainer, the waistcoat shorter, the hair longer, and with much less powder, than suited the standard of nobility in the eigliteenth century ; but no one who saw him could deny that the cos- tume, such as it was, was adapted to him. He was tall, and through the slight quan- tity of powder, the rich auburn of his hair appeared ; there was an appearance of thought and melancholy about him that detracted from his extreme youth, for the regrets of the young are the parents of age. There was in his whole frame an appearance of will and muscular energy, which contrasted with a somewhat listless manner, but full of vivacity and life, just as the healthiest trees put forth the greenest and freshest leaves. He was well-informed, and had on many subjects a peculiar cast of thinking, one of the dis- tinctive qualities of genius. He had that full lip, which conveys a notion of great flexi- VOL. I. I 114 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. bility of character in men — in women of great passion — which we find depicted in all the paintings of the illustrious members of the house of Stuart. It had been indeed strange if a young man, educated from infancy in a feudal chateau, at a time when feudality expressed real affection and homage for the chief, had not something of authority in his manner, but the last two years in Paris had 2:iyen him matter for much reflection ; and his formerly free, easy, off-hand manner, had changed into much thought and seriousness, if not melancholy anticipations of the future. All these deep views were fostered by the Abbe Louis, who saw much danger in the future ; but practised in self-denial himself, he placed a firni, too firm a reliance on the success- ful issue of the plausible schemes of the day — the regeneration of mankind, the per- fectibility of the human race, the happiness of the many — these were his fayourite topics. He was a man greatly beloved in his circle, MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. 115 of widely-extended reputation. At the very time he appears on this scene, it had been proposed to him, and he had found it very difficult to evade compliance, to leave the quiet seclusion of the Mont d'Or for the dignified existence of Superior of the neigh- bouring Benedictine convent of St. Meille- raye. But his whole happiness was centred in the spot where he resided ; the sphere of his duties was precisely that which suited him ; and he never imagined that the visionary views w^hich were enunciated at the clubs in Paris, and even at the wretched imitations of Tours, could ever take root and flourish within the vicinity of Mont d'Or. The marquis himself there is little neces- sity of describing. His conversation with the abbe will have already proved his adhe- rence to the old system, with all its abuses, anomalies, its creeds, and its refinements. He out-Bourboned the Bourbons in his admiration of a bold exertion of the prero- gative; he had read little, and remembered I 2 1 J 6 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. less. The fjimily had been famous rather for military exploits than for clerkships ; they followed the white plume of Henri of Navarre at Savoy, and bled with Conde at Rocroi. The grim features, the stern and severe countenances of his ancestors, which looked down on the assembled party from the walls, clearly indicated the cha- racter of the race from which they sprang; he never could see the truth of the abbe's reasoning, that all titles of authority are deduced originally from strength, that the name of "king" represented what it was, a tower of strength, and pretensions must ever fail unless they are supported by power. In the feudal times, men were powerful because their labour represented the wealth of the country ; now wealth can, in great measure, be obtained without physical force ; so money is power. And, therefore, Louis XVI. leai'ned the truth that, in modern days, the power rests with whatever body has the control of the MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. i 1 7 money-bag ; but if the court of Louis XVI. was not instructed in finance, still less was it imbued with the spirit of Francois I., when, after the siege of Cambrai, he turned his attention to the amelioration of the social condition of the people, en se fortijiant de la nation, to use his own ex- pressive language. Henri IV., Louis XIV., might venture much, for they had achieved much ; the power which they wielded was not so much in the sword as in their own hearts ; but under the regency of Louis XV. and Louis XVI. it w^as quite different. Even as dauphin, the latter had made a very un- favourable impression on the people ; he conveyed the idea, of all others the least f^ivourable to a sovereign, of good-nature and weakness ; but for all this, the loyal old marquis cared nothing. If Louis XVI. had declared, like Louis XIV., " Uetat c'est moi,^' no one w^as readier than the marquis to echo the sentiment ; no matter what the 118 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. sovereign did, it must be right ; every action was, like his person, sacred and Dieu donne. His was a loyalty which, like that of many a noble Scottish house, had survived the vicissitudes of fortune, and, above all, the tyranny and ingratitude of the court he had served. And now, to hasten to the last of that circle collected around the table. Ah, it is strange, as we look round any table, to con- sider the various destinies of those who appear at the moment to be united by the same sympathies — who will precede the rest to the grave, to ^vhom will the great mystery be first unfolded ? Mademoiselle de Pompi^re was the mar- quis's sister-in-law. When young, she had, like many other ladies, met with a disap- pointment in love ; indeed, many disap- pointments ; and the last was so severe a shock, that she made a resolution, most fatal to society, to seclude herbclt' in a con- vent, and, as some people are wont to do MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. 119 when the world disgusts them, to devote herself more zealously to its service hy good works; but it seems that she soon discovered she had mistaken her vocation, and she lost no time in breaking her first vow. The second, however, withstood all shocks andt emptations which w^ere held out to her, and she strenuously resisted all opportunities of marrying. All her qualities were concentrated in one emphatic word, vanity. When those imaginary charms on which she had prided herself no longer existed, even in her deluded brain, she fell back on the vanity of her descent; but she talked far more of the marquis's connections than her own ; and well she might, for the Pompi^res were supposed to owe their origin to a large fabric in Bor- deaux, the original name having been written Pompier, which, however useful, conveyed no idea of distinction. This had been at one time converted into Pompiere, 120 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. and then, shortly after, the De was added to give the full euphony of expression. Her features still retained some of that beauty which, without doubt, had won the heart of many a cavalier, half a century since, at the court of Louis le Bien-aime ; but age had on her the same effect which it has on fruits — it had made her very bitter ; but most of all, her bitterness was aroused against M. de Levet, for reasons which shall appear in the sequel. She was dressed in the extreme of fashion, such as Tours could furnish at that date : a wig, loaded with towers and minarets of false hair ; a pale, straw-coloured dress was intended to relieve, but actually cast a yellow tinge over the complexion ; the petti- coats were short, in conformity with the fashion of the day, and these revealed, it must be admitted, a very neat ankle, but so slight, that, with the load of hair, it really seemed as though the superstructure was too great for the solidity of the base. MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. 121 She was scrupulously neat ; frills, ruffles, chemisette, all looked fresh from the hands of the artiste. But there was one thing by which she was known everywhere — it was a paroquet, which never left her ; it perched on her arm, it soliloquized on the pagoda on her head ; it was the guardian angel of her virtue, for it bit any one who ventured to approach her with even the semblance of familiarity. As she swept down the long gallery, with her silks rustling, the paroquet screaming, and the high heels ringing on the floor, it appeared as if she had made her escape from one of the quaintest of the old frames, and had stepped from her resting-place to recal to degenerate descen- dants the dignity of deportment of its ancient damsels. What the scales and the sword are to the figure of Justice, the fan and the paroquet were to Mademoiselle de Pompiere. Justice never dictated more imperiously and severely with her sword than Mademoiselle 122 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPI^RE. with her fan, and Justice was never more impartial than was the paroquet with the annoyance which it gave to aU who came within its dangerous vicinity. If Mademoi- selle could only have patched, pomatumed, and painted her mind as she did her person, she might have better concealed its defects ; but, strange to say, people who study their physical deficiencii^s of exaggerations, and endeavour to remedy them as best they may, wiU never believe that they can possess any moral defects. She w^as bitter against every one because, like all people who think much of them- selves, she mistrusted them. Selfishness at all times claims kindred with suspicion. She was the torment of the w^iole house- hold ; but she had attained that position of boredom that she almost became a necessity, like winter, cold and disagreeable, but a necessary, and at last not wholly a disagree- able infliction ; besides, the noise she made was sometliing like that of a hollow shell, MADEMOISELLE DE POMFIERE. 123 arising from its very emptiness ; so people became accustomed to her, as they did to the paroquet itself, and at last they might have missed that perpetual clang and clatter. But if, as we have remarked, she was angry and bitter against any one, it was the count; and one — not the chief, but one — of the reasons assigned was, that he indulged in a style of wild barrack conversation, interspersed with sundry exclamations sin- gularly repugnant to her courtly educa- tion. " In the days of His Most Christian Majesty, when the court was dignified by the real gentilhomme, the roturier lived in the provinces ; now the roturier goes to court, and the gentilhomme lives in his chateau," was her remark. " Count," she used to say, whenever he came out with any piquante historiette, "this may be suited to the dames de la halle, but not to the dames de la mode;" and then the 124 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. paroquet, who always knew, as the w^hole chateau did, when his mistress was excited, would set up a fearful screeching, and discomfort and dismay were the close of the day. If the party assembled in the hall re- presented various phases and classes of society, these were again admirably deli- neated in the pictures with which the walls were hung. There were " Ladies beautiful and fair, Ladies young and debonnair." There were great full-lengths by artists who had studied, or at least imitated, the schools of the eminent masters. There w^ere originals of lighter artists, such as Lemoine, Greuze, Watteau, Boucher, each in turn worthy of admiration, like the objects they represented. There were the glorious faces unchanged by time. So is it, the youth and intelligence of the artist is the true youth of the nation. All pales before time except art. MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. 125 The poet of one age loses by the translation of another. The statesmanship of the one age would be ill fitted to lead its successor. The orator of the Pnyx would be ill under- stood in the capitol. But the work of the artist, into which he throws not only he repre- sentation of the true passion, love and beauty he depicts, but all the inspiration of his own mind, remains in old age — remains to all ages — so long as the canvas and colours endure; and the beauty of the art outlives, as it too often outstrips, the beauty it loves to dwell on. Thus in this long, solemn, dimly-lighted hall were mixed together relations who had never met, and generations who were only known to each other through the medium of this very art. There were knights of the times of the Crusades, and high-born war- riors of a later date, at a time when men did for the love of woman what the patriot does for the love of his country, and the pilgrim for the love of the Mother Church. With 126 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. pointed beard, burnished mail, and hand resting on the hilt of his sword, cahn as in death, the noble warrior stood. Then there came the long line of ministers and statesmen great in council, and learned churchmen, all of whom had in turn trod and disputed in this hall ; disputation, creed, and theory all alike forgotten ; and the lives themselvTS only recorded in musty chronicles, or on that solemn tapestrj'. And then, not least of all in love, though last in mention, the sweet forms which graced the court of France for many a season, when even love was a serious occupation — a business of life — for it repre- sented great faith, great loyalty, great heart. At that time a court was indeed a parterre of beauty. " Car," said Brantome. " une cour sans dames est un jardin sans fleurs." The room, or rather the gallery, was in the centre of the castle, and lit from the ceiling, wainscoted throughout with rich car\^ed wood, every panel of which contained some distinctive portion of the tamily arms. MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. 127 The furniture was of that imiversal descrip- tion which our ancestors must, from some no- tions associated with penance, have preferred: great straight, high-backed chairs bearing escutcheons which severally reminded those who leant back that their forefathers did not admit of lolling and lazy habits. The sofas were drawn up in battle-array against the walls, and bore a forbidding aspect, which anything but invited to repose. Many of these were covered with tapestry some centuries old, which represented the exploits of the preux chevaliers of those times, so that the series of chairs was the Plutarch of the house of De Soligny. Altogether the aspect of the place was magnificent but solemn; and most young persons would have preferred to it that Paris which Navagero speaks of. " La citta bel- lissima, grandissima, ricchissima, abundantis- sima, populossissima, le coeur de la chretiente." Henri de Soligny felt this, and had latterly passed but little time at La Tour Beauport. 128 MADEMOISELLE DE POMPIERE. Paris fascinated him with its golden and glittering pleasures ; its wondrous movement and inexhaustible beauty — that Paris in which every street possesses some historical association, and where the population, light as the climate and fickle as the breezes, lives, sports, and dies like beautiful insects in the blue immensity. 1 MONSIEUR HENRI. 129 CHAPTER IX. MONSIEUR HENRI. A LARGE curtain was drawn aside when dinner was announced, and disclosed a dais at one end of the hall, on which the table was placed. To our notions there would have appeared something formal in the arrangement of the plate on the side-buffet, and the old Venetian glass, which was placed in the centre of the dinner-table itself ; above all, the plate was not satisfactorily cleaned. So imbued were the grand seigneurs of the last and preceding centuries with the love of antiquity, that they liked their plate to have a time-worn appearance. All the specimens VOL. I. K 130 MONSIEUR HENRI. of old glass were ver}' fine, combining those deep rich colours of which the secret has been entirely lost, and which circumstance renders this glass almost priceless at the present time. There were some drinking-cups of the time of Benvenuto Cellini, those excelling models when men thought it not beneath them to bring grace and elegance into the smallest circum- stances of life, and clothed the most prosaic details with a veil of poetry. The marquis was apparently very fidgety ; he looked repeatedly at his watch, and fi-om his watch to the door. If he was particular in any one thing, it was punctuality at dinner. " Abbe Louis, a table," said he at last. " But our dear Henri — our dear Henri !" muttered the count. " Sit down without him !" " A table !" repeated the marquis in almost an irritated tone. They all took their places, the paroquet on the back of ^Mademoiselle's chair, while MONSIEUR HENRI. 131 the abbe said grace in a very impressive manner. Two or three old servants, whose gorgeous and tarnished liveries must have stood the battle and the breeze since the time of the Crusades, placed the dinner silently upon the table. Mademoiselle de Pompiere took her seat on the right of the marquis, and Japhet hopped on her shoulder, a position which brought his beak in a direct line with her hu^e toupet, at which he commenced picking, and discussed the scented powder with great gusto. It took the lady some time to remove from her hands the small gloves in wiiich their beauty had been concealed, and still longer to examine the hands and nails when they had been released. M. de Levet, who placed himself next to her, tucked a napkin into his neckcloth, which he spread duly over his knees, rubbed his hands, took a glance round the table, and evidently intended to set to work with all the energy of a veteran campaigner. K 2 132 MONSIEUR HENRI. The abb^ seated himself, and remained abstracted and silent. The marquis com- menced the process of eating with all the dignity that had been in earlier days, when there was a proper manner and an etiquette even in carrying a spoon to the lips. " I am proud for the sake of the De Solignys," Mademoiselle used to say, " that my brother-in-law the marquis has at all times retained the courtly habits of his youth. He preserves," she continued, with most solemn emphasis, " a proper deport- ment even in matters of apparently trifling signification, far different to the manner of the jeunesse of these irreverent days, or to the camp breeding of the ci-devant gentilhommer Here she would toss her head, and give a side glance at the count. His only reply w^ould be a twinkle of the eye, a tap on the lid of his box, a pinch of snuff, and a sneeze. If, as some pretend, it is possible to judge the character by the handwriting, it MONSIEUR HENRI. 133 is much more certain that you can judge some peculiarities of character far better bv the manner in which men eat. One of the great marks of difference between a gentleman and a peasant is the manner in which they eat — the latter dashes like a voracious pike at his food, the former practises that self-control which society re- quires. Any one on entering that dining- hall might have detected in the quiet, grave, decorous formality with which the marquis handled his spoon, the old noble- man of la vieille cour. The exquisite coquetry with which Mademoiselle arranged the ribbons of her manchettes, so that they should not incur the slightest risk of a stain, the air with which she dipped the tips of her fingers mincingly in the water, and wiped them daintily on her embroi- dered handkerchief, could not be achieved by any but by a vieille fille of exquisite pre- tension and elaborate prudence. The indifference with which the abbe 134 MONSIEUR HENRI. regarded everything that was placed before him could not be the result of acting; neither could any one mistake M. de Levet, the old soldier, who looked at the dinner as the only great event of the day, and to be met with proportionate zest. He always told his next neighbour at table that he had lost so many dinners while serving with the grande armee, that he felt it a duty to make up for the defi- ciency at this late period of his life. This remark served a double purpose — in the first place, it was an apology and an ex- cuse for his wonderful gastronomic feats, while it gave him an opportunity of filling up the vacant moments with sundry anec- dotes of marvellous exploits performed or witnessed in his vouth. The feud between Mademoiselle de Pom- piere and M. de Levet had originated, like all bitter feuds, in some slight cause, and had expanded with time, while its original cause had been lost sight of. Tliat cause MONSIEUR HENRI. 135 was Japhet the paroquet. Poor innocent Japhet, the very first day of Mademoiselle's arrival, about a year since, had taken a fancy to the count's head, and fastened its claws into it in such a manner, that he could not be extricated without a great sacrifice of powder and patience. If the old count pretended to forgive, he assuredly never forgot this injury ; and when, one unlucky day, Japhet escaped from the blandishments of his gentle mistress, and all the old broken-down retainers of the castle were summoned to rescue him from the topmost branch of the tallest tree which grew at the foot of the battlements, M. de Levet inno- cently suggested that the best means of getting him down was to frighten him by throwing stones. " Of course, not to hit him," said he, with a sly look, which elicited a smile from all the spectators. And so effectually did he give a good example of his own skill, that the first stone he threw certainly had the 136 MONSIEUR HENRI. effect of bringing Japhet to the ground, but in a most dilapidated condition, that Made- moiselle was dissolved in tears, and in a fury of indignation she rushed to the mar- quis and implored redress. The marquis laughed as much as he dared; but as the last of the De Pom- pieres could not obtain justice, like many other people, she resolved on vengeance. For some time, poor De Levet found that he could obtain no attendance. Once, when he was ill, she recommended her maid, who was the very type of her mis- tress both in appearance and disposition, to attend upon him. He used then to be left for hours without his lait de poule ; and when it arrived, it was too sweet and other times too salt, that, in either case, he pre- ferred to groan through the night. Fortunately for Mademoiselle de Pompi^re and Japhet, the count w^as ignorant of most of tlie little mahces which were prac- tised upon him ; but he had a vague, MONSIEUR HENRI. 137 uncomfortable feeling of mistrust, and this, when in the presence of Mademoiselle, always showed itself in a peculiar cynicism frequently very ridiculous in its expression and its effects. " Et ce bon Henri, ce cher Henri !" ex- claimed the count. " Sabre de bois, un si bon potage et il ne vient pas." So saying, he laid his spoon on his plate with a self-satisfied chuckle. He then drew his chair nearer the table, so as to come to close quarters with the enemy ; but, in so doing, he had the misfortune to commit the greatest outrage to which, at all times and in all climes, a lady can be subject — namely, to place the leg of his chair on Made- moiselle's dress. She felt the injury ; and it w^as with a malignant satisfaction she drew her chair quickly away, so as to tear off the lowest flounce. " Oh, ma foi !" exclaimed the alarmed count, and offering to drop on one knee to kiss the hand which was raised, as 138 MONSIEUR HENRI. though with the intention of giving him some practical proof of her force of cha- racter ; but she lowered her hand before he could seize it. " Mon frere !" she exclaimed, with a de- moniacal expression, " I perceive that we are no longer at the court of Louis XV." " Qui se fait brebis, le loup le mange," muttered the count. " Madame," said he, touching his star, " if I did not serve at the court of Louis XV., I did at his camp, with the Marshals de Broglie, de Contades, de Noailles, &c." " Taisez vous, Comte," said the imperious lad}^ "Vous m*embetez avec vos De NoaHles !" What the count might have replied to this sally, it is as well not to imagine : but fortunately, at this point of the dispute, Henri entered the room ; and no sooner did the old count see him, than he left all the marshals to fight their own battles, and rushed forward to anticipate every one in his MONSIEUR HENRI. 139 welcome to his protege : he embraced him again and again, while the powder, shaken out of his wig in his excitement, fell in a cloud over Henri's shoulders. Then he looked at him from a little distance, as if to take in his whole appearance, seized him bv the hand, and rushed into his arms aofain. *• Ah, here he is — fine fellow, is he not, marquis ? Look at him ! — plenty of the De Soliofnv in that figure, and ver\* little of the De Pompiere," he muttered aside. And while Henri was welcomed bv his m father, the count pulled a gold snuff-box from his huge waistcoat pocket, and took a pinch with all the elegance of a professed snuff-taker when to take snuff well was almost a science. " Well, here you are, Henri, again ! How tall you have grown I" said he, walking around to examine him from all sides. " Ah I Henri, here is your old tutor just as he was. You see us all unchanged I" \Nith another side glance at Mademoiselle. 140 MONSIEUR HENRI. " How goes on the fencing, Henri, and the gymnastics, and the haute ecole ? Well, I was master of those sciences. The old tutor was active enough at that time, when the Marshal de Noailles gave me a horse which was a present from his Most Christian Majesty; but he could not ride him him- self, so the old tutor tamed him, in \4ew of the whole camp, as Alexander did Bucephalus. Ah," aside, " he can tame anything but a woman, and do anything but play at whist with a De Pompier e !" Henri's welcome of the garrulous old man was as cordial, though not so expansive. He then went to his aunt, and took her hand, pressing it to his lips, which was the mode of salutation he preferred to saluting her on both cheeks ; and then he took his seat at the bottom of the table, the abbe hanng risen from his place, out of respect to the (;ldest son of the house. " And where have you been delayed, my son ?" asked the marquis. MONSIEUR HENRI. 141 The young man coloured slightly, but the loquacity of the count saved him from the necessity of replying. " When one is young, one is always delayed, marquis. He could not travel quickly, laden with all the golden opinions he has won in Paris. Ah, this puts me in mind of the reply of the Grand Monarque to the equally Grand Conde, when he returned wounded from Rocroi. His Majesty went to the top of the grand escalier to welcome the hero, w^ho walked with difficulty from the effects of his wounds. ' Sire,' said Conde, 'je de- mande pardon a votre Majeste de la faire attendre si long temps.' * Mon cousin,' reprit grandement Louis XIV.,. * quand on est charge de lauriers comme toi, on ne pent que difficilement marcher.' " " M. le Comte de Levet," said Mademoiselle, " this is at least the eighteenth time I have heard you tell that anecdote. Ts the court as gay as it generally is, my nephew ?" 142 MONSIEUR HENRI. " I had not much time to see any of the f^tes," replied Henri ; " but from all I can learn, it is not likely that the atmosphere of Versailles is very gay at this moment ; indeed, we hear in Paris it is much changed," " It is time it should change," half-muttered the abbe. The marquis caught the remark, and it was with a raised voice and an animated manner he continued : " Ah ! M. I'Abbe, I hear vou. Always the same tone — the rights of the people. I know it — the march of mind, the develop- ment of the age. What, in the name of our Lady, do the people require ? Every one talks of the rights of the people now, and no one knows what they really mean. What does satisfy, and who can satisfy the people? Is it Maurepas, or Turgot, or Calonne, or Necker — Necker, the once deitied Necker, with his compte rendu — or even the good, virtuous Malesherbes ?" " Un peuple taillable et corveable a mcrci," MONSIEUR HENRI. 143 again whispered the abbe. Fortunately, this tinae the marquis did not catch what he said, for the old man was waxing warm and angry. " Abbe !" he exclaimed, and the glasses of the table rattled again as he laid a heavy hand upon it, " Abbe !" how can excellent men of powerful minds like your own, be led away by the jargon of the times ? Here is my son, I know, will sometimes defend the canaille, who meet together at the clubs to discuss seditious topics, whose only real object is, not the redress of grievances, but to defy the nobles and the Church. Speak of the gabelle to the people. Abbe; half of them do not know what it means. Why at one time some people near here rose against pendulum clocks, because they thought they were connected in some way or other with this gabelle. At any rate, Henri, let each class endeavour to defend its own rights ; it, will have enough to do, you may believe me ; and let me, if you advocate these views, remove the tapestry which represents the grave 144 MONSIEUR HENRI. countenances of the De la Rochefoucaulds, and the Montcsquieus, and the De la Tre- mouilles, and the De Solignys." " And the De Pompieres," added Made- moiselle. " The De Pompieres, if you will, my sister. What I was going to say, these grave coun- tenances must look down with indignation at their degenerate descendants. The noblesse de Vepee have been too much mixed up with the noblesse de la robe, of late years. Ah ! I forgot," said he, as he saw poor Mademoiselle's melancholy face, and then the memory of her sister, one whom he had much loved, flashed across him. " Ah ! well, my dear old friend," said the count, rising, and shaking the marquis by the hand, *' no matter where Henri has been, he is with us again, well and hajipy, and that is all that we can desire." Henri had all this time been sitting quite silent ; he knew his father's temper, and that this irritation would soon pass away ; but MONSIEUR HENRI. 