Chapter V (4)

It would be needless to follow the miners all through their voyage,--to tell at length how they wondered that the sea could be so wide and the world so large,--how the sun, as they went westward, seemed to travel so much faster--and that, in spite of all they could do, their great fat watches could not keep up with him;--and how a great storm arose, and blew for three whole days and nights in their teeth, and raised up monstrous waves to drive the vessel back;--then how the calm came, and the sails, wet with the heavy dews, hung idly on the spars, like Polly’s washing on the lines in the back-yard at home.

After many weeks they touched at Rio Janeiro, when they went ashore for a little while to stretch their limbs. They were astonished at all they saw--the vast fleet of ships, the busy quays, the crowds of strange-looking brown people, who were dressed like the man they had seen in the play long ago at Penzance fair, and the queer way they all talked, so that our friends could not understand a word they said; and the priests with loose robes and comical hats, who made them wonder if there were a parliament at Rio, for it would be surely blown up; mules larger than horses, with coats as smooth as satin; and above all, they were astonished at seeing a crowd of very ugly black people chained hand to hand in one of the squares, tethered for all the world like sheep on the market-green at home. They were fairly bewildered; and when they got on board again they agreed that they could not attend to digging, even for gold itself, if Peru were half so foreign a looking place as that.

They have left Rio, and steer along the Patagonian shore; the weather grows colder, the seas more stormy. They pass the gloomy mountains of the desolate and mysterious “Land of fire.” Sometimes in the dark and tempestuous nights they can distinguish, far away over the western sea, sudden bursts of volcanic flame issuing from these unknown solitudes, illuming the frowning sky above, and the rocky wilderness around. In a long-continued storm of wind, and sleet, and snow, they double Cape Horn; then in a short time more, as they tend again towards the delightful regions of the tropics, the soft breezes of the Pacific fill their sails, and the calm sea and gentle climate repay them for the storms and hardships they have struggled through.

They touch at Valparaiso for a few days, where their simple wonder is again renewed; and finally, early in August, disembark at Lima, having gone through their long voyage in health and strength. After a short time allowed them to recruit, the emigrants were divided into several parties, and pushed on to the different stations in the interior. The mine which our friends were destined to aid in working, was about ten days’ journey from the coast. At some remote period of time, it had been worked with great success by the Indians; but till its recent re-discovery by a singular accident, when it passed into the hands of a wealthy English company, it had remained unknown: the secret of its locality having died with the Indian chief, whose hatred of the rapacious Spaniards had caused him to fill up the shaft, and hide all traces by which it could be found. There was a continual ascent: for a few days they passed through comparatively peopled lands, and usually stopped at some village or hamlet by a river’s side, where provisions and refreshments could be obtained for themselves and their mules, without trenching on their stores. Indeed the abundant wild fruits, and rich and luxuriant grasses, would have stood them in good stead with but little other assistance.

But the last three days of their journey was through savage and sterile hills, by rocky gorges cut in the hard soil by streams now nearly dry; and the unbeaten track told them that travellers but rarely intruded on this lonely district. At length they reached their journey’s end, and set stoutly to work to erect huts, and establish themselves for the coming winter. Numbers of Indians and half-castes soon joined them to assist in the simpler labours of the mine, and supply the workmen with provisions and other necessaries of life. Twelve of the Cornish men were employed in this party. Their first labours were directed to sinking a shaft of considerable depth in the mountain’s side, at the place which the discoverer pointed out.

Some months elapsed before the miners arrived at any satisfactory indications of precious ores; but, confident in ultimate success, our friends had got the clerk to write for them to Polly to say “all’s well,” and that she must not fail to come, as they were now housed and ready to make her and the little ones comfortable in that strange country.

At the time of the expected arrival of the ship which was to bear her, the completion of the great shaft Was close at hand; the appearance of the veins of ore were such as to create the most sanguine expectations, and a day was fixed for finishing off the shaft previous to commencing to raise the precious object of their labours. They worked till late on the evening of the appointed day in boring and tamping for a large blast Which was to clear away the last ledge of rock lying between them and the vein of metal.

When the charge was completed, William Wakeham and John Short were left below to fire it. The other workmen were raised upon a stage by the windlass in the usual manner; and with most culpable carelessness hastened off to the spirit shop which had already cursed the little settlement with its presence, to make merry for having arrived at this stage of their labours, leaving only a weakly boy of fourteen or fifteen years of age at the windlass. There was some delay in fixing the match: and ere all was ready, the short twilight of those sultry regions had darkened into night, and William’s old friends, the stars, looked down on him again through the deep well, as they had often done of yore. Then he and John talked of the old times and the old country, and of Polly’s coming soon, and how the little ones would have grown, and how, in a few years, they would all go back home again over that terrible sea, and lay their bones to rest at last under the Cornish soil. They had no business to linger so long over their work; but once they began to talk over such things as these, it was hard to stop them.

“Now we have done with this weary blast,” said Wakeham, as he lighted the fuse, and stepped, with his brother, on to the stage. He then sounded the whistle, the signal for working the windlass to raise them. They rose very slowly--unpleasantly so, indeed, for the fuse would burn but for five minutes. “Hurry on, wind faster,” shouted William. Instead of that the stage stopped altogether, and a feeble childish voice from the top of the deep pit cried, “You are too heavy, I can only raise one at a time.” “Get help quickly or we’ll be blown up,” shouted William, now seeing the imminent peril. For some twenty feet below in the dark hole he saw the match burning rapidly down, fizzing and flashing as if running a race with them for life. “Get help,” again he shouted. But the feeble voice, now in a terrified tone, told them that all were gone away but that one weak boy. “But I think I can raise one.” There was but a moment to spare--perhaps not even that.

