Chapter IX: Conclusion (4)

The city itself, as you penetrate it, makes good with its stateliness and picturesqueness your loss through the grimness of its environs. It is in great part new, very clean, and full of the life and movement of a prosperous port; but, better than this so far as the mere sight-seer is concerned, it wins a novel charm from the many public staircases by which you ascend and descend its hillier quarters, and which are made of stone, and lightly railed and balustraded with iron.

Something of all this I noticed in my ride from the landing of the steamer to the house of friends in the suburbs. There I grew better disposed toward the hills, which, as I strolled over them, I found dotted with lovely villas, and everywhere traversed by perfectly-kept carriage-roads, and easy and pleasant foot-paths. It was in the spring-time, and the peach-trees and almond-trees hung full of blossoms and bees; the lizards lay in the walks absorbing the vernal sunshine; the violets and cowslips sweetened all the grassy borders. The scene did not want a human interest, for the peasant-girls were going to market at that hour, and I met them everywhere, bearing heavy burdens on their own heads, or hurrying forward with their wares on the backs of donkeys. They were as handsome as heart could wish, and they wore that Italian head-dress which I have never seen anywhere in Italy except at Trieste and in the Roman and Neapolitan provinces,--a kerchief of dazzling white linen, laid square upon the crown, and dropping lightly to the shoulders. Later I saw these comely maidens crouching on the ground in the market-place, and selling their wares, with much glitter of eyes, teeth, and ear-rings, and a continual babble of bargaining.

It seemed to me that the average of good looks was greater among the women of Trieste than among those of Venice, but that the instances of striking and exquisite beauty were rarer. At Trieste, too, the Italian type, so pure at Venice, is lost or continually modified by the mixed character of the population, which perhaps is most noticeable at the Merchants' Exchange. This is a vast edifice roofed with glass, where are the offices of the great steam navigation company, the Austrian Lloyds,--which, far more than the favor of the Imperial government, has contributed to the prosperity of Trieste,--and where the traffickers of all races meet daily to gossip over the news and the prices. Here a Greek or a Dalmat talks with an eager Italian, or a slow, sure Englishman; here the hated Austrian button-holes the Venetian or the Magyar; here the Jew meets the Gentile on common ground; here Christianity encounters the superstitions of the East, and makes a good thing out of them in cotton or grain. All costumes are seen here, and all tongues are heard, the native Triestines contributing almost as much to the variety of the latter as the foreigners. "In regard to language," says Cantù, "though the country is peopled by Slavonians, yet the Italian tongue is spreading into the remotest villages, where a few years since it was not understood. In the city it is the common and familiar language; the Slavonians of the North use the German for the language of ceremony; those of the South, as well as the Israelites, the Italian; while the Protestants use the German, the Greeks the Hellenic and Illyric, the employees of the civil courts the Italian or the German, the schools now German and now Italian, the bar and the pulpit Italian. Most of the inhabitants, indeed, are bi-lingual, and very many tri-lingual, without counting French, which is understood and spoken from infancy. Italian, German, and Greek are written, but the Slavonic little, this having remained in the condition of a vulgar tongue. But it would be idle to distinguish the population according to language, for the son adopts a language different from the father's, and now prefers one language and now another; the women generally incline to the Italian; but many of the upper class prefer now German, now French, now English, as, from one decade to another, affairs, fashions, and fancies change. This in the salons; in the squares and streets, the Venetian dialect is heard."

And with the introduction of the Venetian dialect, Venetian discontent seems also to have crept in, and I once heard a Triestine declaim against the Imperial government quite in the manner of Venice. It struck me that this desire for union with Italy, which he declared prevalent in Trieste, must be of very recent growth, since even so late as 1848 Trieste had refused to join Venice in the expulsion of the Austrians. Indeed, the Triestines have fought the Venetians from the first; they stole the Brides of Venice in one of their piratical cruises in the lagoons; gave aid and comfort to those enemies of Venice, the Visconti, the Carraras, and the Genoese; revolted from St. Mark whenever subjected to his banner; and finally, rather than remain under his sway, gave themselves five centuries ago to Austria.

