Chapter X: Part IV: The Twilight of the Gods (9)

Both the merry wives were by this time convulsed with laughter at the success of their plan; and they now told their husbands the whole truth of the matter, so that Ford's jealousy quickly vanished, and he sought pardon from his wife for his doubt of her.

After peace had been thus happily restored, the friends decided to carry the joke a little further still, and to give Falstaff a third scare, as a final penalty for his many misdeeds; and it was arranged that they should lure him to Windsor Forest at midnight, and there lead him to suppose that he was being attacked by fairies, goblins, and other supernatural beings.

Mistress Ford therefore invited her ponderous admirer to meet her in the forest at midnight, promising to lend him a pair of stag's horns for his head, that he might disguise himself as Herne the Hunter, in which garb, if any of the townsfolk should chance to see him, they would quickly run away in terror, looking upon him as a spirit; for at that time there were plenty of superstitious folk to be found who believed in the legend of Herne the Hunter, which was as follows: In an age gone by, a certain famous hunter named Herne had impiously slain a stag beneath the sacred oak tree, which was always regarded as a place of refuge to hunted creatures; and for this misdeed his spirit was condemned to wear the stag's horns and to hunt in the forest at midnight for evermore, accompanied by a phantom train of fellow hunters and dogs.

It was arranged that pretty Mistress Anne should appear in the forest arrayed as the Fairy Queen, accompanied by a troop of children disguised as elves and gnomes; and Page, Ford, Slender, Doctor Caius, and Fenton would also appear as various other unearthly beings to assist in the teasing and tormenting of Falstaff.

Master Page and his wife, unknown to each other, also determined to use this masquerade as a means for carrying out their opposing wishes with regard to their daughter's marriage. So Anne was first secretly commanded by her father to wear a red gown, that she might thus be recognised by Slender, who meant to run away with her, that they might be married that night by the priest at Eton; and soon afterwards she was stealthily desired by her mother to don a green robe, that she might be noted by Doctor Caius, with whom the crafty dame had arranged a similar elopement.

But merry Mistress Anne herself decided to wear bridal white garments, arranging with her beloved Fenton that he would know her thus, and could slip away with her to the priest at Eton before the other suitors could find her; and in order to complete the confusion, she directed Slender to wear a green robe and Dr Caius a red one in the masquerade, that they might thus run away with each other in mistake for herself.

On the appointed evening, Falstaff, disguised as Herne the Hunter, appeared under the Sacred Oak in Windsor Forest at midnight; and very soon after Mistress Ford and Mistress Page appeared also. The two merry dames, enjoying the joke immensely, encouraged the fat Knight in his extravagant and absurd love-making; but presently, hearing weird noises, and seeing strange forms approaching, they pretended to be terrified, and fled away shrieking, leaving the frightened Falstaff sprawling on the ground, for, in attempting to run away also, he had tripped and fallen.

The prostrate Knight was instantly surrounded by the band of pretended fairies, gnomes, and sprites; and pretty Mistress Anne, attired in a flowing white robe as Titania, drew near, and sang:

Fairies, black, grey, green, and white,
You moonshine revellers, and shades of night.
You orphan heirs of fixed destiny,
Attend your office and your quality.
About, about;
Search Windsor Castle, elves, within and out:
Strew good luck, ouphes, on every sacred room!
That it may stand till the perpetual doom,
In state as wholesome, as in state 'tis fit
Worthy the owner, and the owner it.
The several chairs of order look you scour
With juice of balm, and every precious flower:
Each fair instalment, coat, and sev'ral crest,
With loyal blazon evermore be bless'd!
And nightly, meadow fairies, look, you sing,
Like to the Garter's compass, in a ring:
Th' expressure that it bears, green let it be,
More fertile-fresh than all the field to see;
And _Honì soit quî mâl y pense_, write,
In emrold tuffs, flowers purple, blue, and white:
Like sapphire, pearl, and rich embroidery,
Buckled below fair knighthood's bending knee:
Fairies use flowers for their charactery.
Away; disperse: But till 'tis one o'clock,
Our dance of custom, round about the oak
Of Herne the Hunter, let us not forget!

As Falstaff listened to these words, he was filled with alarm, believing that he was indeed surrounded by supernatural beings; and sharing the common superstitious notion that it was death to look upon or speak to the fairies, he buried his face in his hands, and lay still upon the ground, hoping they would presently vanish.

But the supposed Fairy Queen now sang out a further command:

About him, fairies; sing a scornful rhyme;
And, as you trip, still pinch him to your time!
Pinch him, fairies, mutually,
Pinch him for his villainy;
Pinch him, and burn him, and turn him about,
Till candles, and starlight, and moonshine be out!

At this command, her lively followers all set upon Falstaff, pinching him, and pricking him with their toy darts, uttering strange wild cries, and indulging in loud peals of eldritch laughter; and the tormented Knight, not daring to stir, and fearing he knew not what, soon began to bellow for mercy.

Whilst this ludicrous scene was progressing, Fenton, in the guise of Oberon, drew near to Anne, whom he recognised by her white gown, and taking her by the hand, hurried away with her to Eton, where the priest they had notified quickly married them; and Slender and Dr Caius, the one in green and the other in red, also joined hands, and slipped away together, each believing the other to be Mistress Anne, in accordance with the directions given them by the supporters of their suits.

