Chapter VI: Introduction: Of the Potato Into France (1)

In that rational estimate of true greatness which men are daily becoming more inclined to form, names will yet rank high as those of the benefactors of mankind, which history has too long suffered to give place to those of heroes (so called), who might be better designated as the destroyers of national prosperity, the scourges of their country. Among the names of such benefactors, that of Antoine-Augustin Parmentier well deserves to be handed down to the gratitude of posterity. He was born in the little town of Montdidier, in 1737, of poor but respectable parents; and, having lost his father before he was three years old, he was brought up altogether by his mother, a woman of considerable intelligence, and in refinement of character far beyond her station; and to her he owed much of that religious feeling and steadiness of principle which stamped such value in after-life upon the ardent disposition and spirit of enterprise which were natural to him. The good curé of the place, who had long known and esteemed his parents, had an opportunity of observing the uncommon intelligence of the boy, and undertook to teach him the rudiments of Latin. At sixteen, the young Augustin, anxious to be no longer a burden to his mother, placed himself with an apothecary of his native town; but the following year he repaired to Paris, invited thither by a relative, to study under him the profession he had chosen.

It was not long before prospects of advancement opened to the young medical student. The war of Hanover broke out, and, in 1757, Parmentier, attached to the medical staff, though in a very subordinate post, joined the army. It was not long before he had opportunity to prove his skill and zealous devotion to his duties. A dreadful epidemic appeared among the French soldiery, and tested to the utmost his unwearied activity and unceasing attention to his duties. His services were acknowledged by his being promoted to the rank of assistant-apothecary. His dauntless exposure of himself on the field of battle caused him to be five times taken prisoner--a misfortune to which he afterward often made mirthful allusion; extolling the dexterity with which the Prussian hussars had more than once stripped him, and declaring that they were the best valets de chambre he had ever met.

It was while prisoner of war on one of these occasions that Parmentier first conceived the idea which was destined to give him a claim upon the gratitude of his country. The prisoners were kept in very close confinement, and fed altogether on potatoes; but Parmentier, instead of joining his companions in misfortune in their indignant abuse of a food altogether new to them, was calmly and sensibly engaged in reflecting on the utility of the vegetable, and in inquiring into its nature, and the mode of cultivating it. We shall see how he kept the resolution he then formed of not letting it escape his memory, should he ever be permitted to revisit his native country.

Peace being declared, he was released, and came back to Paris in 1763, where he attended the Abbe Mollet's course of natural philosophy, the chemical course of the Brothers Douille, and the botanical lectures of the celebrated Bernard de Jussieu. At this time, however, his poverty was so great, that he had to endure the severest privations, to enable him to pay the necessary fees, and to purchase such books as he required, without interfering with the pecuniary aid which he felt it alike his duty and his privilege to afford his mother. In 1766, he became a candidate for a situation as medical attendant at the Hotel des Invalides, and was almost unanimously elected. In this position, he gave the utmost satisfaction; and not only did the skill he displayed obtain for him professional reputation, but his playful, yet never satirical wit, and the charm of his gentle and affectionate disposition, made him a universal favorite. He was the object of respectful attachment to the disabled veterans, and also to the good Sisters of Charity who attended the hospital. In 1769, he received, as the reward of his labors, the appointment of apothecary-in-chief, which permanently fixed him in the Hotel des Invalides. With a little more leisure, and comparative freedom from pecuniary care, came back the recollection of his former plans with regard to the potato. This now well-known and almost universally-used tubercle had been introduced into Europe from Peru early in the sixteenth century, and had at once been cultivated in Italy and Germany. Brought from Flanders into France, its culture was promoted in the southern provinces by the encouragement given by the great Turgot; but the dogged pertinacity with which ignorance so often resists the introduction of any thing new, had in every other part of the kingdom interfered with its propagation. Indeed, the popular prejudice against it was so high as to lead to the belief that it had a baleful effect on any soil in which it was planted, and produced in those who used it as food leprosy and other loathsome diseases. Such were the absurd and groundless prejudices which Parmentier had to encounter, but he prepared himself to carry on the contest with the boldness and perseverance of one who knew that, however difficult it may be to struggle with old opinions and long-established customs, yet nothing is impossible to the spirit of enterprise, guided by sound judgment, and animated by genuine philanthropy. Parmentier was not unmindful that to attain his object he would, in the first instance, need high patronage; and this patronage he sought and found in no less a personage than Louis XVI. himself. At his earnest solicitation, the monarch placed at his disposal, as a field for his experiment, fifty acres of the Plaine des Sablons. For the first time, this sterile soil was tilled by Parmentier, and the plant he so ardently desired to naturalize committed to it. In due time the long-wished-for blossoms appeared. Almost wondering at his success, Parmentier eagerly gathered a bouquet of the flowers, more precious to him than the rarest exotic in the royal gardens, and hastened to Versailles, to present them to the king. Louis accepted the offering most graciously, and, notwithstanding the satirical smiles of some of his courtiers, wore them in his button-hole.