What passed through William Wakeham’s mind at that tremendous time no tongue can ever tell. He dearly loved life; his pulse beat in the full vigour of sturdy health; he had learned but little of that hope whose fulfilment “passeth all understanding;” he had never read how the Roman or the Greek sought death in a good cause, and gave their names to brighten history’s page, and gain what in our vain human talk is immortality. But that Great Being whose power and love had spoken to him in the bright stars and pleasant fields, had planted in the rude miner’s breast a good and gallant heart, and in that time of trial he did as brave a deed as ever poet sang. “Good-by, John--look to poor Polly!” One grasp of his brother’s hand, and he leaped from the stage down into the darksome pit.

Now the windlass winds freely up: there is hope for the one left; but the match burns quickly too, and writhes and flashes close down to the charge. Lay on stoutly! lay on!--strain every nerve, weak boy!--on every pull is the chance of a human life! John Short reaches the mouth of the shaft in safety; but before he springs out on the ground he turns one look below. His brother lay motionless on the bottom on one side of the rich vein of metal; at the other, the terrible match blazed up just as it reached the charge. Senseless with terror, he fell on his face at the pit’s mouth, and the next moment up burst the mine, shooting the rent rock and the heavy clay into the air above.

When John Short recovered himself from his stupor, he looked down the gloomy hole with hopeless agony, from whence the heavy sulphurous smoke of the powder still ascended; and as he wrung his hands he cried, “Oh! poor Bill, dear boy, would that I had been there instead of you!” But stop--surely that is a voice--listen closer--yes--God of mercy! he is alive still. Up from the bowels of the earth comes that cheery, hearty voice, not a tone the worse.

How my heart warms as I tell this tale! Would that words came now at my desire to stir up the spirit to love and admiration! Gallant William Wakeham--noble child of nature--chivalrous boor--hero unstained by slaughter! Were there in the sight of the Omnipotent aught of glory in any human action, surely your brave deed would shine before him in a brighter light than “the sun of Austerlitz” shed upon the bloody field where the power of an empire was trampled in the dust.

Down went the stage,--up came Bill, blackened and bruised a little to be sure, but not to signify a jot; he had struck his head in falling against the side of the shaft and was stunned by the blow. It so happened, by one of those wonderful contingencies which sometimes occur when, in human eyes, escape seems impossible, that he fell in a corner protected by the tough metallic vein which projected a little above the level of the bottom. The explosion bent this by its force, instead of shattering it like the surrounding rock, and turned the ledge over him. This in a great measure defended him from the stones which fell back again into the mine. The shock aroused him from the stunning effect of the blow which he had received in falling, and he shouted heartily, “All right, John! all right!”

His reward soon came--Polly and the children arrived safe and well. When she wept with joy and thanked him in her own simple way for having saved her husband for her, he was so happy in their happiness that he would readily have jumped into the bursting mine again, rather than they should be parted any more. When our narrator, the mining agent, left Peru, the brothers were preparing to return to England; they had got on well enough, and had saved sufficient money to enable them to stock a little farm, near the village in Cornwall where they were born.

By the time this long story was told, it was past the usual hour of going to our berths; but I am ashamed to say that several of our party had already taken a large instalment of their night’s rest, and knew no more about our friend William Wakeham than of the man in the moon.

THE DOG OF ALCIBIADES.

In Plutarch’s Life of Alcibiades the following passage occurs:--

“Alcibiades had a dog of an uncommon size and beauty, which cost him seventy _minæ_, and yet his tail, which was his principal ornament, he caused to be cut off. Some of his acquaintance found great fault with his acting so strangely, and told him that all Athens rang with the story of his foolish treatment of the dog. At which he laughed, and said, ‘This is the very thing I wanted; for I would have the Athenians talk of this, lest they should find something worse to say of me.’”

This anecdote, move popularly known in France than in England, has there been the origin of a proverbial metaphor. When a minor vice, folly, or eccentricity is assumed as a cloak for a greater one, with a view to throw dust in the eyes of all inquisitive public, and to veil from its curiosity real motives, intentions, and inclinations, the pretext paraded is called the Dog of Alcibiades. The true application of the term may be better illustrated than exactly defined, and the former course has been adopted in a French book of no distant date, entitled _Le Chien d’Alcibiade_. A single volume, the only one its author has produced--its wit, elegance of style, and general good taste would do credit to the most experienced novelist; whilst the warm reception it met from the Parisian public, ought, one would imagine, to have encouraged a repetition of the attempt. On its title-page was found the assumed name of Major Fridolin, the same under which a noted Parisian _turfite_ enters his horses for the races at Chantilly and the Champ de Mars. The _gentleman-rider_ (_vide_ the Anglo-Gallic vocabulary patronised by the Paris _jochai-clubb_) who owns the fantastical pseudonyme, is more esteemed for wealth than wit, better known as a judge of horse-flesh than as a cultivator of literature, and generally held more likely to achieve renown by the strength of his racers’ legs than of his own head. So that when an ably-written novel appeared under his _nom-de-guerre_, people asked one another if he were possibly its author, and had previously kept his candle under a bushel, only to dazzle the more when the shade was withdrawn. There could be no doubt that the book was from the pen of a man of talent and refinement, accustomed to good society, and seizing with peculiar felicity its phases and foibles. The characters were so true to life, that it was impossible for those moving in the circles portrayed to avoid recognising the originals, not as individuals but as types of classes. The gay world of Paris was painted with a sharp and delicate pencil, without exaggeration or grotesque colouring. Some similarity might be traced to the manner of Charles de Bernard, but in one respect the new author had the advantage. His wit was as sparkling, his tone quite as gentlemanly and agreeable, but he eschewed the caricature into which De Bernard’s _verve_ not unfrequently seduces him. The name of the new aspirant for literary fame soon oozed out, and to Monsieur Valbezene was decerned the honour of having produced one of the most attractive novels of the day. It at once gave him a reputation for ability, and is even said to have conduced to his shortly afterwards receiving a government appointment. It brought him under the notice of the bestowers of loaves and fishes, as a man whose _finesse d’esprit_ and knowledge of the world might be rendered serviceable to the state. M. Valbezene is now consul of France at the Cape of Good Hope. It is to be desired that he may there find leisure to cultivate his literary talents, and add others to the favourable specimen of them he has already given. In Paris we should have had less expectation of his so doing, for his book denotes him, if a writer may her judged by his writings, to be a man of ease and pleasure, more disposed and likely to sink into _far niente_ and form the chief ornament of a brilliant circle, than to seclude himself in a study, and apply seriously to literature.