145 still he listened like one who did so rather from respect and courtesy than from any idea that the argument could carry conviction to his mind. This young man, this almost boy, had within the last few months witnessed strange scenes, and he began to doubt whether he was not committing an error in retaining all the extreme views of his father about feudal privileges. He had been in Paris during the early scenes of that movement of the people which was at this time develop- ing itself so rapidly ; he was there shortly before the dismissal of Lomenie de Brienne, when the Duke of Orleans w^as exiled to Villars Cotteret, and Freteau and Sabathier were condemned to prison, at what time some of the nobles themselves, the Fitz- james, the Praslins, even the De la Roche- foucaulds, on whose proceedings the marquis well remarked the grave features of their forefathers must have frowned, ranged them- selves against the court. It was evident to Henri, as it was to the youth of the whole VOL. I. L 146 MONSIEUR HENRI. nation, that a great change was at hand ; and to youth full of life, and love of excite- ment, the prospect of some change was not disagreeable. What a stran!2:e contrast it seemed to this young man, between the bright and busy scenes which he had so lately quitted, and these stern grey old ivy -grown walls, the battlements and keep within whose circle he was residing; between the grave, solemn features of those great ancestors, whose exploits troubadours had sung, and historians had chronicled; and the wild enthusiastic countenances with which the streets of Paris were at that time crowded. The past and the future stood forth as it were before him ; to which would he adhere ? There was something grand in that old man, who clung to his creed, even while events were so rapidly sapping the founda- tions on which it was based. The noblesse de Vcpee had this advantage, they had his- tory and experience in their favour, whereas theii- opponents could only point to theories MONSIEUR HENRI. 147 and fine-drawn schemes. The history of France had been hitherto the history of a great nation, and the history of this great nation was, in fact, the history of its great houses. "We can show," exclaimed the marquis, " monuments of proud and noble deeds." Well said, marquis ! but there never yet was monument that did not suggest decay. L 2 148 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. CHAPTER X. THOU SHALT REMEMBER. "Thou shalt remember the words I have spoken, Now thy spirit is dead, and thy vows are all broken, Broken, ay, broken, and why not confess it ? A heart that's once wronged, affection shall press it. Never again. " I loved thee so proudly, I clung to thy side, Like the bloom to the blossom, the blush to the bride ; Tell me not, then, that a heart now so saddened, By love's sweet affection in time can be gladdened, Ever again. " I will not upbraid, but I will not deceive thee, My heart may forgive, but my spirit shall grieve thee. In darkness and solitude, sorrow shall come. And no angel of love shall enlighten thy home, Ever again," THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 149 It was Louise who was murmuring these verses as she sat near the burn that flowed at the end of the small garden of the inn. Florence was in one of the allees with the poor lame Marie, whose misfortune had ex- cited little sympathy, for people now become accustomed to it. On her return from her visit to the Old Homestead on the previous day, Madame Brinville had at once resolved to take the apartments at the inn, until she could make arrangements to purchase, if it could be pur- chased, the cottage where her youth had been passed. But nothing could have been better calculated to suit her frame of mind, than her present abode; and it was with a feeling little short of happiness, that she made all the preparations for the temporary, as she hoped, occupation of her new home. On the other side of the stream, and opposite the inn, stood a small chapel, dedi- cated to St. Catherine, which in her youth 150 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. she had often been accustomed to visit. As it was situated in a quiet, secluded spot, and a foot-path led to it, without passing through the village, the door of this chapel was always kept opened; and she remem- bered how, as a child, from a vague love of mystery and awe, or from that strange predisposition which sometimes disposes the mind to court the very sensations it most dreads, she would resort to that chapel on a dusky evening ; and when all her companions were far away, she then felt a \Nild charm in knowing she was alone with the dead. She would kneel down and place her head against the cold stone, and conjure up strange and fanciful visions ; and then, when the gate creaked on its hinges, and the wind whistled through the ivy-grown case- ment, she experienced a fantastic pleasure it was hard to explain. By the dim light of the one lamp, which was hung above the cross, all things seemed dimly visioned, like the THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 151 eternity within her. She was an eccentric child, full of visions, sometimes brighter, sometimes sadder than at others, but always opal-like in their changes. She used to feel rather than to meditate, as she sat at that chapel door, and watched the lines of light on the distant horizon, and then thought how many worlds there existed beyond those which she had seen. There is a vast difference between the two frames of mind, that of feeling and that of medi- tation. In the former, the ideas suggest themselves to the brain; in the latter, it is an effort for us to people our solitude, or to make a solitude of the busy world around us. Now^ the great solace, the one great charm of Madame Brinville's life, was Florence. By a strange perversity of nature, it seems that mothers, whose offspring are associated in their minds with pain, whether physical or mental, love them more passionately than do those privileged ones on whom bright 152 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. May suns shine, and bright May days close. Happiness is doubly prized when it is won from a dark and dreary future — it is so much snatched from the mists of uncertainty and death. How Madame Brinville used to dream of, and to pray for, a happy future for Florence 1 Surely, she thought, that one so rich in all the gifts of loveliness, that even the wronged m.other could forgive the father, for the beauty which the child had inherited, surely such a one could not be sacrificed to a cruel destiny. As she lay awake at night, such thoughts would sweep across her mind, and witli her heart full of happy visions of the future she would turn again to sleep. So strong and ineffaceable are the im- pressions of childhood, that after Madame Brinville had been two days at Mont d'Or, she felt as if she had never left that neifjh- bourhood. Every spot was associated in her min with some remembrance, and THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 153 every remembrance was fraught with in- terest. If memory has many sorrows, it has many enjoyments ; it prolongs indefi- nitely those portions of our lives over which we choose to linger. Little has been said of Marie, whose pale and delicate features seemed to grow paler day by day. For some time before Madame Brinville's arrival, whether it was that her sensitive nature was pained at the observation, or even at the sympathy, which she sometimes excited, from a painful sense that the infirmity had arisen from no ac- cidental, but purely from constitutional causes, she had for some time looked as if she w^ere pining away ; but no sooner had Florence arrived, than there was a great change for the better. They at once felt a mutual sympathy for each other ; there is one tie which always binds the kind and generous — namely, strength on one side and weakness on the other. But if the advantages of nature were great on 154 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. the side of Florence, Marie's mind was much more matured. From a child, unable to take any part in the ordinary amuse- ments of her age, she had turned her attention within herself, and had read much, at least, had read frequently such works as the village library could boast of, and any books of deeper and more permanent interest, which were lent to her bv Made- moiselle de Pompiere, who was a constant visitor at Madame Blanchard's. Indeed, to do Mademoiselle justice, her ridiculous pretensions and vanities kept out of view, she was a kind-hearted woman ; with her never-neglected Japhet, she would visit all the cottages, while the bird, perched sometimes on the back of a chair, and at others, to the astonishment of the village children, on the mantel-piece, or the top of the bed, would gabble forth his eternal soliloquies. Her regard for the wants and necessities of others was at all times strangely mixed up with the pathetic history THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 155 of her own sacrifices, pretensions, sufferings and amiable qualities ; for instance, she would make her carriage, decorated with all the emblazonment of the arms of the Solignys and Pompieres, drive to the door of some se- cluded cottage in which she knew an event most interesting to her at all times was an- ticipated, or had recently taken place. With a packet of clothes under her arm for the young stranger, she would commence her condolences. " Poor woman ! poor woman ! all will soon be well — the natural consequences of marriage. Why do people marry ? Why indeed ! Come here ! come here, Japhet !" for the bird was perched on the pillow, and was alarming the poor sick woman. " Who attends on you, my good woman ? Oh, inattentive ! well, all servants are in- attentive ; there is my maid — I treat her like an angel, give her all my old dresses, even those with the latest fashions — but J 56 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. what docs she do this morning ? only because Japhet caught her finger in his mouth, she threw a cup of water over the poor bird, and when I told her to leave the room, I heard her say : ' Oh, mon Dieu ! ayez pitie de moi, et jetez des pierres aux autres.' Oh, how that child cries ! but it is not your fault, my good w^oman — don't look unhappy — you can't help it ; but it is very silly of children to cr}^ — why should they cry ? I was talking about my maid ; she had the audacity to say, * Adieu, Made- moiselle ! for the future. Mademoiselle ^^'ill please to address me as Madame, for I am going to be married.' Ah, well ! mechante bete ! I hope that she will suffer every year much w^orse than you do, my good woman. But, my poor woman, you are ill — vou are faint ! Here, Charles !" — to one of the footmen — " send for the doctor ! tell him that Mademoiselle de Pompiere wants him — no, no, not Mademoiselle ! there will THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 157 be some mistake — tell him that this poor woman wants him, and that I am stopping with her." Such was the style in which she would rattle on, to the astonishment and almost to the alarm of her protegees; but the truth is, that she meant it all very kindly, and her unpopularity, which was great at the castle, did not extend to the village. But she was especially kind to the poor lame girl; here, at least, there was no cause for jealousy ; moreover, the child was intelligent, and appreciated her kindness, evincing it by warm expressions of gratitude ; and where there is no warmth of expression, we may generally believe that there is little feeling, for the common phrase that some people do not show what they feel, is merely the homage which coldness and apathy pays to affection ; and so it was, that between two beings so dissimilar a kind of unity of feeling sprang up. Thus the moss clings to the stone, and wild flowers of spring 158 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. burst into life through the chinks which time makes in ruins — so these two had a 'Sympathy for each other ; and when the girl sat on a bench by the door, and Mademoiselle went into the house to gossip with Madame Blanchard and retail her grievances, which was her great pleasure, she would leave Japhet in charge of Marie, who testified her gratitude for this ex- traordinary mark of kindness and afi^ection, by the great care which she bestowed on the charge. Florence had, however, only caught one glimpse of Mademoiselle de Pompierc, and that was at an unfortunate moment ; the parrot had been left in the carriage, owing to the negligence of the footman, so when Made- moiselle happened to throw her cloak upon the bird, which was nearly stifled, and gave vent to his indignation by the most excru- ciating wailings. Mademoiselle gave the man one look — menacing as that glance of Vathek's, which desolated provinces — she THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 159 rescued her favourite from his uncomfortable position, smoothed his ruffled plumage, but unhappily not her own temper. Florence chanced to be at the window during this scene, and retained, as mav well be ima- gined, by no means a favourable impression of the Pompiere disposition. Vainly Marie assured her that she possessed kind qualities ; Florence was one of those who always judge by first impressions, and these impressions in such characters it is verv difficult to efface ; so she took an antipathy to Mademoiselle, and invariably went to her own room when- ever she heard she was expected. "tP ^ *w* ^ -fr It was about mid-dav, and one of those mid-days which in the climate of Touraine are so warm and genial, that the heart can meditate at will ; for indeed without warmth there can be no charm in thought ; the, sky declared the glory of the heavens in one cloudless blaze of sunshine ; so still was the air, that not a leaf trembled on the topmost 160 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. • branches ; the ripple of the water sounded most cool and pleasant ; a slight haze hung over the distance, " That light which half reveals The shapes that it conceals."* Light and love, love and light, twin sisters ever welcome, for when the heart is most full of beauty, it is most susceptible of soft impressions. Madame Brinville had strolled down to the Old Homestead, Florence and Marie were in the garden. Marie was reading one of those books which, like a mother's voice, retain their influence to all time. It was one of Bernai'din de Saint- Pierre's beautiful creations ; it was a pas- sage in " Paul and Virginia," w^here Virginia is about to part from him. "Virginia first went out, and seated her- *' self on the very spot where we are now " placed, Paul hastened after her, and seated * Faber's Poems. THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 161 • " himself by her side. It was one of those " delicious nights which are so common in " the tropics, and the beauty of which no " pencil can trace. The moon appeared in " the midst of the firmament curtained in " clouds, which her beams gradually dispelled. " Her light insensibly spread itself over the " mountains of the island, and their peaks " glistened with a silvered green " Virginia's eyes wandered over the vast and " gloomy horizon, distinguishable from the bay " by the red fires in the fishing- boats. She " perceived, at the entrance of the harbour a " light and a shadow. These were the watch- " light and the body of the vessel in which " she was to embark for Europe, and which, " ready to set sail, lay at anchor, waiting for " the wind. Affected at this sight, she turned " away her head, in order to hide her tears "from Paul." At this moment a voice was heard in the passage, the book fell from Marie's hand, and her usually pale cheeks were lit up VOL. I. M 162 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. with a colour, that made her look positively beautiful. Florence also started when she heard the book fall, and some of the flowers she was idly weaving into a wreath dropped from her lap ; but when she looked and saw the colour in Marie's cheeks, she attributed her excitement to her interest in the passage she was reading. Marie immediately took up the book, but the page was lost, and all her attention was given to finding it again, when the voice she had listened to drew nearer. It w^as Henri's voice. " Ah !" exclaimed he, " here is my little friend hiding. How- ever, I was determined to find her out, and told Madame Blanchard that I would not go on to the castle, without asking Marie if she remembered her old friend." He looked at Marie, and then started, for the first time he saw Florence. It was now her turn to look down at the flowers Which were lying around her. THOU SHALT REMEMBER. 163. " Mademoiselle Brinville," whispered Ma- dame Blanchard. Then there were common-place observa- tions, but these led to some remarks about Paris ; and Henri, carried away by his feel- mgs, went on talking, and not without elo- quence. The two young girls sat listening to him, with all that attention which is so flattering — more flattering than any com- mendations, is the silence of an anxious listener. What charm can be greater ; but when the listeners are beautiful, like these, is it wonderful that the time should pass rapidly, so rapidly, that he was startled when the clock told him that the castle dinner-hour had arrived? He rose with apparent regret, and a promise that he would soon return : were the regret and the hope shared in aUke by them ? So they parted, and these two young girls remained sitting on the bench, silent and re- served. For some minutes the fictitious woes M 2 164 THOU SHALT REMEMBER. of Paul and Virginia were all forgotten. At last, Florence looking into Marie's quiet but now pale countenance, asked her to continue. And she did so. There was now no difficulty in finding the place, and presently their hearts were wrapped up in the fate of the young lovers, and they seemed to wander together over the dreary sands of the bay of the tomb, w^hich the fate of Virginia has immortalized. THE CONFESSION. 165 CHAPTER XL THE CONFESSION. But when the tale was concluded, there was a long pause, Florence seemed to be playing with her flowers, Marie with the book ; and although both of them were silent, each w^as in her heart aware, that the other was recalling that voice which had broken on their sohtude. " Who is Monsieur Henri ?" said Florence when at last the pause seemed painful, because it was so strange. " He is son of the Marquis de Soligny, who hves at the chateau," answered Marie. *' He has been some time in Paris to study, 166 THE CONFESSION. but he has much changed ; he used not to wear a moustache ; and then he has grown taller, and, I think, even handsomer," and Marie spoke all this rapidly, as if she were anxious to avoid the subject, although in truth it was the one on which she most delighted to dwell. " You never mentioned him," remarked Florence. " Why no, the fact is that he was absent, and you know, Florence, one does not alwavs mention people, unless something brings their names prominently before one. I do not know how it has happened, that Made- moiselle de Pompiere, who is very fond of him, has not mentioned him to me lately ; but even if she had done so, Florence, you would not have been wiser, for you have never seen the old ladv." " Does he often come here ?" asked the ever curious Florence. " I tell you, dear Florence, that he has been absent for some months. Before he THE CONFESSION. 167 left he used to make occasional visits, but these were so rare, that it was not possible to judge much about him. He is very clever and agreeable, as you see, and much liked in the neighbourhood. Indeed, there is scarcely one person who does not speak good of him," and she was continuing with animated gesture, when suddenly, as though a sudden thought struck her, she turned round and said, " but why do you ask me all this, you must have some reason ?" " Not I, indeed," said Florence, " I only asked a simple and natural question, which you answered by quite a dissertation on Monsieur Henri's qualities, which, I doubt not are very admirable; but I might ask you," continued Florence, " what has brought so bright a light to those eyes, and such a glow to those cheeks ?" " No, no ! do not ask me any questions," and Marie hid her face in her hands, " f cannot answer them." The poor girl should have raised it 168 THE CONFESSION. proudly, for never had any one more richly endowed with the qualities of beauty looked for that moment more lovely. If her heart was his, as Florence began to suspect, what a generous passion must that be which could assume such a livery, when the current of the blood, even at the faintest whisper of a name mantled in her cheek ; sweet thought is it, that there is no one so lonely to whom, in one or in another shape. Love does not some time speak. '*No one so lost or desolate, But some heart, tho' unknown, Doth pine to meet its own."* Sitting there a cripple with crutches by her side, poor Marie's heart could contain a whole volume of sensation. " Florence," said she after a short pause, " you read the language of the heart, do you know that of flowers ? Of all flowers, the most beautiful is the rose. Here is an old book which contains a chapter on roses." * Longfellow. A CHAPTER ON ROSES. 169 CHAPTER XII. A CHAPTER ON ROSES. Beautiful Provence, to thee we owe the lay of Troubadour, the \^^ld tale of ro- mance ; there by the blue waters of the joyous Mediterranean the orange-flower disputes with the pomegranate and myrtle each spot of soil, and the blue tints of the sky and the light outlines of the hills blend together ; while on distant ridges the palm recals the glories of the East, and the lofty pine stands forth on high as the guardian of the forest — who that has ever dwelt in Provence, but must look back to that period of life with fond regret; for in such a climate even sensations of sorrow are 170 A CHAPTER ON ROSES. subdued by the softness of the air. " C'est le lieu du monde ou on pout mieux se passer de bonheur ;" but it is not for her minstrelsy, though lips worthy of the theme have sung the loves of Provence ; it is not for her wild tale of romance, though these cling to every ruin like the ivy of centuries ; it is not the orange-blossom, though at the name the fair bosom gently heaves and the damask glows in the cheek. Not so much for all these do we love fair Provence, as for the rose which her soil gives birth to ; it is of La Provence, above all, that England is redolent, and her roses are not the least of the graces which England owes to France. Gently, gently touch the flower, delicately as you would those charms whose beauties the rose of Provence, by various names, commemorates. Let the Biron recal the soft hues and gently-loving countenance of her whose beauty, at one time, added the greatest charm to the majesty of a court; or shall we speak of the De No^, A CHAPTER ON ROSES. 171 bright as the race which was so vain and arrogant, and boasted a blood purple as the blood of kings ? or of the D'Aguessau, which seems almost to blush when gazed at, and whose leaves droop modestly at the lightest touch, emblem, in all things, of woman's purity? or most seeming, as most lovely of all, where is La Reine,. ever fra- grant and ever blooming, the same in bleak November as in bright May ? Like that proud sovereign, whose name she bears, whom ad- versity could not tire, and whose graceful and winnino; charms Time could not detract from. Place me at Fontenay-aux-Roses, and there let me slumber away the day on some sunny bank. If there be a language in flowers, surely this must be the language of poetry — if there be a flower more cele- brated than another in verse, surely it is the rose. I pick from the bank on which I lie one flower more beautiful than the rest, and then I think of her whom such flower 172 A CHAPTER ON ROSES. once adorned, even as the roses now bloom upon her tomb. "Allorch^ nel cielo Di raggi lucente, II sole apparl Sul verde suo stelo. Vezzosa ridente La Rosa fiori Ma cadde appena il di Che languida, smarrita Fede la sua belta ch' e la sua vita." The queen of all flowers, as she is called by the Tuscan poet — "Amongst all flowers the rose is queen, Because in her is brightest seen, How beautiful and transient all we love has been." Dear to the Church, '* because," says Carlo Cartari, " the rose bestows grace, and faith, and strength." The Scripture speaks of its " faithful and swcct-smelling savour." Saint Chrysostom, writing of the Apostle, says : " Qualem Rosam Christo A CHAPTER ON ROSES. 173 mittit Roma. The rose," he continues, "possesses the faculty of strengthenmg the weak. The rose is a faithful image," says he, " of Christ, because, in all her beauty, she is surrounded by thorns ; so Christ was also crowned with thorns, and wore them in His glory." Finally, we are told that our good works bloom hereafter like roses, while our present sufferings are represented by thorns. History also tells us that the rose was cultivated at Rome, as the flow^er possessing the most admirable of all qualities. It is truly not unmete that amid the ruins of the Csesars' palace, the rose should grow in wanton luxuriance ; for in Rome's palmy and imperial days, and long after, in the days even of the Colonnas, when they pos> sessed captains worthy of the name, the columns of Rome's greatness ; on festal days, the Patricians crowned their brows with roses, and wore them at their feasts; they were suspended in festoons on the arches under 174 A CHAPTER ON ROSES. which they triumphed, and were planted and ever renewed around the tombs of those they loved — "Manibus est imis rosa grata et grata sepulchris." The rose was, in all times the badge of conquest. The House of Lennox boasts, " Dans la rose je fleuris ;" there was the rose of time-honoured Lancaster, and the rose of the great Plantagcnet. Venice, too, the city of the sea, possessed her rose, which sprang forth, like her own fair palaces, by the stroke of the enchanter's wand ; for w^e read that, in the days of Pius v., after a great battle gained by the Venetians ov^er the Turks, suddenly, in the gloom of night, a rose of fire was seen on the cross of St. Mark, while the Rialto and the Piazza St. Marco were, in a moment, covered with flowers of peculiar frag- rance. Shall we pass on to the far Indies ; shall we speak of the roses of the famed Cashmere, A CHAPTER ON ROSES. 175 and of those ficlde ones who, even in their beauty, love to change, for these, too, find their emblems in the rose? The roses planted on the banks of the sweet waters of Asia bear in them the impress of all insta- bility—pale in the morning, deep red at mid-day, and purple in the evening. Of these Padre Bompiani was thinking when he wrote; "The sun's flower is the rose. She buds forth with the light, At noon she deeper hues disclose. And purple grows at night. Her leaves fall with the falling day. And perish with each dying ray." " Give me that rose which has been worn next your heart." How often has such favour been asked and answered; and who has not loved and cherished the flower so given even when its leaves were dead and the flower had faded ! Ay, and it were well so to do ; for its fragrance represents good and generous works and sweet and holy thoughts. 176 A CHAPTER ON ROSES. while the sufferings which those hearts that are the most richly endow^ed are ever doomed, sooner or later, to bear, are the thorns which survive the blossom. And beautiful above all roses are those which Love calls forth on the cheeks of Virtue and Purity, emblems of gentle feelings. Rememberest thou that day, that festal day, when we placed roses on the altar, and the porches were strewn wuth rushes ? Most happy are they who have the power to sow^ such seed of love, and to see such beautiful produce — happy as the favoured lover in Arabian verse, who, meeting a maiden, thus accosted her: " Maiden, my looks have called the roses to thy cheeks ; let me cull what I have sown, for the law permitteth every man to take his own." THE VISIT. 177 CHAPTER XIII. THE VISIT. The next morning, in the same spot, in the same frame of mind, the two young friends sat together, and talked over the visit of the previous day. " Ah, Marie !" said Florence, " you have been very quiet here all your life ; but the life may be very still and the heart very busy. The hum of insects and the murmur of bees dies away each evening, but the heart beats on. I have often thought that the world is not without — it is within us!" " I know what you mean to say, Florence," VOL. I. N 178 THE VISIT. replied Marie, " but I can assure you that you are mistaken." The voice, however, belied the assurance. Just then Madame Brinville appeared. She was too full of the past much to heed what was passing around her at the present. She had not noticed Henri's long visit ; and even though she had, it would have awakened but little curiosity. She was fast arriving at that state of indifference in which we behold a series of events passing around us, without any anxiety to direct or to be inte- rested in them. All that she asked for was peace — peace of heart. It was certainly not possible for a mother to be blind to the extreme beautv of Flo- rence ; and the contrast between her and Marie only made this beauty more apparent. This almost pained her, for she thought that Marie must be conscious of the ditfercnce between them ; but it was not so. Marie thought but little about the matter until later, when ciixumstances called her attention to it. THE VISIT. 