From that hour the triumph of the potato was secured. The nobles and fine ladies, who had hitherto laughed at what they called "the poor man's monomania," now took their tone from the monarch, and flocked round the modest philanthropist with their congratulations. Guards placed round the field excited the curiosity of the people; but as this was a precaution rather against the pressure of the crowd than against its cupidity, they were withdrawn at night, and soon it was announced to Parmentier that his potatoes had been stolen. His delight at this intelligence was extreme, and he bountifully rewarded the bearer of the news; for he saw in this theft a proof of his complete success. "There can scarcely be any remaining prejudice against my poor potatoes," he said, "else they would not be stolen." A short time after he gave a dinner, every dish of which consisted of the potato disguised in some variety of form, and even the liquids used at table were extracted from it. Among other celebrated persons, Franklin and Lavoisier were present. And thus, to the persevering efforts of one individual was France indebted for a vegetable which soon took its place in the first rank of its agricultural treasures. By naturalizing the potato in that country, Parmentier diffused plenty among thousands, once the hapless victims of privation and misery during the seasons of scarcity hitherto frequently recurring to desolate its provinces.

From 1783 to 1791, Parmentier occupied himself in the publication of several works of great merit upon domestic economy and agriculture. But now came on the evil days of the Revolution. From prudence, natural inclination, and engrossment in other pursuits, Parmentier took no part in the political storm then raging. His moderation was regarded as a protest against the principles then in the ascendant. The man who had just rendered the most signal service to the people became an object of persecution to those calling themselves the friends of the people. "Talk not to me of this Parmentier," said an infuriate club orator; "he would give us nothing to eat but potatoes. I ask you, was it not he that invented them?" His name was put into the list of the suspected, and he was deprived not only of the small pension allowed him by Louis XVI., but also of his situation at the Hotel des Invalides. However, when the coalition of all Europe forced France to avail herself to the utmost of her every resource, it was found expedient to reorganize the medical department of the military hospitals, and to improve the diet of the soldiery; and Parmentier being fixed on for this difficult task, his success amply justified the choice. His reputation for skill and talent increasing with every test to which he was put, he was successively placed on the sanitary commission for the department of the Seine, and on the general committee of civil hospitals. Diplomas were sent to him by all the learned societies, and he was enrolled a member of the National Institute.

Parmentier lived throughout the period of the Empire, honored and esteemed by all classes; but, in 1813, grief for the loss of a beloved sister added to his deep dejection at the reverses of the French arms, seriously affected his health. His patriotism could not but deeply feel the evils threatening his country from foreign invasion. He became dangerously ill, and on the 13th of December the cause of social progress lost by his death one of its most zealous and enlightened promoters. In a discourse pronounced on the occasion before the Pharmaceutic Association, Cadet de Gassicour dwelt principally on the two great benefits conferred by Parmentier--the use of the potato, and the introduction of the Sirop de Raisin, thus providing, according to the benevolent boast of the philanthropist himself, "the poor man's bread, and the poor man's sugar." During his lifetime, a proposal had been made by the Minister François de Neufchateau that the potato should be called _Parmentière_. It is to be regretted that a proposal which would have secured a memorial as inexpensive as it was appropriate, was rejected; one which would have indissolubly linked in the minds of every Frenchman the name of the benefactor with the benefit.

THE ARTIST'S SACRIFICE.

On a cold evening in January--one of those dark and gloomy evenings which fill one with sadness--there sat watching by the bed of a sick man, in a little room on the fifth floor, a woman of about forty, and two pretty children--a boy of twelve and a little girl of eight. The exquisite neatness of the room almost concealed its wretchedness: every thing announced order and economy, but at the same time great poverty. A painted wooden bedstead, covered with coarse but clean calico sheets, blue calico curtains, four chairs, a straw arm-chair, a high desk of dark wood, with a few books and boxes placed on shelves, composed the entire furniture of the room. And yet the man who lay on that wretched bed, whose pallid cheek, and harsh, incessant cough, foretold the approach of death, was one of the brightest ornaments of our literature. His historical works had won for him a European celebrity, his writings having been translated into all the modern languages; yet he had always remained poor, because his devotion to science had prevented him from devoting a sufficient portion of his time to productive labor.

An unfinished piece of costly embroidery thrown on a little stand near the bed, another piece of a less costly kind, but yet too luxurious to be intended for the use of this poor family, showed that his wife and daughter--this gentle child, whose large dark eyes were so full of sadness--endeavored by the work of their hands to make up for the unproductiveness of his efforts. The sick man slept, and the mother, taking away the lamp and the pieces of embroidery, went with her children into the adjoining room, which served both as ante-chamber and dining-room: she seated herself at the table, and took up her work with a sad and abstracted air; then observing her little daughter doing the same thing cheerfully, and her son industriously coloring some prints destined for a book of fashions, she embraced them; and raising her tearful eyes toward heaven, she seemed to be thanking the Almighty, and, in the midst of her affliction, to be filled with gratitude to Him who had blessed her with such children.

Soon after, a gentle ring was heard at the door, and M. Raymond, a young doctor, with a frank, pleasing countenance, entered and inquired for the invalid.

"Just the same, doctor," said Madame G----.

The young man went into the next room, and gazed for some moments attentively on the sleeper, while the poor wife fixed her eyes on the doctor's countenance, and seemed there to read her fate.

"Is there no hope, doctor?" she asked, in a choking voice, as she conducted him to the other room. The doctor was silent, and the afflicted mother embraced her children and wept. After a pause, she said: "There is one idea which haunts me continually: I should wish so much to have my husband's likeness. Do you know of any generous and clever artist, doctor? Oh, how much this would add to the many obligations you have already laid me under!"

"Unfortunately, I am not acquainted with a single artist," replied the young doctor.