The opening scene of M. Valbezene’s book is a brilliant ball-room in the Faubourg St Honoré. At a whist-table sits the Count de Marsanne--a man of forty years of age, at most; of robust health and handsome person. His figure is stout without being corpulent; his ruddy countenance, tanned by exposure to the weather, is not without distinction and grace; his blue eyes are remarkably fine and intelligent; he wears his beard, and his thick strong hair is cropped short. His dress denotes the gentleman. His linen is exquisitely white, and the cut of his coat can only be attributed to the skilful hand of Blin or Chevreuil. The Count, who served previously to the July revolution in the hussars of the Guard, and who, since leaving the service, has sought in field-sports the peril, excitement, and activity essential to his ardent and impetuous character, drives his dowager partner to despair by his blunders at whist. He pays less attention to the game than to the facetious whispers of his cousin, De Kersent--a young man of five-and-twenty, short, fat, always happy and good-humoured, an eager sportsman, and much more at his ease at a battue than a ball. The rubber over, the Count leaves the heated card-room, to seek cooler air in an outer apartment. M. Valbezene shall speak for himself.

“Whilst posted at the entrance door, Marsanne was accosted by a young man of about eight-and-twenty, of elegant figure and most agreeable countenance. The exquisitely polished tone of this new personage, the tasteful simplicity of his costume, indicated a man of the best society, to whom the epithet of _lion_ might with propriety have been applied, were it not that, in these days of promiscuous lionism, the word has lost its primitive acceptation.

“‘Well! my dear Vassigny,’ said Marsanne, breathing with difficulty, ‘did you ever experience such a temperature? For my part, I was never so hot in my life, not even in Africa, when our soldiers blew out their brains to escape the scorching sun. Refreshments, too, are scarce at the whist-table; we did not see even a glass of water. Consequently, my friend, I was so inattentive to the game, that, through my fault, my very heinous fault, we lost the rub. The Baroness de Pibrac, my unlucky partner, was tragically indignant. Ah! she will not forgive me in a hurry! If heaven has any regard for her maledictions, I shall pay dearly for the fourteen francs I made her lose.’

“‘Madame de Marsanne is here?’ inquired the young man.

“‘Of course. You know me well enough to be sure I should not remain from choice in such a furnace. I am no great lover of balls, but this is the last of the season; so, one hour’s patience, and a year’s holiday is before me. Remember, we meet to-morrow morning at seven, sharp. Kersent accompanies us to Rambouillet. At last, then, I shall revisit my horses, my dogs, my forests; I shall have air--motion... _Tonton, tontaine, tonton_’ ... hummed the sportsman, whose face beamed with joy at thoughts of the chase.

“‘Certainly, I shall be exact.... But as you have been here some time, you will perhaps be so good as to show me Mr Robinson, the master of the house. None of my friends have been able to point him out, and I am rather curious to make my bow to him.’

“‘_Ma foi!_ my dear fellow,’ replied Marsanne, ‘your question is not easy to answer. I am inclined to think it is that crooked little gentleman in black--unless, indeed, it be yonder portly handsome man in the blue coat. Upon reflection, I vote for the latter. His wholesome corpulence tells of the substantial and judicious nourishment of the Anglo-Americans. In fact, I am as ignorant as yourself. On arriving, we were met at this door by the Marchioness de Presle, who, as you know, sent out the invitations for Mr Robinson; and as soon as we had paid our respects to the Marchioness, Madame de Marsanne dragged me forward to the third saloon, so that I know no more of our amphitryon than you do. But here is little Movillez. He will settle our doubts.’

“The new personage whose coming Marsanne announced, owed to his age alone the epithet applied to him, for he was above the ordinary height. He was apparently about one-and-twenty: his insignificant countenance, which in character bore some resemblance to that of a sheep, expressed perfect self-satisfaction. An embroidered shirt, and a white satin waistcoat, spangled with gold, might have made him suspected of a great leaning to the frivolities of dress, had not a white flower in his buttonhole revealed serious political predilections, and an unchangeable attachment to the fallen House of Bourbon.

“‘Movillez,’ said Marsanne, ‘show Vassigny the master of the house; he wishes to make his bow to him.’