When the merry wives were fully satisfied that their corpulent and audacious admirer had received a sufficiently severe pinching, and thorough scare to teach him not to make love to respectable married dames again, they set him free, and revealed the true identity of the weird company of tormentors; and when all had enjoyed a hearty laugh at the old reprobate's expense, in which the jolly Falstaff, bearing no malice, readily joined, the masquerade came to an end.

Then, to the amazement of Master Page and his wife, Slender and Doctor Caius both appeared, full of blustering wrath at the trick which had been played upon them by saucy Mistress Anne, and which they had not discovered until they had reached Eton; and whilst the disappointed suitors were bewailing their loss, the two arch-plotters, Fenton and Anne, arrived also on the scene, and confessing their successful ruse, sued for pardon.

This was readily granted by the parents, who good-humouredly admitted that they had been outwitted by these determined lovers; and Page remarked:

Well, what remedy? Fenton, Heaven give thee joy!
What cannot be eschew'd must be embrac'd!

And Falstaff merrily added:

When night-dogs run, all sorts of deer are chased!

But Ford said:

In love, the heavens themselves do guide the State;
Money buys land, and wives are sold by fate!

After this, the whole party trooped back to Master Page's house, to enjoy a wedding feast; and in deep draughts of his favourite beverage, Falstaff quickly drowned all remembrance of the teasing he had received at the hands of the Merry Wives of Windsor.

THE TALES OF HOFFMANN
(_Les Contes d'Hoffmann_)

One evening during the early years of the last century, a gay company of noisy young students were drinking together in Luther's famous wine-cellar at Nuremberg. They had come in for refreshment between the acts of the Opera which was being performed in the adjacent theatre; and all were merry and ready for any revel which might arise, with the exception of one of their number who sat apart, full of gloom and leaning his head upon his hand, lost to his surroundings in a deep reverie of sad thoughts.

This was Hoffmann, the poet and musician, a man somewhat older than the others--a man who, though blessed with handsome looks, exceptional grace of form and manner, and a fascinating charm of personality, was yet prone to frequent fits of despondency, from which his boon companions had the utmost difficulty in arousing him. Not even his greatest friend, Nicklaus, had the power to call up a smile to pierce through the dark clouds of these gloomy spells; and to no one had he yet related the story of the circumstances that had made him the victim of such an unhappy state of mind.

That he had suffered sorely from the onslaughts of more than one deep love-passion, they were well aware, and also suspected that he had been drawn into the meshes of some weird supernatural influence; but though Nicklaus could have enlightened them--knowing all the circumstances of his friend's life--the young students, in spite of their curiosity, refrained from asking questions which might lose them the friendship of one whom they loved dearly.

This evening, however, to their surprise and pleasure, Hoffmann, on being rallied by his companions upon his unusually deep fit of gloom, suddenly roused himself, and offered to tell them the stories of his three unfortunate love episodes; and the students, abandoning the opera for that night, ordered in a fresh bowl of steaming punch and gathered round the handsome Hoffmann, eager to listen to the enthralling tales he had to tell.

* * * * *

In the first story, Hoffmann appeared as an impressionable and sensitive youth in the throes of a first boyish love-passion.

Having several times beheld the dainty form of a beautiful maiden standing at the windows of the house of Spallanzani, a famous physiologist, young Hoffmann became so fascinated by her fair looks that he fell in love with her, and eagerly sought an opportunity for declaring his passion; and, with this object in view, he offered himself as a pupil to the scientist, hoping thus to secure an introduction to the charming young lady whom he believed to be Spallanzani's child, since the latter talked continually of his wonderful "daughter," Olympia, speaking always in enthusiastic terms of her many graces, of her clever singing and dancing, and of the grand party he intended to give very shortly in honour of her coming-out.

Now, in reality, Olympia was not a human being at all, but merely a marvellously life-like automaton, made by Spallanzani, who had been assisted in the work by another scientist named Coppelius, a mysterious man who had gained a considerable reputation as a wizard and dabbler in the occult arts; but, seeing that young Hoffmann had no knowledge of the wonderful piece of mechanism they had contrived to make, but believed the latter to be indeed a real flesh-and-blood maiden, the pair conspired together to keep him in this belief, in order to retain him longer as a pupil, and also to amuse their friends at his expense.

Consequently, they would not permit Hoffmann any closer inspection of Olympia until the night of the party; and the magician, Coppelius, next informed the young man that his sight was bad, and sold to him a pair of specially prepared spectacles through which he knew that the automaton would appear to him to be indeed a living person.

Coppelius, seeing that a large fortune could probably be made by exhibiting the mechanical figure, now claimed a substantial share in the anticipated profits, he having made half of her body and supplied her with her beautiful eyes; so Spallanzani agreed to buy him out, and to that end gave him a draft on a Jew--knowing the latter to be bankrupt, but craftily concealing the fact from Coppelius, whom he believed was about to depart from the country, and, consequently, would not be likely to discover the fraud until many miles had separated them.

Coppelius, quite unsuspicious, accepted the false draft and departed; and on the same day Spallanzani gave his grand entertainment in honour of the coming-out of his beautiful "daughter."

When all the guests had arrived, the scientist produced the exquisitely made life-sized doll, dressed daintily in pretty girlish garments; and the automaton, having been wound up beforehand, was led round the ball-room by Spallanzani with great pride, and bowed to the guests, greeting them in clear, bell-like tones, and finally singing to them a fine operatic song, full of such finished trills and flourishes that the audience was astounded by the wonderful performance.