179 Madame Brinville asked Florence to accompany her in a walk. They passed through the small garden-gate. Almost mechanically, she took the path which led to the old house. It was a lane full of blossoms — blue forget-me-nots and fragrant roses grew on the banks, but they were passed unnoticed by Madame Brinville, though Florence, and Marie who had joined them, stopped every moment to gather some. Life has commenced in sad earnest, when we do not stop to gather flowers as they grow in our path. As for Florence, she possessed the lightness of heart of one who knew no guile — a gay and happy child she moved along — while Marie was like one subdued by secret cares. Madame Brinville arrived at the house long before her companions. She went, as she was accustomed to do, to that room up-stairs, which she still called her own in conversing with the old gardener. It was furnished just as she had left it, and the same roses were growing in at the windows, of which N 2 180 THE VISIT. the lattices were almost always open in that climate. Over the mantel-piece was a piece of work which, as a child, she had given to her mother. It represented the squarest of houses with the straightest of gates, the greenest and most perpendicular trees, all in floss silk, on the top branches of which some curious-looking birds in red plumage, or rather in red worsted, were perched. There was the date underneath, and the inscription, " Louise a sa ch^re mr^e, Mai, 1765," just three-and-twenty years since, when, as a young girl, she lived and loved in her mother alone. Florence followed her mother up the stairs. It was the first time she had been in that room. Her attention was imme- diately attracted by the piece of work, and the similarity with her mother's name stioick her fancy. " Here, mamma, here is your name," said Florence. Madame Brinvillc had been prepared for THE VISIT. 181 the time when she should be compelled by circumstances to relate to her child some of the events of her early life, which she could touch upon with least pain. Like the oak on Mount Algidos, which gains strength from each succeeding stroke, she had disciplined her heart within the last ten days to this, and it was with less pain than she would otherwise have felt, that she turned to Florence, and told her it was her own w^ork. " Yours, mamma ; and how did it come here ?" asked Florence. " This was my home, Florence, when I was very young ; indeed, for some time afterwards. There is not a spot in the garden, not a flower that blooms, which is not associated with some memory of my childhood. You are so young, Florence, that you do not know the value of such memories and asso- ciations. You live in the Future, Florence, I live in the Past." " And the Present," said Fbrence. 182 THE VISIT. " No, not in the Present, there is scarcely any Present, for, while we are expressing our enjoyment of it, it has even then passed from us. You will some day learn that the heart, unless it is asleep or at rest, possesses too much of the Infinite within it, to be satisfied wnth the Present." " Mamma, I am very happy here, I enjoy the sunshine, the flowers. I like to sit in the garden of the little inn and medi- tate." "And meditate, Florence ! then will vou allow me to ask you how long your thoughts are fixed on the Present? Are they not always flying back to times and scenes which you people with strange fancies, old chateaux in which you lodge, for instance, all the wild creations of a most wild little brain ? or do you never ponder on the future, on the—" Madame Brinville here checked herself, for she saw ar light flush gradually over- THE VISIT. 183 spreading Florence's cheek ; it was evident that she had dreanrit of the young girl's future. " But, mamma," she said, after a long pause, " tell me all about this spot. How I wish I had some place to return to, and remember everything that passed when I was a child. My first recollection is of a large house with a great many trees before it, somew^here near Paris. Why did we leave it, mamma ?" " I was here when only five years old," replied Madame Brinville, evading the latter part of the question, " and I wall tell you all about this spot, Florence, so that you may take an interest in it which will add to my own. You now know the garden, its gentle glades, and that river walk as well as I do. Stay for one moment, let me see whether I cannot reanimate it for you, with all the happinesses, its tendernesses, and endearments, which it possesses for me : the associations of place are the strongest 184 THE VISIT. of any, if it be only a place where we have once loved and been loved. To me, the tmnk of that tree now overgrown with moss, recals the moments I passed, anxiously anticipating that Future which was mine only too soon. In after life we all seek some Zoar, some little city to flee to, and I shall hope to find a Zoar here. You never saw your grandmother, Florence, but she was very like you, her youth waved like your own, and even in age her eyes never lost their contented and happy expression ; happy in her life, in her heart, in her circumstances, she had only one regret ; that the sphere of her excellence was limited — there was not a cottage in the village which she did not visit constantly, hers were angels' visits, Florence, in all things save their rarity. She — " At that moment, Madame BrinWlle was interrupted by the sound of horses' hoofs. Close to the cottage, there was a sharp turn in the road, and suddenly a carriage with out- riders w\is seeil rapidly approaching. A lady THE VISIT. 185 was standing up in the carriage, and calling loudly to one of the outriders, whilst he pointed with his whip to the house where they were. Madame Brinville shrank involuntarily from observation, while Florence, her curiosity con- quering her natural reserve, concealing herself as well as she could, looked out eagerly to see who it could be. " Oh, it is the carriage from the chateau, mamma," she exclaimed when she had a fair view of the old, quaint, lumbering, heavy, machine, in which it pleased Mademoiselle de Pompiere to pay her visits of ceremony, or occasionally for the honour of the family, to make a solemn progress through the country. The horses were fine, black, powerful ani- mals of the Norman breed, the manes fas- tened up wdth ribbons, which had at one time been bright red, but of w^hich time had extracted much of the colour, their tails w^ere decorated in a similar manner, and the harness ornamented with scrolls and emblazonments, represented the more egre- 186 THE VISIT. gious portions of the owner's vanity. The carriage itself was a kind of triumphal car, for even in 1788, when it was re-decorated, the art of coach-building was not carried to any perfection, and this had been constructed half a century previously, by a M. Chabannes of Tours, at a time when the dignity of a family was supposed to be associated with every possible inconvenience. At the period when this carriage was built, the equipages of an aristocracy were not duly esteemed, un- less they were decorated in the most lavish manner, and so their carriages rolled along like the car of Jugurnauth, and also like the car of Jugurnauth in this, that they crushed the people in their progress. The dresses of the outriders and the ser- vants were of a similar character, their coats were decorated with lace, which had once re- presented gold, but the gold had been rubbed off in so many places, that the silver peeped through. They wore boots which reached to the thighs,' with enormous spurs, three- THE VISIT. 187 cornered hats, each decorated with a feather, completed their extraordinary equipment ; but the tout ensemble produced a still more absurd effect, because the clothes of the outriders, and the coachman on the box, had been made many years since for servants who had been drafted from the old corps of the Mousquetaires de la Garde ; and all these, as they died off — for even mousquetaires will die — had been replaced by small men, who seemed, as the pageant passed along, to have the greatest difficulty in keeping in their clothes. However, if the intention was to produce a certain awe in the village, it had the desired effect. The children screamed with delight, the old men and women ran to the door, and shaded their eyes with their hands to avoid being dazzled with its brilliancy, the dogs even paid their tribute to the general enthusiasm. Made- moiselle de Pompiere, when she prepared for similar excursions, used to recal with pleasure the progresses of Louis XV. in the 188 THE VISIT. forest of Fontainebleau, and endeavoured to imitate the bow and the grace with which the Queen used to kiss her hand from the window. Whips cracking, body creaking, parrot croaking, up drove the carriage. Marie was sitting in the garden, and so much taken by surprize, that she had not time to seize her crutches and retreat into the house before Mademoiselle de Pompiere had espied her. " Here, here ! little one," she cried out, " where are you running to, after I came here to see you ? What are you frightened at ? the carriage won't hurt you, ma petite. I drove to the inn, but your mother told me that you w^ere here. Ah ! she is more at- tentive to you than any one is to me. And now I wish to alight. Well, where are they — Jacques, Clement, Adolphe ? (she liked servants with euphonious names). Here, you lazy fellows, come and let down these steps. There, gently, gently ! I want THE VISIT. 189 M. Henri. Where is he — where is M. Henri ?" But, while this soliloquy was going on, Henri had slipped out of the carriage at the other door, and was waiting with all due respect to receive his aunt w^hen she alighted. " Ah ! this is as it should be, un preux chevalier, in spite of the clubs and those horrible places they tell me you frequent in Paris. And here is Marie coming to meet me. Why, how you tremble, girl !" The truth is, that Marie would not have appeared at the door at all had she seen Henri, and when he suddenly appeared at the carriage door, she felt a sudden faintness ; but this was quite lost on him ; he held out his hand frankly and cordially to her (why is it that love is always full of deceit and seldom cordial in public ?), and there was some- thing of disappointment in his manner when he asked Marie, if she came to that place for solitude. 190 THE VISIT. " Oh, no !" said Marie. " Madame Brin- ville and Mademoiselle Horence are here." " Madame ' Brinville and Florence !" he muttered. " So, Marie, that was Made- moiselle Florence whom I had the pleasure of seeing the other day ?" asked Henri. " And where are these ladies ?" " Yes, ma petite, where are they ?" asked Mademoiselle de Pompiere. " Why, I drove down here in the hope of making Madame Brinville's acquaintance — or, rather, I may say, that Henri made me drive here, for I am very idle about visiting, or I should have called before. Now, my nephew, give me your arm, and we will endeavour to find them." Henri's face brightened at the sugges- tion. The whole morning he had employed in inducing his aunt to drive to the village ; he wished to have some excuse to see Florence again, and could imagine nothing better than that his aunt should go down to pay a visit of ceremony to Madame Brinville. All this was sadly against her inclinations, THE VISIT. 191 but she could never resist Henri's impor- tunities ; so the state carriage was ordered, and put in motion as we have described. That Marie ever cared for him, never crossed his imagination, nor, even if it had, would the circumstance have deeply affected him, for we invariably prize the affections of others precisely as our own hearts are in harmony with theirs. He liked Marie very much, as all kind natures must have liked her ; but this was far from love, which poor Marie, whose heart was filled with one idea, did not perceive ; and so she went on cherishing this affection, almost without being aware of it. As for Madame Brinville, she trembled when she heard the foot of Marie on the stair, coming, as she well knew, to invite her down ; but Florence, it must be admitted, felt a gleam of pleasure flit across her mind. She recalled the looks of Henri on the preceding day ; she did not forget how his attention had been fixed on her ; it was, therefore. 192 THE VISIT. with great alacrity that she obeyed her mother's desire to proceed to the garden and meet the party. She was met at the foot of the stairs by Mademoiselle de Pompi^re herself, leaning on Henri's arm. The paroquet had, on this occasion, perched on her shoulder, whence it looked around in the most supercilious manner. She stared at Florence through her glass, and she could hear the half-whis- pered words : " Yes ! she is pretty, very pretty." And then she asked Florence how long her mother proposed to remain at Mont d'Or. Before Florence had time to answer the question, Madame Brinville appeared. There was a quiet dignity in her manner, a self- restraint, a self-possession which is never more apparent than in those who have passed through many and sad experiences. Mademoiselle felt that, on this occasion, all her graces and affectations would be thrown THE VISIT. 193 away ; she did not even venture to repeat the question she had put to Florence. On the contrary, it was with something like an apolo- getic tone that she explained how she had followed Marie, her mother having told her where she was, in order to invite her to be present at a fete, which was to be given at the chateau in two or three days. Some actors were passing through the village, and a temporary theatre was to be erected for them in the chateau. It was, she explained, the marquis's birthday. Mademoiselle de Pompiere was not want- ing in good-nature ; she saw Henri's un- disguised admiration of Florence, and so she turned to Madame Brinville, and invited her to be present at the performance with her daughter. Madame Brinville was on the point of declining, for her object in coming to Mont d'Or, to seek quiet and seclusion, was quite at variance with the acceptance of such an invitation : but when she saw Florence's eager VOL. I. O 194 THE VISIT. look, she then thought it would he hard and selfish to shut her out of all the amuse- ments which the young love so much, so that it was with a graceful courtesy she accepted. Mademoiselle was gracious, and satisfied ; she strolled the paroquet as she stalked majestically down the gravel path ; she was pleased because her nephew was so evidently gratified ; besides, Florence was so graceful and beautiful ; she felt that she would add an additional charm to the evening's amuse- ment, and Madame Brinville's manner re- called the refinement of a society to which, in La Vie de Province, she had been long unaccustomed ; so, on the whole, the party separated mutually satisfied. BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 195 CHAPTER XIV. BEFORE THE CURTAIN. There were great preparations in progress at the castle, and M. de Levet was in his glory. The old hall, rich in paintings and in heraldic decorations, was to be convTrted into a theatre. The village artists were em- ployed to paint views, which they adorned with tints far brighter, although more opaque, than any which ever graced even an African sky. Green boughs and green baize were two invaluable adjuncts. There were flower- gardens with real flowers ; rolls of tin-foil were prepared to represent thunder ; and the lightning was to flash from oil lamps o 2 196 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. carried before lines of vvhite calico. One scene represented a magnificent saloon, on which the artist had exhausted all his imagination ; candelabras, glasses, sofas, chairs, ormolu, vases, were all huddled to- gether in wonderful confusion ; there was an apothecary's shop that would have broken the heart of any modern homoeopathist ; another scene represented an antiquary's abode, in which the most extraordinary mammoth and fossil remains were placed on shelves, one long crocodile filled up the whole length of the scene, while below were mummies, cases of preserved insects, skeletons, broken armour, and old relics, which excited the envy and admiration of the competing artists. There was throughout the castle the usual stir and bustle consequent on such an event : then followed the ordinarv amount of dispute, suggestion, animadversion, criti- cism, which would seem to be insepara])le from all private theatricals. M. de Lcvct was evervwhere ; at one BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 197 moment he might be seen on the top of a ladder, accompanying his labours with sundry reminiscences of the manner, in which tem- porary theatres were erected in the camp, when Louis XV. visited it at Mayence. Mademoiselle de Pompiere was most inter- ested in the heraldic decorations, the splen- dour of the Soligny arms ; but she manifested the greatest anxiety that those of the De Pom- piere, w^hich at one time it had sadly puzzled the heralds to discover, should take their due place on the 'scutcheon of pretence. Then, on the stage, were the actors reciting their parts ; and the actors themselves being of the most inferior description, they thought it essential to use more than ordinary energy in their delivery of them. Mademoiselle constituted herself at once the critic and the audience on the occasion of these rehearsals. " Mademoiselle Julie," she would exc^.aim, " how is this ? you turn your back on the audience. This, let me tell you, is the manner in which the verses should be recited. M. 198 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. de Pompl^re, my grandfather, was reader at the court of His Most Christian Majesty ; so nauch was he esteemed, that Mohere dedi- cated one of his plays to him. I forget the lines, but I know that Pompi^re rhymed with terre.^^ " Mais comment done," cried M. de Levet from the top of one of the scenes, where he was fastening up some drapery. " I know the lines ; they ran : " Je connais un paysan qu'on appelait gros Pierre, Qui n'ayant pour tout bien qu'un seul arpent de terre, Prit le nom pompeux de Monsieur de Pompiere.'* " M. de Levet !" cried the indignant lady, " vous etes un ignorant, un impertinent ! You may well say that you have lived in camps. My brother shall hear of your im- pertinence ;" and so saying, the indignant lady stalked out of the room. As soon as she had left, the arrangements progressed not only more expeditiously, but also more satisfactorily. Mademoiselle Julie BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 19C recited her part far better, when she had not so severe a critic staring her in the face, M. Bonjeau made a far happier lover, when he was not subject to the cross artillery of her cross eyes, M. Arnolphe a bolder baron, when he had not to contend against such an adamantine character as Mademoiselle's. In fact, when this oracle of courts and universal censurer of morals and manners had departed, we must admit the fact that things went on far better. A great weight seemed to be lifted from the minds of each of the per- formers ; so true is it that, in general, those who undertake to manage everything, end by disarranging everything. But if this w^as an eventful day at the chateau, it may well be conceived that it was no less important at Mont d'Or. Although she had so long inhabited Paris, Florence had never been once at a theatre. Besides, even for those who are accustomed to the stage, private theatricals possess a charm peculiar to themselves. Can we not 200 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. all of US recal in our youth with what interest we have stood with aw^e before the green curtain, when we endeavoured to picture all the glorious mysteries concealed behind it ? And then how charming the plays themselves were ! how extravagant the romance ! how direful w^ere the consequences of revenge or jealousy ! What imagination could picture brigands more picturesque, knights more valiant, and ladies more devoted, than those who walked the stage of the strolling theatre, which was pitched in the market-place at the season of the fair. Surely, we thought, to produce such great works, to call forth such passions, to arouse an audience to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as those children displayed who were stationed in the gallery, from the moment the doors opened; surely this must be the production of a mine of intellectuiil wealth. And then — oh ! sad and ever-to-be-regretted moment — when we one day were informed the whole thing was a delusion ; that the BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 201 roses were made of tin, the green sward of green baize, that the trees were painted with le commonest green colours, that the water- fall consisted of white zinc which rolled round and round, and the secluded seat, where the whisper of love was first heard — that moss- grown trunk of a venerable tree — was nothing but a broken box put together in the rudest manner, and tested by the roughest of carpenters, in order to see whether it was capable on the stage of bearing the weight of young affection. The love of the stage in France can survive all illusions, because the French attach more importance to the dialogue and the smartness of the wit, than they do in other countries. And the Greeks never used to tire of the theatre, because they had no coulisse to disenchant them. Situated on the gentle slope of some green hill, while expanding far below the spectators were olive groves, rippling little silver streams, blending with the deep blue of a Greek sky ; in a climate where there was nothing but a 202 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. thin and rarely-drawn velarium to conceal the audience from the glories, and the some- time, but most rare, storms of the heavens, the Greek stage united in perfection, all the advantages that nature and art could bestow upon it. The Greek poet rose, therefore, to higher inspiration than the objects of every- day life — and even these w-ere of the noblest and most exalted character ; while the pas- sions and sympathies of the audience became associated with the ideal presented to them. All the elements were at the command of the Greek poet ; his appeal was at once directed to the senses ; his imagination expanded widely as the amphitheatre of purple hills by which he was surrounded ; the blue immensity of the sky, the distant, crystal, tideless sea, the beautiful olive groves, the wide plains, all were his. And then there were a])ove, below, and around him, works of art bevond com- pare, which had bid defiance to time and man's ravages. These temples, these monu- ments, were not mere objects of curiosity, or i BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 203 idle admiration, they were each of them a centre round which people clustered, and they learnt to associate them with all the objects of their daily lives. So when the dramatist stood before his audience, nature lent him her gorgeous scenery, the whole earth became his stage, and the hearts of the audience were the instruments from which his melody was struck. Alas ! how different to the modern theatre ! To what can an actor now appeal within the four walls to w^hich all his inspiration is confined. Now truly he must be an actor, for he must represent emotions he cannot experience, and the imagination of the audience must supply the defects of his machinery and his skill. Florence had just arrived at that age at which all the impressions are most vivid, and the mind naturally shapes all the interests and objects of life into a drama in which self must ever occupy a prominent place. Often she and Marie used to amuse themselves 204 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. in inventing tales ; at one time the scene would be laid at the time of the Crusades : a lone damsel in a solitary watch-tower persecuted by an importunate suitor, until some gay young knight came to her release — very simple, indeed, the plot and always ending happily. We invent in a different spirit later in life, and all our dramas do not end quite so well. Or she would imagine fairies — good, kind, beneficent fairies — in whom grace of form expressed all the graces of their minds — mild and gentle, always performing good works of love and charity, radiant with hopes, with sparkling eyes and azure wings ; in fact, every day had its dream, its hope ; and now to-day, all these dreams were to be realized : the world of the stage, the world of emotion, was to be laid open to her young heart, and a new life revealed to her. Neither let it be supposed for one moment that the toilette on this occasion did not occupy much of her attention. She BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 205 was not at all above or beyond those female vanities which are the portion, and not the least graceful portion, of woman's inheritance. Madame Blanchard had been taken into consultation by Madame Brinville, and ad- mirably was the toilette arranged. That it should be simple — as simple as her own character — was settled from the first ; but true simplicity, combined with grace, is no less difficult to attain in dress than it is in disposition. No one could accuse Florence of vanitv, but on this occasion when dressed she stood long before the glass, and then returned again to see that the picture it presented to her was one agreeable to gaze on ; it would be doing her much injustice to suppose that she was other- wise than satisfied, and we should not like her so much, if this satisfaction did not con- vey to her most pleasurable emotions. Poor Marie also had been discussed, and her dress arranged for her. Nor was it ill- selected : a plain, pale silk harmonized with 206 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. the expression of her countenance ; her hair, braided and gathered into a knot, was orna- mented with one single flower, and from this knot a long and graceful curl hung down to the shoulder. Above all she was scrupu- lously neat; and so becoming was the cos- tume, that when she appeared, Madame Brinville marvelled at the effect produced by excitement and dress. It was hard to believe that it was the same little fio^ure that used to sit at the door of a morning in a russet gow^n, quietly knitting. The hour when they were to start at length arrived, and the whole village was alive on the occasion, for it was the custom on the marquis's birthday to have one of those fetes which, in the country, are at all times so agreeable, and which afford idl parties the opportunity of expressing their mutual feelings, the kind wishes expressed by one, the hos};itality and hearty welcome given by the other. Every horse in the neighbour- hood was engaged for the occasion, and BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 207 caparisoned with such trappings as the in- habitants themselves possessed or put into requisition from the surrounding hamlets ; the women were decked out in the gaudiest petticoats, and the bodices, tightly laced, showed off forms which justified the repu- tation Touraine has long enjoyed for female beauty; the men wore their best vests, and any deficiency of ornament was concealed by enormous bouquets ; hats with plumes, sashes, and tassels represented the riches or the vanity of the owner. Then there were two carts full of fine, healthy village children, all for this occasion vouees au blanCj with white strings of beads in their golden hair. The procession was led by a band, which was honoured for the occasion with the loan of the heaviest, tallest, and most raw-boned horses. Object in the fete there was none, except that of honouring the marquis, and enjoying a good dinner, which was prepared in a tent before the castle. The rear of the procession was brought up by the cure in 20 S BEFORE THE CURTAIN. his high, broad-wheeled gig, all the iron-work of which had long since given way, while every spring, as it was worn out, was re- placed by a coil of rope. The cure himself, a kind and venerable man, blessed the little children before he started, who aU reverently crossed themselves ; then each of them gave him a flower, which he kindly accepted, and loved for their sakes. And is it not well that the Church should bless us in our joy, as she consoles us in our soitows ; that the Church, like the sun, should shine alike on the opening flower as on the dead and withered leaves ; that she should be present at the feast-dav as well as at the fast, svm- pathize with the merry heart as well as with the gloom of despair, and greet us with a welcome, or bid us farewell, always with the accents of love ? Up the hill the procession wound, pre- ceded a short distance by the party from the hotel. On their arrival, ^ladame Brinville was driven into the wide, q:rass-G:rown court. BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 209 which opened into a large hall, where the pictures of knights, and statesmen, and gentle ladies, realized to Florence the bright days of Paladins and Troubadours ; but she had not much time to recal the past ; it was real. life in which she had to play a part, and she felt it was so when they were ushered through the hall to the terrace, where a large party was assembled to see the procession. The report of Madame Brinville's arrival at Mont d'Or had excited some little in- terest in the neighbourhood, and Florence's beauty had given rise to more, so that they were at once the centre of attraction. As for Florence, she advanced with downward glance, heeding neither the look of admiration of the men, nor the half-jealous expression of the ladies — for women are women all the world over, whether at Paris or in the Touraine. The guests w^ere collected from all parts of the country ; there was the great man, VOL. I. p 210 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. Monsieur le Procureur du Roi, et Madame son epouse, Monsieur le Regisseur du D^- partement, there were Madame la Comtesse, and Madame la Baronesse, with titles as old and faces as wrinkled as their parch- ments. It is sad it should be so,- but the fact is undeniable, that the same passions, rivalries, jealousies, pervade the humblest valley as the great city ; it was at once felt and admitted that Florence was very beau- tiful, and, consequently, later in the even- ing, some of the most jealous of the ladies — those who were verging on the fatal age — pretended to think that a little neat, plain, unpretending, blue-eyed girl, for the first time now brought into notice, was more beautiful than Florence. The last resource of jealousy is to praise inferiority. Up the approach through the noble avenue of chesnuts the procession advanced ; the band struck up a joyous air, the horse- men waved their wooden swords, adorned with ribbons, and shouted for the sole plea- BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 2 I 1 sure of making a noise. In front of the chateau, and before the tent where the dinner was laid out, stood a tree ornamented with presents, after the manner of the good old Christmas-trees, for which old and young were alike to scramble later in the day. Then two