The objects of interest in Trieste are not many. There are remains of an attributive temple of Jupiter under the Duomo, and there is near at hand the museum of classical antiquities founded in honor of Winckelmann, murdered at Trieste by that ill-advised Pistojese, Ancangeli, who had seen the medals bestowed on the antiquary by Maria Theresa and believed him rich. There is also a scientific museum founded by the Archduke Maximilian, and, above all, there is the beautiful residence of this unhappy prince,--the Miramare, where the half-crazed Empress of the Mexicans vainly waits her husband's return from the experiment of paternal government in the New World. It would be hard to tell how art has there charmed rock and wave, until the spur of one of those rugged Triestine hills, jutting into the sea, has been made the seat of ease and luxury; but the visitor is aware of the magic as soon as he passes the gate of the palace grounds. These are in great part perpendicular, and are overclambered with airy stairways climbing to pensile arbors. Where horizontal, they are diversified with mimic seas for swans to sail upon, and summer-houses for people to lounge in and look at the swans from. On the point of land farthest from the acclivity stands the castle of Miramare, half at sea, and half adrift in the clouds above.

"And fain it would stoop downward
To the mirrored wave below;
And fain it would soar upward
In the evening's crimson glow."

I remember that a little yacht lay beside the pier at the castle's foot, and lazily flapped its sail, while the sea beat inward with as languid a pulse. That was some years ago, before Mexico was dreamed of at Miramare. Now, perchance, she who is one of the most unhappy among women looks down distraught from those high windows, and finds in the helpless sail and impassive wave the images of her baffled hope, and that immeasurable sea which gives back its mariners neither to love nor to sorrow. I think, though she be the wife and daughter of royalty, we may pity this poor Empress at least as much as we pity the Mexicans to whom her dreams have brought so many woes.

It was the midnight following the visit to Miramare when the fiacre in which I had quitted my friend's house was drawn up by its greatly bewildered driver on the quay near the place where the steamer for Venice should be lying. There was no steamer for Venice to be seen. The driver swore a little in the polyglot profanities of his native city, and, descending from his box, went and questioned different lights--blue lights, yellow lights, green lights--to be seen at different points. To a light, they were ignorant, though eloquent, and, to pass the time, we drove up and down the quay, and stopped at the landings of all the steamers that touch at Trieste. It was a snug fiacre enough, but I did not care to spend the night in it, and I urged the driver to further inquiry. A wanderer whom we met declared that it was not the night for the Venice steamer; another admitted that it might be; a third conversed with the driver in low tones, and then leaped upon the box. We drove rapidly away, and before I had, in view of this mysterious proceeding, composed a fitting paragraph for the _Fatti Diversi_ of the _Osservatore Triestino_, descriptive of the state in which the Guardie di Polizia should find me floating in the bay, exanimate and too clearly the prey of a _triste evvenimento_, the driver pulled up once more, and now beside a steamer. It was the steamer for Venice, he said, in precisely the tone which he would have used had he driven me directly to it without blundering. It was breathing heavily, and was just about to depart; but even in the hurry of getting on board I could not help noticing that it seemed to have grown a great deal since I had last voyaged in it. There was not a soul to be seen except the mute steward who took my satchel, and, guiding me below into an elegant saloon, instantly left me alone. Here again the steamer was vastly enlarged. These were not the narrow quarters of the Venice steamer, nor was this lamp, shedding a soft light on cushioned seats and panelled doors and wainscotings, the sort of illumination usual in that humble craft. I rang the small silver bell on the long table, and the mute steward appeared.

_Was_ this the steamer for Venice?

_Sicuro!_

All that I could do in comment was to sit down; and in the mean time the steamer trembled, groaned, choked, cleared its throat, and we were under way.

"The other passengers have all gone to bed, I suppose," I argued acutely, seeing none of them. Nevertheless, I thought it odd, and it seemed a shrewd means of relief to ring the bell, and, pretending drowsiness, to ask the steward which was my state-room.

He replied, with a curious smile, that I could have any of them. Amazed, I yet selected a state-room, and while the steward was gone for the sheets and pillow-cases I occupied my time by opening the doors of all the other staterooms. They were empty.

"Am I the only passenger?" I asked, when he returned, with some anxiety.

"Precisely," he answered.

I could not proceed and ask if he composed the entire crew: it seemed too fearfully probable that he did.

I now suspected that I had taken passage with the Olandese Volante, but there was now nothing in the world for it, except to go to bed, and there, with the accession of a slight sea-sickness, my views of the situation underwent a total change. I had gone down into the Maelstrom with the Ancient Mariner,--I was a Manuscript Found in a Bottle!