"I must then renounce this desire," said Madame G----, sighing.

The next morning Henry--so the little boy was called--having assisted his mother and his sister Marie in their household labors, dressed himself carefully, and, as it was a holiday, asked leave to go out.

"Go, my child," said his mother; "go and breathe a little fresh air: your continual work is injurious to you."

The boy kissed his father's wasted hand, embraced his mother and sister, and went out, at once sad and pleased. When he reached the street he hesitated for a moment, then directed his steps toward the drawing-school where he attended every day: he entered, and rung at the door of the apartment belonging to the professor who directed this academy. A servant opened the door, and conducted him into an elegantly-furnished breakfast-room; for the professor was one of the richest and most distinguished painters of the day. He was breakfasting alone with his wife when Henry entered.

"There, my dear," he said to her, as he perceived Henry; "there is the cleverest pupil in the academy. This little fellow really promises to do me great credit one day. Well, my little friend, what do you wish to say to me?"

"Sir, my father is very ill--the doctor fears that he may die: poor mamma, who is very fond of papa, wishes to have his portrait. Would you, sir, be kind enough to take it? O do not, pray sir, do not refuse me!" said Henry, whose tearful eyes were fixed imploringly on the artist.

"Impossible, Henry--impossible!" replied the painter. "I am paid three thousand francs for every portrait I paint, and I have five or six at present to finish."

"But, my dear," interposed his wife, "it seems to me that this portrait would take you but little time: think of the poor mother, whose husband will so soon be lost to her forever."

"It grieves me to refuse you, my dear; but you know that my battle-piece, which is destined for Versailles, must be sent to the Louvre in a fortnight, for I can not miss the Exposition this year. But stay, my little friend, I will give you the address of several of my pupils: tell them I sent you, and you will certainly find some one of them who will do what you wish. Good-morning, Henry!"

"Good-by, my little friend," added the lady. "I hope you may be successful." The boy took his leave with a bursting heart.

Henry wandered through the gardens of the Luxembourg, debating with himself if he should apply to the young artists whose addresses he held in his hand. Fearing that his new efforts might be equally unsuccessful, he was trying to nerve himself to encounter fresh refusals, when he was accosted by a boy of his own age, his fellow-student at the drawing-school. Jules proposed that they should walk together; then observing Henry's sadness, he asked him the cause. Henry told him of his mother's desire; their master's refusal to take the portrait; and of his own dislike to apply to those young artists, who were strangers to him.

"Come with me," cried Jules, when his friend had ceased speaking. "My sister is also an artist: she has always taken care of me, for our father and mother died when we were both very young. She is so kind and so fond of me, that I am very sure she will not refuse."

The two boys traversed the Avenue de l'Observatoire, the merry, joyous face of the one contrasting with the sadness and anxiety of the other. When they got to the end of the avenue they entered the Rue de l'Ouest, and went into a quiet-looking house, up to the fourth story of which Jules mounted with rapid steps, dragging poor Henry with him. He tapped gayly at a little door, which a young servant opened: he passed through the ante-chamber, and the two boys found themselves in the presence of Emily d'Orbe, the sister of Jules.

She appeared to be about twenty-five: she was not tall, and her face was rather pleasing than handsome; yet her whole appearance indicated cultivation and amiability. Her dress was simple, but exquisitely neat; her gown of brown stuff fitted well to her graceful figure; her linen cuffs and collar were of a snowy whiteness; her hair was parted in front, and fastened up behind _à l'antique_: but she wore no ribbon, no ornament--nothing but what was necessary. The furniture of the room, which served at the same time as a sitting-room and studio, was equally simple: a little divan, some chairs, and two arm-chairs covered with gray cloth, a round table, a black marble time-piece of the simplest form; two engravings, the "Spasimo di Sicilia" and the "Three Maries," alone ornamented the walls; green blinds were placed over the windows, not for ornament, but to moderate the light, according to the desire of the artist; finally, three easels, on which rested some unfinished portraits, and a large painting representing Anna Boleyn embracing her daughter before going to execution.

When he entered, little Jules went first to embrace his sister; she tenderly returned his caresses, then said to him in a gentle voice, as she returned to her easel: "Now, my dear child, let me go on with my painting;" not, however, without addressing a friendly "Good-morning" to Henry, who, she thought, had come to play with Jules.

Henry had been looking at the unfinished pictures with a sort of terror, because they appeared to him as obstacles between him and his request. He dared not speak, fearing to hear again the terrible word "impossible!" and he was going away, when Jules took him by the hand and drew him toward Emily. "Sister," he said, "I have brought my friend Henry to see you; he wishes to ask you something; do speak to him."

"Jules," she replied, "let me paint; you know I have very little time. You are playing the spoiled child: you abuse my indulgence."

"Indeed, Emily, I am not jesting; you must really speak to Henry. If you knew how unhappy he is!"

Mademoiselle d'Orbe, raising her eyes to the boy, was struck with his pale and anxious face, and said to him in a kind voice, as she continued her painting: "Forgive my rudeness, my little friend; this picture is to be sent to the Exposition, and I have not a moment to lose, because, both for my brother's sake and my own, I wish it to do me credit. But speak, my child; speak without fear, and be assured that I will not refuse you any thing that is in the power of a poor artist."

Henry, regaining a little courage, told her what he desired: then Jules, having related his friend's visit to their master, Henry added; "But I see very well, mademoiselle, that you can not do this portrait either, and I am sorry to have disturbed you."