The visitors, of course, knew perfectly well that the figure was merely an automaton; but seeing that young Hoffmann--who was wearing the magic spectacles that caused the doll to appear to him more than ever to be a real human being--thought otherwise, they merrily conspired with Spallanzani to pretend that Olympia was indeed his daughter.

Becoming more and more enamoured of the pretty "maiden," as he gazed admiringly at her through his strange spectacles, Hoffmann was at last completely bewitched by her pink-and-white waxen beauty; and sitting down beside her, he took the first opportunity of their being alone to declare his passion for her, utterly regardless of her stolid attitude, stiff, jerky movements and mechanical replies of "Yes! Yes!" to all he said.

So enraptured was he that he became entirely oblivious of his surroundings, continuing to pour forth tender love speeches into the unheeding ears of the pretty Olympia, to the great amusement of the other guests; and when his friend, Nicklaus, who was also present, tried to enlighten him as to the true state of affairs, he thrust him aside roughly, and devoted himself more assiduously than ever to the unresponsive doll.

When dancing began he immediately engaged her as his partner, lovingly encircling her slender waist with his ready arm; but the doll, having been overwound, now got out of control, and whirled the unfortunate Hoffmann round and round the room at so dizzy a pace that he at length fell to the ground in a swoon, Olympia spinning on alone until finally caught and placed in the laboratory once more.

At this moment, to the dismay of Spallanzani, the wizard, Coppelius, rushed into the house in a towering rage, having discovered the fraud which had been practised upon him and returned to wreak vengeance upon his false partner by destroying the mechanical doll; and hastening to the laboratory, he managed to break the wonderful automaton into little pieces before his brother scientist could prevent him.

Hoffmann awakened to his senses once more whilst the work of destruction was in progress; and his magic spectacles having been broken in his fall, he quickly realised, to his shame and mortification, that he had been in love with a mere lifeless doll, and had made himself a laughing-stock to all who had witnessed his folly. Full of confusion, he rushed from the room, amidst the derisive jeers of the amused guests; and thus ended his first adventure in the realms of Cupid.

* * * * *

A few years later, Hoffmann, now in the first flush of hot-blooded manhood, was to be found in Venice, where his ardent nature revelled in the joyous life of love and warmth to be enjoyed there and the glamour of beauty and sensuous pleasure that drew him so easily into its magic circle.

Both he and his friend, Nicklaus, were frequent visitors in the luxurious palace of the beautiful courtesan, Giulietta; for Hoffmann had conceived a violent passion for his lovely hostess, stubbornly refusing to believe evil of her, in spite of the warnings of the more prudent Nicklaus, who assured him that she had numerous other lovers and would certainly deceive and cast him aside in the end.

Giulietta, for her own ends, very willingly encouraged the advances of Hoffmann, graciously accepting his eager declarations of love, and even persuading him into the belief that she returned his passion; for the fair courtesan was in the power of a demon-magician calling himself Dapurtutto, who, by his arts, had obtained such mastery over her that at his command and under his influence she had already obtained for him the shadow of Schlemil, one of her lovers, and had now agreed to take the reflection of Hoffmann in a magic mirror he had given her for the purpose--for it was in this way that the demon secured the souls he coveted.

Giulietta therefore encouraged the enraptured Hoffmann to make love to her; and on one of his visits, after a passionately tender scene with him, she carelessly held up the magic mirror and asked him to gaze within it. Unsuspectingly, Hoffmann did so, wondering at the triumphant laugh with which Giulietta instantly withdrew the mirror; but when Dapurtutto presently appeared and placed another mirror before him, he was horrified to find that it gave back no reflection--a sure sign that magic was at work.

A feeling of uneasiness now came over Hoffmann, a feeling which deepened upon the entry of Schlemil, whom he instantly perceived to be his rival and predecessor in the affections of Giulietta; but the scheming courtesan still led her infatuated victim to believe that she loved him only by telling him to secure the key of her chamber from Schlemil, declaring that the latter had it in his keeping against her will.

She then left her two lovers together, with Dapurtutto; and Hoffmann immediately commanded his rival to give up the key of their hostess's chamber, and upon Schlemil refusing to do so, furiously challenged him to fight.

The sinister Dapurtutto offered his own sword to the unarmed Hoffmann, not wishing the duel to be delayed; and after a few passes with this uncanny weapon, feeling an evil influence enveloping him, Hoffmann, to his horror, stretched Schlemil dead at his feet.

For a few moments, Hoffmann remained staring at the dead body of his opponent in a half-dazed state; then, looking up, he saw that Dapurtutto had vanished, and that he was alone.

Then, presently, a gondola passed by the open balcony; and amongst its luxurious cushions lay the faithless Giulietta, already reclining in the arms of Dapurtutto, her new lover, and waving a mocking farewell to the deserted Hoffmann, who now at last realised that his love had been scorned, and that he himself had been the dupe of a fickle, unscrupulous courtesan.

* * * * *

Twice had Hoffmann passed through the fire of passion and been scorched by its flames; and he seemed fated never to be a happy lover, for in his third adventure--in which he experienced the deepest and only real love of his life--dire misfortune awaited him once more.

Hoffmann's ardent nature had deepened and matured with advancing years, as the follies and fancies of early youth dropped away from him; and when, some years after the Venice episode, he fell in love with Antonia, the lovely but frail daughter of Councillor Crespel, his passion was so strong and overwhelming that every fibre of his being thrilled in his beloved one's presence, and when parted from her the whole world seemed empty.