Coming to the surface about six o'clock A. M., I found a daylight as cheerful as need be upon the appointments of the elegant cabin, and upon the good-natured face of the steward when he brought me the _caffè _caffè latte_, and the buttered toast for my breakfast. He said, "_Servitor suo!_" in a loud and comfortable voice, and I perceived the absurdity of having thought that he was in any way related to the Nightmare-Death-in-life-that-thicks-man's-blood-with-cold.

"This is not the regular Venice steamer, I suppose," I remarked to the steward as he laid my breakfast in state upon the long table.

No. Properly, no boat should have left for Venice last night, which was not one of the times of the tri-weekly departure. This was one of the steamers of the line between Trieste and Alexandria, and it was going at present to take on an extraordinary freight at Venice for Egypt. I had been permitted to come on board because my driver said I had a return ticket, and would go.

Ascending to the deck, I found nothing whatever mysterious in the management of the steamer thus pressed for the first time, probably, into the service of an American citizen. The captain met me with a bow to the gangway; seamen were coiling wet ropes at different points, as they always are; the mate was promenading the bridge, and taking the rainy weather as it came, with his oil-cloth coat and hat on. The wheel of the steamer was as usual chewing the sea, and finding it unpalatable, and vainly expectorating.

We were in sight of the breakwater outside Malamocco, and a pilot-boat was making us from the land. Even at this point the fortifications of the Austrians began, and they multiplied as we drew near Venice, till we entered the lagoon, and found it a nest of fortresses, one within another.

Unhappily, the day being rainy, Venice did not spring resplendent from the sea, as I had always read she would. She rose slowly and languidly from the water,--not like a queen, but like the slovenly, heart-broken old slave she was.

IV.

CANOVA'S BIRTHPLACE.

From Venice to the city of Vicenza by rail it is two hours, and thence you must take a carriage if you would go to Bassano, which is an opulent and busy little grain mart of some twelve thousand souls, about thirty miles north of Venice, at the foot of the Alps. We reached the town at nine o'clock. It was moonlight; and as we looked out we saw the quaint, steep streets full of promenaders, and everybody in Bassano seemed to be making love. Young girls strolled about the picturesque way with their lovers, and tender couples were cooing at all the doors and windows. Bassano is the birthplace of the painter Jacopo da Ponte, who was one of the first Italian painters to treat Scriptural story as accessory to mere landscape, and who had a peculiar fondness for painting Entrances into the Ark, because he could indulge without stint the taste for pairing-off early acquired from observation of the just-mentioned local customs in his native town. This was the theory offered by one who had imbibed the spirit of subtile speculation from Ruskin, and I think it reasonable. At least it does not conflict with the fact that there is at Bassano a most excellent gallery of paintings entirely devoted to the works of Jacopo da Ponte and his four sons, who are here to be seen to better advantage than anywhere else. As few strangers visit Bassano, the gallery is little frequented. It is in charge of a very strict old man, who will not allow people to look at the pictures till he has shown them the adjoining cabinet of geological specimens. It is in vain that you assure him of your indifference to these scientific _seccature_; he is deaf, and you are not suffered to escape a single fossil. He asked us a hundred questions, and understood nothing in reply, insomuch that when he came to his last inquiry, "Have the Protestants the same God as the Catholics?" we were rather glad that he should be obliged to settle the fact for himself.

Underneath the gallery was a school of boys, whom, as we entered, we heard humming over the bitter honey which childhood is obliged to gather from the opening flowers of orthography. When we passed out, the master gave these poor busy bees an atom of holiday, and they all swarmed forth together to look at the strangers. The teacher was a long, lank man, in a black threadbare coat, and a skull-cap,--exactly like the schoolmaster in "The Deserted Village." We made a pretence of asking him our way somewhere, and went wrong, and came by accident upon a wide, flat space, bare as a brick-yard, beside which was lettered on a fragment of the old city wall, "Giuoco di Palla." It was evidently the play-ground of the whole city, and it gave us a pleasanter idea of life in Bassano than we had yet conceived, to think of its entire population playing ball there in the spring afternoons. We respected Bassano as much for this as for her diligent remembrance of her illustrious dead, of whom she has very great numbers. It appeared to us that nearly every other house bore a tablet announcing that "Here was born," or "Here died," some great or good man of whom no one out of Bassano ever heard. There is enough celebrity there to supply the world; but as laurel is a thing that grows anywhere, I covet rather from Bassano the magnificent ivy that covers the portions of her ancient wall yet standing. The wall, where visible, is seen to be of a pebbly rough-cast, but it is clothed almost from the ground in glossy ivy, that glitters upon it like chain-mail upon the vast shoulders of some giant warrior. The bed of the moat is turned into a lovely promenade, bordered by quiet villas, with shepherds and shepherdesses carved in marble on their gates. Where the wall is built to the verge of the high ground on which the city stands, there is a swift descent to the wide valley of the Brenta, waving in corn and vines and tobacco.