“‘For what?’ inquired the youth, with adorable impertinence.

“‘For the sake of good breeding,’ replied Vassigny drily.

“‘Nonsense!’ cried Movillez, ‘you surely do not dream of such a thing: If you knew Mr Robinson he would bow to you in the street, and that would be very disagreeable.’

“‘There is pleasure in giving you parties; you are not even grateful for your entertainment.’

“‘Perfectly true; and what is more, I consider Mr Robinson under an obligation to me. Persons of his sort are too happy to get people like us to go to their routs and help them to devour their dollars. But we do not on that account become one of them; that, _parbleu_! would never do. Thank heaven! even in these days of equality we have not come to that. An unknown individual arrives at Paris, having made his fortune in India, Peru, or Chili, in the slave-trade, in cotton, or in tallow. All well and good; I have nothing to do with it. I go to his balls, I eat his suppers; but I do not know him the more for that.’

“‘You have your theory, I have mine,’ replied Vassigny; ‘each of us thinks his own the best, I suppose.’

“‘Come, come, confess candidly that you wish to do the eccentric,’ said Movillez. ‘Well, for your government, that little gentleman in the black coat, leaning against the chimney-piece, is the Robinson. He is very ugly. I am heartily sorry the Marchioness de Presle did not suggest to him to adopt the costume of his patron saint. The pointed hat and palm-leaf inexpressibles would become him admirably. As to the ball, it is tolerably brilliant: there is a good deal of faubourg St Germain and faubourg St Honoré. _Dame!_ there are other sorts too--a little finance, some beauties from the citizen-court, a few prudes from the Bal Rambuteau. The company is mixed, certainly, but still it is astonishing that this exotic has been able to collect so many people of fashion. You know the report about _il Signor_ Robinson, that he was ten years in prison at Philadelphia? Yes, he is an interesting victim of human injustice; I am assured he reasons most eloquently on the penitentiary system.’

“These silly and slanderous jokes seemed any thing but agreeable to the two persons to whom they were addressed.

“‘Is your father’s counting-house still in the Rue Lepelletier?’ said Vassigny, with freezing _sang froid_. ‘I want some bills on London, and shall give him my custom in preference to any other banker.’

“These words brought a vivid flush to the cheek of the young dandy; he replied only by an affirmative sign, left the two friends, and entered the dancing-room.

“‘Do you know, Gaston,’ said Marsanne, ‘little Movillez was any thing but well pleased by your promising his father your custom?’

“‘I both know and am delighted at it. The little puppy forgot, when he sneered at the beauties of the citizen-court, that my sister belongs to the household of the Duchess of.... I was very glad to remind him that his father is neither more nor less than a banker, and that it takes something more than a white rose in the buttonhole to make a Montmorency or a Biron. But I must leave you.’

“So saying, Vassigny pressed his friend’s hand, addressed a few polite words to the master of the house, who seemed touched and surprised at this unusual piece of courtesy, and passed into the adjoining saloon. The ball was at the gayest; the elegant costumes had lost nothing of their freshness, the faces of the women, animated by pleasure, as yet showed no traces of fatigue. The orchestra, conducted by Tolbecque, was remarkable for its spirit and harmony. Every thing in this charming fête was calculated to excite the indignation of those narrow-minded reformers who cannot understand that the luxury of the rich gives bread to the poor. Vassigny sauntered for some time through the crowd, shaking hands with friends and bowing to ladies; but it was easy to judge from his irregular movements and wandering glances, that he had not undertaken this peregrination without an object. At last he reached the door of a little boudoir--a delightful and mysterious asylum, hung with silk and perfumed with flowers. A chosen few had taken refuge in this sanctuary, where the murmur of the ball and the crash of the orchestra arrived faint and subdued. Here Vassigny seemed to have attained the goal he had proposed himself, as his eyes rested upon a lady gracefully sunk in an arm-chair, and chatting familiarly with M. de Kersent. It were necessary to borrow the swan-quill of Dorat, of gallant memory, faithfully to trace a portrait of this young woman, then in the flower of her age and beauty. Priding ourselves, unfortunately, on being of our century, and consequently very ungallant, we shall merely say, that it is impossible to imagine a sweeter or more charming countenance: without having the regularity of a classic model, the features were replete with fascination. Her eyelids, fringed with long curved lashes, protected eyes whose liquid and languishing expression was exchanged at intervals for bright and brilliant glances, indicative of a passionate and powerful organisation. The arch of her eyebrows was accurately and delicately pencilled; so affable was her smile, so white and regular her teeth, that one dared not call her mouth large, or tax it with extending--according to Bussy Rabutin’s expression--from ear to ear. Her neck and shoulders, perfectly moulded and of dazzling whiteness, would have enchanted a sculptor. Her dress, extremely plain, was of white lace; a wreath of fresh-gathered corn-flowers decked her head--the humble field-blossom seeming proud of its place in the midst of a magnificent forest of golden hair, worthy to support a diadem. A bunch of the same flowers in her hand, completed a costume whose simplicity was equalled by its elegance.”