To his joy, Antonia returned his love; and the pair plighted their troth, against the wishes of Crespel, who, though anxious to secure his daughter's happiness, yet feared that the excitement of so passionate a love would have a disastrous effect upon her delicate health. For Antonia had inherited from her dead mother a glorious gift of song, together with a strong consumptive tendency; and Hoffmann, not knowing of the latter weakness, encouraged the beautiful girl to sing more than was good for her, since he took the greatest delight in her rich voice.

Crespel, therefore, endeavoured to keep the ardent lover away from the house; and having occasion to be absent for a few hours one day, he gave strict instructions to his servant, Franz, not to admit Hoffmann, should he happen to call.

Old Franz, however, was deaf, and misunderstood the words of his master; and, consequently, when Hoffmann presently arrived at the door, eagerly inquiring for Antonia, he admitted him with a smile of welcome, saying that his young mistress would be delighted to receive him.

Next moment, the lovers were in each other's arms; and after some happy talk together, Hoffmann persuaded Antonia to sing to him once again, and the latter, though telling him that her father had forbidden her to use her voice so frequently, gladly agreed to his request, since singing was her greatest delight. During the song, however, she was attacked by a sudden fit of coughing and weakness, which greatly alarmed Hoffmann; and she had only just recovered herself, when the pair were further startled by hearing the opening of the street door and thus learning that Crespel had returned.

Hoffmann, not wishing to distress Antonia by an angry scene between her father and himself, quickly concealed himself behind a thick curtain, hoping to make his escape when a favourable opportunity should occur. Antonia retired into an adjoining apartment; and no sooner had Councillor Crespel entered the room in which Hoffmann was concealed, than he was followed by a tall sinister-looking man whom he knew under the name of Dr Mirakel, and whom he hated and distrusted, and was, moreover, mortally afraid of, since he believed him to have been the cause of his wife's early death, and suspected him now to have designs upon the life of his delicate daughter.

This mysterious Dr Mirakel was, in reality, the evil genius of Hoffmann--a demon who had dogged his path throughout his three love-adventures, first as Coppelius, secondly as Dapurtutto, and now as Mirakel--and from the angry scene that followed between the visitor and Crespel, the concealed lover learned, to his grief, the terrible news that his beloved Antonia had a fatal disease, and that her death might be hastened by the exercise of her wonderful gift of song.

When Crespel finally succeeded in driving Mirakel away from his presence, and had himself retired to another room, the lovers met together once more; and upon Hoffmann now earnestly entreating Antonia to sing no more, she tearfully promised to obey his wishes.

Hoffmann then departed to seek the harassed Crespel to gain his approval and confidence; and no sooner had Antonia been left alone for a moment than the evil Dr Mirakel returned, and representing himself as the friend of her parents, began to chide her for not making more use of her exquisite voice.

On learning that her father and lover had both made her promise not to sing on account of her weak health, the wily demon, not to be outdone, resorted to supernatural means in order to gain his ends; and bidding Antonia gaze upon her mother's portrait which hung upon the wall, he invoked the spirit of the dead woman, whom he caused to speak from the picture and persuade the girl that she was doing grievous wrong by not making use of the precious gift that had been so divinely bestowed upon her.

As her mother's portrait resumed its normal aspect once more, and the sinister Mirakel vanished from the room, Antonia, feeling that she had thus mysteriously received a heavenly command to use her precious gift of song, at once began to sing, quite forgetful of her promise to refrain from such exertion; and her rich voice rose in an exquisite song, the clear bell-like notes ringing through the house in a glorious outburst of passionate feeling such as she had never given vent to before.

But the effort and unusual exertion were too much for her frail strength to bear; and as Crespel and Hoffmann rushed into the room, attracted by the sound of her wonderful singing, she fell, exhausted to the ground, and, a few moments later, breathed her last in the arms of her grief-stricken lover.

* * * * *

Such were the adventures of the ever-thwarted, ill-fated Hoffmann in his search for the happiness of love; and as the recital of them came to an end, the unhappy hero buried his head in his hands, and once more plunged in his accustomed deep gloom.

The merry students, however, determined not to allow him to fall back into melancholy that night, at least; and after thanking him for the stories he had related, and commiserating with him in his misfortunes, they called for yet another bowl of punch, which Hoffmann, grateful for their sympathy, now gladly joined them in draining to the bottom.

MANON LESCAUT

One bright summer evening towards the end of the eighteenth century, a merry group of students and idlers were gathered together in the courtyard of an inn at Amiens, near the Paris Gate; and as they there awaited the arrival of the diligence, they passed the time pleasantly in joking, drinking, singing snatches of gay songs and flirting with the pretty work-girls who were just returning from their daily labours, and who were glad enough to join in the merriment of the lively youths, whose favours they very willingly accepted.

One of these students, however, held aloof from the others; for the work-girls' loud jollity had no attraction for his sensitive, poetic nature, and, in spite of being rallied by his companions for his indifference to the girlish charms around him, he stood apart, wrapped in his own dreamy thoughts.

This fastidious youth was the Chevalier des Grieux, a young man of high birth and good breeding, who was also possessed of a fine, passionate nature and the true artistic temperament which could only be satisfied with the highest in beauty, and art, and love; and though his giddy companions, in their raillery, now declared his gloomy looks portended that he must be a victim to the darts of Cupid, his heart had never yet been touched.