In the mean time little Jules had been kissing his sister, and caressing her soft hair, entreating her not to refuse his little friend's request. Mademoiselle d'Orbe was painting Anna Boleyn: she stopped her work; a struggle seemed to arise in the depth of her heart, while she looked affectionately on the children. She, however, soon laid aside her pallet, and casting one glance of regret on her picture: "I will take your father's portrait," she said to Henry---"that man of sorrow and of genius. Your mother's wish shall be fulfilled."

She had scarcely uttered these words when a lady entered the room. She was young, pretty, and richly dressed. Having announced her name, she asked Mademoiselle d'Orbe to take her portrait, on the express condition that it should be finished in time to be placed in the Exposition.

"It is impossible for me to have this honor, madame," replied the artist: "I have a picture to finish, and I have just promised to do a portrait to which I must give all my spare time."

"You would have been well paid for my portrait, and my name in the catalogue would have made yours known," added the young countess.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe only replied by a bow; and the lady had scarcely withdrawn, when, taking her bonnet and shawl, the young artist embraced her brother, took Henry by the hand, and said to him: "Bring me to your mother, my child."

Henry flew rather than walked; Mademoiselle d'Orbe could with difficulty keep up with him. Both ascended to the fifth story in the house in the Rue Descartes, where this poor family lived. When they reached the door, Henry tapped softly at it. Madame G---- opened it.

"Mamma," said the boy, trembling with emotion, "this lady is an artist: she is come to take papa's portrait." The poor woman, who had not hoped for such an unexpected happiness, wept as she pressed to her lips the hands of Mademoiselle d'Orbe, and could not find words to express her gratitude.

The portrait was commenced at once; and the young artist worked with zeal and devotion, for her admiration of the gifted and unfortunate man was intense. She resolved to make the piece valuable as a work of art, for posterity might one day demand the portrait of this gifted man, and her duty as a painter was to represent him in his noblest aspect.

Long sittings fatigued the invalid; so it was resolved to take two each day, and the young artist came regularly twice every day. As by degrees the strength of the sick man declined, the portrait advanced. At length, at the end of twelve days, it was finished: this was about a week before the death of M. G----.

At the same time that she was painting this portrait, Mademoiselle d'Orbe worked with ardor on her large painting, always hoping to have it ready in time. This hope did not fail her, until some days before the 1st of February. There was but a week longer to work: and this year she must abandon the idea of sending to the Exposition.

Some artists who had seen her picture had encouraged her very much; she could count, in their opinion, on brilliant success. This she desired with all her heart: first, from that noble thirst of glory which God has implanted in the souls of artists; and, secondly, from the influence it would have on the prospects of her little Jules, whom she loved with a mother's tenderness, and whom she wished to be able to endow with all the treasures of education. This disappointment, these long hours of toil, rendered so vain at the very moment when she looked forward to receive her reward, so depressed the young artist, that she became dangerously ill.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe had very few friends, as she was an orphan, and lived in great retirement; she found herself, therefore, completely left to the care of her young attendant. When Jules met Henry at the drawing-school he told him of his sister's illness: Henry informed his mother, and Madame G---- immediately hastened to Mademoiselle d'Orbe, whom she found in the delirium of a fever from which she had been suffering for some days. The servant said that her mistress had refused to send for a doctor, pretending that her illness did not signify. Madame G----, terrified at the state of her young friend, went out and soon returned with Dr. Raymond.

The invalid was delirious: she unceasingly repeated the words--"portrait," "Anna Boleyn," "Exposition," "fortune," "disappointed hopes;" which plainly indicated the cause of her illness, and brought tears into the eyes of Madame G----.

"Alas!" she said, "it is on my account she suffers: I am the cause of her not finishing her picture. Doctor, I am very unfortunate."

"All may be repaired," replied the doctor; "if you will promise to nurse the invalid, I will answer for her recovery."

In fact, Madame G---- ever left the sick-bed of Mademoiselle d'Orbe. The doctor visited her twice in the day, and their united care soon restored the health of the interesting artist.

Mademoiselle was scarcely convalescent when she went to the Exposition of paintings at the Louvre, of which she had heard nothing--the doctor and Madame G---- having, as she thought, avoided touching on a subject which might pain her. She passed alone through the galleries, crowded with distinguished artists and elegantly-dressed ladies, saying to herself that perhaps her picture would have been as good as many which attracted the admiration of the crowd. She was thus walking sadly on, looking at the spot where she had hoped to have seen her Anna Boleyn, when she found herself stopped by a group of artists. They were unanimous in their praises "This is the best portrait in the Exposition," said one. "A celebrated engraver is about to buy from the artist the right to engrave this portrait for the new edition of the author's works," said another. "We are very fortunate in having so faithful a likeness of so distinguished a writer as M. G----."

At this name Mademoiselle d'Orbe raised her eyes, and recognized her own work! Pale, trembling with emotion, the young artist was obliged to lean on the rail for support; then opening the catalogue, she read her name as if in a dream, and remained for some time to enjoy the pleasure of hearing the praises of her genius.

When the Exposition closed she hastened to Madame G----, and heard that it was Dr. Raymond who had conceived the happy idea of sending the portrait to the Louvre. "My only merit is the separating myself for a time from a picture which is my greatest consolation," added Madame G----.