It did not take a long time to exhaust the interest of Bassano; but we were sorry to leave the place, because of the excellence of the inn at which we tarried. It was called "Il Mondo," and it had everything in it that heart could wish. Our rooms were miracles of neatness and comfort; they had the freshness, not the rawness, of recent repair, and they opened into the dining-hall, where we were served with indescribable salads and _risotti_. During our sojourn we simply enjoyed the house; when we were come away we wondered that so much perfection of hotel could exist in so small a town as Bassano. It is one of the pleasures of by-way travel in Italy, that you are everywhere introduced in fanciful character,--that you become fictitious, and play a part as in a novel. To this inn of "The World" our driver had brought us with a clamor and rattle proportioned to the fee received from us, and when, in response to his haughty summons, the _cameriere_, who had been gossiping with the cook, threw open the kitchen door, and stood out to welcome us in a broad square of forth-streaming ruddy light, amid the lovely odors of broiling and roasting, our driver saluted him with, "Receive these gentle folks, and treat them to your very best. They are worthy of anything." This at once put us back several centuries, and we never ceased to be lords and ladies of the period of Don Quixote as long as we rested in that inn.

It was a bright and breezy Sunday when we left "Il Mondo," and gayly journeyed toward Treviso, intending to visit Possagno, the birthplace of Canova, on our way. The road to the latter place passes through a beautiful country, that gently undulates on either hand, till in the distance it rises into pleasant hills and green mountain-heights. Possagno itself lies upon the brink of a declivity, down the side of which drops terrace after terrace, all planted with vines and figs and peaches, to a water-course below. The ground on which the village is built, with its quaint and antiquated stone cottages, slopes gently northward, and on a little rise upon the left hand of us coming from Bassano, we saw that stately religious edifice with which Canova has honored his humble birthplace. It is a copy of the Pantheon, and it cannot help being beautiful and imposing, but it would be utterly out of place in any other than an Italian village. Here, however, it consorted well enough with the lingering qualities of that old pagan civilization still perceptible in Italy. A sense of that past was so strong with us, as we ascended the broad stairway leading up the slope from the village to the level on which the temple stands at the foot of a mountain, that we might well have fancied we approached an altar devoted to the elder worship: through the open doorway and between the columns of the portico we could see the priests moving to and fro, and the voice of their chanting came out to us like the sound of hymns to some of the deities long disowned; and I could but recall how Padre L---- had once said to me in Venice, "Our blessed saints are only the old gods baptized and christened anew." Within, as without, the temple resembled the Pantheon, but it had little to show us. The niches designed by Canova for statues of the saints are empty yet; but there are busts by his own hand of himself and his brother, the Bishop Canova. Among the people present was the sculptor's niece, whom our guide pointed out to us, and who was evidently used to being looked at. She seemed not to dislike it, and stared back at us amiably enough, being a good-natured, plump, comely, dark-faced lady of perhaps fifty years.

Possagno is nothing if not Canova, and our guide, a boy, knew all about him,--how, more especially, he had first manifested his wonderful genius by modelling a group of sheep out of the dust of the highway, and how an Inglese, happening along in his carriage, saw the boy's work and gave him a plateful of gold napoleons. I dare say this is as near the truth as most facts. And is it not better for the historic Canova to have begun in this way, than to have poorly picked up the rudiments of his art in the work-shop of his father, a maker of altar-pieces and the like for country churches? The Canova family has intermarried with the Venetian nobility, and probably would not believe those stories of Canova's beginnings which his townsmen so fondly cherish. I dare say they would even discredit the butter lion with which the boy-sculptor is said to have adorned the table of the noble Falier, and first won his notice.