Presently the diligence entered the courtyard, and amongst the passengers who alighted was a beautiful young girl, who was accompanied by her brother and an elderly fop, whose elegantly rich attire and lordly airs proclaimed him to be a person of wealth and importance.

The young girl was Manon Lescaut, a maiden of exquisite loveliness, who, in spite of her extreme youth and beauty, was even now being conducted by her brother to a convent, the life of a nun being the fate destined for her by her parents, who feared that the snares of the world might prove too much for one so fair, whom they believed could only be kept safe from temptation by taking the veil.

Manon, however, had a rich, passionate nature that craved for light, warmth, beauty and all the joys of a happy, full life; and she was sad at the thought that the cup of pleasure which she so ardently desired to drain was to be snatched from her lips ere she had scarce tasted of it.

Her brother, also, felt that it was a mistake to deprive so fair and radiant a young life of the joy that should certainly be its due; and he had already determined to disobey the instructions he had received and to prevent the incarceration of his young sister's charms. His motive, however, was far from being disinterested, since his nature was a depraved one; and in order to gratify his desire for low pleasures and his mercenary, avaricious instincts, he determined to use his sister's beauty as a decoy for securing wealth for them both.

To this end he had already encouraged the very obvious attentions of the rich, elderly libertine, Baron Geronte de Ravoir, who had travelled with them in the diligence, and who had become so fascinated with Manon's young loveliness that he desired above all things to possess her; and when the foppish, amorous Baron presently invited the brother and sister to join him at supper, Lescaut eagerly accepted for both.

Meanwhile the handsome young student, Des Grieux, had no sooner beheld the fair Manon than he had become so enthralled by her exquisite, ethereal beauty and delicate grace, that he could scarce take his eyes from her face; and eagerly making his way towards her, he soon found an opportunity to enter into conversation with her, and asked her name and destination.

Manon replied simply and shyly, but her tones were so sad and she sighed so deeply as she spoke of the convent life awaiting her at her journey's end, that Des Grieux, filled with pity and distress, besought her not to think any more of taking the veil, but to allow him to contrive some means of escape for her.

As the pair gazed into each other's eyes and talked thus eagerly together, a deep love sprang up spontaneously in their hearts; for both were young, fair, and of ardent temperaments, and were, moreover, mutually attracted to one another by a strange, but sweet magnetism which neither could resist.

Des Grieux was overjoyed to find in Manon the answering sympathy of a delicate, sensitive, highly-strung and passionate nature for which his own poetic temperament had longed; and he eagerly besought her to meet him again later on in the evening. Finally, Manon agreed to do so; and then, hearing her brother calling to her, she hurried away into the inn, leaving Des Grieux to wander apart from the merry throng once more and to indulge in his new rapturous thoughts alone.

Meanwhile the well-seasoned _roué_, Baron Geronte, had not been idling his time; for, having already determined to carry Manon off by force with him to Paris, there to become his mistress, he secretly called aside the landlord of the inn and arranged with him to have a post-chaise ready in a secluded spot behind the inn at a certain time during the evening.

It happened, however, that this conversation was overheard by Edmond, one of the young students, who, having noticed the mutual attraction of love between Manon and Des Grieux, now approached the latter and informed him of Geronte's plan for the abduction of the beautiful girl.

Full of dismay at this news, Des Grieux entreated the assistance of Edmond, who declared that the only thing to be done was for Des Grieux himself to make use of the waiting post-chaise and to depart in it with Manon before the old _roué_ could complete his plans.

Des Grieux hailed this scheme with relief and joy; and Edmond, eager to help in such a mischievous trick, ran off to make arrangements for the post-chaise to be got ready at once.

Meanwhile, Lescaut, ever ready to satisfy his gambling craze, was already engaged with his new companion in playing cards and dice, and in drinking with some of the wilder students; and so absorbed were both he and Geronte, that they did not notice that Manon had again come out into the courtyard and was talking with Des Grieux in a quiet corner.

Des Grieux quickly told the beautiful girl of Geronte's plot for her abduction, and of his own plans for her rescue; and again declaring his deep love for her, entreated her to go with him instead to Paris, where they would dwell together in perfect happiness.

At first, Manon tried to resist; but her love for Des Grieux overwhelmed every other feeling, and she declared she would gladly go with him wherever he would. The lovers, therefore, crept stealthily to the back of the courtyard, where they found the post-chaise already waiting; and it was not until they had entered the vehicle and were driving along at a merry rate that Geronte and Lescaut saw what had happened.

The disappointed _roué_ stamped and raved about the courtyard, nearly choking with rage at having his fair victim thus snatched from his grasp under his very nose; but Lescaut soon found a means of pacifying him. Knowing his sister's love of luxury and comfort, Lescaut believed that she could only be happy whilst the means of gratifying her naturally extravagant desires were forthcoming; and, therefore, he bade Geronte not to despair of winning her yet, since, when the young student's slender purse was exhausted, Manon might be enticed away from him by the offer of such magnificent living as Geronte would have to offer her.

This, indeed, proved to be the case; for when Des Grieux had lavished all the means at his immediate disposal upon gratifying the artistic longings of the ardent girl whom he had taken under his protection, he found himself helpless to retain so bright a creature within the restrictions of a narrowly-limited purse.