Thus, at setting off, M. Valbezene sketches the five principal actors in his domestic drama; and we have little further to read before discovering their virtues and vices, and the relation in which they stand to each other. The Count de Marsanne is a man of strict honour, and warm heart; generous instincts, and much delicacy of feeling. Sincerely attached to his wife, he has, nevertheless, from a very early period of their wedded life, greatly neglected her, leaving her to pine in solitude, whilst he indulged his violent passion for field-sports. The affection Amélie de Marsanne originally felt for her husband has yielded to the neglect of years, and been replaced by a violent passion for Vassigny, which he ardently reciprocates. So guarded, however, has been their conduct, that none suspect the intrigue. Marsanne has perfect confidence in his wife’s virtue; and the gay, good-humoured Kersent, who is warmly attached to his beautiful cousin, and on terms of great intimacy with Vassigny, has not the remotest idea of the good understanding between the two persons he best loves. Movillez, an admirable specimen of the pretensions young Frenchman just escaped from college, and aping the vices and follies of more mature Parisian _roués_, affords many comic scenes, which agreeably relieve the grave and thrilling interest of the book. He also, unknown to himself, plays an important part in the plot, and by his indiscretion, is the cause of a world of unhappiness to the four persons already described. Francine, a fifth-rate actress at a Paris theatre, vulgar, profligate, and mercenary; and Major d’Havrecourt, a good-hearted old officer, punctilious on the point of honour, and fancying himself a man of most pacific dispositions, whilst in reality he is ever ready for a duel,--complete the _dramatis personæ_. Although D’Havrecourt has attained the ripe age of fifty, he still knows how to sympathise with youth, to understand its tastes and excuse its follies; and Movillez is one of the hopefuls whom he not unfrequently favours with his society and benefits by his advice.

The day after the ball, Marsanne’s hunting-party takes place. A wild-boar is killed, and poor Movillez, who has joined the chase in hopes of distinguishing himself before the eyes of a fair English amazon, meets with numerous disasters, principally occasioned by his bad horsemanship, but which his indomitable conceit prevents his taking much to heart. A week later we find him dining at the Café de Paris, in company with D’Havrecourt, and listening to sundry narratives of remarkable single combats which the old fire-eater had witnessed, heard of, or shared in. Dessert is on table, when these bellicose reminiscences are interrupted by the arrival of Kersent.

“‘Allow me to enjoy your society,’ said the new comer, until the arrival of Marsanne, who is behind his time, as usual.’

“‘With great pleasure,’ replied the Major cordially. ‘What will you take?’

“‘Nothing: I should spoil my dinner. Well! young man,’ continued Kersent, addressing himself to Movillez, ‘so we are getting on in the world, conquering a position, becoming a lion of the very first water. The _Journal des Chasses_ talks of nothing but your exploits at the Rambouillet hunt.’

“‘How so?’ cried Movillez, greatly surprised.

“‘Yes, in the account of the day’s sport it cites the elegant, the courageous, the dauntless Movillez as first in at the death. Two pages about you, neither more nor less, in the style of the passage of the Rhine by defunct Boileau.’

“‘I did not deserve such praise. Henceforward, I will take the paper.’

“‘You cannot do less.’

“‘Read the article twice,’ said D’Havrecourt, who had listened attentively to Kersent’s words. ‘You know me for a man of peaceable temper and disposition, an enemy, both by nature and habit, of all violence. Well, I read that article to-day, and it seemed to me that under the form of praise it concealed a tendency to satire. I hesitated to tell you of it, but since another has started the hare, you shall have my candid opinion on the subject. We must not allow the press to take liberties with us; a man of the world should be extremely severe with those who dare to turn his private life into ridicule. Read the article attentively, and if you are of opinion the affair should be followed up, which in my conscience I think it ought to be, why, then,’ concluded the Major martially, ‘you may reckon on my services.’

“‘_Parbleu!_ D’Havrecourt,’ cried Kersent gaily, ‘you won’t succeed in setting us by the ears.’

“‘What! the article is yours?’ exclaimed the two diners.

“‘Mine. Your astonishment does not indicate a very flattering estimate of my literary capacity. Yes, my friends! I mean to make myself a position, I aspire to become a legislator, and by way of getting my hand in, I write for the _Journal des Chasses_. Electors like to find in their candidate a man of letters, rich in the honours of pica and long-primer. So I flatter the elective weakness; I sacrifice to the parliamentary calf. Ah! only let me get into the Chamber,’ continued Kersent, in the tone of a future tribune, ‘and you shall see me take up a solid position. My plans are formed. Once in the Chamber, I defend the partridge, I plead for the rabbit, I declare myself the champion of fur and feather. Find a college of electors intelligent enough to return me, and you shall have a game-law worthy of Solon. It is already framed in my head. Death for the poacher, death for the snare-setter: the philanthropical system of the Committee of Public Salvation! With such a law, you would soon see prodigious results.... But I arrived only this morning from Plessy, with Marsanne, and we set out again to-morrow for the forest of Orleans. His hunting equipage has preceded us. Any fresh scandal here? Are you successful with Lady Emilia? _Sapristie!_ if she does not look favourably on you after your exploits of last week, her heart must be granite.’

“‘Perhaps!’ muttered Movillez with an air of consummate coxcombry.

“‘The _perhaps_ is very significant; but I know your discretion, and will question you no further. And Vassigny, how is he? what is he doing? where is he?’

“‘I know a thing or two about him; and bye the bye, I will tell you what I know. You may be able to help me in my researches.’

“‘I am all ears,’ said Kersent. ‘Ah! there you are, Marsanne! three quarters of an hour late, that’s all: if I have an indigestion, I shall know whom to thank. But hush! Movillez is about to unfold the mysteries of Vassigny.’”