young girls were to be betrothed, who each received a purse of money, pre- sented by the fair hands of Mademoiselle de Pompiere herself; she then added a box, which the marquis assured her contained some trifling toys, but when it was opened, she discovered, to her great indignation, it was a collection of baby-Hnen, which brought the flush of anger to her cheeks, and that of love to the betrothed. After all this, the marquis stepped forth, and made a kind, simple speech, such as touch because they flow from the heart. It was received with loud applause, and the procession passed on. But a short time after these joyous scenes — how short a time after ! — when darkness p 2 212 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. had settled on the land, how the old and the young loved to recal them. Happy the people whose annals are vacant ! and none were more so than the annals of the village of Mont d'Or. Here was peace and content ; but, alas ! there dwelt too near those beings who prowl around the glories, the triumphs, the happi- ness of a nation. In Paris, even now, bold and reckless words had been spoken, and bold and reckless deeds accomplished ; but, until lately, these had found no responsive echo in the Touraine. Who could truly have imagined it, save those who take the trouble to reflect, and who therefore too well know that, as the consequences of our actions never die, so the consequences of political acts never lose their signification ; that these opinions would so soon have embraced the whole of France, and that old ties and old associations would have proved ineffectual to restrain the wild spirit of modern innovation. During the whole of the proceedings which have been shortly described, Florence's at- BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 213 tention had been riveted on one object — the procession itself. It was not so much that it positively interested her, but she had as- sumed the attitude of intense attention in the hope of not appearing to attract it, and yet, without looking round, she felt that she was more observed than her position authorized. Madame Brinville observed it also, but with- out surprize, perhaps with some slight feeling of satisfaction and gratified vanity. Moralize as we mav, the love of admira- tion is in all hearts one of the strongest passions — whether it be admiration for beauty or for genius — the homage paid is always most grateful ; it is the source of much that is true and noble, but, alas ! also of much that is low and despicable in the course of human life ; but let us bless the good wherever we find it, without discussing the principle whence it springs. Let us, when thirsty, seek the refreshing waters, and not heed the source from which they flow. 214 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. The procession, fairly out of sight, then commenced that buzz of gossip, charming from its very lightness, which is at once the aim and the accomplishment of all general society. Some of the party remained on the terrace to admire the blaze of twilight which hung over the masses of dark wood ; a few strolled among the rarely-frequented paths ; grove and garden had each their votaries. Madame Brinville, Florence, and Marie stood together, as though affording to each other mutual protection. Florence was happy, and yet there was a weight on her heart ; is not the result of all gay society, in which the affections are not engaged, to leave us in a deeper solitude, just as a man is never more lost than when he is wandering amid unknown although occupied streets. The marquis, with his eyes full of tears of pleasure at the scene he had witnessed, and at the enthusiasm with which he had been greeted (for it seems that the wells of grief are so deep in the heart that tears naturally BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 215 flow, whether it be for joy or for woe ; no heart is so hard but that there is somewhere an Aaron's rod which at one touch can bid the waters gush from it), the marquis came up to Florence, and asked her whether she would like to see the chateau. It was a tribute to her youth and beauty, for who are so old as not to be susceptible to its influence ? and no homage is so graceful as that which age pays to the young, for it is homage paid to the memories of our own youth. Florence, trembling and fal- tering, took the arm that was offered to her, her whole form slightly bending, as with modest grace. As they turned to enter the great hall, they met Henri, who was hurrying toward the terrace. When he came suddenly on the party, a slight flush passed across his cheek. Marie was fol- lowing with Madame Brinville. " And the play — and the play. Monsieur Henri ?" asked the marquis. " I was going to tell you, Sir, that the 216 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. actors will be ready to commence directly after supper. Meanwhile," continued he, with an irresolute look, " mav I offer Madame Brinville my arm to escort her over the chateau ?" He looked at Florence, who was at the moment busily employed in examining a beautiful fresco of the fifteenth century ; he then turned round to speak to Madame Brin- ville, and for the first time he obsers'ed that Marie was very pale. " You are ill. Mademoiselle," said Henri, and in one moment, to do him justice, his selfishness of transient affection was con- verted into strong interest for the suffering Marie. One of her crutches was falling from her hand, when Henri put his arm round her waist, to save her from falling, and carried lier to a seat. " It is nothing," she said, and over her whole features a smile of singular beauty played. The heart of the woman broke forth on her 'countenance at the touch of BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 21.7 Henri's arm. She took one glass of water, and the immediate faintness had left her ; but she was still unable to move ; the fatigue and excitement had quite overcome her. The marquis, when he saw that she had partially recovered, proceeded with Madame Brinville and Florence to the farther end of the long picture-gallery, in which they were sitting, while Henri remained by the side of Marie. The sweet smile had now died awav, and was succeeded by a kind of dread of her own emotions. There, sitting by his side, she could not but feel that between them, even while so near, there was a great gulf fixed ; slie sought the direction of his gaze, as his eyes in tarn followed every movement of Florence. There she moved, in the proud consciousness of beauty and of youth, of that power which appeals to our hearts like light from Heaven ; for where is there a more beautiful type of heavenly purity, than the modesty of the child united and blended 218 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. with the bloom of womanhood. She moved with a certain dignity, combined with some- what of self-mistrust, the contrast of the simplicity of her dress with the extreme finery of the Touraine ladies, might have been attri- butable to the refinement of vanity, if it had been only judged of by the effect which it pro- duced to her advantage. So Henri thought, and so Marie felt. Strange, that between hearts so wide apart at this moment, a ray of intelligence and sympathy should dart between them ; thev were both fixed on the same object. " Blessed be the mother," murmured Henri, " who bore thee, so beau- tiful," and Marie overheard the w^hisper ; and she, also following the receding form, con- trasted the light, the love, and the beauty she was admiring, with her own poor, frail figure ; and then she sighed, and her checks almost burned for very shame. " Why are some people born to be unhappy ?" she thought. At that moment her eves met Henri's, and his secret, till 'then unknown to himself, and BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 219 her secret so long known to herself, passed between them, and there was now no longer room for doubt. A veil was removed from Marie's eyes, and the whole truth broke upon her. Then how bitterly she blamed what the poor child considered her folly and vanity. How low, she thought, she had fallen in Henri's eyes ; and now she desired only to be at amity with him, to possess not his love, only his kindness, his regard, his sympa- thy. How did she ever dare to expect more? — she, the poor outcast as it were of nature, one of those who apparently form the exception to God's rule of universal good. Still she possessed the spirit of her sex. " I am better," she said, and there was a strength in her voice which animated and supported her will. Henri felt that she was telling the truth, when she said she had quite recovered, and it was with a graceful courtesy that he offered her his arm. There 220 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. was a look almost of triumph as she ap- proached Florence, for she had triumphed over herself — the greatest triumph man or woman is capable of. But of all things in life, the saddest is that the strength of our purpose is often so strangely disproportioned to the energy that should sustain it ; the triumph so frequently precedes the struggle, our hearts glow at the thoughts of wrestling with success ; before one step has been taken towards the attain- ment of the object, as though in life the chief difficulty were to resolve, alas ! it is too frequently the case, that when the generous enthusiasm precedes instead of follows the calm, deliberate, and self-sustaining effort, that effort rarely proves successful ; only those purposes are maintained, and those objects attained, which are undertaken in a calm and deliberate manner, free from all excitement. So it was, that Marie was never really weaker than at the moment she raised her head in conscious strength. For Henri, he purposed BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 221 nothing, he only felt ; something like a ten- der pity for the suffering person by his side, occupied his mind ; but Florence ever stood beside it. She had been examining some picture, and was now returning down the gallery ; and as they drew near, the marquis, who had dropped his cane, rehn- quished Florence's arm. Henri was on the point of offering his, when a shrill voice was heard at his elbow ; it was his unwelcome aunt. " Henri, my dear nephew," said she, " I have been looking for you everywhere. I wish to walk down to the tents, to see all the people at dinner, before the play com- mences. It is impossible for me to go without one of the family. The marquis should do it," added she, with a reproachful glance at her brother-in-law, "but he is always running after any pretty face. I have known the time when people were admired as much for mind as for beauty, mais on a 222 BEFORE THE CURTAIN. change tout cela, now nothing will do but pink and white.. For my part, I think the poor little Marie is far more engaging. Allons, ma petite, don't look so pale, or I shall retract what I have been saying ; there, Henri will give you his arm : now, it is all right ; give me your other arm, Henri, and we will see how they are all getting on." And so Henri was again dragged away, and his hopes dashed to the ground. But he soon had to leave them to make final preparations for the play which was about to commence, and shortly after, every seat was occupied. The villagers — the dinner concluded — entered the theatre, where places had been reserved for them, and then the village band tuned their instruments in a most discordant manner. Many an anxious heart beat to know what that sjeen curtain concealed, and there were two there who only thought of Henri, who played the principal part. For the first time in her BEFORE THE CURTAIN. 223 life, Florence was to leave the world's realities for the ideal on the stage, and it was almost trembling with emotion that she listened to the prompter's bell. 224 THE PLAY CHAPTER XV. THE PLAY. The play represented one of those light and graceful incidents of fictitious life, which leave an impression on the heart deeper than the most highly-wrought dramas ; it was called " Love and Pride." The story was quite a simple one : a young and ohscure artist loved the daughter of the governor of a province in the north of Italy, in those days when the name of Italy was synonymous with republic ; chance gave him the opportunity of rescuing the lady from 'a great danger at the hazard of THE PLAY. 225 own life. The governor, in gratitude made him his secretary, in which post he had constant opportunities of seeing her to whom he was so much attached. The facts came to the father's knowledge, who, of course, termed a noble and virtuous passion, ingratitude. Exiled from the palace, thrown upon the world again, this young man resolved to win himself a name — that he too would be great. " lo anch^ son pittore," how many have ex- claimed like that young man, but how few have afterwards succeeded. Florence, seated on the Arno, possessed at that time, as she possesses now, the finest galleries, the noblest monuments of the noblest arts, and at a time when sculptors were her ambassadors, and great painters her ministers, the proudest titles and richest prizes were bestowed as the reward of toil. The heart of the young man, whose genius had until now lain dormant, was filled with all the imagination and enthusiasm which love creates, he toiled and toiled on VOL. I. Q 226 THE PLAY. through sickness and want for two years, while during that period Pauline, (for such was the heroine's name) resisted all the importunities of a suitor whose name was inscribed in the Golden Book of Fair Florence. Paul poured forth all his soul, all his passion into the cold marble, and a beautiful creation started into hfe. It was a period of great com- petition, when Michael Angelo contended with Leonardo da Vinci, and the Hall of the Grand Council now^ bears its evidence to be transmitted to all succeeding generations, of this glorious rivalry, when the victory w^as attributed to the former, but still the pictures of the latter are left there side by side to invite to disputation, as to their respective excellences. On a particular day at Florence, a wreath of laurel, such as Petrarch was crowned with in the Capitol, was to be awarded to him, who could produce the most beautiful original piece of sculpture, the master-piece of Florence. Amongst others THE PLAY. 227 invited to preside on this occasion, and to crown the victor, was that very governor who had disdained the humble artist. The long-expected day arrived, an anxious crowd entered the palace, the judges met in secret, and the scrutiny was long. At length, it was bruited about that Paul of Brescia had triumphed. Who was Paul of Brescia, the next day would decide, when the statue, placed on a pedestal, was to be unveiled, and the wreath to be placed on his brow. And that day of expectation and of interest for fair Florence dawned. The whole city was present ; and when the statue was unveiled, one loud cry of " Hail, Paul of Brescia !" arose. It was a work worthy of a young poet's imagining, combined with admirable skill ; but what was the surprise of him whose duty it was to bestow the wreath of laurel to see standing before him the young artist whom he had discarded, nor less so when he turned to the statue to recal in every line the features of his daughter Pauline. Trembling Q 2 228 THE PLAY. with anxiety and excitement, the young artist murmured, as he knelt to receive the laurel crown, " Am I not now worthy of her love ?" but a paleness of death passed over the coun- tenance of the Prince as he muttered the words : '•' Insolent ! This morning, that lady was married to another !" Pale and trembling, like one wTonged and indignant, Paul of Brescia rose. " Insolent, Sir, to the man who will trans- mit to posterity a name ennobled by his own works, as yours, Sir, has been by those of others. Pauline married ! This marble shall never transmit those features to posterity !" And in a moment, the statue lay in a thousand pieces at his feet ; and Love and Pride were vindicated in the broken marble. Henri enacted Paul. The part he had selected suited him well ; the determination in adversity, the one sustaining idea of love recommended itself deeply to his character. Had he been 'the merest puppet, under all THE PLAY. 229 circumstances he would of course have been loudly applauded ; but as it was, his success was genuine. At the period we are writing of, private theatricals were in great vogue. Even a statesman like Mr. Fox, was for some years devoted to this one pursuit; and from 1765 to about 1789 it was quite a madness. Success upon the stage for an amateur was something more than it is now, when a respectable appearance is accepted as sufficient. Henri fully entered into the spirit of the part ; the fact is that he felt it, and without real feeling there can be no acting. In a word, the art of acting is not to act at all ; but to one who does feel and can appreciate, how great the delight to let all the heart flow forth unrestrained, through, as it were, the medium of a fictitious person. Such was the case with Henri : he was acting with Mademoiselle Juhe, but the eves he looked at were those fixed upon him in the audience ; and so, as 230 THE PLAY. he trod the stage, all the enthusiasm of his character burst forth. Mademoiselle Julie, well hackneyed in re- hearsals and in the conventional passion of he stage, could by no means understand how one who had hitherto seemed so apathetic and indifferent, acted with a fervour which communicated itself to the audience. But it was at the last, when the statue was broken in pieces, and Paul of Brescia exclaimed : " Here is my monument !" that the hall rang with applause. Florence sat there in breathless attention. How her heart had beaten when he spoke of the city of her name, as Florence, above all others, most loved and beautiful ; when in the first act she saw him in despair and re- jected, her heart quite sank, and she sym- pathised with his grief and loved liim for his manly determination ; in fact, no two people were ever less acting than he was on the stage, and she seated as one of the audience. THE PLAY. 231 Some of the spectators behind her, com- plained that the intervals between the acts were too long. Florence only thought that they passed too quickly ; for she liked the play to linger, and to employ the time in re- calling every expression, and every w^ord he had spoken. Poor child ! they were only too clearly engraven on her heart, without any such effort. Marie sat, still, silent, and pale as the statue which the play represented ; and when the curtain fell, and the whole audience rose to do honour to the great actor of the night, there were no two hearts that beat quicker than Florence's and Marie's. Mademoiselle Julie had her share of the triumph ; and Mademoiselle de Pompiere explained to every person how much the play was indebted for its undeniable success to her discreet remarks and criticisms. M. de Levet was quite happy with his disjointed anecdotes about thunder-barrels, lightning propellers, kettles, fiddles, properties and decorations of a camp theatre, interspersed 232 THE PLAY. with sundry little historiettes, more curious than correct, of some of the young ladies, Mesdemoiselles St. Leonie, Clarice, and the whole bevy of beauties w^ho formed a portion of the camp of Louis XV. In a word, every one was satisfied ; and the general satisfac- tion produced its good effect even on the sad heart of Marie. A few minutes, and the scene of enchant- ment had passed away. The lights no longer shone on the rich curtain, the elabo- rate heraldic achievements of M. de Levet ; and each party of friends made arrangements for retiring. In those days, people in the country were not so delicate as they are now ; most of them walked the short distances with a man to carry a lamp before them, which was certainly essential to prevent people from tumblino; over the hu^e stones which lav scat- tered about on the highways. Madame Brin- viUe, Florence, and Marie were on the point of leaving, when a rapid step was heard ap- proaching them in the hall ; it w^as Henri's. THE PLAY. 233 "Madame Brinville," said he, concealing as much as he could the emotion which was apparent in his voice, " my father hopes that you will not leave without giving him the opportunity of thanking you for your visit. You know that he is soon tired : but he deputed me to tell you how anxious he is to say good-bye to you." "Is M. le Marquis in the dining-hall ?" asked Madame Brinville. " Yes, and he cannot leave it ; for he is quite overcome by the excitement and pleasure of this evening ; so that you will perhaps do him the favour to come and see him before you go, if, indeed, it be not too late." Henri had not changed his dress since the play, so he still appeared like the artist on the day of his triumph : in dark velvet, with ruffles. Instead of the broad-brimmed Spanish hat, which was the fashion with artists, he wore a small black velvet cap, from under which the hair curled in great luxuriance. He looked like one well fitted 234 THE PLAY. to take his place in the gallery through which they were passing. The manly features, the light moustache gave an air of resolution and strength to features, which otherwise the fas- tidious might have considered too delicate and refined, just as if delicacy and refinement were inseparable from zeal and manliness. Henri fell behind ; for at this moment he thought of Florence, and of Florence alone. " Stay, one moment," he said, " Made- moiselle," and he stopped before a picture of an ancestor — one of those pictures which animate descendants more than ancient chroni- cles or black-letter histories. It represented a young officer implicated in that con- spiracy for which Cinq-Mars suffered — for treason, it is true, but for treason at a time when the laws of loyalty were strangely confused by the rebellion even of those near relatives, who were the natural supports of the throne. Vandyke had painted the pic- ture, and it represented as gallant a young THE PLAY. 235 gentleman as ever bestrode a steed. He was supposed to be riding at the head of his company of La Garde de Lorraine. He, too, like Henri, who was gazing so intently at the picture, was dressed in black velvet ; but he wore at the same time, the scarf and the colours of Lorraine, and a rich chain was suspended round his neck — a distinction which he had owed, to having had the honour, when yet a mere boy, to contend in the ring with his sovereign. With a light hand, he seemed to curb the charger, and with a strong hand to grasp the hilt of his sword. If, as has always been said, Vandyke painted lace so well, because his mother made it, he must have represented chivalry so power- fully, because his heart was with his sword. Around his arm was fastened a handker- chief in one of those knots to which have been given the name of love-knots, per- chance in irony, because they are so easy to untie. There was the pointed tuft on the chin, the clear blue eye ; the chesnut 236 THE PLAY. hair, which must have won many a stolen glance from wistful damsels, was lightly thrown back from his forehead, lightly as his love might be, if field or foray claimed his presence. In one corner of the picture, a small shield contained the name, style, and title of this gay and chivalrous gentleman — Charles de Soligny, de la Garde Royale de Lorraine. How grand this sounded in those days ! Who of the Garde de Lorraine at the time that picture was painted, really imagined that they would be known, not bv their deeds, but bv the skill of an artist, whose mother made lace ? And yet, there it was ; the picture was the only memorial left of as gallant a cavalier as ever placed foot in stirrup. ^' It is a Vandyke," said Henri. " Is it not beautiful ?" Florence knew but little of pictures, and scarcely had heard of Vandyke ; but there is an appreciation of excellence which all people, however limited their experience in the world of art, can attain to. Perhaps THE PLAY. 237 it may be said that, in general, the appre- ciation of the highest order of art requires a man to be educated in its principles, and that beauties cannot be discovered by those who have never known the difficultv of expressing them ; but, on the other hand again, the ignorant possess this advantage, and a very great one — that is, that they are not so keenly alive to defects. As it was, Florence, when she looked at the picture, thought of the man it represented, and not of the artist, which is the highest compli- ment that can be paid to art. At her age, it must be owned that Florence was very ignorant of history, and therefore she hstened with astonishment, while Henri, who was enthusiastic about all his family traditions, told her, as he walked along, about that strange conspiracy which brought so much noble blood to the scaf- fold. He said " that Gaston d'Orleans met this young Count de Soligny at a chateau some distance from Mont d'Or, and there 238 THE PLAY. Cinq-Mars joined them, when that plot was arranged, which had for its object to set Gaston d'Orleans on the throne ; that Riche- lieu discovered the conspiracy just as it was on the eve of breaking out, and the great statesman was unmerciful as an old man could be, who was dead to everv sensation except vengeance. Of all who fell on that occasion, none died more gallantly or more universally regretted than this young Count de Sohgny ; and the more so, as it was gene- rally supposed that personal feelings were, in his instance, mixed up with political ones, for there had been some love passages be- tween him and a niece of the great Cardinal Minister, which the latter had never forgotten or forgiven." Florence looked up to Henri as though desirous to ask a question, and then timidly demanded the reason of the vouno; officer wearing a handkerchief tied round his arm. " Oh, I was coming to that," said he, more gaily.' " Do you not know- the old THE PLAY. 239 cavalier custom, Mademoiselle, that, in those days, it was the habit to tie the colours of the lady who was beloved round the arm, and to wear the likeness of the features next the heart ? Why should so noble and glorious a custom have fallen into disuse ? for, admit it to have been a superstition — still a glorious superstition it was — which believed that some token of a pure affection could shield from harm, or stimulate to deeds of noble daring ; but," continued he, in a deeper and sadder tone — that well-known tone of sweet confi- dence which young hearts tremble to listen to — " as I was about to say, this young officer was on the point of marrying Constance de Bernay — a niece of the Cardinal's — when this unfortunate event occurred ; and he was sacrificed — cruelly sacrificed — merely to pre- vent the marriage ; for, at twenty years of age, it is hard to behead a young man who is be- trayed into a conspiracy, of the full nature of which he was proved to be ignorant." Florence's eyes were full of tears. 240 THE PLAY. " As a child," he continued, for he was on a theme he loved to dwell upon, '' she was of extreme beauty — so much so, that she was called * La Belle de la Bretagne.' Ladies were very devoted in those days, Mademoi- selle ; and when she heard that her lover was betrayed, she followed him into that wild country beyond the Eider, where he escaped to ; but unhappily he was tracked there, and discovered concealed in some ruined old chateau. As for the lady, there is a picture of her, which I will show you another day, if the story interest you. She is sketched in all the bloom and glory of her youth. You can imagine nothing more beautiful than those features ; and it has always been said that no picture could do her justice. Her fate was as sad as her lover's. Bv verv large bribes, she obtained the privilege of passing the evening before his execution with him. By a strange fascination, she stood near the scaffold when the blow was struck. She did not shed a tear, but, in a few hours, THE PLAY. 241 was seized with fits of trembling — the icy hand of death had touched her heart, and all she could exclaim was : ' Cold, cold, cold !' As his bride, she was brought to this castle, where she died, repeating these lines, which he had written shortly before his death. (C ( The higher still my soul aspires. The farther seems the prize. So falls from high the stricken bird. Which towers before it dies.' It was said that she took poison ; be that as it may, she died so young and beautiful that her sad tale is one of those which cling to this old castle. Some pretend," said he, laughing, " that she haunts the tapestried room, and are afraid to sleep there. For my part, I think I should wish to see any one so perfect. What do you think, Mademoi- selle ?" He turned to look at her, and then, for the first time, observed that she was almost VOL. L R 242 THE PLAY. in tears. What a tribute to his powers of expression ! " To call the sigh to beauty's lips. And tears to glorious eyes." She turned back to look once again at the picture before leaving, and then for the first time she thought that she observed a great likeness between the young officer and Henri. Truly, it was only her own imagination ; but if the heart is full of an object, it finds like- nesses everywhere. It is, after all, but the repetition of the picture which sympathy has impressed upon the brain, and which repeat itself, whenever it can find something to cling to. But so talking, they walked on, and en- tered the room w^here a few who still re- mained behind were bidding the marquis good-bye ; but when the marquis saw Ma- dame Brinville, it was with more than even his ordinary courtesy, he rose to greet them. " Mademoiselle," said he to Florence, THE PLAY. 243 " your young friend, Mademoiselle Marie, or, la petite Marie, as I always call her, is so kind as to frequently come and read to an old man. If you will visit the chateau now and then, you will find some beautiful walks through the woods, and a great many objects of interest. The key of the different gates is kept at the entrance, you have only to ask for it ; and whenever you favour an old man by a few minutes interview, I can assure you he will value them, for the minutes of a youth are prized like treasures ; I know that of old." And the marquis sighed to think of the past. "Madame Brinville will, 1 hope, accom- pany you, whenever you express a desire to come here. Am I not right, Madame ? Shall we say soon, the day after to-morrow? I expect a commissioner from one of the royal galleries to examine some pictures of which the Comte de Provence desires a copy made ; you will then have a good opportunity of seeing the whole collection. Will you R 2 244 THE PLAY. promise me, Madame, that I may have the pleasure of another visit ?" Madame Brinville accepted with that hesi- tation which those feel who are very sus- ceptible of kindness, but still mistrust their own position — how could it be otherwise ? It is true that she had been the victim of treachery, and her error was comparatively venial, although it had been followed by bit- terest consequences. As she was aware, the secret had been w^ell kept, for it was univer- sally believed in the neighbourhood of the Mont d'Or that she was an honoured wife. Besides, so many long years had since passed, that few recalled the events of that period. Her father had left her, if not in affluent, in quiet, easy circumstances ; and the name of Brinville was one not calculated to excite any remark. Still, was there not some deception '? She did not venture to answer the question, but she thought that for her child even such deception, if it were indeed one, was justifi- able ; and when she turned and saw the THE PLAY. 245 interest expressed in Florence's countenance, she could not but accept the kind old man's invitation. And then, like the others, they departed, while Henri accompanied them to the great gates. " Beneath this motto," said he, and he pointed up to an old scroll, on which was inscribed one of the family mottos : * sub cruce candido,' you will always find a warm w^elcome, Madame Brinville. May I ask you only in return, sometimes to allow me the pleasure of calling on you ?" Madame Brinville's reply was lost in the rattle of the wheels. 