From this day the young artist became the friend of the poor widow, whose prospects soon brightened. Through the influence of some of the friends of her lost husband, she obtained a pension from government--a merited but tardy reward! The two ladies lived near each other, and spent their evenings together. Henry and Jules played and studied together. Marie read aloud, while her mother and Mademoiselle d'Orbe worked. Dr. Raymond sometimes shared in this pleasant intercourse. He had loved the young artist from the day he had seen her renounce so much to do a generous action; but, an orphan like herself, and with no fortune but his profession, he feared to be rejected if he offered her his hand. It was therefore Madame G---- who charged herself with pleading his suit with the young artist.

Mademoiselle d'Orbe felt a lively gratitude toward the young doctor for the care and solicitude he had shown during her illness, and for sending her portrait to the Exposition. Thanks to him, she had become known; commissions arrived in numbers, a brilliant future opened before her and Jules. Madame G---- had, then, a favorable answer to give to her young friend, who soon became the husband of the interesting artist whose generous sacrifice had been the foundation of her happiness.

THE STOLEN BANK NOTES.

The newspapers of 1810 contain a few brief paragraphs--cold, bare, and partial as a tombstone, relative to a singular, and, to my thinking, instructive passage in the domestic annals of Great Britain, with which I happened to be very intimately acquainted. The impression it produced on me at the time was vivid and profound, and a couple of lines in a Liverpool journal the other day, curtly announcing the death of a Madame L'Estrange, recalled each incident as freshly to memory as if graven there but yesterday; and moreover induced me to pen the following narrative, in which, now that I can do so without the risk of giving pain or offense to any one, I have given the whole affair, divested of coloring, disguise, or concealment.

My father, who had influence with the late Lord Bexley, then Mr. Vansittart, procured me, three weeks after I came of age, a junior clerkship in one of the best paid of our government offices. In the same department were two young men, my seniors by about six or seven years only, of the names of Martin Travers and Edward Capel. Their salaries were the same--three hundred pounds a year--and both had an equal chance of promotion to the vacancy likely soon to occur, either by the death or superannuation of Mr. Rowdell, an aged and ailing chief-clerk. I had known them slightly before I entered the office, inasmuch as our families visited in the same society, and we were very soon especially intimate with each other. They were, I found, fast friends, though differing greatly in character and temperament. I liked Martin Travers much the best of the two. He was a handsome, well-grown, frank-spoken, generous young man; and never have I known a person so full of buoyant life as he--of a temper so constantly gay and cheerful. Capel was of a graver, more saturnine disposition, with lines about the mouth indicative of iron inflexibility of nerve and will; yet withal a hearty fellow enough, and living, it was suspected, _quite_ up to his income, if not to something considerably over. I had not been more than about three months in the office, when a marked change was perceptible in both. Gradually they had become cold, distant, and at last utterly estranged from each other; and it was suggested by several among us, that jealousy as to who should succeed to Rowdell's snug salary of six hundred a year, might have produced the evidently bad feeling between them. This might, I thought, have generated the lowering cloud hourly darkening and thickening upon Capel's brow, but could scarcely account for the change in Martin Travers. He whose contagious gayety used to render dullness and ill-humor impossible in his presence, was now fitful, moody, irascible; his daily tasks were no longer gone through with the old cheerful alacrity; and finally--for he was morbidly impatient of being questioned--I jumped to the conclusion--partly from some half-words dropped, and partly from knowing where they both occasionally visited--that the subtle influence which from the days of Helen downward--and I suppose upward--has pleased and plagued mankind, was at the bottom of the matter. I was quite right, and proof was not long waited for. I was walking early one evening along Piccadilly with Travers--who appeared, by-the-by, to wish me further, though he was too polite to say so--when we came suddenly upon Capel. I caught his arm, and insisted that he should take a turn with us as he used to do. I thought that possibly a quiet word or two on the beauty and excellence of kindly brotherhood among men, might lead to a better feeling between them. I was deucedly mistaken. My efforts in that line--awkwardly enough made, I dare say--proved utterly abortive. Capel indeed turned back, rather than, as I supposed, fussily persist in going on; but both he and Travers strode on as stiffly as grenadiers on parade--their cheeks flushed, their eyes alight with angry emotion, and altogether sullen and savage as bears. What seemed odd too, when Travers turned sharply round within a short distance of Hyde Park Corner, with a scarcely-disguised intention of shaking us off, Capel whirled round as quickly, as if quite as resolutely determined not to be shaken off; while I, considerably alarmed by the result of the pacific overture I had ventured upon, did, of course, the same. We stalked on in silence, till just as we reached Hoby's, and a Mr. Hervey, with his daughter Constance, turned suddenly out of St. James's-street. I was fiery hot to the tips of my ears in an instant. Travers and Capel stopped abruptly, stared fiercely at each other, and barely recovered presence of mind in sufficient time to lift their hats in acknowledgment of Mr. Hervey's brief greeting, and the lady's slight bow, as, after half-pausing, they passed on. It was all clear enough now. My two gentlemen had come to Piccadilly in the hope of meeting with Constance Hervey, and accompanying her home; frustrated in this, they had determined not to lose sight of each other; nor did they for three mortal hours, during which, anxiety lest their rancorous ill-humor should break out into open quarrel, kept me banging about from post to pillar with them--a sullen companionship, so utterly wearisome that I had several times half a mind to propose that they should fight it out at once, or toss up which should jump for the other's benefit into the Thames. At length ten o'clock struck, and it appearing to be mutually concluded that a visit to Kensington was no longer possible, a sour expression of relief escaped them, and our very agreeable party separated.