Manon loved Des Grieux passionately; but her voluptuous, pleasure-loving soul craved for luxury and extravagant amusements such as Des Grieux could not possibly gratify in the humble little cottage to which he had taken her. The consequence was that when the Baron Geronte at length arrived on the scene during Des Grieux's absence, his offer of a magnificent house, and all the glittering delights that wealth could purchase, was too strong a temptation for the sunshine-loving Manon, who thus allowed herself to be lured away from her true lover to become the mistress and petted favourite of one for whom she had no real affection.

Geronte's admiration, however, was pleasing to her; and for some weeks Manon lived a life of continual pleasure and luxury in the Baron's magnificent hotel, where her every whim was gratified and where she reigned almost as a queen.

Her brother, Lescaut, was well pleased with the turn events had taken, since he, also, now lived a life of luxury at the expense of his sister's wealthy protector; but he was clever enough to see that Manon would not long be satisfied with her present distractions, since her ever-changing moods and iridescent nature demanded variety, and that satiety of even luxury must inevitably come. He realised, also, that her love for Des Grieux was not dead, but only awaited his reappearance to burst forth into full bloom once more; and he knew that Des Grieux alone would have lasting influence in his sister's life.

For his own ends, therefore, and for the sake of having future means of gratifying his low tastes, Lescaut sought out the wretched Des Grieux once more, and encouraged him to gamble desperately, enticing him to this course by telling him that he would thus secure the wealth that should eventually enable him to win back the radiant Manon whom he still so fondly loved. He even went further still, and arranged for an interview between the pair; but dire misfortune came of this.

One day Geronte had arranged for a grand entertainment to be given before his beautiful mistress in their hotel, having secured the services of certain musicians and singers to give renderings of some high-flown verses which he had himself composed in praise of her beauty; and he engaged also a dancing-master to give her instructions in the minuet and other fashionable dances of the period; but finding that the spoilt beauty soon showed signs of boredom, he left the hotel with his friends to take a stroll along the Boulevards, somewhat piqued, asking her to join him later on, but intending to return himself shortly to see how she amused herself during his absence.

This was the very hour for which Lescaut had arranged the meeting between Des Grieux and Manon; and a few minutes after the departure of the Baron, the lovers were in each other's arms.

Manon was overjoyed at finding herself once more in the presence of her beloved Des Grieux; and the latter so quickly fell under the magic spell of her fatal fascination, that his first reproaches were soon forgotten in the passionate words of love and endearment which he could not repress.

So absorbed in their joy were the lovers that, oblivious of their surroundings, they paid no heed to the passing of time; and thus it came to pass that they were presently discovered by Geronte, still folded in each other's arms.

Furiously jealous at the sight, Geronte instantly rushed out from the hotel and denounced Manon to the authorities as a person of ill repute; and, in spite of her tears and entreaties, the unhappy girl was dragged off to prison and subsequently condemned to deportation.

Lescaut, still acting for his own selfish ends, made several endeavours, assisted by the almost frantic Des Grieux, to save the wretched victim from her awful fate; but all the efforts they made were in vain.

Des Grieux was overcome with grief and despair at the failure of his attempts to effect Manon's escape from prison on the day before she sailed, and, rather than be parted from his beloved one, when the last chance of rescue had vanished, he offered himself as a cabin-boy on board the vessel that conveyed her to America.

He was thus enabled to be of some small comfort to her on her arrival in the strange land she had dreaded so much; but, even here, fate was still against the lovers. Manon's fatal beauty was the means of placing further perils in her path, and, in order to escape a worse danger than any which had threatened her before, she was compelled to make a sudden hurried flight, accompanied by the ever-faithful Des Grieux.

The lovers now were forced to wander as fugitives in a vast solitary wilderness, far from human habitation and aid, and where starvation soon met them face to face.

All too quickly, poor Manon wasted and drooped, her bright butterfly nature utterly crushed by such terrible reverses; and at last, one day, as the pair toiled on their way, she sank to the ground dying from exhaustion.

Full of despair, Des Grieux vainly sought for water and refreshment, to save the precious life he loved so well; but Manon, knowing herself to be past all human aid, called him back to her side once more, and, folded closely in his trembling arms, she expired, declaring her love for him with her last breath.

Heart-broken, Des Grieux, with a cry of woe, fell senseless beside the dead body of his beloved Manon--that Manon, so fair and so alluring, such a bewildering contrast of passionate love and mischievous coquetry, a fascinating, sunshine-loving butterfly with the tender heart of a true woman.

LA BOHÈME

When Louis Philippe, the Citizen King of the French, was vainly trying to retain his seat upon a tottering throne, two young students might have been seen one cold Christmas Eve at work in an attic in the Quartier Latin, in Paris.

These two were Marcel, a painter, and Rudolf, a poet; two careless, light-hearted young men, who, together with their friends, Schaunard, a musician, and Colline, a philosopher, loved to regard themselves as great artists, whom a cold and unappreciative world had as yet failed to recognise.