246 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. CHAPTER XVI. DOUBT AND DARKNESS. In one direction from the chateau, a long avenue of chesnuts stretched down tu a small hamlet almost entirely composed of the resi- dences of old servants, who had been in one shape or another attached to the service of the proprietors of the chateau, and who after a certain period of service were always pen- sioned off. It was always a favourite walk with the Abbe Louis, who maintained that space and a wide extent of prospect expanded his imaginatfon when he was disposed to DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 247 meditation, and afforded ampler scope for the development of the fancy. Here and there some of the trees had been removed, in order to open out the view ; and those glimpses afforded a prospect even more extensive than that which could be obtained from the ter- race of the chateau. It was truly pleasant at mid-day, during the extreme heat, to sit at the foot of one of those old trees, and watch the waving outline of the blue hills beyond Azay- le-Rideau, the vast extent of forest over which the mists seemed to roll, like blue waters round green and pleasant islands ; the Loire, so soon to be baptized " le torrent re- volutionaire," now peacefully flowing onward ; and in the far distance beyond forest and hill, but not beyond the poet's eye, Nantes, asso- ciated with the Edict of Toleration, but with the still more memorable Edict of revocation — that fatal error which stamped the character of a great sovereign, which history cannot extenuate, or the wildest fanatic vindicate. He who sat on that terrace was one well 248 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. able to read the history of the Past In the dark chateaux of the feudal times which were dotted over the whole country ; it w^as his delight to watch them and contrast them with the peaceful repose of the vale over which they towered, or to mark the white sails of the various vessels which floated down the Loire, and then indulge in those dreams of man's glorious mission, to which all ardent imaginative minds are so prone. As he sat there on the morning after the fete, the abbe was evidently contemplating the scene with something more than idle satisfaction ; his hat had been thrown aside, and with his head on his hands, he was apparently quite absorbed in thought. There was at all times an earnestness in the manner of the abbe that impressed all who met him ; he was a thorough man, one of those whose whole heart is in whatever work ho meditates, however unimportant. What his hand found to do, he did — and effectually did it — and did not place the DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 249 weight of his finger wherever he could lay the full force of his arm. On the previous day he had mingled in all the amusements of the Castle, and no one more heartily ; and yet, in truth, this was only through a strong mental effort, for to all men who think and feel deeply, life is a tragedy ; they are always contemplating it, as one day our spirits shall contemplate it, as a dream ; they seem, like the Stylite of old, to view from the lone heights of their mental solitude all those shadows which are hurried so quickly forward into the ahyss of eternity. Such men hear voices we cannot hear, and read signs which we cannot read ; for them there is ever a handwriting on the wall, and the words are full of pur- port and dread. So each man fulfils his destiny. To some it is given to enjoy life, but, by retributive justice, that life which men linger in with pleasure passes more rapidly — how far more rapidly — than that of those whose souls are devoted to the con- 250 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. templation of the sad problems of the human race. But to such a one as the Abbe Louis, even sorrow is not a constant regret; there is to him a hope of higher happiness, than that which is in so many cases composed of nothing more than selfish habits and pallid anxiety. As he sat there buried in his thoughts, Heni-i, who had strolled out, stepped lightly behind him, and laid his hand on his shoulder. The abbe started like a man aroused from his abstraction, and violently, as though some rude hand were desirous to seize the thought from him ; and the disturbance which he had experienced, contracted his brow, and called a liofht colour into his cheek. " You are up early after your revels,*' said the abbe, with an effort at gaiety, which at the moment sat ill upon him. " You achieved a triumph last night, and are probably come here to enjoy its contemplation." The young man raised his head with some- DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 251 what of an effort, when he saw that the ahbe's gaze was so steadily fixed upon him ; he accepted the seat which was offered him on the root of the tree, and then said, with a steady voice and inquiring glance, which made the abbe turn his head : *' Is it true, M. I'Abbe, that vou are think- ing of lea\dng us ? Can it be possible that you will part from all those who are now so dear to you ? Every one says that it is so, but 1 cannot believe it." This time it was the turn of the abbe to remain for some time silent. '^ Henri," said he, much touched by the expression of the young man's voice, " I can tell you nothing now, except that I love this place, and that the bitterest time in my life will be, w^hen I leave it." " Then you do think of doing so ?" " It is very true," said the abbe, " that I have been offered the superiorship of the order of Benedictines in the monastery of La Meilleraye and I ought to accept it, the 252 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. more so that, at this time, such a situa- tion is not unattended with difficulty, and even some risk. You are aware that, about a month since, an attack was made upon the monastery by a mob from Tours; the men were pacified, and induced to de- part. But that is not the worst ; there is no doubt — and I tell it to you, Henri ' — that a certain evil spirit has grown up in the church, and that we have within our pale some who would not much regret to see its altars overthrown. There are even a few such at La Meillerave now. If I have been selected for the post of Supe- rior, it is that I am judged a fit person to govern such men, and to direct their sendees throughout the country, in these troublesome times." *' I have good hope for the future," said Henri, " in the sense of the people, and the kind feelings of the upper classes. Look, for instance, at yesterday, what could be more touching than these poor people hurrying to DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 253 pay their respects to the marquis. Can j^ou, can any one, imagine that this feeling, which has been the growth of centuries, can be uprooted in a moment ? Paris may be in a dangerous state, but even there I am sure the people mean well, if they are only led well." " No one," said the abbe, '^ has had deeper sympathies with that people, from which I sprung, than myself; but 1 am not blind to the future. Your class has nevTr learnt to give way in time to correct abuses, I do not speak of your father, Henri, for he is universally beloved, but it is of the class that I am talking. 1 should like to remain in this place, because, I may say it, I have some authority over this neighbourhood, and I dread the future. But even now it is not too late ; if there were but perfect truth, and resolute sacrifice on all sides, the state might be saved ; a few months later it wiil be very different. The authority of the church is daily becoming sapped, the crown will soon be laid in the dust, and all because men will 254 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. not read the history of the Past, and are only guided, or rather misled, by their own vain habits of life. I regret to say that the aristocracy have at this tinne two great antagonists opposed to them — the people and the church." " The church !" " Yes," said the abbe, '' the church. But I do not mean those members of the church who have heen thrust upon it by aristocratic pretensions, these were in it, but never of it. But what I mean is, that the church, the real churchmen, feel that they have never been properly supported by the State. At this very moment the church possesses, as it were, no mission, no independence. If Louis XL gave something to the church, Francois L confiscated it. Pillaged by the nobles, the church has at all times been held up to the odium of the people. All that we can hope to do now, is to uj^hold our own, to main- tain our faith inviolate ; and for that object, as I have said, it is proposed that I, an DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 255 humble instrument under Providence, should proceed to La Meilleraye. " Surely," continued he, after a pause, as if thinking aloud, " it is a great and noble work, were 1 to undertake it. The church will, I hope and believe, come out of this trial, and be stronger from it. After all, that church in its worst, in its most corrupted state, loved the people, and was regarded by the people with affection. It should be so, for it was the church that first taught nations there was equality in tlie eyes of Heaven, and peace in the grave. Who declared to them that all men possessed equal claims to humanity, if not the church ? Surely the people will now sympathize with it." At this moment some clouds, which had hitherto obscured the view, passed away, and the two beautiful towers of the cathedral of St. Martin of Tours, appeared in the far distance, rich and decorated memorials of the Past. They seemed at that moment to vin- 256 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. dicate the tmth of all that the abbe was saying. Built by Charlemagne, they still remained perfect. They had survived here- sies, persecutions, civil wars ; they stood the silent witnesses of the faith, ever pointing heavenw-ard. '' Very beautiful, arc they not ?" said the abbe, reading 'what was passing in Henri's mind. " Now you will understand my saying that the church will survive as it has sur- vived the w^orst of all shocks, corruption within its ow^n pale. You start, but it is even so. It is true that, in the early days of the church, fishermen were her apostles, and the sainted men, to wiiom religious edifices were to be dedicated, sat at the seat of custom ; but tell me, Monsieur Henri, is tins the church of the eighteenth century, when it is made a mere trifling aristocratic profession ? Are great dignitaries now best known for their virtues or for their lordlv titles ? Ah ! true, we retain to bless us, the memories of good men, of great and good DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 25? men, such as the church cherishes, our Bos- suets, Fenelons, and Pascals, all worthy of love, despite any peculiarity of tenet. But take the church now, and I cannot think that the clergy in general dignify the profession." There was a long pause, during which the abbe seemed to be recalling his mind to the original point whence the conversation started. And Henri, also, was silent, reflect- ing on all the abbe had said. ■ " I am partial to this seat," at length con- tinued the abbe, after a pause, '^ because from no other spot with which I am ac- quainted in this neighbourhood, do so many objects present themselves which give rise to contemplation ; from hence, for instance, I look at the woods that surround princely Chambord, the palace which represents that age and style which is so arrogantly termed La Renaissance. I presume it means when men were passing from the barbarism of the feudal ages (that is from the worst period of feudalism, for feudahsm still exists) to the VOL. I. s 258 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. refinements of a voluptuous, but graceful and selfish existence. I will admit, if you will, that Chambord is a most beautiful creation : none can be more so ; the light and open balustrade, the elaborate architecture, the flying buttresses, the minarets and towers, all captivate the fancy ; and then within, what can be more exquisite than that spiral staircase, so combined that no two persons ascending or descending at the same time can see each other ? It is well for the poet gazing on all this to recal the pageant, the beauty, the smiles of afl^ection, the elegant refinements of a chivalrous and golden age. You smile, Henri, as if my profession pre- cluded me from entertaining the interests of literature and history ; in this you are wrong. As a church is universal and catholic, the studies and experience men bring to it should be catholic and universal ; and it is at once with a smile and a sigh I read of a Past which is touched with such prismatic colouring ; no history so noble and interesting, 1 will DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 259 grant you. Mark Francois I., that type of grace, and princely bearing, but, alas ! of womanly weakness, how he sacrificed this church whose interests we are now discussing:. I fear me, Henri, that it is very hard to be in the happiest of times a great and good man — that is, to be great among men, and at the same time good among men. Well did Monsieur de Seve reply to the Emperor Charles V. when he was meditating one of those political steps which compromise the honour and dignity of manhood, for the sake of some temporary success : ' Si je viole cet engagement, que deviendrait mon ame ?' said the Emperor, — ^ vous avez un ame,' repartit M. de Seve, * abandonnez Fempire.' No, Henri, love these records of the past if you will, but only cling to what is noble amongst them. You may think that the priest should ever be near the altar, but I tell you that no sermons are more powerful than these broken marbles, and no cathedral in its glory can speak to the heart in such solemn accents s 2 260 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. as these moss-grown palaces in their ruin. Go, if you will, to Chambord, and wander amid that labyrinth of hall and gallery ; look at the emblems of chivalry and love which are scattered with profusion over all the w^alls and doors : the Salamanders of Francois 1. and the device of Henri and Diane de Poictiers I can picture it all, at what time Brantome spoke love essays, and there were joyous glances, smiles of wit, and eyes sparkling with wine. The poets told them to gather roses, that time was short, or, bolder still, that life for them had no decay ; that each rose possessed charms, even after its flower had past away. *' * Ne tenez plus tel desconfort, Jeunes ans sont petites pertes, Votre age est plus miir et plus fort. Que les jeunesses mal expertes. " ' Boutons serr^s, roses ouvertes, Passent trop k'gcrement, Mais du rosier les feuilles vertes, Durent beaucoup plus longuement.' DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 261 " I speak to you, Henri, in a manner I would to few ; but I wish to prove to you that a man in my position should sympathize with all human passions, weak- nesses, and necessities ; I would not there- fore close my ears when youth exclaims in all its glow of enjoyment : ' Welcome love ! welcome revel ! Let chivalry draw the sword, and let beauty live for love ! Gentle ladies, brilliant courtiers, noble disputants, all, all, welcome !' History shall speak of this as the age of the Renaissance, now is the field of the cloth of gold; in this age a young sovereign retrieved a Pavia, and fairy palaces rose on all sides ' as by the stroke of an enchanter's wand.' All around is full of beauty ; lightly love and lightly pledge ; let time pass before us ever graceful and ever blooming ; this is Chambord ; but even as we speak, the veil of years falls in many folds around its charms. Again we gaze on another Chambord ! on this Chambord ! on my Chambord ! Henri, on yours. The 26*2 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. Chambord of the present, not of the past ; of experience, not of history. A Cham- bord with moss-grown courts, with devices broken and decayed, with silence in the halls of revelry. History solemnly protests against her own records, death has passed the portal and holds her dominion in the palace. " We have spoken of the past and the present, but, most serious of all, is the future. The future, whether it be for man individually or the future of nations ; the past, whatever that may be, is a volume that has been read ; we may repent, we may regret, but it has been accomplished. The future, however, w^e have still the means of retrieving. What then, I ask, will be the future history of these noble chateaux ? for they must remain, the monuments and land- marks of succeedin": historians, as thev have been of the past. If changes such as I sadly anticipate, such as I am sure are inevitable, do actually occur, these old chateaux will be DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 263 the first to feel the shock ; and the day may still come when the last stone of that Cham- bord, the glory of which, in its perfection, may be judged of by its ruin, may fall to the soil whence it rose, and strangers ask to be shown the site of the once far-famed palace 1" " What a sad and gloomy prediction !" said Henri. Sad and gloomy indeed, but the times justified such forebodings ; the movement of Paris had even at that time penetrated into the provinces ; and hamlets, obscure and se- cluded as Mont d'Or, had heard the echoes ; grave questions were debated in every cabaret. The marquis was beloved ; so were his family — none more so ; but even the memory of kind actions was not sufficient to arrest the progress of public opinion. The abbe said and felt the truth, that grievance generates rebellion, and that rebellion once commenced, cannot be appeased except by living heca- 264 DOUBT AND DARKNESS. tombs. Where he was in error was, in thinking that the church was rooted in the sympathies of the people. And yet, never was court more correct, never monarch so right-judging, and queen, at one time, so beloved. When Marie Antoinette, on her first arrival at the Tuileries, stood at the balcony to observe the multitude of joy- ous countenances below, she said to the Due de Choiseul : " Monsieur le Due, je n'oublierai jamais que vous avez fait mon bonheur'* — " et celui de toute la France," was the enthu- siastic but in no way exaggerated reply. By what strange process was it, therefore, that a few short years could so overcloud this bright prospect, that the once-loved was re- jected, and all the good intentions could not win any sympathy ? There must have been something very hollow in that society. It gave fortli a sound like that which proceeds from hollow but beautifully variegated shells : and yet the country seemed so cheerful and DOUBT AND DARKNESS. 265 happy, it was difficult to realize approaching danger, " Ah qu'il fait beau dans ces bocages, Et que le ciel donne un beau jour ! Le rossignol sous ces tendres feuillages, Chante aux echos son doux retour." So it was ; and nowhere were such words sung more joyously than in the Touraine. But who would pretend to say how long such peace would endure ? » 266 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. CHAPTER XVII. THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. "Henri, what are you and Monsieur I'Abbe in such close conversation about?" said a shrill voice behind them. " Here is poor Japhet, who has been chattering away to you for the last half-hour, and you have not listened to him, n'est-ce pas, mon mignon, n'est-ce pas, mon petit gentil," and Made- moiselle stroked Japhet's back in an en- dearing manner, while he amused himself by diving into the mysteries of her cap. " You are very ungrateful, Henri," con- THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 267 tinued she, not waiting for any reply to her previous question. " I invited you to walk with rne to Mont d'Or, to see Madame Blanchard, who, la petite told me last night, was not at all well ; — and now Marie must come up to the chateau immediately. A whole pile of papers has arrived, containing an account of the opening of the states-general, and what do you say to this, M. I'Abhe ? — the king loudly applauded by all, in spite of a cry raised by a few of Orleans a jamais ; you will soon learn how much the king and queen are beloved in France. ^' The papers say that the procession was magnificent, the nobles never looked grander," she continued, for it was a point which forcibly captivated her imagination. " In their white plumes, rich embroideries and laces ; and his Majesty, he wore the grand manteau royal, and a hat covered with feathers, which sparkled with diamonds. Ah, it must have been a grand sight ! And the ridiculous tiers-etat, in their plain, black, vulgar dresses. A glorious 268 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. day for France, is this 5 th of May, is it not, M. I'Abbe r *' I have not yet seen the paper," replied the abbe, " but I think that the grandeur of such a spectacle must be rather in the unknown which lies beyond it, which can at any time add dignity even to the most vulgar contrivances of drums and trumpets, rich draperies, golden fringes, and military array ; pardon me, Madame, but it strikes me that there must have been something in the black cloaks of these mere deputies of the people, more striking and more imposing than the magnificence of the nobles, or of the higher orders of the clergy. May I ask where did the clergy walk in the procession ?" " Ah, ah. Monsieur TAbbe, I fear that you w411 be very much displeased, but the paper says that a wide space separated the archbishops and bishops in the rochet and camail, from the inferior clergy." The abbe looked at Henri. " The aristocratic principle to the last. THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 269 Did I not tell you well, M. Henri, that the church had to fear more from the upper classes, and the ambitious within it, than from the people without ?" " But come away, Henri," said the im- patient lady, " Monsieur I'Abbe will keep us arguing all day. I advise him to go and read the papers before Marie arrives, when the marquis will never allow them to be laid down until every word is spelled through, and vou will not have too much time, for I shall send her up immediately. And now^ we are off." And she held out the tips of her fingers to the abbe, who did not think it necessary to comply with the courtly usage, of taking them daintily in his hand, and conveying them to his lips. As soon as he was out of hearing. Made- moiselle de Pompi^re's indignation burst forth. " How can you talk to that fool, Henri, always with his nonsense about the people ! 270 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. Le peuple si bon, si doux. Ah ! he will learn a lesson some day. And then the stupid De Levet, who thinks it clever to repeat all he says at second-hand. Well ! thank goodness, the De Solignys and De Pompi^res have survived many convulsions. As for your father, Henri, I think that he is quite absurd ; he is beginning to get into the same strain. Why, all you have to do is to take care that the people have plenty to eat, and let them open their lips to eat, and for nothing else. But what impertinence on the part of the abbe ! Did you see, Henri, when I offered him my hand, that he did not take it ? Such manners ! Ah ! good manners are quite out of fashion. 1 can recollect the time, Henri, when abbe's knew^ how to address a ladv ; but it is all changed. I am very glad to be no longer at court, when courtly manners have departed." Thev had strolled down the hill by the burn-side, which fell in cascades through the wild glen that skirted the avenue on one THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 271 side. The cool, refreshing stream har- monized with the stillness of the mid-day. As they walked on, Henri had no trouble in talking, or even in listening. All he was called upon to do, was every now^ and then to drop a note of interrogation or admiration. The language of the abbe rang in his ear ; but it was only an echo, for his heart was far away in the future ; and first in that day-dream of the future — and most beautiful in that future — stood Florence. As artists tell you that no landscape can be in drawing, unless one object stands out as the principal, so is it with the heart. None can be in proper harmony, unless it possesses one pro- minent object ; it may be an object associated with fame and glory, or nobler than all, for it ennobles all, with love, the spiral round which all the others wind. Although Mademoiselle de Pompi^re leant on his arm, Florence was ever walking by his side, when the shadows of the wide- spreading 272 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. chesnut fell around him ; or when he passed from the shadows to the sunlight, it seemed that the shadow and the light alike repre- sented his frame of mind — at one moment bright with hope and happiness, at another darkened by the cbuds of the future. He was in a strange frame of mind, that young man. The voice of one who he had been taught to revere and respect, sounded in his ear, warning him that a time was coming when all men's energies would be required ; entreating him, as it were, to be up and doing, for the day was far spent, and the night was at hand ; and then side bv side stood the countenance of Florence, as he saw her last night. That countenance, how it beamed when the words of Moli^re were quoted in the prologue ! " Un soupir, iin regard, uu simple rougeur, Un silence est assez pour expliquer un coeur, Tout parle dans I'amant et sur cette raatiere Le moindre jour doit etre une grande lumiere. \ THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 273 Ah qu'il est bien vrai, que ce qu'on doit aimer, Aussitot qu'on le voit, prend droit de nous charmer, Et qu'un premier coup d'oeil allume en nous les flammes, Ou le ciel en naissant a destine nos ames." Strange, truly, does it seem. Here was a young man, who had passed some time in Paris, was acquainted with all its gayest haunts, and had flirted with many of its prettiest faces, falling in love, at once, with a young girl, little more than sixteen, whom he chances to meet in the country ; for that he was in love who can any longer doubt. When he wandered on the terrace, it was not, as the abbe imagined, to meditate on past triumphs, but on a future one, which he felt that he should prize far above all the others. It is, however, generally the case, that men are seldom so susceptible and im- pressionable as when their feelings are touched accidentally. *' I am quite faint with the heat, Henri," said Mademoiselle, as they approached the VOL. I. T 274 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. entrance of La Belle Etoile. " I shall go into this room, and do you run for Marie. Don't call Madame Blanchard ; she does not understand me. Marie is the only person who has any real sympathy for my nerves. Madame Blanchard is a good woman, hut she is always a housekeeper, while !Marie quite understands me. You are sure to find Marie in the garden, Henri ; tell her to hring her work, and to sit in this room with me. It is far hetter for her than broiling in the sun. But, above all, don't bring her mother ; she is too civil. I require delicate attentions, such as I experienced at the court of his most Christian Majesty. Did I ever tell you, Henri, what Louis XV. said to me ?" But Henri, who knew what was coming onlv too w^ell, with more earnestness than he in general evinced when these attacks of nerves came upon her, left the room, as he said, to seek Marie. He recalled the precise spot where, on a former occasion, he had seen her and "Florence sitting in the garden. THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 275 There was much hope in his countenance, mixed with some fear, as all great hopes are, as he turned down the walk in the garden, so sweetly scented, at the end of which was the small arbour : in one glance he had possessed himself of every flower, so impressionable is the brain when excited by passion. He caught a glimpse of a figure seated there, and his heart beat rapidly ; but it was