A very dangerous person in such a crisis was, I knew, this Constance Hervey, though by no means a catch in a pecuniary sense for well-connected young men with present salaries of three hundred a year, and twice as much in near expectancy. Her father, who had once held his head pretty high in the commercial world, had not long since become bankrupt, and they were now living upon an annuity of little more, I understood, than a hundred pounds, so secured to Mr. Hervey that his creditors could not touch it. This consideration, however, is one that weighs very little with men in the condition of mind of Capel and Travers, and I felt that once enthralled by Constance Hervey's singular beauty, escape, or resignation to disappointment was very difficult and hard to bear. She was no favorite of mine, just then, by the way. I had first seen her about three years previously--and even then, while yet the light, the simplicity, the candor, of young girlhood lingered over, and softened the rising graces of the woman, I read in the full depths of her dark eyes an exultant consciousness of beauty, and the secret instinct of its power. Let me, however, in fairness state that I had myself--moon-calf that I must have been--made sundry booby, blushing advances to the youthful beauty, and the half-amused, half-derisive merriment with which they were received, gave a twist, no doubt, to my opinion of the merits of a person so provokingly blind to mine. Be this, however, as it may, there could be no question that Constance Hervey was now a very charming woman, and I was grieved only, not surprised, at the bitter rivalry that had sprung up between Travers and Capel--a rivalry which each successive day but fed and strengthened!

Capel appeared to be fast losing all control over his temper and mode of life. He drank freely--that was quite clear; gambled, it was said, and rumors of debt, protested bills, ready money raised at exorbitant interest on the faith of his succeeding to Rowdell's post, flew thick as hail about the office. Should he obtain the coveted six hundred a year, Constance Hervey would, I doubted not--first favorite as Travers now seemed to be--condescend to be Mrs. Capel. This, not very complimentary opinion, I had been mentally repeating some dozen times with more than ordinary bitterness as I sat alone one evening after dinner in our little dining-room in Golden-square, when the decision came. The governor being out, I had perhaps taken a few extra glasses of wine, and nothing, in my experience, so lights up and inflames tender or exasperating reminiscences as fine old port.

"Rat-tat-tat-tat." It was unmistakably Travers's knock, and boisterously hilarious, too, as in the old time, before any Constance Herveys had emerged from pinafores and tuckers to distract and torment mankind, and more especially well-to-do government clerks. The startled maid-servant hastened to the door, and I had barely gained my feet and stretched myself, when in bounced Travers--radiant--a-blaze with triumph.

"Hollo, Travers! Why, where the deuce do you spring from, eh?"

"From Heaven! Paradise!--the presence of an angel at all events!"

"There, there, that will do; I quite understand."

"No, you don't Ned. Nobody but myself _can_ understand, imagine, guess, dream of the extent the vastness of the change that has come over my life. Firstly, then--but this is nothing--Rowdell is at length superannuated, and I am to have his place."

He paused a moment; and I, with certainly a more than half-envious sneer, said--"And upon the strength of that piece of luck, you have proposed to Constance Hervey, and been accepted--of course."

"_Jubilate_--yes! Feel how my pulse throbs! It is four hours since, and still my brain lightens and my eyes dazzle with the tumultuous joy. Do not light the candles; I shall grow calmer in the twilight."

"Confound his raptures," was my internal ejaculation. "Why the mischief couldn't he take them somewhere else?" I, however, said nothing, and he presently resumed the grateful theme. "You will be at the wedding, of course. And by-the-by, now I think of it, haven't I heard Constance say she especially remembers you for something--I forget exactly what--but something pleasant and amusing--very!"

My face kindled to flame, and I savagely whirled the easy chair in which I sat two or three yards back from the fire-light before speaking. "I am extremely obliged to the lady, and so I dare say is poor Capel, who, it seems, has been so carelessly thrown over."

"Carelessly thrown over!" rejoined Travers, sharply. "That is a very improper expression. If he has, as I fear, indulged in illusions, he has been only self-deceived. Still, his double disappointment grieves me. It seems to cast--though there is no valid reason that it should do so--a shadow on my conscience."

We were both silent for some time. I was in no mood for talking, and he sat gazing dreamily at the fire. I knew very well whose face he saw there. I have seen it myself in the same place a hundred times.

"There is another drawback, Ned," he at length resumed. "Our marriage must be deferred six months at the least. I have but about two hundred pounds in ready money, and the lease and furniture of the house we shall require, would cost at least double that."

"Any respectable establishment would credit you for the furniture upon the strength of your greatly-increased salary."

"So I urged; but Constance has such a perfect horror of debt--arising no doubt from her father's misfortunes--that she positively insists we must wait till every thing required in our new establishment can be paid for when purchased. I could, I think, raise the money upon my own acceptance, but should Constance hear that I had done so, she would, I fear, withdraw her promise."

"Stuff and nonsense! Six hundred a year can not be picked up every day."

"You do not know Constance Hervey. But come; I must have patience! Six--nine months are not a lifetime. Good-by. I knew you would be rejoiced to hear of my good fortune."

"Oh, of course--particularly delighted, in fact! Good-evening." I have slept better than I did that night.