Marsanne, who had just arrived, nodded to his friends, and lent his attention to Movillez, who began as follows:

“‘I have given up the new system of horsemanship, and devote myself entirely to the equitation of the race-course; I am resolved to make a brilliant appearance next spring upon the turf of Versailles. Every day I take a sweating in the Bois de Boulogne, under the guidance of Flatman the jockey, who meets me at nine in the morning at the corner of the Allée de Marigny. I leave my house, therefore, at half-past eight, and proceed to my appointment by the Rue de la Pépinière and the Rue de Miromesnil. Several days together I met Vassigny at that unusual hour, in that out-of-the-way quarter, and saw him enter a small house, No. 17, in the Rue de Miromesnil, where it is impossible any acquaintance of his can live. This very morning I saw him again, and I determined to solve the riddle. I sauntered up and down the street, and, thank heaven! my patience was not put to a very severe trial. A little blue hackney coach, of mysterious aspect, with the blinds down, turned out of the Rue Verte, and stopped at No 17. The coach-door opened, a lady tripped down the steps with the rapidity of a frightened doe and darted into the house. Impossible to say who it was. Her figure was elegant, she wore a dark-coloured morning dress; an odious black veil, impenetrable to the eye, fell from her velvet hat. But there was such an aristocratic air about her, such a high-bred atmosphere environed her, that I would wager my head it was some duchess or marchioness. The driver had resumed his seat, and I was venting execrations on black veils, when the god of scandal came to my aid. I perceived, on the pavement at my feet, a little purse which the lady had dropped. In a second, I had picked it up, thrust it in my pocket, and run away like a thief with the police at his heels. As to the purse,’ continued Movillez, producing a small purse of plain green silk network, ‘here it is. Let us see if you can guess its owner; for my part I have not even a suspicion.’

“The purse, curiously examined by Kersent and D’Havrecourt, at last came into the hands of Marsanne. He looked at it for a few moments, and then with a severe expression of countenance, addressed Movillez:

“‘You are young, Monsieur de Movillez,’ he said; ‘allow me to tell you how a well-bred man, a man of delicacy, would have acted under such circumstances. He would have given the money to the poor and thrown the purse into the fire. I will do for you what you should have done yourself.’

“And approaching the fireplace, Marsanne dropped the purse upon the glowing embers, which instantly consumed it. There was something noble and solemn in the action of the Count’s; the blood of the French chevaliers, those loyal subjects of beauty, had been stirred in the veins of their descendant by the recital of this blamable act of curiosity. Marsanne continued:

“‘Allow me to tell you, sir, that the men of your generation, accustomed to live with courtezans, and to seek venal and ready-made loves, are ignorant of what is due to women because they are women. None make more allowance than I do for the levities of youth. But what I blame is, that in utter wantonness, and for the gratification of an idle curiosity, you lift the curtain shrouding a secret, and pour out misery and desolation upon a poor woman, more deserving, perhaps, of censure than of utter condemnation. Be not more severe than a husband,--you, a young man, liable to profit by such errors; and remember that a true gentleman will respect women even in their weaknesses. Weigh my words, M. de Movillez; you will not be offended at my frankness.’”

A few hours after this scene, the Countess do Marsanne, alone in her boudoir, and busy with her embroidering frame, receives a visit from her husband. Just returned from one hunting-party, and about to start upon another, the incorrigible sportsman is seized with remorse at the solitude to which his wife is condemned, and, touched by her resignation to a lonely and cheerless existence, he generously resolves to sacrifice his own pleasures to her happiness. He proposes that they should go to Italy, and pass the winter at Florence or Naples, where he trusts to wean himself from the chase and acquire a taste for domestic enjoyments. The Countess refuses to take advantage of the generous impulse, professes her sincere friendship for her husband, but avows that her love for him has fled, driven from her heart by suffering and neglect.

“At this moment Madame de Marsanne’s maid came to tell her that her bedroom was ready for her reception. Then she added:

“‘I have looked every where for the purse of Madame la Comtesse, but it is no where to be found.’

“At these words, Marsanne’s countenance assumed a singular paleness, and it was all he could do to master his emotion and say to his wife:

“‘You have lost your purse?’

“‘Yes,’ replied the Countess, unobservant of her husband’s agitation; ‘or, rather, I have mislaid it in some corner.’

“‘It was doubtless of value?’

“‘Oh! by no means. A little green silk purse, my own work, and nearly empty.’

“The Count remained motionless, like a man struck by a thunderbolt.

“‘You have no commissions for Plessy?’ he at last articulated, breathing short and quick, and not knowing what he asked.

“‘I thought you just said you were going to Orleans,’ replied the Countess.

“‘I shall visit Plessy on my return.’

“‘Then kiss my little godson Henriot. Much pleasure to you; and return as soon as possible.’

“Marsanne raised the Countess’s hand to his lips, and left the boudoir; but he staggered like a drunken man, and was obliged to support himself by the bannister in order to reach his room.

“Towards the middle of that night, a belated passenger through the Rue d’Anjou would have witnessed a curious spectacle. Although the cold was intense, a window was wide open, and by the light of a lamp a man was to be seen leaning upon the balustrade. From time to time, deep-drawn sobs of rage and despair burst from his breast, and he violently pressed his head between his hands, as if to prevent it from splitting. This man was the Count de Marsanne.

“The following morning a hackney coach, containing a lady closely veiled, had scarcely turned from the Rue Miromesnil into the Rue Verte, when a man, who for some time previously had paced to and fro, muffled in a large cloak, paused at No. 17 in the former street, dropped the folds of his mantle, and took off a pair of huge green spectacles that had previously concealed his face. The Count de Marsanne, for he it was, remained motionless beside the door whence the coach had driven. From his extreme paleness, and the gloomy immobility of his features, he might have been taken for a statue of stone.