sud- denly checked when he saw that Marie was alone. '' Mademoiselle," said he, and not without an effort, '^ my aunt is in the room on the ground floor, and wishes to see you. Will you allow me to lead you there ?" Marie took the crutch which lay beside her, and rose, not without pain; for a moment the selfishness of human nature overpowered her. She felt that Henri had not courage to ask where Florence was, al- though she, with a woman's instinct, was w^ell assured that at this moment he would have given much to know. But in an instant T 2 276 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. she who could not conquer the physical weak- ness conquered the mental one. " You find me quite deserted to-day, Monsieur Henri. Madame BrinviUe is un- well, and Florence — " ''Where is she?" asked Henri, with a total loss of his habitual self-command. " She told me," said Marie, " that she was going down to the old manor-house, and that she should return soon." As she spoke, she pretended to be exam- ining a flower — a moss-rose. Her cheek was flushed, a tear stole down it ; but flush and tear, even if Henri had noticed them, would have brought no conviction to his mind. He was full of one idea, and of one alone, so all the others were mere shadows. And yet he liked Marie very much, so he took one of her crutches in his hand, and placed her hand within his arm — the man within conquered self. He represented, at that moment, the universal respect of a gen- THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 277 tleman for all women. For one moment, she felt truly happy — ah, it was but for one moment ! — for the full truth flashed upon her — il n'y a que des instans dans la vie des hommes comme dans la vie des nations. Directly he had assisted Marie into the room where he had left his aunt, he pre- tended to leave for the purpose of looking after the carriage, for which a boy had been dispatched ; and then he hurried towards the old house. He knew he must find her there, or meet her on her return. At this moment, he was heedless of everything save the world within himself — he was a lone planet, wandering in an atmosphere of his own creation. His heart certainly beat with anxiety as he approached the manor-house — and we well know that anxiety is twin sister to love — and then it occurred to him, how was he to explain this visit ? He had no message to give, no communication to make to her ; would it not appear a somewhat abrupt and strange proceeding to follow her 278 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. into a garden where she had probably retired for seclusion ? and if Madame Brinville were with her? if — As generally occurs in life, nine times out of ten, while we are planning, and scheming, and arranging events in the order in which we expect them to occur, what we shall say, do, or perform, something falls out unex- pectedly to upset all our elaborate calcula- tions ; so it happened, just as he was considering what he should say or whether or not he had better return, he looked, and there was Florence. Henri glanced round, and they were alone. And then all the set phrases, all the formal excuses were forgotten ; and he stammered out some absui'dities which she did not understand, but of which fatigue, long evening, and inquiries formed the staple. In fact, the man of the world, before this unworldly child, was stupitied by the excess of his consciousness. THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 279 But after a long pause : "The day is warm. I hear, from this distance, the murmur of the fountain which you spoke of. I have never visited it — will you take me to see it ?" It was the fountain that her mother had frequented and loved when a child, and so Florence was wont to visit it from sympathy ; but not only for that reason, but because at the same time it was the sweetest spot in that delightful solitude — so peaceful and secluded, that the light fall of the water was still audible, while the heart beat in unison ; there banks of roses were no rare exceptions, interspersed with those sweet flowers which Southern climes cherish, and which cannot be trans- planted and live ; and the perfume of these flowers floated around, and the hum of summer insects filled the air, as though to live and to love were the whole business of nature. Who could believe it to be other- wise in the Touraine in May — in the Tou- raine, seated near her beloved in May. 280 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. Listless and languid observations passed. Florence spoke of the play, but not of the actor. Why is it that there is an instinc- tive feeling which so often bids us shun the subject next the heart, just as warmth deserts the loftiest mountains, where the craggy peaks approach nearest the source of light ? Oh, bliss without compare ! for which man woiild give up all his dreams of am- bition and glory in any one of the thou- sand shapes in which Fame presents herself to the ardent imagination — to feel the dawn of a new light and a new life breaking upon the heart, gradually and beautifully expand- ing as the moments creep on — to feel that a new and hitherto undiscovered world of sen- sation has been laid open to us. Tioie it is that others have written on the theme, have endeavoured to explain it away, have de- clared that all is vanitv ; but what matters this? The adventurers of old still sallied forth in search of new discoveries and THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 281 conquests — after Columbus had planted the flag of Spain in a new world, and Cortez had founded a province where an empire had stood — they still sought, despite the dis- appointments and broken hopes of the many, fresh spots of virgin beauty where the sun should ever shine, and where the smallest streams were impregnated with gold ; and ye adventurers in the heart's hidden mines of wealth, ye who faint not in your search after the priceless good, what avails it to tell you of countless disappointments, of exhausted ener- gies, of long labour lost, of broken hearts, and wasted hopes ? Ye will ever struggle on — the hope is in the heart, the energy is in the youth which blooms within you, your faith is in the omnipotence of love. x\nd these two sat by the fountain — a second generation sat by the fountain. It bubbled as it did before, and their hearts beat as others beat before. Strange thought ! look at any pleasant stream rippling through a glen, and think how many tears may have 282 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. been shed near it since first its waters flowed from their source — what expectations, w^hat visions, what hopes have been cherished on its banks, what loves, what sad and pleasant thoughts has it heard, ever murmuring — ever murmuring as it ripples onward in its pro- gress to the ocean. So they sat by the fountain, and they talked of light subjects in a light strain, but always with some thought, some deeper pur- pose lingering behind. As the w4nd, when it rises in fitful gusts, touches the ^Eolian wires and a melody is produced, so the heart has its chords, and every word that passes over them produces a distinct melody ; and ever and anon soft breezes, perfume-laden with the gifts of spring, played around them like idle fancies. Youth, and Beauty, and Love ! can there be a principle of decay in so glorious a birth? There are moments — rare felicities indeed — but there are moments in which, as it were, the heart's affections stand still for a time, and THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 283 lighten with their glory all the world of thought witliin us. Such are the moments when, for the first time, we feel that our heart's throbs are responded to by another. So it was at such a moment, all Henri's doubts, fears, and perplexities passed away : confidence in the future sprang up within him. The test of love is confidence in pre- sence, and anxietv in absence. Blessed are the attributes of womanhood, when the chiselled feature, the dimpling smile, the cadence of the voice, and the tangled locks of graceful auburn, are all emblems of qualities which angels love to name in their prayers ; the features of repose, the smiles of hope, the voice of sympathy and love, ever- varying in its expression, like the impulses of a graceful nature. Blessed was she who first uttered the words, " I love ;" for from her lips a spirit went forth more potent than any that magician could invoke- — a spirit that, like the prophet's rod, could bid the waters flow from a heart of rock — that 284 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. called forth flowers of beauty in soil parched as Araby's ; that rent asunder those most potent of all bonds, the bonds of artificial vanities. That which ambition could not achieve, love conquered ; indolence, satiety, vanity — above all, selfishness — the long train of frivolities and vices, all bowed before the spell which the woman called forth. They had risen from the seat, and me- chanically strolled down the path that led to the burn-side. At one point, a beautiful view of the old chateau presented itself It was the side on which it rose, as though it were a portion of the rock on which it was built. From the windows on this side, any one could look down upon the torrent below ; thence the brushwood had been cleared away, so as to show the whole facade. The flag- tower frowned above ; and loftily above the tower, the ensign of Fra nee floated — with those golden lilies which the oldest of sove- reign houses were proud to assume in their arms. A slight gloom passed across Henri's THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 285 countenance, while Florence's beamed with pleasure, as the magnificent view burst upon her. What was the cause of this different expression? They were both of them at once recalled from the world of imagination ; but he to a sense of the obligations, she to a keener sense of the beauties of nature. Then for the first time, there flashed across Henri's mind all the social ties which he inherited with his great position ; the pains and penalties of a high station presented themselves to him ; he felt — for he could no longer be deceived as to the nature of his feelings for Florence — he felt that there were difficulties in the way of his indulgence of those feelings, which until then he had never contemplated. Kind as the old marquis was, he well knew his tenacity on all matters connected with his family position and illus- tration. Between himself and Florence, therefore, it seemed at once that a deep gulf was fixed, wider and even less easy to pass, from the circumstance that it had no real 286 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. existence — that if there were a difficultv, it was founded in prejudices and vanities. Yes, and what is more difficult to overcome ? Men's prejudices and passions, when we mention them, are we not raising at once obstacles of more than giant proportions ? But she smiled happily, for she had no such imaginations. When women love, they only feel, and do not reason. If a woman's emotion be a pure one, it rises spontaneously in the heart, like the spring in some dell or secluded glade, and then at once ever flows on, endowing with its beauty, musical in its harmony, and calling forth teeming beauties through whatever soil it passes, ignorant that it may one day either become a mighty current, possessing all the elements of greatness, and bearing in its bosom the destinies and fates of men ; or that it may subside and die awav uncared for and un- known, like those rivulets by the banks of which the traveller wanders ; when suddenly, as he looks round, he finds that the water has THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. 287 sunk into the earth, and nothing hut a dry and thhsty channel marks the spot where the waters once flowed. Florence did not reflect on the difi^erence of class and rank, for she did not understand the value of such superiorities. Having mixed little in the world, she was not aware of the importance which the world sets on social distinctions. She knew there were difl^erent grades, but she thought, and truly thought, that as each grade had its obligations and duties, the performance of these, in whatever sphere a person was placed, ennobled him. The disparity of condition, therefore, did not flash upon her as it did on Henri when he looked on the chateau, where his forefathers had resided for many centuries. Neither did she notice something difl'erent in the voice when he again addressed himself to her, when he suggested that it was time he should return to the hotel; and if she were going that way, he would accompany her. It was an abrupt conclusion to the 288 THEY SAT BY THE FOUNTAIN. meeting — that first meeting in which so often the secret of our life is contained — that meeting in which never-to-be-forgotten words are spoken — that first meeting which in life we would ever recal, and to renew which it were even well to live again. So felt Florence, as in silent thought she left the garden, and the gentle flow of the waters again fell on her ear, as they passed by the fountain. LA BELLE ^TOILE. 289 CHAPTER XIX. LA BELLE ETOILE. There is something so magnetic in human nature, that most people are in general im- pressed with the idea that other persons can divine their thoughts and actions, that which we ourselves have thought, desired, or accom- plished, rises before us like the spectres which are seen on lofty mountains, moving when we move, stopping when we stop. In life these spectres of ourselves are ever present, and fre- quently alarm us more than stern realities ; but it is especially the case when the heart is VOL. I. V 290 LA BELLE ETOILE. interested. No one was ever yet in love who did not imagine that all the world knew it. No one ever yet left the presence of any one 1j whom he was attached without an instinctive apprehension that every person whom he might chance to meet was penetrating his soul, and more or less sympathizing with him. Painful weakness ! For each man in this world is in the same manner occupied with himself; each w^oman goes forth thinking of her own charms, and not of yours. Ah ! unless you be a rival, or one of those unfortunates on whom the world loves to avenge itself for its own misdeeds — unless you furnish the victim for the epidemic morality of fashion, you may pass on unheeded ; no one will trouble himself to read vour mind. As they were leaving the garden, they met Joseph, who smiled and nodded to Florence. Partly to conceal his confusion, and partly because he be^an to fear that he had left Mademoiselle de Pompi^re waiting too long, Henri asked him the hour as he passed ; and LA BELLE ^TOILE. 291 to his surprise he found that he had heen ahsent from Mont d'Or two hours. How to explain this delay was now his anxiety ; and having resolved the matter in every pos- sible manner without coming to any satisfac- tory conclusion, he at last determined, as many wiser men have done under similar circum- stances, to leave the explanation to chance ; but what most troubled him was, that this sense of the time he had passed with Florence recalled to him the full force of his position with her. He bes-an to think that he had acted very selfishly and unjustly ; but on the other hand, he remembered the words of the abbe, that he foresaw a great change in the relative positions of society ; and Henri then felt that he should welcome such a change, if it only left him free to follow the dictates of his affections. When they arrived at La Belle Etoile, they found it, to their surprize, in a state of great confusion. Madame Brinville, Florence was informed, had been seized with an attack u 2 292 LA BELLE ^TOILE. of illness. Poor Florence in a moment forgot all the visions of happiness which she had been conjuring up, and had only thought for that mother who had been to her as a sister. She was allowed to steal into her room, where she found Madame Brinville, much exhausted, lying on a sofa, and in a state of the deepest depression. Mademoi- selle de Pompiere, in her anxiety to be of some use, had, it seems, added to poor Madame Brinville's sutFerings. When there was anything to be done, Mademoiselle w^as activity itself; the only fault she had was, that nothing w^as well done unless it were done under her superintendence. It appears that Madame Brinville had received a letter from Paris, which had thrown her into a state of great distress, termi- nating in a fainting-fit. While Marie was sent out, as quick as the poor girl could go, to purchase every variety of soothing medicine. Mademoiselle de Pompiere unfor- tunately thought, that if a letter was so LA BELLE l^TOILE. 293 unpleasant as to produce such an effect, the sooner it could be got rid of, the better for Madame Brinville. Besides, in her pharma- copoeia she had learned that the fumes of burnt paper were the best means of recalling persons to their senses, and the only piece of paper which at that moment presented itself to her was this letter ; so it was at once transferred from the floor, on which it lay, to the brazier, and placed so close to Madame Brinville that she was nearly sufl*ocated with the fumes. Ha^dng performed this exploit to her own satisfaction, she commenced tickling the palms of her hands, poured bottles of eau de Cologne over her head — in fact, exhausted every expedient that the materia medica of her own fancy could sug- gest. Florence and Henri returned at the very moment when, as Mademoiselle said, her science had been attended with the happiest effects ; but Madame Blanchard had first sug- gested the idea of opening a window, when the pure air immediately revived the invalid. 294 LA BELLE ETOILE. Florence sat down by the sofa and took her mother's hand. But Madame Brin\Tlle looked anxiously round the room. "The letter — the letter!" she exclaimed. " My dear Madame Brin\alle," said Made- moiselle de Pompi^re, rather confused in spite of her confidence in her peculiar system, " you know bad news is best forgotten, so I destroyed the letter, and you ovv^e your recover}' to the fumes of the paper ; so there was some good in it, after all. The smoke reheved the brain, and the brain once relieved, the mental process — '' She w^as going on very rapidly, but Madame Brinville only pressed her hand to her head, and exclaimed : ^•' What ! you burnt the letter ?" "Yes, I told you I did so," said Made- moiselle de Pompi^re, who in reality began to feel somewhat alarmed, but determined to carry it off triumphantly ; besides, the tone and manner of Madame Brinville implied a censure and a reproach, which was at any LA BELLE ^TOILE. 295 time sufficient to rouse the lady's indignation. " WeE, I was right to burn the letter, Madame Brinville," she exclaimed, " and you will thank me for doing it some day. The fewer letters any one gets, the better, I am sure. When T was at the court of his most Christian Ma- jesty, I was always taught the maxim, ' Never write, and never read.' Writing and read- ing are the source of all our ills, mind that. Mademoiselle Florence. Many a m.an wished to vn-ite to me, but I soon stopped all that nonsense. ' Gare qui touche,' was my motto, and not a bad one for young ladies." Madame Brinville appeared to be listening, while in point of fact she was wholly un- conscious of all that was said ; all she could look at were the remains of the letter in the brazier ; then she turned her head languidly round, as though it were utterly useless to discuss the matter with one who was quite beyond the sphere of conviction. Madame Brinville soon relapsed into her usual quiet, unexcitable state ; the loss of 296 LA BELLE ^TOILE. that letter was vital to her, for she had not observed the address of him who wrote it, and there was no possible means of discover- ing it ; but she accepted the annoyance, as part accomplishment of that mental anxiety which she was doomed to undergo ; and then she feared that Mademoiselle de Pompiere was distressed at the regret she had expressed, so the kind-hearted woman put out her hand to her, which she accepted, but not in the most gracious manner. Then Mademoiselle began to make preparations for her departure ; but this was no light matter, there being so many impediments to look after. In the first place, a huge bag was missing, which contained an endless variety of odds and ends ; there were scraps of letters from some female moralists and friends, extracts from the court papers of former days ; there were pieces of tapestry commenced with energy, but soon given up in despair ; then there were packets of pins and needles, bright as the virtue they were LA BELLE ^TOILE. 297 destined to protect, and well might Made- moiselle exclaim, guarded as she was by these defences, *' Gare qui touche !" a scent- bottle which had belonged to the Pom- pieres for countless generations, was kept in it; there also place was found for a fan, after the style of Watteau, on which were represented graceful ladies with tight waists, and enormous hoops, with very red cheeks and well- powdered hair, listening at the foot of the greenest trees to gentlemen in very tight sky-blue pantaloons, elaborate skirts, and wide- spreading hats decorated with flaming ribbons, who played on flutes and pipes, while pet-lambs and shepherds in the distance looked on with astonishment, as they well might, at the light deshabille in which the ladies and gentlemen of those days loved to disport themselves; then there was a little gold chain for Japhet's ankle, when- ever the wily bird sufl'ered himself to be so ensnared, which was not often the case ; but above all there was a snuff-box, a family relic 298 LA BELLE ^TOILE. of which she was most proud ; it represented one of her ancestors leading the storming- party at Lerida, which city they besieged with flutes and dancing. A De Pompi^re, as was represented on the snufl'-box, led the van with a fiddle in his hand, and certainly, if he had not been a De Pompiere and a warrior, he must have been a dancing-master, for never was a more gracefully-turned leg or elaborate, diamond-buckled shoe enamelled on lid of box. She valued this box not only for its mere intrinsic merits — for the box really was an admirable specimen of enamel — but also because It afforded her the daily oppor- tunity, of which she never failed to avail herself, of making her own family the topic of discussion. This M. de Pompiere w^as knocked on the head in the middle of his most brilliant fantasia ; and, as they always did things in those days, he was buried in the same irreverent manner in which he attacked citadels. Mademoiselle was fully persuaded that this great man occupied the LA BELLE ETOILE. 299 proudest position in the Valhalla of history, and what between her and M. de Levet, when once they were started off on their respective histories, Plutarch himself could not have contained all the anecdotes of family prowess which they related, and twice seven champions of Christendom would not have sufficed to realize them. Henri was not sorry at the occupation which the collection of this museum of antiquities entailed on him ; it prevented Madame Brinville pressing any questions, if she were inclined to do so, and it distracted Mademoiselle's attention from the insult which had been passed by Madame Brinville on her medicinal skill. But when he had accomplished this Her- culean task, when the debris of a life's vanity had been replaced, each in its own repository, and Henri turned to say good- bye to Madame Brinville, he remarked the expression of her countenance. She had a sad and careworn look, which must 300 LA BELLE ^TOILE. have been habitual, but which had never before struck him. Then there was a lustrous light in the eyes, as though they shone more brightly from the night which overshadowed the heart ; the hair, disengaged from the comb, fell over her neck as it did in youth. She looked like a tired child dreaming away, albeit sadly, the memories of the Past. She said nothing more about the letter, but re- mained like one resigned to her destiny, whatever it might be. Mademoiselle had forgotten the whole circumstances in those anecdotes of her ancestors, which the picture of the battle of Lerida had suggested to her. " By the bye," said Mademoiselle, as she was about to leave, " I forgot that we are next week to make an expedition to Che- nonccaux ; the marquis, my brother, desired me to ask you all to join us. Tliere will be plenty of room. I am sure it would do Madame good, Mademoiselle Florence; nothing like cliange of air, as Louis XV. LA BELLE ETOILE. 301 used to say, when he sent some of the young gentlemen to the Bastille. As for Marie, she told me the other day she wished to see Chenonceaux, and so I shall trust to Madame Blanchard not to interfere; but here is Marie." Marie had entered just at the moment, and when she heard her probable interest in this expedition answered for before Henri, she found it difficult to conceal her feelings of annoyance ; and yet this soon changed into one approaching to pleasure, when she thought what happiness it had always been to her to listen to his kind, low, and gentle voice ; for years past it had been her dream to realize in him, who had been her playmate, all the chivalrous and noble qualities. Her very helplessness and infirmity, in rendering her an object of pity, had been in part the cause of her present mental suf- fering ; but now it was that she felt helpless not alone in body, but in mind. Was she not then still more an object of pity, and is 302 LA BELLE ^TOILE. not pity akin to love ? All this passed through her heart, and left the emotion expressed in her countenance. Mademoiselle remarked it, and asked if she was ill. " The heat," ejaculated Marie ; and a pale- ness, sudden as the previous glow, overspread her countenance. Yes, she resolved to carrv out her self-sacrifice. She saw the look which Henri gave her. She knew that the party greatly depended on her, and she then answered that " it would be most agree- able.'^ Poor Marie ! poor child ! you think your- self lonely and solitary in such suffering ; be not deceived ! the hearts that suffer, embrace a wdder circuit than any other. Go where you will, you will not be alone ; you will find some who, if they cannot sympathize, can at least comprehend the nature of your sorrows. You garnered up soft and gentle ideas in your heart, and the mildew has entered there the first. You hoped to sail before a genial and favouring breeze down the stream of life LA BELLE ETOILE. 303 and love, and your bark has foundered in the bluest and clearest of waters. You, in your childish view of justice, fondly thought that to you an inner world of happiness would be vouchsafed ; and a full flood of Heaven's light would shine on your heart to compen- sate you for the loss of youth's energies ; yet do not complain ; happier are you with these thoughts of love, with these sweet visions of a future untainted by the breath of selfishness, than they whose afl*ections are selfish and misplaced ; and who make what should be the glory of their youth the shame of their womanhood. Gentle and holy thoughts will be always yours. It is a beautiful and graceful thing to bear in your heart the image of love. There are two Arabias touching each other and the heart of each person possesses one of these. The one is beautiful, fragrant with abundance of flowers, and those green spots on which all sweet Ipving spirits long to repose ; and wherein those are cordially most welcomed who are most excellent and trust- 304 LA BELLE 6tOILE. worthy ; the other is hot, arid, and feverish, parched and unwholesome, wherein no good things take root. You possess within your- self the first of these, live in it and love it ; turn from the parched, ungrateful tract of selfish, barren existence ; bid welcome to all kind feelings ; offer to others the blessings which you cannot yourself enjoy ; and learn this truth, that there is a higher one than happiness invoked for yourself, and that is happiness invoked by yourself for others. Such were the feelings that passed across her mind, as she turned to the window to conceal her countenance when Henri left the room. Madame Brinville read the truth, and she sympathized with this heart's weari- ness. Marie was about to retu'e to her own room, when Madame Brinville prayed her to remain. " Marie/' said Madame Brinville, " I have asked you to stay here while I speak to Florence ; for I am sure that, come what may, so long as you live you will ever be a most LA BELLE ETOILE. 305 kind friend to my little Florence, and no one can tell how soon she may require some friend who will love and counsel her. You know, Florence, something of my sufferings in life, how my — " (she would have said, " my husband," but even then she could not utter the word) ^' how your father, Florence, whom it is so long since you have seen, left Paris for some distant country, and what pain it has been to me to educate you as you should be educated. Well, after long years, during which I have been quite ig- norant of his career, I heard from him this morning. He tells me that he has some- thing of the utmost importance to confide to me ; that he will be in Paris in a month, where we are to join him ; that I was to communicate with him under cover to a M. Morel. As I read, I was seized with a sudden spasm, which resulted from the excitement, before having perused the whole letter. Mademoiselle de Pompi^re, as you are aware, has burnt it, and I have VOL. I, X 306 LA BELLE ETOILE. now no means of communicating with him, although I am aware from what I read that the fate of his child, of my own Florence, depends upon it." "Mother," said Florence, in a solemn voice, and an earnestness beyond her years, " you know that I have seen my father so rarely that it is impossible for me to feel for him, as I am aware a daughter should feel. It is to you I owe all duty and affection ; therefore I implore you do not trouble your- self. I can never be unhappy so long as you are with me." Madame Brinville uttered an exclamation, and gave a sudden start, which showed at once that there was some secret source of her pain and anxiety beyond that which she had just stated. " Florence," said she, and her words were slow and pondered, as if she felt that a weight of responsibility attached to them. " Florence, I Jivill not deceive you ; it would be very wrong in me to do so. I may tell LA BELLE ETOILE. 