It was Sunday evening when Travers called on me, and Capel did not make his appearance at the office till the Friday following, his excuse being urgent private business. Harassing business, if that were so, it must have been, for a sharp fever could scarcely have produced a greater change for the worse in his personal appearance. He was mentally changed as greatly. He very heartily congratulated Travers on his promotion, and took, moreover, the first opportunity of privately assuring him that his (Capel's) transient fancy for Miss Hervey had entirely passed away, and he cordially complimented his former rival on having succeeded in that quarter also. This was all remarkably queer, _I_ thought; but Travers, from whose mind a great load seemed taken, willingly believed him, and they were better friends than ever; Capel, the more thoroughly, it seemed, to mark his acquiescent indifference, accompanying Travers once or twice to the Herveys'. So did I; though I would have given something the first time to have been any where else; for if a certain kneeling down, garden-arbor scene did not play about the lady's coral lips, and gleam for a moment from the corners of her bewildering eyes, my pulse was as steady and temperate just then, as it is now, after the frosts of more than sixty winters have chilled its beatings. She was, however, very kind and courteous, a shade _too_ considerately gentle and patronizing, perhaps, and I became a rather frequent visitor. An ancient aunt, and very worthy soul, lived with them, with whom I now and then took a turn at backgammon, while the affianced couple amused themselves with chess--such chess! Travers was, I knew, a superior player, but on these occasions he hardly appeared to know a queen from a rook, or a bishop from a pawn. They were thus absurdly engaged one evening, when I made a discovery which, if it did not much surprise, greatly pained and somewhat alarmed me. Aunt Jane had left the room on some household intent, and I, partly concealed in the recess where I sat, by the window-curtain, silently contemplated the queer chess-playing, the entranced delight of the lover, and the calm, smiling graciousness of the lady. I have felt in a more enviable frame of mind--more composed, more comfortable than I did just then, but, good lord! what was my innocent little pit-pat compared with the storm of hate, and fury, and despair, which found terrific expression in the countenance that, as attracted by a slight noise, I hastily looked up, met my view! It was Capel's. He had entered the room, the door being ajar, unobserved, and was gazing, as he supposed, unmarked, at the chess-players. I was so startled that I, mechanically, as it were, sprang to my feet, and as I did so, Capel's features, by a strong effort of will, resumed their ordinary expression, save for the deathly pallor that remained, and a nervous quivering of the upper lip which could not be instantly mastered. I was more than satisfied as to the true nature of smooth-seeming Mr. Capel's sentiments toward the contracted couple, but as _they_ had observed nothing, I thought it wisest to hold my peace. I could not, however, help smiling at the confiding simplicity with which Travers, as we all three walked homeward together, sought counsel of Capel as to the readiest means of raising--unknown to Miss Hervey--the funds necessary to be obtained before Prudence, as interpreted by that lady, would permit his marriage. Slight help, thought I, for such a purpose, will be afforded by the owner of the amiable countenance I saw just now.

It was just a week after this that thunder fell upon our office by the discovery that sixteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, sent in by different parties, late on the previous day, had disappeared, together with a memorandum-book containing the numbers and dates. Great, it may be imagined, was the consternation among us all, and a rigorous investigation, which, however, led to nothing, was immediately instituted. Capel, who showed extraordinary zeal in the matter, went, accompanied by one of the chief clerks, to the parties from whom the notes had been received, for fresh lists, in order that payment might be stopped. On their return, it was given out that no accurate, reliable list could be obtained. This, it was afterward found, was a _ruse_ adopted in order to induce the thief or thieves to more readily attempt getting the notes into circulation.

This occurred in the beginning of September, and about the middle of October, Travers suddenly informed me that he was to be married on the following Monday--this was Tuesday. The lease of a house at Hammersmith had, he said, been agreed for, the furniture ordered, and every thing was to be completed and paid for by the end of the present week. "And the money--the extra two hundred and odd pounds required--how has that been obtained?" "Of my uncle Woolridge, a marriage-_gift_, though he won't, I believe, be present at the wedding," returned the bridegroom-elect, with a joyous chuckle. I was quite sure from his manner, as well as from my knowledge of his uncle's penurious character, that this was a deception. Constance Hervey's scruples, I had always thought, now that it was certain his next quarter's salary would be one hundred and fifty pounds were somewhat over strained and unreasonable--still I was vexed that he had stooped to deceive her by such a subterfuge. It was, however, no especial affair of mine, and I reluctantly accepted his invitation to dine at the Herveys' with him on the last day of his bachelorhood, that is, on the following Sunday. Capel was invited, but he refused. I also, declined, and resolutely, to attend the wedding. That would, I felt, be _un peu trop fort_ just then.

A very pleasant party assembled at Mr. Hervey's on the afternoon of that terrible Sunday, and we were cheerfully chatting over the dessert, when the servant-girl announced that four gentlemen were at the door who said they _must_ see Mr. Travers instantly.

"_Must_ see me!" exclaimed Travers. "Very peremptory, upon my word. With your leave, sir--and yours, Constance, I will see these very determined gentlemen here. Bid them walk in, Susan."

Before Susan could do so, the door opened, and in walked the strangers _without_ invitation. One of them, a square, thick-set, bullet-headed man it instantly struck me I had been in company with before. Oh! to be sure! he was the officer who conducted the investigation in the matter of the stolen notes. What on earth could _he_ want there--or with Travers?