Full of buoyant spirits, daring, reckless, and happy-go-lucky, these four students seemed to pass a charmed existence; a life which, though full of ups and downs, of wealth and poverty, of joy and sorrow, they would not have exchanged for any other, since they were true Bohemians at heart, to whom the intoxicating atmosphere of the Quartier Latin was as the very breath of life. Extravagant to the last degree, they spent their money lavishly when Fortune smiled upon them, feasting like lords, indulging their sweethearts, snatching at every joy within their reach, and reckless of what the next morn might bring forth; and when rainy days came quickly once more, nothing remaining to tell the tale of their recent magnificence, they cheerfully returned to work again, no whit dismayed by reverses, but eager to retrieve their broken fortunes. For joy was to be found even in poverty; and sparkling wit, redundant spirits, and optimistic belief in a dazzling future never forsook them, whether they dined off venison or a dry crust! Free, untrammelled by social conventions, they obeyed the magic impulse of their quickly-coursing young blood and the dictates of generous hearts and vivid minds; and, sunshine or rain, nothing could damp the ardour of these bold spirits in their impetuous pursuit of the fairest joys of life.

Thus it was with Rudolf and Marcel on this Christmas Eve; for though their fortunes were at that moment at the lowest ebb, and they knew not whence their next meal would come, yet were they merry and light-hearted, as though the fickle goddess had never ceased to smile. There was no fire in the grate, and no food in the cupboard, but both enthusiasts tried to believe that neither were necessary even on such a freezing day. Whilst Rudolf endeavoured to warm himself by writing fiery matter for his fondly imagined "great" journal, _The Beaver_, Marcel worked vigorously at his equally "great" picture, "The Passage of the Red Sea," wielding his brushes with fingers stiff with cold, stamping his feet and changing position frequently in order to keep circulation going; but at last, both were obliged to confess that they were nearly frozen, and that unless they could make a fire of some kind, their "genius" would soon be lost to the world for ever!

"Sooner than that," cried Marcel, "let's make a bonfire of my great picture!"

But Rudolf declared that such a remedy would be worse than the disease, since he could not endure the odour of burning paint; and then, seized with a happy thought, he dragged forth from a hidden recess the MS. of a mighty drama with which he had once had hopes of astonishing the world, and declaring heroically that its pungent wit and sparkling dialogue should give them warmth, and the world would have to bear its loss as best it could. So, act by act, and page by page, the play was recklessly set alight; and as the two friends drew up their chairs and warmed their hands at the grateful blaze, they merrily bade one another to observe the bright sparks of wit that flashed from the dusty pages!

Whilst they were thus engaged, Colline, the "great" philosopher, entered the room, bearing under his arms a bundle of books, with which he had been vainly endeavouring to raise funds for the general use; and, flinging the parcel on the table, announced in an aggrieved tone that Christmas Eve was indeed highly honoured, since no pawning was allowed that day! Then, observing that a fire was actually burning in the grate, which he had left black and cheerless, he ran eagerly to thaw his frozen limbs, joining gaily in the applause that greeted each addition to the greedy bonfire, and hailing Rudolf as a noble benefactor of freezing mankind.

Just as the last flame was dying down, a pleasant interruption came; for two serving boys suddenly entered, the one carrying abundant fuel, and the other laden with rich provisions of all kinds. Having solemnly laid down their burdens, the lads departed without a word; and then the three students, not troubling to inquire into the cause of this timely miracle, immediately fell upon the good things with loud cries of delight. Colline snatched up the fuel with frantic haste, and quickly built up a roaring fire; whilst Marcel and Rudolf seized upon the provisions, and proceeded to lay out a feast with lavish extravagance, and sublime disregard of the next day's needs.

With the entrance of Schaunard, the musician, they learnt that he was the giver of the feast, having had a happy and unexpected windfall, which, with the usual generosity of the Quartier Latin, he was anxious to share with his friends; and then, the table being spread to their satisfaction, the four students sat down to enjoy the treat.

Just when the hilarity was at its height, there came a knock at the door, and the voice of Benoit, the landlord, was heard calling for admission; and, knowing well enough that this unwelcome intruder could only have come for one purpose--to demand his long-overdue rent--the students were at first inclined to refuse him admission.

Then, having hastily arranged a better plan of action for getting rid of him for a longer time, they opened the door with a flourish, and as Benoit entered with a rent-paper, which he presented to Marcel as the tenant of the room, they greeted him with a boisterous welcome, expressing themselves as overjoyed to see him, and inviting him to join them at their feast.

Though amazed at being received in such a friendly manner, Benoit walked unerringly into the trap that had been laid for him; and, always ready to accept luxuries at another's expense, he willingly allowed himself to be led to the table and helped to the good things. The wily students, enjoying their trick immensely, plied the greedy landlord with wine until his brains became muddled and his vision too uncertain to observe that he was being laughed at; and then, cunningly leading the conversation round to love and gallantry, they declared that he must be a sad rogue with the ladies, since they had heard of his many amours and intrigues. Benoit, though somewhat advanced in years, was delighted at being taken for such a gay young Lothario, and agreed with all they said, even enlarging on his imaginary adventures and painting himself in more glaring colours still; but this boasting, to his astonishment, was not received with the approval he expected. For the four students, suddenly pretending to be shocked beyond measure at such licentious conduct and declaring that one so debauched was not fit to breathe the same air with themselves, seized the silly old braggart by the scruff of the neck, and bundled him out of the room and down the stairs with more haste and force than ceremony.

Knowing that they were now safe for a few hours, the friends returned to the room, laughing merrily at the easy way in which they had disposed of the tiresome landlord for the time being; and then Schaunard, declaring that it was folly to remain within doors when Christmas gaieties were afoot without, suggested that they should divide the remainder of the money he had brought and go forth to spend it, concluding with a supper at the Café Momus, one of their favourite haunts when in funds.