307 you that the cause of my returning to this spot, where as a child I lived so happily, was that the physicians told me my native air might arrest the progress of a complaint, which is fatal, as it is rapid and sure. I only value my life, Florence, for your sake ; it is to you, Florence, I cling as to the only charm that binds me to existence." Here her voice faltered. Florence did not listen to the language of her mother's love, only to the expression of her voice. She laid her head on her bosom as if she were a child once more, and as she felt her mother's tears upon her cheek, her own heart sobbed as if it would break. " Florence, Florence ! I beseech you," said her mother. " I have said too much, but — " Florence still wept. " I only meant to tell you the worst, dear child; but, on the whole, I am much better since I came here — you can see the difference. Come," she said, in a voice, which she in vain endeavoured to render gay, " smile X 2 308 LA BELLE ETOILE. again, and let us talk over our excursion to Chenonceaux next week. Will it not be pleasant, Florence?" She had not intended to have gone to Chenonceaux; but here was the mother's weakness. " Oh, yes," said Marie, for Florence had raised her head, and something like a smile broke through her tears. "It is very kind of Mademoiselle de Pompi^re to have proposed the excursion, for it will be delightful. As for Madame Brinville, I am sure that she is looking much better and stronger. We must hope that another letter will soon come to relieve her mind. We will not tliis day build three altars, but let us all join to erect one to Hope." Ay, so it is : " The smiles of joy, the tears of woe, Delusive shine, delusive flow." Youth must be hopeful ; and Marie's LA BELLE ETOILE. 309 efforts at gaiety that evening were not lost ; and she felt happier that night in having brought smiles to the lips of those she loved, and gladness to the hearts of the lonely. END OF VOL. L LONDON : Printed by Schulze and Co., 13, Poland Street. THE NEW NOVELS. TO BE HAD AT ALL THE LIBRARIES. HIGH AND LOW; OR, LIFE'S CHANCES AND CHANGES. BY THE HOM. HE^iRY COKE. 8 voU. " In these highly-entertaining volumes, the author exhibits every con- ceivable variety of social life, guiding his hero alternately through the circles of fashion and luxury, and through the haunts of want and misery. 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" The tale contained in these volumes is of a most extraorrlinary character, — taken — as the title seems to indicate — from real life. Its moral, the empty heart- lessness, the base mammon service, of the great world, is worked out with a cynical power rarely surpassed. Its characters are all drawn with a master-hand »» PRESS. " Mr. Coulton has dared to step outside the track so hardbeaten by the well- disciplined corps of modern fictionists in the search for novelty, and in the wish to present to us some scenes from the * romance of life' under new aspects and combinations. The result is sufficiently attained to render his book one of the most striking and attractive novels of the season." STANDABD. " This novel, or, as its author properly calls it, * romance,' is entitled to a high place among works of fiction. This rauk it may claim, whether regard be had to the daring elevation of its design, or the talent and skill with which that design is carried into execution. We earnestly recommend it as an incomparable panorama of life in all its several phases, such as life is seen in the metropolis of England in the middle of the nineteenth century." MORNING POST. " We have risen from the perusal of this book with no ordinary feeling of gratification, 'Fortune' is a story of the present day. It is a work of the highest merit, strikingly imaginative in conception, vigorous in execution, and rich in profound thought and noble sentiment. It exhibits the experience of a man well acquainted with the w ays of the world, and the wisdom of one who has studied human nature with a determination to penetrate its mysteries, and with the earnest trutlr-seeking gaze of the philosopher and the artist. We beheve that this is Mr. Coulton's first appearance upon this particular field of literary exertion, and we congratulate him and the public upon the triumph which he has achieved. Mr. Coulton's sketches of life and character are throughout true to nature ; and whether he is in the splendid salon, the statesman's cabinet, the humble lodging, or the lawyer's office, his pencil reproduces the scene with vivid exactness and effect. We feel the utmost confidence that every one who reads the book will be delighted with it ; and in that confidence we commend it to the notice of the public, who are seldom slow to acknowledge real merit." NEW QUARTERLY REVIEW. " A tale that ought to be read by the entire generation of novel readers." PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN, BY HIS SUCCESSORS, HURST AND BLACKETT, 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. ORDERS RECEIVED BY AL.Ii BOOHSEL.L.ER8. 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. MESSRS. HURST AND BLACKETT, SUCCESSORS TO MR. COLBURN, HAVE LATELY PUBLISHED MEMOIRS OF THE COURT AND CABINETS OF GEORGE THE THIRD, FROM ORIGINAL FAMILY DOCUMENTS. BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM AND CHANDOS, K.G., &c. Second Edition, Revised. 2 vols. 8vo., with Portraits. 30s. OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. " These volumes contain much valuable matter. The letters which George, first Marquis of Buckingham, laid by as worthy of preservation, have some claim to see the light, for he held more than one office in the State, and consequently kept up a communication with a great number of historical personages. He himself was twice Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland ; first, under Lord Rockingham, and secondly, under Pitt ; his most constant correspondents were his two brothers, William and Thomas Grenville, both of whom spent the chief part of their lives in official employments, and of whom the former is sufficiently known to fame as Lord Grenville. The staple of the book is made up of these family documents, but there are also to be found interspersed with the Grenville narrative, letters from every man of note, dating from the death of the elder Pitt to the end of the century. There are three periods upon which they shed a good deal of light. The formation of the Coalition Ministry in 1783, the illness of the King in 1788, and the first war with RepubUcan France. Lord Grenville's letters to his brother afford a good deal of information on the machinations of the Prince's party, and the conduct of the Prince and the Duke of York during the King's illness." — The Times. '* A very remarkable and valuable publication. The Duke of Buckingham has himself undertaken the task of forming a history from the papers of his grand- father and great-uncle, the Earl Temple (first Marquis of Buckingham), and Lord Grenville, of the days of the second Wm. Pitt. The letters which are given to the public in these volumes, extend over an interval commencing with 1782, and ending with 1800. In that interval events occurred which can never lose their interest as incidents in the history of England. The Coalition Ministry and its dismissal by the King — the resistance of the Sovereign and Pitt to the efforts of the discarded ministers to force themselves again into office — the great con- THE COURT AND CABINETS OF GEORGE III. OPINIONS OK THE PRESS CONTINUED. stitutional question of the Regency which arose upon the King's disastrous malady — the contest upon that question hetween the heir apparent and the ministers of the Crown — the breaking out of the French Revolution, and the consequent entrance of England upon the great European war, — these, with the union with Ireland, are political movements every detail of which possesses the deepest interest. In these volumes, details, then guarded with the most anxious care from all eyes hut those of the privileged few, are now for the first time given to the public. The most secret history of many of the transactions is laid bare. It is not possible to conceive contemporary history more completely exemplified. From such materials it was not possible to form a work that woiUd not possess the very highest interest. The Duke of Buckingham has, however, moulded his materials with no ordinary ability and skill. The connecting narrative is written both with judgment and vigour — not unfrequently in a style that comes up to the highest order of historical composition — especially in some of the sketches of personal character. There i» scarcely a single individnal of celebrity throughout the period from 1782 to 1800 who is not introduced into these pages ; amongst others, besides the King and the various members of the royal family, are Rock- ingham, Shelburne, North, Thurlow, Loughborough, Fox, Pitt, Sheridan, Burke, Portland, Sydney, Fitz.wiUiam, Tierney, Buckingham, Grenville, Grey, Malraes- bury, Wilberforce.Burdett, Fitzgibbon, Grattan, Flood, Cornwallis, the Beresfords, the Ponsonbys, the Wellesleys, &c." — Morning Herald. " These memoirs are among the most valuable materials for history that have recently been brought to light out of the archives of any of our great families. The period embraced by the letters is from the beginning of 1782 to the close of 1799, comprising the last days of the North Administration, the brief life of the Rockingham, and the troubled life of the Shelburne Ministn.', the stormy career of the Coalition of '83, the not less stormy debates and intrigues which broke out on the first insanity of the King, the gradual modifications of Pitt's first Ministry, and the opening days of the struggle with France after her first great revolution. Of these the most valuable illustrations concern the motives of Fox in withdrawing from Shelburne and joining with North against him, the desperate intriguing and deliberate bad faith of the King exerted against the Coalition, and the profligacy and heartlessness of the Prince of Wales and his brother all throiigh the Regency debates. On some incidental subjects, also, as the affairs of Ireland, the Warren Hastings trial, the Fitzgerald outbreak, the Union, the sad vicissitudes and miseries of the last days of the old French monarchy, &c., the volumes supply illustrative facts and comments of much interest." — Examiner. ** This valuable contribution to the treasures of historic lore, now for the first time produced from the archives of the Buckingham family displays the action of the different parties in the State, throws great light on the personal character of the King, as well as on the share which he took in the direction of public affairs, and incidentally reveals many facts hitherto but imperfectly known or altogether unknown. In order to render the contents of the letters more intelligible, the noble Editor has, with great tact and judgment, set them out in a kind of historical framework,,in which the leading circumstances under which they were written are briefly indicated — the residt being a happy combination of the completeness of historical narrative with the freshness of original thought and of contemporaneoiis record." — Jo/in Bull. " These volumes are a treasure for the politician, and a mine of wealth for the historian." — Britannia. HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. LORD GEORGE BENTINCK: A POLITICAL BIOGRAPHY. BT THE BIGHT HOW. B. DISRAELI, M.P. Fifth and Cheaper Edition, Revised. Post 8vo. 10s. 6d. From Blackwood's Magazine. — " This biography cannot fail to attract the deep attention of the public. We are bound to say, that as a political biography 'we have rarely, if ever, met with a book more dexterously handled, or more replete with interest. The history of the famous session of 1846, as vei-itten by 'Disraeli in that brilliant and pointed style of which he is so consummate a master, ^is deeply interesting. He has traced this memorable struggle with a vivacity and fpower unequalled as yet in any narrative of Parliamentary proceedings." J From The Dublin University Magazine. — " A political iDiography of fLord George Bentinck by Mr. Disraeli must needs be a work of interest and importance. Either the subject or the writer would be sufficient to invest it •with both — the combination surrounds it with peculiar attractions. In this tmost interesting volume Mr. Disraeli has produced a memoir of his friend in ^which he has combined the warmest enthusiasm of affectionate attachment with the calmness of the critic." From The Morning Herald. — " Mr. Disraeli's tribute to the memory of ;his departed friend is as graceful and as touching as it is accurate and impartial. 'No one of Lord George Bentinck's colleagues could have been selected, who, from his high literary attainments, his personal intimacy, and party associations, would have done such complete justice to the memory of a friend and Parlia- mentary associate. Mr. Disraeli has here presented us with the very type and embodiment of what history should be. His sketch of the condition of parties is seasoned with some of those piquant personal episodes of party manoeuvres and private intrigues, in the author's happiest and most captivating vein, which convert the dry details of politics into a sparkling and agreeable narrative." LORD PALMERSTON'S OPINIONS AND POLICY; AS MINISTER, DIPLOMATIST, AND STATESMAN, during more than forty years of public life. 1 V. Svo., with Portrait, 12s. " This work ought to have a place in every political library. It gives a com- plete view of the sentiments and opinions by which the policy of Lord Palmerston has been dictated as a diplomatist and statesman." — Chronicle. " This is a remarkable and seasonable publication ; but it is something more — it is a valuable addition to the historical treasures of our country during more than forty of the most memorable years of our annals. We earnestly recommend the volume to general perusal." — Standard. HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. THE LIFE OF MAEIE 1)E MEDICIS, QUEEN OF FRANCE, CONSORT OF HENRY IV., AND REGENT UNDER LOUIS XIIL BY MISS PAKDOE, Author of "Louis XIV. and the Court of France, in the 17th Century," &c. Second Edition. 3 large vols. 8vo., with Fine Portraits. " A fascinating book. The history of such a woman as the beautiful, impulsive, earnest, and affectionate Marie de Medicis could only be done justice to by a female pen, impelled by all the sympathies of womanhood, but strengthened by an erudition by which it is not in every case accompanied. In Miss Pardoe the unfortunate Queen has found both these requisites, and the result has been a biography combining the attractiveness of romance with the reliableness of his- tory', and which, taking a place midway between the 'frescoed galleries' of Thierry, and the 'philosophic watch-tower of Guizot,' has all the pictorial brilliancy of the one, with much of the reflective speculation of the other." — Daily News. " A valuable, well-written, and elaborate biography, displaying an unusual amount of industry and research." — Morning Chronicle. "A careful and elaborate historical composition, rich in personal anecdote. Nowhere can a more intimate acquaintance be obtained with the principal events and leading personages of the first half of the 17th century." — Morning Post. " A work of high literary and historical merit. Rarely have the strange vicissitudes of romance been more intimately blended with the facts of real history than in the life of Marie de Medicis ; nor has the diflScult problem of combining with the fidelity of biography the graphic power of dramatic delineation been often more successfully solved than by the talented author of the volumes before us. As a personal narrative, Miss Pardoe's admirable biography possesses the most absorbing and constantly sustained interest ; as a historical record of the events of which it treats, its merit is of no ordinary description." — John Bull. " A life more dramatic than that of ^larie de Medicis has seldom been written ; one more imperially tragic, never. The period of French histor)- chosen by Mi<« Pardoe is rich in all maimer of associations, and brings together the loftie^ names and most interesting events of a stirring and dazzling epoch. She has been, moreover, exceedingly fortunate in her materials. A manuscript of the Com- mandeur de Rambure, Gentleman of the Bedchamber under the Kings Henry IV., Louis XIII., and Louis XIV., consisting of the memoirs of the writer, with all the most memorable events which took place during the reigns of those three Majesties, from the year 1594 to that of 1600, was placed at her disposal by M. de la Plane, Member of the Institut Royal de la France. This valuable record is very voluminous, and throws a flood of light on every transaction. Of this important document ample use has been judiciously made by Miss Pardoe and her narrative, accordingly, has a fulness and particularity possessed by none other, and which adds to the dramatic interest of the subject. The work is very elegantly written, and will be read with delight. It forms another monument to the worthiness of female intellect in the age we live in." — lUmtrafed Netcs MEMOIES OF THE BARONESS D'OBERKIRCH, ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE SECRET HISTORY OF THE COURTS OF FRANCE, RUSSIA, AND GERMANY. T^^BITTEW BY" HERSELF, And Edited by Her Grandson, the Count de Montbrison. 3 vols. Post 8vo. 31s. 6d. The Baroness d'Oberkirch, being the intimate friend of the Empress of Russia, iwife of Paul I., and the confidential companion of the Duchess of Bourbon, I her facilities" for obtaining information respecting the most private affairs of the (Principal Courts of Europe, render her Memoirs unrivalled as a book of interest- . ing anecdotes of the royal, noble, and other celebrated individuals who flourished ■on the continent during the latter part of the last century. Among the royal per- sonages introduced to the reader in this work, are Louis XVI., Marie Antoinette, (Philip Egalite, and all the Princes of France then living — Peter the Great, the I Empress Catherine, the Emperor Paul, and his sons Constantine and Alexander, tof Russia — Frederick the Great and Prince Henry of Prussia — The Emperor J Joseph II. of Austria — Gustavus III. of Sweden — Princess Christina of Saxony — ^Sobieski, and Czartoriski of Poland — and the Princes of Brunswick and Wurtem- ' berg. Among the remarkable persons are the Princes and Princesses de Lamballe, [de Ligne and Galitzin — the Dukes and Duchesses de Choiseul, de Mazarin, de 1 Boufllers, de la Valliere, de Guiche, de Penthi^vre, and de Polignac — Cardinal de (Rohan, Marshals Biron and d'Harcourt, Count de Staremberg, Baroness de IKrudener, Madame Geoffrin, Talleyrand, Mirabeau, and Necker — with Count iCagliostro, Mesnier, Vestris, and Madame Mara; and the work also includes such literary celebrities as Voltaue, Condorcet, de la Harpe, de Beaumarchais, Rousseau, Lavater, Bernouilli, Raynal, de I'Epee, Huber, Gothe, Wieland, Male- sherbes, Marmontel, de Stael and de Genlis ; with some singular disclosures respecting those celebrated Englishwomen, Elizabeth Chudleigh, Duchess of [ Kingston, and Lady Craven, Margravine of Anspach. I *' The Baroness d'Oberkirch, whose remarkable Memoirs are here given to the public, saw much of courts and courtiers, and her Memoirs are filled with a variety of anecdotes, not alone of lords and ladies, but of emperors and empresses, kings and queens, and reigning ' princGS and princesses. Asa picture of society anterior to the French Revolution, the hook is the latest and most perfect production of its kind extant ; and as such, besidts its minor value as a book of amusement, it possesses a major value as a work of information, which, in the interest of historical truth, is, without exaggeration, almost incalculable." — Observer. "Thoroughly genuine and unaffected, these Memoirs display the whole mind of a woman I who was well worth knowing, and relate a large part of her experience among people with whose names and characters the world will be at all times busy. A keen observer, and by position thrown in the high places of the world, the Baroness d'Oberkirch was the very woman to write Memoirs that would interest future generations. We commend these I volumes most heartily to every reader. They are a perfect magazine of pleasant anecdotes ^ and interesting characteristic things. We lay down these charming volumes with regret. They will entertain the most fastidious readers, and instruct the most informed." — Examiner. "An intensely interesting autobiography." — Morning Chronicle. \ " A valuable addition to the personal history of an important period. The volumes deserve general popularity." — Daily News. " One of the most interesting pieces of contemporary history, and one of the richest collections of remarkable anecdotes and valuable reminiscences ever produced." — Joh7i Bull HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. MEMOIRS OF JOHN ABERNETHY, F.R.S., WITH A VIEW OF HIS WRITINGS, LECTURES, AND CHARACTER. BY GEORGE MACIIiWAIN, PJI.C.S.. Author of " Medicine and Surgery One Inductive Science," &c. Second Edition. 2 v. post 8vo., with Portrait. 21s. ** A memoir of high professional and general interest." — Morning Post. " These memoirs convey a graphic, and, we believe, faithful picture of the celebrated John Abernetliy. The volumes are written in a popular style, and wi". afford to the general reader much instruction and entertainment." — Herald. " This is a book which ought to be read by every one. The professional man will find in it the career of one of the most illustrious professors of medicine < our own or of any other age — the student of intellectual science the progress of truly profound philosopher — and all, the lesson afforded by a good man's lifi Abemethy's memory is worthy of a good biographer, and happily it has founj one. Mr. Macilwain writes well; and evidently, in giving the history of " deceased friend, he executes, a labour of love. The arrangement of his matter ii excellent : so happily interwoven with narrative, anecdotes, often comical enouj and deep reflection, as to can-y a reader forward irresistibly." — Standard. THE LITERATURE AND ROMAIC OF NORTHERN EUROPE: CONSTITUTING A COMPLETE HISTORY OF THE LITERATURE OF SWEDEN^ DENMARK, NORWAY, AND ICELAND, WITH COPIOUS SPECIMENS OF TBI MOST CELEBRATED HISTORIES, ROMANCES, POPULAR LEGENDS AND TALI OLD CHIVALROUS BALLADS, TRAGIC AND COMIC DRAMAS, NATIONAL SONGS NOVELS, AND SCENES FROM THE LIFE OF THE PRESENT DAY. BY "WTLLLAM AND MATtY HOWTTT. 2 vols. 2l8. " English readers have long been indebted to Mr. and Mrs. Howitt. Thn have now increased our obligations by presenting us with this most charming an valuable work, by means of which the great majority of the reading public w; be, for the first time, made acquainted with the rich stores of intellectual weal: long garnered in the literature and beautiful romance of Northern Euroj" From the famous Edda, whose origin is lost in antiquity, down to the novels < Miss Bremer and Baroness Knorring, the prose and poetic writings of DenraarK Norway, Sweden, and Iceland are here introduced to us in a manner at onr singularly comprehensive and concise. It is no dry enumeration of names, bi the very marrow and spirit of the various works displayed before us. We ha\ old ballads and fairy tales, always fascinating; we have scenes from plays, an selections from the poets, with most attractive biographies of great men. TK songs and ballads are translated with exquisite poetic beauty." — Sun. " A book full of information — and as such, a welcome addition to our literatun The translations — especially of some of the ballads and other poems — are ext cuted with spirit and taste." — Athenceum. HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. MILITARY LIFE IN ALGERIA. BY THE CGUNT P. DE CASTELLANE. 2 vols. 21s. " "We commend this book as really worth perusal. The volumes make us familiarly acquainted with the nature of Algerian experience. Changarnier, Cavaignac, Canrobert, Lamoriciere, and St. Arnaud are brought prominently before ihe reader." — Examiner. " These volumes will be read ynih. extraordinary interest. The vivid manner in which the author narrates his adventures, and the number of personal anecdotes that he tells, engage the reader's attention in an extraordinary manner. The sketches which the Count gives of the French leaders convey to us a very accu- rate idea of some of the most remarkable military celebrities who have figured in the recent political events in France — Changarnier, Bugeaud, Lamoriciere, Cavaignac, Canrobert, Bosquet, among many others. It would be diflBlcult to point out a chapter that has not its peculiar charms." — Sunday Times. AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN ENGLISH SOLDIER IN THE UNITED STATES' ARMY. 2 vols. 21s. " The novelty characterising these interesting volumes is likely to secure them many readers. In the first place, an account of the internal organization, the manners and customs of the United States' Federal Army, is in itself, a novelty, and a still greater novelty is to have this account rendered by a man who had served in the English before joining the American army, and who can give his report after having every op])ortuniiy of companson. The author went through the Mexican campaign with General Scott, and his volumes contain much descrip- tive matter concerning battles, sieges, and marches on Mexican territory, besides their sketches of the normal chronic condition of a United States soldier in time of peace." — Daily News. HISTORY OF THE BRITISH COP^QUESTS IN INDIA. B Y HORACE ST. JOHN. 2 vols. 21s. " A work of great and permanent historical value and interest." — Post. " The style is graphic and spirited. The facts are well related and artistically grouped. The narrative is always readable and interesting." — Athenamm. HISTORY OF CORFU; AND OF THE REPUBLIC OF THE IONIAN ISLANDS. BY LIEUT. H. J. "W. JERVIS, Boyal AxtiUery. 1 vol., with Illustrations, 10s. 6d. " Written with great care and research, and including probably all the particulars of any moment in the history of Corfu," — Atkenc&um. 8 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. THE JOURNALS AND CORKESPONDENCE OF GENERAL SIR HARRT CALVERT, BART., G.C.B. and G.C.H., ADJUTANT-GENERAL OF THE FORCES UNDER H.R.H. THE DUKE OF YORK. COMPRISING THE CAMPAIGNS IN FLANDERS AND HOLLAND IN 1793-94; WITH AN APPENDIX CONTAINING HIS PLANS FOR THE DEFENCE OF THE COUNTRY IN CASE OF INVASION. EDITED BY HIS SON, SIR HARRY VERNEY, BART. 1 vol. royal 8vo., with large maps, 14s. bound. *' Both the journals and letters of Capt. Calvert are full of interest. The letters, in particular, are entitled to much praise. Not too long, easy, graceful, not without wit, and everywhere marked by good sense and good taste — the series addressed by Capt. Calvert to his sister are literarj' compositions of no common order. "With the best means of observing the progress of the war, and with his faculties of judgment exercised and strengthened by experience — a quick eye, a placid temper, and a natural aptitude for language rendered Capt. Calvert in many respects a model of a niilitan,' critic. Sir Harry Verney has performed his duties of editor very well. The book is creditable to all parties concerned in its production." — Athenaeuvi. COLONEL LANDMANN'S ADVENTURES* AND RECOLLECTIONS. 2 vols. 21s. "Among the anecdotes in this work will be found notices of King George HI., the Dukes of Kent, Cumberland, Cambridge, Clarence, and Richmond, tbe Princess Augusta, General Garth, Sir Harry Mildmay, Lord Charles Somerset, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Lord Heathfield, Captain Grose, &c. The volumes abound in inte- resting matter. The anecdotes are one and all amusing." — Observer. " These * Adventures and Recollections' are those of a gentleman whose birth and profession gave him facihties of access to distinguished society. Colonel Landmann writes so agreeably that we have little doubt that his volumes will be acceptable." — Athenmim. ADVENTURES OF THE CONNAUGHT RANGERS. SECOND SEPxIES. BY 'WILLIAM GRATTAN, ESQ., . LATE LIEUTENANT CONNAUGHT RANGERS. 2 vols. 21s. "In this second series of the adventures of this famous regiment, the author extends his narrative from the first formation of the gallant 88th up to the occupation of Paris. All the battles, sieges, and skirmishes, in which the regi- ment took part, arc described. The volumes are interwoven with original anec- dotes that give a freshness and spirit to the whole. The stories, and the sketches of society and manners, with the anecdotes of the celebrities of the time, are told in an agreeable and unaffected manner. The work bears all the characteristics of a soldier's straightforward and entertaining narrative." — Sunday Times. HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY. CLASSIC AND HISTORIC PORTRAITS. BY JAMES BRUCE. 