Besides the temple at Possagno, there is a very pretty gallery containing casts of all Canova's works. It is an interesting place, where Psyches and Cupids flutter, where Venuses present themselves in every variety of attitude, where Sorrows sit upon hard, straight-backed classic chairs, and mourn in the society of faithful Storks; where the Bereft of this century surround death-beds in Greek costume appropriate to the scene; where Muses and Graces sweetly pose themselves and insipidly smile, and where the Dancers and Passions, though nakeder, are no wickeder than the Saints and Virtues. In all, there are a hundred and ninety-five pieces in the gallery, and among the rest the statue named George Washington which was sent to America in 1820, and afterwards destroyed by fire in the Capitol of North Carolina, at Raleigh. The figure is in a sitting posture; naturally, it is in the dress of a Roman general; and if it does not look much like George Washington, it does resemble Julius Cæsar.

The custodian of the gallery had been Canova's body-servant, and he loved to talk of his master. He had so far imbibed the spirit of family pride that he did not like to allow that Canova had ever been other than rich and grand, and he begged us not to believe the idle stories of his first essays in art. He was delighted with our interest in the imperial Washington, and our pleasure in the whole gallery, which we viewed with the homage due to the man who had rescued the world from Swaggering in sculpture. When we were tired, he invited us, with his mistress's permission, into the house of the Canovas adjoining the gallery; and there we saw many paintings by the sculptor,--pausing longest in a lovely little room decorated, after the Pompeian manner, with _scherzi_ in miniature panels representing the jocose classic usualities,--Cupids escaping from cages, and being sold from them, and playing many pranks and games with Nymphs and Graces.

Then Canova was done, and Possagno was finished; and we resumed our way to Treviso.

FOOTNOTES:

[101] I read in Mr. Norton's "Notes of Travel and Study in Italy," that he saw in the Campo Santo, as long ago as 1856, "the chains that marked the servitude of Pisa, now restored by Florence," and it is of course possible that our cicerone may have employed one of these chains for the different historical purpose I have mentioned. It would be a thousand pities, I think, if a monument of that sort should be limited to the commemoration of one fact only.

THE MYSTERY OF NATURE.

The works of God are fair for naught,
Unless our eyes, in seeing,
See hidden in the thing the thought
That animates its being.

The outward form is not the whole,
But every part is moulded
To image forth an inward soul
That dimly is unfolded.

The shadow, pictured in the lake
By every tree that trembles,
Is cast for more than just the sake
Of that which it resembles.

The dew falls nightly, not alone
Because the meadows need it,
But on an errand of its own
To human souls that heed it.

The stars are lighted in the skies
Not merely for their shining,
But, like the looks of loving eyes,
Have meanings worth divining.

The waves that moan along the shore,
The winds that sigh in blowing,
Are sent to teach a mystic lore
Which men are wise in knowing.

The clouds around the mountain-peak,
The rivers in their winding,
Have secrets which, to all who seek,
Are precious in the finding.

Thus Nature dwells within our reach,
But, though we stand so near her,
We still interpret half her speech
With ears too dull to hear her.

Whoever, at the coarsest sound,
Still listens for the finest,
Shall hear the noisy world go round
To music the divinest.

Whoever yearns to see aright
Because his heart is tender,
Shall catch a glimpse of heavenly light
In every earthly splendor.

So, since the universe began,
And till it shall be ended,
The soul of Nature, soul of Man,
And soul of God are blended!

A WIFE BY WAGER.

On a sunny afternoon in the middle of August, 1756, a gayly-dressed young gentleman of evident rank and wealth, apparently about twenty-three years old, sat in the doorway of the Café de la Régence, languidly surveying the passers-by, and occasionally vouchsafing a nod of recognition to some noble cavalier, or graciously waving from his perfumed handkerchief a sentimental salutation to some lively beauty of high estate or doubtful fame. So very inert and imperturbable was this gayly-dressed young gentleman, that it seemed that nothing could disturb his dainty suavity; but suddenly, and without apparent cause, his eyes were lighted with a feeble expression of vexation, and, by a petulant movement, he thrust back his chair as if anxious to avoid observation.

The object that kindled this momentary spark of animation was a tall, broad-chested man, whose appearance, as he sauntered along the promenade, casting glances of contempt, which might or might not be sincerely felt, at the fashionable vanities which surrounded him, presented a striking contrast to that of the majority of strollers on that summer afternoon. His dress, though neat, was simple, and almost sombre, being destitute of any species of decoration. His step was bold and vigorous, and, in his indifference to the gay panorama which glided past him, he held his chin so high in the air that the listless young gentleman hoped he might, in his loftiness, overlook him with the rest.

But possibly the new-comer's unconsciousness may not have been so absolute as he endeavored to make it appear; or possibly his attention may have been particularly attracted by the sounds of mirth issuing from the famous Café. At any rate, as he approached it, he turned his head, and, gazing a moment at the first-named gentleman, exclaimed, "Ah, my little Fronsacquin, is it really you?"