"You paid, Mr. Travers," said he, bluntly, "something over four hundred pounds to these two gentlemen, yesterday."

"Yes, certainly I did; no doubt about it."

"Will you tell us, then, if you please, where you obtained the notes in which you made those payments?"

"Obtained them--where I obtained them?" said Travers, who did not, I think, immediately recognize the officer. "To be sure. Four of them--four fifties--I have had by me for some time; and--and--"

"The two one-hundred pound notes--how about them?" quietly suggested the man, seeing Travers hesitate.

Travers, more confused than alarmed, perhaps, but white as the paper on which I am writing, glanced hurriedly round--we had all impulsively risen to our feet--till his eye rested upon Constance Hervey's eagerly-attentive countenance. "I received them," he stammered, repeating, I was sure, a falsehood, "from my uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of Tottenham."

"Then, of course, you will have no objection to accompany us to your uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of Tottenham?"

"Certainly not; but not now. To-morrow--you see I am engaged now."

"I am sorry to say, Mr. Travers, that you _must_ go with us. Those two notes were among those stolen from the office to which you belong."

There was a half-stifled scream--a broken sob, and, but for me, Constance Hervey would have fallen senseless on the floor. Travers was in the merciless grasp of the officers, who needlessly hurried him off, spite of his frantic entreaties for a brief delay. The confusion and terror of such a scene may be imagined, not described. Although at first somewhat staggered, five minutes had not passed before I felt thoroughly satisfied that Travers was the victim of some diabolical plot; and I pretty well guessed of whose concoction. An untruth he had no doubt been guilty of, through fear of displeasing his betrothed--but guilty of stealing money--of plundering the office!--bah!--the bare supposition was an absurdity.

As soon as Miss Hervey was sufficiently recovered to listen, I endeavored to reason with her in this sense, but she could not sufficiently command her attention. "My brain is dizzy and confused as yet," she said; "do you follow, and ascertain, as far as possible, _all_ the truth--the worst truth. I shall be calmer when you return."

"I did so, and in less than two hours I was again at Kensington. Travers was locked up, after confessing that his statement of having received the hundred-pound notes of his uncle Woolridge, was untrue. He would probably be examined at Bow-street the next day--his wedding-day, as he had fondly dreamed!"

I found Constance Hervey--unlike her father and aunt, who were moaning and lamenting about the place like distracted creatures--perfectly calm and self-possessed, though pale as Parian marble. I told her all--all I had heard and seen, and all that I suspected. Her eyes kindled to intensest lustre as I spoke. "I have no doubt," she said, "that your suspicions point the right way, but proof, confronted as we shall be by that wretched falsehood, will, I fear, be difficult. But I will not despair; the truth will, I trust, ultimately prevail. And remember, Thornton," she added, "that we count entirely upon you." She gave me her hand on saying this; I clutched it with ridiculous enthusiasm, and blurted out--as if I had been a warlike knight instead of a peaceable clerk--"You may, Miss Hervey, to the death!" In fact, at that particular moment, although by no means naturally pugnacious, and, moreover, of a somewhat delicate constitution, I think I should have proved an ugly customer had there been any body in the way to fight with. This, however, not being the case, I consulted with Mr. Hervey as to what legal assistance ought to be secured, and it was finally determined that I should request Mr. Elkins, a solicitor residing in Lothbury, to take Travers's instructions, and that Mr. Alley, the barrister, should be retained to attend at Bow-street. This matter settled, I took my leave.

I had a very unsatisfactory account to render on the morrow evening to the anxious family at Kensington. Travers's appearance at Bow-street had been deferred, at the request of his solicitor, to Wednesday, in order that the individual from whom the prisoner _now_ declared he had received the stolen notes might be communicated with. The explanation given by Travers to the solicitor was briefly this: About seven months previously he had amassed a considerable sum in guineas--then bearing a high premium, although it was an offense at law to dispose of them for more in silver or notes than their nominal value. Somebody--Mr. Capel, he was pretty sure, but would not be positive--mentioned to him the name of one Louis Brocard, of No. 18 Brewer-street, as a man who would be likely to give him a good price for his gold. Travers accordingly saw Brocard, who, after considerable haggling, paid him two hundred pounds in Bank of England notes--four fifties--for one hundred and sixty-two guineas. That lately he, Travers, had often mentioned to Capel, that he wished to raise, as secretly as possible, on his own personal security, a sum of at least two hundred pounds, and that Capel--this he was sure of, as not more than a month had since elapsed--Capel had advised him to apply to Louis Brocard for assistance. He had done so, and Brocard had given him the two one-hundred pound notes in exchange for a note of hand, at six months' date, for two hundred and twenty pounds. I had obtained temporary leave of absence from the office, and at the solicitor's request I accompanied him to Brewer-street. Brocard--a strong-featured, swarthy _emigré_ from the south of France, Languedoc, I believe, who had been in this country since '92, and spoke English fluently--was at home, and I could not help thinking, from his manner, expecting and prepared for some such visit. There was a young woman with him, his niece, he said, Marie Deschamps, of the same cast of features as himself, but much handsomer, and with dark fiery eyes, that upon the least excitement seemed to burn like lightning. Brocard confirmed Travers's statement without hesitation as to the purchase of the gold and the discount of the bill. "In what money did you pay the two hundred pounds for which you received the acceptance?" asked the solicitor.