This suggestion being received with acclamation, they proceeded to carry it out at once; and having divided the money equally between them, they set off in high good humour to spend it, with the exception of Rudolf, who remained behind to finish the article for his new and precious journal, promising to join his companions in a short time at the café.

When his three friends had noisily departed, Rudolf brought the candles nearer to his work, and began to write; but he had scarcely written a few words, when he heard a timid knock at the door, and on opening it, was amazed to see a poorly-clad but lovely young girl standing there, holding a key in one hand and an extinguished candle in the other. Her beauty was of that ethereal, refined, and exquisitely delicate quality that particularly appeals to the sensitive poetic mind; and as Rudolf gazed upon the girl's velvety pale skin, slight graceful form, soft dreamy eyes, and tiny white hands, a wave of joy flooded his artistic soul at the mere sight of one so fair, and yet so frail.

So fragile, indeed, was the young girl, that the effort of climbing the stairs had completely exhausted her and brought on a violent fit of coughing; and scarcely had she explained that she had called to beg a light for her candle, which had gone out, than she was seized with sudden faintness, and would have fallen to the ground had not Rudolf caught her in his arms.

Quickly placing the girl in a chair, the young student revived her with water, and made her drink some wine afterwards, watching her the while with increasing interest and a strange joy, which he felt instinctively was reciprocated; for when his fair visitor opened her eyes, she looked upon him with the sweet shy glances of newly-born passion.

Having recovered from her swoon, however, the girl arose at once, and risked again for her candle to be lighted; and when Rudolf had performed this small office for her, trembling with emotion as he placed the light in the tiny hand, which seemed to him one of her greatest charms, she bade him farewell, and opened the door. Then, remembering her key, which she had dropped when seized with faintness, she turned to look for it; and in so doing, the draught from the door blew out the light once more. At the same moment, Rudolf's candle was also extinguished, so that the room was plunged in darkness; and the young student, moved by a sudden impulse, slipped round to the door and fastened it.

Both were now groping in the darkness, the girl seeking her key, which Rudolf presently found and put in his own pocket, still making no effort to get a light; for he was filled with a sudden fear that this sweet young creature would shortly leave him, and he longed above all things to prolong her stay. They talked to each other in a happy way as they continued the search in the dark; and presently, Rudolf, guided by his companion's sweet voice, came close to her side, and caught her little hand in his. Thrilled by her touch, the young student could no longer restrain the passion that now filled his heart with such exquisite joy; and folding her in his arms, he poured forth an eager declaration of his love, to which, to his delight, the young girl as gladly responded.

Having presently described his own life and occupation, Rudolf questioned his companion as to hers; and the girl informed him that her name was Mimi, and that she worked fine embroideries for a living.

Whilst they were still talking happily together, the voices of Marcel, Colline, and Schaunard were heard outside, calling loudly for their companion to come and join them in their pleasure, to which Rudolf returned an impatient answer, angry at the interruption; but Mimi, thus learning that her lover had gaiety afoot, suggested that she should go with him, that they might pass the evening together. Rudolf, overjoyed that she was thus willing to acknowledge him as her accepted lover, gladly made ready to go out; and, hand locked in hand, the two went forth joyously to join in the merry-making of Christmas Eve.

They soon reached an open square, at one side of which was the Café Momus, the favourite meeting-place of the Quartier Latin; and here they were joined by the three students, who received Mimi with a hearty welcome.

The square presented a lively scene, and was filled with a crowd of students, work-girls, and children, with their parents, bargaining at the brilliantly lighted shops and stalls, and all bent on light-hearted enjoyment; and the shouting of the street vendors as they called their wares, the gleeful cries of the children, and the laughter of the youths and maidens as they chatted and made merry together, filled the air with a confused medley of sound, the keynote of which was reckless mirth.

Rudolf, seeing a pretty bonnet trimmed with pink roses in one of the shops, went in with Mimi to buy it for her, utterly regardless of the fact that its price swallowed all his share of Schaunard's windfall; and when the delighted Mimi had placed this fascinating "creation" upon her dainty head, they went to join their companions at the Café Momus for supper.

Finding the café crowded within, the three friends seated themselves at a table outside, from whence they could the better observe the amusing scene taking place in the square; and having ordered an extravagant supper, they began to enjoy themselves with their usual careless abandon.

As they sat there, an extremely pretty, coquettish, and smartly-dressed girl approached the café, accompanied by a fussy old gentleman, with whom she presently sat down at an outside supper-table a few yards further along; and at the sight of the newcomer, Marcel turned pale, and began to fidget nervously in his chair. For this aggravatingly pretty young woman was Musetta, a former sweetheart of Marcel's, with whom he had quarrelled some time ago, and who had in revenge quickly found a new admirer. These two really loved each other, but their quarrels and separations were frequent; for Musetta was a born coquette, and also having a passion for fine clothes and luxuries such as Marcel seldom had the means to provide, she would occasionally desert him for an adorer more richly endowed with the means of satisfying her extravagant wants. Her latest conquest was this fussy old noble, Alcindoro de Mitonneaux, who had been so flattered by the pretty girl's attentions, which she bestowed on him in pique at Marcel's conduct, that still considering himself to be somewhat of a beau, he had allowed her to twist him round her clever little finger with ease, and to drag from him much of his carefully hoarded wealth.