“The hackney-coach was scarcely out of sight, when Vassigny appeared at the door of No. 17. On beholding him, the Count’s eyes sparkled; he extended his hand and seized Vassigny by the arm.

“‘Will M. de Vassigny,’ he said, ‘honour me with a moment’s interview?’

“Don Juan, dragged towards the abyss by the statue of the Commanditore, cannot have experienced such a feeling of terror as at that moment took possession of Vassigny.

“‘Sir,’ ... he stammered, ‘I know not....’

“‘I ask an interview, sir,’ said the Count, with sinister calmness; "I have grave matters to discuss with you; we should not be at our ease in the street; will you be good enough to conduct me to your house.’

“‘Really I know not what you mean.’

“‘I repeat, M. de Vassigny, that I have things to say which none but you must hear. Be so kind as to lead the way.’

“‘My house, as you know, is in the Rue de Provence,’ said Vassigny, with a constrained air. ‘I shall be happy to receive you there.’

“‘Let us go,’ said the Count.

“They walked in the direction of the Rue de Provence. By the time he arrived there, Vassigny’s emotion had attained the highest pitch, and his legs bent under him as he ascended the stairs.

“A servant introduced the two men into an elegant drawing-room.

“There was a moment of terrible silence: Marsanne seemed to have shaken off his gloomy despair: inflexible resolution was legible in his eyes. Vassigny, on the contrary, appeared exhausted and overcome, a criminal awaiting sentence of death.

“‘You have seen Madame de Marsanne this morning,’ said the husband, with strange solemnity.

“‘Madame de Marsanne!... In Heaven’s name, you are mistaken!’ cried Vassigny. But his tone of voice, and the wild expression of his features, fully confirmed the Count’s words.

“‘You have seen Madame de Marsanne this morning,’ repeated the Count. ‘I know, sir, that as a man of honour, you are incapable of betraying a lady’s secret; but I prefer the evidence of my eyes even to your word.’

“‘Well, sir, my life is yours--take it!’ cried Vassigny, casting towards heaven a glance of rage and despair. Marsanne gazed at the young man for a brief space, and then resumed.

“‘Listen to me, M. de Vassigny, The law authorised me to assassinate you, but that is not a gentleman’s revenge. The law further authorised me to have my dishonour certified by a commissary of police, and to drag you before the tribunals for condemnation--to six months’ imprisonment and a few thousand francs’ damages!--Mockery!! My instinct of honour rejected such an alternative. An honourable man revenges himself of an outrage by meeting his offender bare-breasted, and with equal weapons. You think as I do, sir?’

“‘Your seconds, your time, your arms?’ cried Vassigny, all his courage revived by this appeal to the point of honour.

“‘Patience, sir--patience. The time will come when we shall meet face to face; but the hour of that mortal combat has not yet tolled.’

“‘I wait your orders; from this day forward I am ready.’

“‘I expected no less, sir, from your courage.’

“There was a pause, and then Marsanne continued.

“‘Whatever be the issue of our duel,’ he said, ‘you have poisoned my life, heaped misery and bitterness upon the rest of my days. I believe you capable of appreciating what I am about to demand. Yesterday, sir, when I became aware of my dishonour, my first thought was a thought of blood. Then I examined my own conscience--a cruel and painful examination, for I was compelled to own that if Madame de Marsanne had betrayed me she was not alone to blame. I searched the innermost recesses of my heart, and I felt that this woman, abandoned by her husband, had at least the excuses of unhappiness and neglect. I thought of my poor child, whose mother’s name I should tarnish, and my thirst of vengeance yielded to these all-powerful considerations. Honour requires, sir, that I should take your life, or you mine: but it demands still more imperatively that the cause of the duel should remain unknown.’

“‘A pretext is easily found: a quarrel at the theatre or club will suffice.’

“‘What, sir’ replied Marsanne, ‘you, who know the world and its greedy curiosity as well as I do, can you think that it will be satisfied with a frivolous pretext, and will not strive, by cruel investigation, to penetrate our secret? No, sir! to-day a duel would leave too large a field for conjecture; our meeting must be prepared long before-hand. In this night of agony I have calculated every thing the interests of my vengeance, the interests of my honour, the interests of a woman whom I still love.’

“The Count’s voice quivered as he pronounced these last words, and a scalding tear coursed down his cheek.

“‘Your wishes are orders for me,’ said Vassigny.

“‘You shall give me your word of honour,’ continued the Count, ‘that from this moment you will see Madame de Marsanne no more. Then, resuming a gay life, you shall make a parade of some intrigue, either in society or behind the scenes of a theatre, which, by misleading suspicion, will enable us to have the meeting you must desire as much as myself.’

“Vassigny reflected for a few moments, and replied in a firm tone-

“‘Monsieur le Comte,’ he said, ‘I have long known you for one of those men with whom honour stands before every thing; and from the very first day I made, as now, the sacrifice of my life. But I am not bound to do more; and if I subscribe to your demand, I have a right also to stipulate a condition.’

“‘You!’ exclaimed Marsanne, with repressed fury.

“‘Yes, I!’ repeated Vassigny, with indescribable energy: ‘my honour and my heart render it my imperious duty. Pledge me your word as a gentleman, that for every one, even for Madame de Marsanne, the real cause of our duel shall remain an impenetrable secret, and I at once adhere to all your conditions.’