2 vols. 21s. This work comprises Biographies of the following Classic and Historic Per- sonages : — Sappho, iEsop, Pythagoras, Aspasia, Milto, Agesilans, Socrates, Plato, Alcibiades, Helen of Troy, Alexander the Great, Demetrius Poliorcetes, Scipio Africanus, Sylla, Cleopatra, Julius Caesar, Augustus, Tiberius, Gemianicus, Caligula, Lollia Paulina, Caesonia, Boadicea, Agrippina, Poppaea, Otho, Cora- modus, Caracalla, Heliogabalus, Zenobia, Julian the Apostate, Eudocia, Theodora, Charlemagne, Abelard and Heloise, Elizabeth of Hungary, Dante, Robert Bruce, Ignez de Castro, Agnes Sorel, Jane Shore, Lucrezia Borgia, Anne Bullen, Diana of Poitiers, Catherine de Medicis, Queen Elizabeth, Mary Queen of Scots, Cervantes, Sir Kenelm Digby, John Sobieski, Anne of Austria, Ninon de I'Enclos, Mile, de Montpensier, the Duchess of Orleans, Madame de Maintenon, Catharine of Russia, and Madame de Stael. " A Book which has many merits, most of all, that of a fresh and unhacknied subject. The volumes are the result of a good deal of reading, and have besides an original spirit and flavour about them, which have pleased us much. Mr. Bruce is often eloquent, often humorous, and has a proper appreciation of the wit and sarcasm belonging in abundance to his theme. The variety and amount of information scattered through his volumes entitle them to be generally read, and to be received on all hands with merited favour." — Examiner. " We find in these piquant volumes the liberal outpourings of a ripe scholarship, the results of wide and various reading, given in a style and manner at once plea- sant, gossippy and picturesque." — Athcnceum. " A series of biographical sketches, remarkable for their truth and fidelity. The work is one which will please the classical scholar and the student of history, while it also contains entertaining and instructive matter for the general reader." — Literary Gazette. RULE AND MISRULE OF THE ENGLISH IN AMERICA. BY THE AUTHOR OF " SAM SLICK," &c. 2 vols. 21s. "We conceive this work to be by far the most valuable and important Judge Haliburton has ever written. While teeming with interest, moral and historical, to the general reader, it equally constitutes a philosophical study for the politician and statesman. It will be found to let in a flood of light upon the actual origin, formation, and progress of the republic of the United States." — A^. and M. Gaz. "We believed the author of this work to possess a power of humour and sarcasm second only to that of Rabelais and Sidney Smith, and a genuine pathos worthy of Henry Fielding or Charles Dickens. In the volumes before us he breaks upon new, and untrodden ground. We hail this book with pleasure ; we consider it an honour to Judge Haliburton. He places before us, fairly and impartially, the history of English rule in America. The book is not only a boon to the historic student, it is also filled with reflections such as may well engage the attention of the legislating statesman. Mr. Haliburton also shows us the true position of the Canadas, explains the evils of our colonial system, and points out the remedies by which these evils may be counteracted." — Irish Quart vrly Review. 10 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. THE MAllVELS OF SCIENCE, AND THEIR TESTIMONY TO HOLY WRIT ; A POPULAK MANUAL OF THE SCIENCES. BY S. W. FULLOM, ESQ. DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO THE KING OF HANOVER. Sixth Edition, with Numerous Illustrations. Post 8vo. 78. 6d. *' This work treats of the whole origin of nature in an intelligent style ; it puts into the hands of every man the means of information on facts the most sublime, and converts into interesting and eloquent description problems which once perplexed the whole genius of mankind. We congratulate the author on his research, his information, and his graceful and happy language." — Britannia. " The skill displayed in the treatment of the sciences is not the least marvel in the volume. The reasonings of the author are forcible, fluently expressed, and calculated to make a deep impression. Genuine service has been done to the cause of Revelation, by the issue of such a book, which is more than a mere literary triumph. It is a good action." — Globe. •* Its tone is grave, grand, and argumentative, and rises to the majesty of poetry. As a commentary upon the stupendous facts which exist in the universe, it is truly a work which merits our admiration, and we unhesitatingly refer our readers to its fascinating pages." — Dispatch. "Without parading the elaborate nature of his personal investigations, the author has laid hold of the discoveries in every department of natural science in a manner to be apprehended by the meanest understanding, but which will at the same time command the attention of the scholar." — Messenger. " A grand tour of the sciences. Mr. Fullom starts from the Sun, runs round by the Planets, noticing Comets as he goes, and puts up for a rest at the Central Sun. He gets into the MUky Way, which brings him to the Fixed Stars and Nebulae. He munches the crust of the Earth, and looks over Fossil Animals and Plants. This is followed by a disquisition on the science of the Scriptures. He then comes back to the origin of the Earth, visits the Magnetic Poles, gets among Thunder and Lightning, makes the acquaintance of Magnetism and Elec- tricity, dips into Rivers, dr^ws science from Springs, goes into Volcanoes, through which he is drawn into a knot of Earthquakes, comes to the surface with Gaseous Emanations, and sliding down a Landslip, renews his journey on a ray of Light, goes through a Prism, sees a Mirage, meets with the Flying Dutchman, observes an Optical Illusion, steps over the Rainbow, enjoys a dance with the Northern Aurora, takes a little Polaiized Light, boils some Water, sets a Steam-Engine in motion, witnesses the expansion of Metals, looks at the Thermometer, and refreshes himself with Ice. Soon he is at Sea, examining the Tides, tumbling on the Waves, swimming, diving, and ascertaining the pressure of Fluids. We meet him next in the Air, running through all its properties. Having remarked on the propagation of Sounds, he pauses for a bit of Music, and goes off into the Vegetable Kingdom, then travels through the Animal Kingdom, and having visited the various races of the human family, winds up with a demonstration of the Anatomy of Man." — Examiner. VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 11 NARRATIVE OF A JOURNEY ROUND THE WORLD. COMPRISING A WINTER PASSAGE ACROSS THE ANDES TO CHILI, WITH A VISIT TO THE GOLD REGIONS OF CALIFORNIA. AND AUSTRALIA, THE SOUTH SEA ISLANDS, JAVA, &C. BY F. GEKSTAECKEK. 3 vols, post 8vo. 31s. 6d. " Starting from Bremen for California, the author of this Narrative proceeded to Rio, and thence to Buenos Ayres, where he exchanged the wild seas for the yet wilder Pampas, and made his way on horseback to Valparaiso across the Cordilleras— a winter passage full of difficulty and danger. From Valparaiso he sailed to California, and visited San Francisco, Sacramento, and the mining districts generally. Thence he steered his course to the South Sea Islands, resting at Honolulu, Tahiti, and other gems of the sea in that quarter, and from thence to Sydney, marching through the Murray Valley, and inspecting the Adelaide district. From Australia he dashed onward to Java, riding through the interior, and taking a general survey of Batavia, with a glance at Japan and the Japanese. An active, intelligent, observant man, the notes he made of his adven- tures are full of variety and interest. His descriptions of places and persons are lively, and his remarks on natural productions and the phenomena of earth, sea, and sky are always sensible, and made with a view to practical results. Those portions of the Narrative which refer to California and Australia are replete with vivid sketches ; and indeed the whole work abounds with living and picturesque descriptions of men, manners, and localities." — Globe. " The author of this comprehensive narrative embarked at Bremen for Cali- fornia, and then took ship to the South Sea Islands, of which and of their inhabit- ants we have some pleasant sketches. From the South Sea Islands he sailed to Australia, where he effected a very daring and adventurous journey by himself through the Murray Valley to Adelaide. He then proceeded to Java, the interior of which he explored to a considerable distance. Before he departed for Europe, he remained some time at Batavia, and was so fortunate as to witness the arrival of the Japanese vessel bringing her annual cargo of goods from Japan. Inde- pendently of great variety — for these pages are never monotonous or dull — a pleasant freshness pervades Mr. Gerstaecker's chequered narrative. It offers much to interest, and conveys much valuable information, set forth in a very lucid and graphic manner." — AthetKBum. " These travels consisted principally in a ' winter passage across the Andes to Chili, with a visit to the gold regions of California and Australia, the South Sea Islands, Java, &c.' In the present state of things and position of affairs, no more desirable book can be imagined. It carries us at once to the centre of attractions — it conveys us to the land of promise to expectant thousands. We behold, face to face, the mighty regions where so many of our countrymen have gone, that it seems almost a second home. We are informed, in minute details of the life that is led there. There is no false glitter thrown over the accounts \ the author evidently strives to raise no false hopes, and excite no unreasonable expectations. The accounts given of California are particularly explicit. Tiie description of Sydney during the excitement prevailing on the discovery of new mines is very interesting. ' ' — Sun. AUSTRALIA AS IT IS: ITS SETTLEMENTS, FARMS, AND GOLD FIELDS. BY F. LANCELOTT, ESQ. MINERALOGICAL SURVEYOR IN THE AUSTRALIAN COLONIES. Second Edition, Revised. 2 vols, post 8vo. 2l8. "This is an unadorned account of the actual condition in which these colonie- are found by a professional surveyor and mineralogist, who goes over the ground with a careful glance and a remarkable aptitude for seizing on the practical por- tions of the subject. On the climate, the vegetation, and the agricultural resources of the country, he is copious in the extreme, and to the intending emigrant an invaluable instructor. As may be expected from a scientific hand, the subject of gold digging undergoes a thorough manipulation. Mr. Laucelott dwells with minuteness on the several indications, stratifications, varieties of soil, and methods of working, experience has pointed out, and offers a perfect manual of the new craft to the adventurous settler. Nor has he neglected to provide him with information as to the sea voyage and all its accessories, the commodities most in request at the antipodes, and a general view of social wants, family management, &c., such as a shrewd and observant counsellor, aided by old resident authorities, can afford. As a guide to the auriferous regions, as well as the pastoral solitudes of Australia, the work is unsurpassed." — Globe. " This is the best book on the new El Dorado ; the best, not only in respect to matter, style, and arrangement, in all of which merits it excels, but emiuentl the best because the latest, and the work of a man professionally conversant wit' those circumstances which are charming hundreds of thousands annually to tli great Southern Continent. The last twenty years have been proUfic of work upon Australia, but they are all now obsolete. Every one who takes an intere in Australia would do well to possess himself of Mr. Lancelott's work, whicii tells everything of the social state, of the physiology, and the precious mineralogy of the gold country." — Standard. " We advise all about to emigrate to take this book as a counsellor and com- panion." — Lloyd's Weekly Paper. A LADY'S VISIT TO THE GOLD DIGGI^'GS OF AUSTRALIA IN 1852-3. BY MRS. CHARLES CLACT. 1 vol. 10s. Gd. " The most pithy and entertaining of all the books that have been written on the gold diggings." — Literary Gazette. " Mrs. Clacy's book will be read with considerable interest, and not withoi profit. Her statements and advice will be most useful among her own sex."— Athcnceiim. " Mrs. Clacy tells her story well. Her book is the most graphic account of the diggings and the gohl country in general that is to be had." — Dnily News. " One of the best guides to Australian emigrants yet issued." — Messenger. "We recommend this work Jis the emigrant's vadc mecum." — Home Companior. VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 13 A TOUR OP INQUIRY THROUGH FRANCE AND ITALY, ILLUSTEA.T1N6 THEIR PRESENT SOCIAL, POLITICAL, AND RELIGIOUS CONDITION. BY EDMUND SPENCER, ESQ., Author of " Travels in European Turkey," "Circassia," &c. 2 vols. 21s. " Mr. Spencer is favourably known to the public as the author of several works describing the land of the Osmanli, the Greek, the Albanian, and the Slavonian ; and in the two volumes before us he has given the results of a Tour of Inquiry through France and Italy, which, commencing at Boulogne, includes visits to Paris, to the important towns in the centre and south of France, to Leghorn, Rome, and Piedmont. As a careful observer of the actual condition of the people in both countries, the results of his inquiries cannot fail to be read with much interest and instruction. Mr. Spencer has made himself thoroughly conversant with the present social, political, and religious condition of the people of France and Italy, describing at one time that curious class the vagrants of Paris ; next the modern miracles by which the parti pretre in France are endeavouring to stimulate the superstitious feelings of the peasantry ; and then the hostility of the Papal Church to intellectual progress, the political condition of Turin, the insurrection at Rome, &c. — topics which at the present moment excite the deepest interest in this country. It must not be supposed that Mr. Spencer's work is made up of mere dry political or rehgious disquisitions, however valuable they may be in themselves. He describes all that he saw with a facile and graceful pen, and the tone of his narrative is altogether so animated and cheerful that we defy the reader who takes the work in his hand for mere amusement to put it down unsatisfied. We have now said enough to recommend Mr. Spencer's valuable and interesting work, which we have no doubt will command an extended popularity." — Morning Post. " Mr. Spencer has travelled through France and Italy, with the eyes and feelings of a Protestant philosopher. His volumes contain much valuable matter, many judicious remarks, and a great deal of useful information." — Morning Chronicle. A SKETCHER'S TOUR ROUND THE WORLD. BY ROBERT ELWES, ESQ. 1 vol. royal 8vo., with 21 Coloured Illustrations from Original Designs by the Author. 21s. elegantly bound. FOREST LIFE IN CEYLON. BY W. KNIGHTON, M.A. 2 vols. 21s. 14 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. TRviVELS IN EUROPEAN TURKEY: THROUGH BOSNIA, SERVIA, BULGARIA, MACEDONIA, ROUMELIA, ALBANIA, AND EPIRUS ; WITH A VISIT TO GREECE AND THE IONIAN ISLES, AND A HOME- WARD TOUR THROUGH HUNGARY AND THE SCLAVONIAN PROVINCES OF AUSTRIA ON THE LOWER DANUBE. BY EDMUND SPENCER, ESQ., Author of " Travels in Circassia," &c. Second and Cheaper Edition, in 2 vols. 8vo. with Illustrations, and a valuable Map of European Turkey, from the most recent Charts in the possession of the Austrian and Turkish Governments, revised by the Author, 18s. " These important volumes appear at an opportune moment, as they describe some of those countries to which public attention is now more particularly directed : Turkey, Greece, Hungary, and Austria. The author has given us a most interesting picture of the Turkish Empire, its weaknesses, and the em- barrassments from which it is now suffering, its financial difficulties, the discon- tent of its Christian, and the turbulence of a great portion of its Mohammedan subjects. We are also introduced for the first time to the warlike mountaineers of Bosnia, Albania, Upper Moesia, and the almost inaccessible districts of the Pindus and the Balkan. The different nationalities of that Babel-like country, Turkey in Europe, inhabited by Sclavonians, Greeks, Albanians, Macedonians, the Romani and Osmanli — their various characteristics, religions, superstitions, together with their singular customs and manners, their ancient and contem- porary history are vividly described. The Ionian Islands, Greece, Hungan,', and the Sclavonian Provinces of Austria on the Lower Danube, are all delineated in the author's happiest manner. We cordially recommend Mr. Spencer's valuable and interesting volumes to the attention of the reader." — U. S. Magazine. " This interesting work contains by far the most complete, the most en- lightened, and the most reliable amount of what has been hitherto almost the terra incognita of European Turkey, and supplies the reader with abundance of entertainment as well as instruction." — John Bull. ARCTIC MISCELLANIES, A SOUVENIR OF THE LATE POLAR SEARCH. BY THE OFFICERS AND SEAMEN OP THE EXPEDITION. DEDICATED BY PERMISSION TO THE LORDS OF THE ADMIRALTY. Second Edition. 1 vol. with numerous Illustrations, 10s. 6d. From the " Times." — This volume is not the least interesting or instructive among the records of the late expedition in search of Sir John Franklin, com- manded by Captain Austin. The most valuable portions of the book are those which relate to the scientific and practical observations made in the course of the expedition, and the descriptions of scenery and incidents of arctic travel. From the variety of the materials, and the novelty of the scenes and incidents to which they refer, no less than the interest which attaches to all that relates to the probable safety of Sir John Franklin and his companions, the Arctic Miscellanies forms a very readable book, and one that redounds to the honour of the national character. VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 15 ITHE ANSYREEH AND ISMAELEEH: A VISIT TO THE SECRET SECTS OF NORTHERN SYRIA, WITH A VIEW TO THE ESTABLISHMENT OF SCHOOLS. BY THE REV. S. LYDE, M.A., Late Chaplain at Beyrout. 1 vol. 10s. 6d. " Mr. Lyde's pages furnish a very good illustration of the present state of some of the least known parts of Syria. Mr. Lyde visited the most important districts of the Ansyreeh, lived vnth them, and conversed with their sheiks or chief men. The practical aim of the author gives his volumes an interest which works of greater pretension want," — Athencsum. *' By far the best account of the country and the people that has been presented by any traveller." — Critic. TRAVELS IN INDIA AND KASHMIR. BY BARON SCHONBERG. 2 vols. 21s. " This account of a Journey through India and Kashmir will be read with considerable interest. Whatever came in his way worthy of record the author committed to writing, and the result is an entertaining and instructive miscellany of information on the country, its climate, its natural productions, its history and antiquities, and the character, the religion, and the social condition of its inhabi- tants. The remarks on these various topics possess additional interest as the author views India and our rule over that country with the eye of an impartial observer." — John Bull. KHARTOUM AND THE NILES. BY GEORGE MELLY, ESQ. Second Edition. 2 v. post 8vo., with Map and Illustrations, 21s. " Mr. Melly is of the same school of travel as the author of ' Eothen.* His book altogether is very agreeable, comprising, besides the description of Khartoum, many intelligent illustrations of the relations now subsisting between the Govern- ments of the Sultan and the Pacha, and exceedingly graphic sketches of Cairo, the Pyramids, the Plain of Thebes, the Cataracts, &c." — Examiner. ATLANTIC & TRANSATLANTIC SKETCHES. BY CAPTAIN MACKINNON, R.N. 2 vols. 21s. " Captain Mackinnon's sketches of America are of a striking character and permanent value. His volumes convey a just impression of the United States, a fair and candid view of their society and institutions, so well written and so entertaining that the eifect of their perusal on the public here must be con- siderable. They are light, animated, and lively, full of racy sketches, pictures of life, anecdotes of society, visits to remarkable men and famous places, sporting episodes, &c., very original and interesting." — Sunday Times. 16 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. REVELATIONS OF SIBERIA. BY A BANISHED LADY. Third Edition. 2 vols, post 8vo. 2l8. " A thoroughly good book. It cannot be read by too many people." — Dickeng's Household Words. " The authoress of these volumes vras a lady of quality, who, having incurred the displeasure of the Russian Government for a political offence, was exiled to Siberia. The place of her exile was Berezov, the most northern part of this northern penal settlement ; and in it she spent about two years, not unprofitably, as the reader will find by her interesting work, containing a lively and graphic picture of the country, the people, their manners and customs, &c. The book gives a most important and valuable insight into the economy of what has been hitherto the terra incognita of Russian despotism." — Daili/ Nervs. " Since the publication of the famous romance the ' Exiles of Siberia,' of Madame Cottin, we have had no account of these desolate lands more attractive than the present work, from the pen of the Lady Eve Felinska, which, in its un- pretending style and truthful simplicity, will win its way to the reader's heart, and compel him to sympathise with the fair sufferer. The series of hardships endured in traversing these frozen solitudes is affectingly told ; and once settled down at one of the most northern points of the convict territory, Berezov, six hundred miles beyond Tobolsk, the Author exhibits an observant eye for the natural phenomena of those latitudes, as well as the habits of the semi-l)arbarous aborigines. This portion of the book will be found by the naturalist as well as ethnologist full of valuable information." — Globe. " These 'Revelations' give us a novel and interesting sketch of Siberian life — the habits, morals, manners, religious tenets, rites, and festivals of the inhabitants. The writer's extraordinary powers of observation, and the graceful facility with which she describes everything worthy of remark, render her ' Revelations' as attractive and fascinating as they are original and instructive." — Britannia. EIGHT YEARS IN PALESTINE, SYRIA, AND ASIA MINOR. BY P. A. N E A L E, ESQ., LATE ATTACHED TO THE CONSULAR SERVICE IN STRIA. Second Edition, 2 vols., with Illustrations, 21s. " A very agreeable book. Mr. Neale is evidently quite familiar with the East, and writes in a lively, shrewd, and good-humoured manner. A great deal of information is to be found in his pages." — Athcnceum. " We have derived unmingled pleasure from the perusal of these interesting volumes. Very rarely have we found a narrative of Eastern travel so truthful and just. There is no guide-book we would so strongly recommend to the traveller about to enter on a Turkish or Syrian tour as this before us. The narrative is full of incident, and abounds in vivid pictures of Turkish and Levantine life, in- terspersed with well-told tales. -The author commences his narrative at Gaza; visits Askalon, Jaffa and Jerusalem, Caipha and Mount Carmel, Acre, Sidon and Tyre, Beyrout, Tripoli, Antioch, Alejipo, Alexandrctta, Adana, and Cyprus. Of several of these famous localities we know no more compact and clearer account than that given in these volumes. We have to thank Mr. Neale for one of the best books of travels that we have met with for a very long time." — Literary Gazette. VOYAGES AND TRAVELS. 17 EIGHTEEN YEARS ON THE GOLD COAST OF AFRICA; INCLUDING AN ACCOUNT OF THE NATIVE TRIBES, AND THEIR INTERCOURSE WITH EUROPEANS. BY BBODIE CBUICKSHANK, MEMBER OF THE LEGISLATIVE COUNCIL, CAPE COAST CASTLE. 2 VOls. 2l8. *' This is one of the most interesting works that ever yet came into our hands. It possesses the charm of introducing us to habits and manners of the human family of which before we had no conception. Before reading Mr. Cruickshank's volumes we were wholly unaware of the ignorance of all Europeans, as to the «ocial state of the inhabitants of Western Africa. Mrs. Beecher Stowe's work has, indeed, made us all familiar with the degree of intelligence and the disposi- tions of the transplanted African ; but it has been reserved to Mr. Cruickshank to exhibit the children of Ham in their original state, and to prove, as his work proves to demonstration, that, by the extension of a knowledge of the Gospel, and by that only, can the African be brought within the pale of civilization. We anxiously desire to direct pubhc attention to a work so Taluable. An incidental episode in the work is an affecting narrative of the death of the gifted Letitia Elizabeth Landon (L.E.L.), written a few months after her marriage with Governor Maclean. It relieves the memory of both husband and wife from all the vile scandals that have been too long permitted to defile their story." — Standa'rd. " This work will be read with deep interest, and will give a fresh impulse to the exertions of philanthropy and religion." — John Bull. LIFE IN SWEDEN, WITH EXCURSIONS IN NORWAY AND DENMARK. BY SELINA BUNBUBY. 2 vols. 21s. " The author of this clever work never misses a lively sketch. Her descriptions of life in Sweden and Norway are all piquant, and most of them instructive, illustrating northern life in all its phases, from the palace to the cottage. The work is well calculated to excite in the English public a desire to visit scenes which have as yet been exposed to the view of few travellers." — Daily News. " Two delightful, well-informed volumes, by a lady of much acuteness, lively imagination, and shrewd observance. The whole work is full of delightful remembrances touched otf with the skill of an accomplished artist in pen and ink, and it can be safely recommended to the reader, as the freshest, and most certainly the truthfullest publication upon the North that has of late years been given to the world." — Observer. " There is an inexpressible charm in Miss Bunburj's narrative. Nothing escaped her watchful attention and her descriptions have a piquancy and liveliness which greatly enhance their interest." — Britannia. 18 HURST AND BLACKETT's NEW PUBLICATIONS. NARRATIVE OF A FIVE YEARS' RESIDENCE AT NEPAUL. BY CAPTAIN THOMAS SMITH, Late Assistant Political-Resident at Nepaul. 2 v. post 8vo. 21s. " No man could be better qualified to describe Nepaul than Captain Smith ; and his concise, but clear and graphic account of its histor}', its natural produc- tions, its laws and customs, and the character of its warlike inhabitants, is very agreeable and instructive reading. A separate chapter, not the least entertaining in the book, is devoted to anecdotes of the Nepaulese mission, of whom, and of their visit to Europe, many remarkable stories are told." — Post. CANADA AS IT WAS, IS, AND MAY BE. By the late Lieutenant-Colonel Sir R. Boxnycastle. "With an Account of Recent Transactions, BY SIR J. E. ALEXANDER, K.L.S., &c. 2 v. with Maps, &c. 2l8. " These volumes offer to the British public a clear and trustworthy statement of the affairs of Canada, and the effects of the immense public works in progress and completed ; with sketches of localities and scener}% amusing anecdotes of personal observation, and generally every information w hich may be of use to the traveller or settler, and the militi;ry and political reader. The information ren- dered is to be thoroughly relied on as veracious, full, and conclusive." — MeS' senger. FIVE YEARS IN THE WEST INDIES. BY CHARLES "W. DAY, ESQ. 2 vols. 21s. " It would be unjust to deny the vigour, brilliancy, and varied interest of this work, the abundant stores of anecdote and interest, and the copious detail of local habits and peculiarities in each island visited in succession." — Globe. SCENES EROM SCRIPTURE. BY THE REV. G. CROLY, LL.D. 10s. Gd. •' Eminent in every mode of literature, Dr. Croly stands, in our judgment, first among the living poets of Great Britain — the only man of our day entitled by his power to venture within the sacred circle of religious poets." — Standard. "An admirable addition to the library of religious families." — John Bull. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A JIISSIONARY. BY THE REV. J. P. FLETCHER, Curate of South Ilanipstead. Author of " A Residence at Nineveh." 2 v. 21s. ** A graphic sketch of missionary life." — Edaminer. " We conscientiously recommend this book, as well for its amusing character as for the spirit it displays of earnest piety." — Staiulard. HURST AND BLACKETT's KEW PUBLICATIONS. 19 FAMILY ROMANCE; OR, DOxMESTIC ANNALS OF THE ARISTOCRACY. BT J. B. BTJKKE, ESQ., Author of " The Peerage," &c. 2 v., 21s. Among the many other interesting legends and romantic family histories com- prised in these volumes, will be found the following: — The wonderful narrative of Maria Stella, Lady Newborough, who claimed on such strong evidence to be a Princess of the House of Orleans, and disputed the identity of Louis Philippe — The story of the humble marriage of the beautiful Countess of Strathmore, and the suflferings and fate of her only child — The Leaders of Fashion, from Gramont to D'Orsay — The rise of the celebrated Baron Ward, now Prime Minister at Parma — The curious claim to the Earldom of Crawford — The Strange Vicissitudes of our Great Families, replete with the most romantic details — The story of the Kirkpatricks of Closeburn (the ancestors of the French Empress), and the re- markable tradition associated with them — The Legend of the Lambtons — The verification in our own time of the famous prediction as to the Earls of Mar — Lady Ogilvy's escape — The Beresford and Wynyard ghost stories, correctly told — &c., &c. " It were impossible to praise too highly as a work of amusement these two most interesting volumes, whether we should have regard to its excellent plan or its not less excellent execution. The volumes are just what ought to be found on every drawing-room table. Here you have nearly fifty captivating romances, with the pith of all their interest preserved in undiminished poignancy, and any one may be read in half an hour. It is not the least of their merits that the romances are founded on fact — or what, at least, has been handed down for truth by long tradition — and the romance of reality far exceeds the romance of fiction. Each story is told in the clear, unatfected style with which the author's former works have made the public familiar, while they afford evidence of the value, even to a work of amusement, of that historical and genealogical learning that may justly be expected of the author of 'The Peerage.' The aristocracy and gentry owe, indeed, a great debt to Mr. Burke as their family historian." — Standard. " The very reading for sea-side or fire-side in our hours of idleness." — Athe- n