“‘You love her, then, very dearly,’ ... said the Count, with a bitter laugh.

“‘Enough to sacrifice my life, my honour, even my love, to her repose.’

“After a few instants of silence, the Count again spoke in a grave voice:

“‘You do your duty as a man of honour, sir, as I have done mine; and I now pledge you my word that for every one, even for Madame de Marsanne, the cause of our duel shall remain a profound secret.’

“‘On your day, at your hour, I am ready,’ said Vassigny.

“‘I thank you, sir; depend on my word, as I depend on yours.’ And with a dignified wave of the hand to his adversary, Marsanne left the room.”

This violent scene had exhausted Vassigny’s fortitude; the Count gone, he, sank into an arm-chair, covered his face with-his hands, and wept like a child.

Some weeks have elapsed and the characters of the tale are assembled at a theatre: Marsanne, his wife, and Kersent in a box--Movillez and D’Havrecourt in stalls--Mademoiselle Francine on the stage. Vassigny, in one of the proscenium boxes, has no eyes or ears but for the actress. He has kept his word to Marsanne, and Paris rings with the scandal of his attachment to Francine. She is the _Chien d’Alcibiade_. Strictly honourable in the observance of his promise, he has neither seen nor written to Madame de Marsanne since the day of his terrible interview with her husband. Such self-denial has not been exercised with impunity. In a few weeks, ten years have passed over the head of the unhappy Gaston de Vassigny. His brow is furrowed, his temper soured, and his amazed friends attribute these sad changes to his insane passion for the worthless Francine. He plays high; it is to supply the wants of his extravagant mistress. At the club, Marsanne is his usual antagonist, and always wins. Vassigny loses his temper with his money, and says harsh things to the Count, who bears them with exemplary patience, for the hour of his revenge is not yet come. But if Vassigny is supremely wretched, Amélie de Marsanne is not less so. She too, within a few weeks, has changed so as to be scarcely recognisable; and on her wan and pallid countenance the outward and visible signs of a breaking heart are unmistakably stamped. In vain has she striven to learn the reason of Vassigny’s sudden and unaccountable estrangement. He steadily avoids her. She sees him in public, ostentatiously displaying his disgraceful _liaison_ with a low actress, constant in his attendance at her performances, galloping on the Champs Elysées beside the carriage he has given her. She catches the innuendos of his acquaintance, sneering at or pitying his infatuation. At the theatre, on the night in question, she is agonised by the malicious jests of little Movillez, who pitilessly ridicules Vassigny’s absurd and ignoble passion. Early the next morning Vassigny receives one of Kersent’s cards, with a request written upon it for an immediate visit. Supposing his friend to have had a quarrel, and to need his services, he hurries to his house. Kersent, who is soundly sleeping, abuses his visitor for arousing him, declares he has sent no message, and disavows the handwriting on the card. Just then the servant enters and announces the arrival of a veiled lady, who waits in an adjoining apartment to speak to the Viscount de Vassigny.

With pensive and care-laden brow, Gaston left his friend’s room, and entered that in which the lady waited. But on the threshold he paused, and a deep flush overspread his countenance. He beheld Madame de Marsanne.

It was indeed the Countess, who, in contempt of propriety, and half-crazed with suffering, had resolved to hear her sentence from Vassigny’s own lips. In vain she had written to him--her letters remained unanswered; in vain she had neglected no means of seeing him--her endeavours had invariably been fruitless. Her heart torn by such ingratitude, and by the scandalous passion Vassigny paraded for Mademoiselle Francine, she had not hesitated to seek an interview in the house of her husband’s cousin. In the sad conversation that ensued, the most touching appeal that tenderness and suffering could inspire was addressed by the Countess de Marsanne to Vassigny. But he was able to impose silence on the passion that devoured him.

Divided between his love and the respect due to his plighted word, the two most violent sentiments that find place in man’s bosom, Gaston’s heart bled cruelly; but he triumphed over himself. Words full of the coldest reason issued from his lips; he had sufficient strength to break for ever the tie that bound him to the Countess. These cruel words did not fail of their effect: Madame de Marsanne believed that she had honoured with her tenderness one unable to appreciate its value, and incapable of a generous sacrifice.

“‘M. de Vassigny’ she said, ‘you are a heartless man!’”

Such was the phrase that terminated this melancholy interview. The heart of Madame de Marsanne was broken, but a guilty love had for ever left it.

Some moments after the close of this scene, Vassigny re-entered Kersent’s chamber; but his face was livid, and he could scarcely drag himself along. Without a word, he sank upon a chair and remained plunged in the most gloomy despair. Kersent’s countenance, usually so joyous, had assumed an expression of anguish. He had examined the writing on the card, and he could not conceal from himself that he knew the hand. The scene at the theatre the previous evening came back to his memory: he remembered the strange melancholy of his cousin, her confusion when she returned him the card-ease she had asked to look at; and from all these things combined, he concluded that a fatal secret weighed upon two beings whom he cherished with equal tenderness. On beholding Vassigny’s profound consternation, the sportsman heaved a sigh of deep distress.

“‘My dear friend,’ he said to Gaston, ‘a misfortune threatens you: open your heart to me, I conjure you, in the name of our old friendship.’

“Vassigny made no reply.

“‘Hear me, Gaston; you know me well enough to be certain that no idle curiosity impels me. Perhaps I can serve you. If I may believe the sad presentiment that fills my heart, you suffer not alone, and the poor woman that suffers with you has a right to all my sympathy. For she who has just left this house, is----’