The "little Fronsacquin" rose with a vapid smile, from which every trace of annoyance had vanished. To be associated, even by a title of questionable compliment, with that social hero, the Due de Fronsac, whose nimble caperings had been the admiration of Young France for nearly half a century, was sufficient to banish from his mind any other thoughts than those of proud complacency and self-content. He welcomed his interrogator with all the ardor of which he was capable. That is to say, he lifted his hat with one effort, inclined his body with a second, and motioned to a vacant chair beside him with a third, after which he sank back exhausted.

Rallying presently, he said, "You are soon back again, M. de Montalvan."

"Yea, M. de Berniers, our part of the fighting is over for the present."

"Then why not leave off your fighting dress?" said M. de Berniers. "You look as if you knew nothing of the age we are living in."

"My friend, we live in an age when nobody occupies himself with anything but the pleasures of life. One of the pleasures of my life is to wear a soldier's dress; and you very well know the reason why."

"Don't snarl, M. de Montalvan. Yes, I remember the reason now. Never mind. Some wine; and tell me about the great Duke. Is he really as gallant in the field as in the boudoir?"

"Hum. The great Duc de Richelieu looked on with remarkable bravery while we took St. Philippe. Yes, now that the _salons_ refuse him for a hero, I suppose we must make a place for him in the camp."

"Ah! I have heard why you begrudge the Maréchal his fame. But it matters very little; even Madame de Pompadour has given him her acclamations at last."

"She knows when to hide her hatreds and how to cherish them. But that's a dull subject, M. de Berniers; give me news of home. The Queen?"

"More virtuous than ever."

"And the King?"

"Less."

"Impossible!"

"Quite true."

"Some more wine, then. And the Pompadour?"

"Cold, but still powerful."

"I have heard," said M. de Montalvan, lowering his voice, "strange tales about the Parliament,--that it holds secret meetings, and that the court should keep itself prepared for some unexpected action."

"Bah!" said M. de Berniers, with a laugh, or rather a gentle inarticulate murmur of mockery; "put aside those notions, my dear M. de Montalvan. There is no power on earth can move the court of France."

"Good! And the theatres?"

"Intolerable. La Clairon has done something in a play by M. de Voltaire,-a play stolen from a Chinese tragedy, 'The Orphan of Tchao.' He calls it 'The Orphan of China.' It is dreary stuff. I wonder if our well-beloved king could not be induced to keep M. de Voltaire's plays in exile, as well as M. de Voltaire himself."

"Precisely," said M. de Montalvan. "Some more wine."

"And yet," said M. de Berniers, whose usually pale face was flushed by the repeated draughts of Burgundy with which he had found it necessary to stimulate himself to the effort of conversation, "and yet Mlle. de Terville, they say, will hear of nothing but M. de Voltaire. We shall quarrel finely about that, for one thing,"--and his eyes gleamed with what would have been amusement if they had been capable of so definite an expression.

"Mlle. de Terville!" said M. de Montalvan in some surprise, which, however, the other did not observe; "do you know her?"

"Perfectly."

"Is it possible?"

"All about her."

"Tell me, how does she look?"

"Ah, now you ask too much. I have never seen her."

"But you say--"

"That I know all about her. Yes, I am to wed her in six weeks."

"The Devil and St. Philippe!"

"I don't wonder you are astonished, my dear De Montalvan. It's quite throwing myself away to marry any woman at my time of life. Think how many adventures I shall lose. I never intended to be married until I had risen to something like the glory of Richelieu. Imagine having two beauties fight a duel for you, for example! Richelieu was only twenty-two when Mesdames de Nesle and de Polignac fought for his favor. I am twenty-three, and no woman ever fought for me. At least, not that I am aware of."

"Courage, De Berniers; if you had lived in Richelieu's day you would have had forty duels upon your account instead of one."

"Quite likely. The age has degenerated. Some wine, De Montalvan. Yes, the affair was arranged by our relatives. Contiguous estates; enormous _dot_. I know very little about it myself, except that I am the victim. Apropos," added M. de Berniers, as energetically as was consistent with his sense of what a disciple of Fronsac owed himself, "you are at leisure. The contract is to be signed early in September. Come to Brittany, and help me through. They say Brittany is a fine country. I have never seen it, though I have a chateau there. Will you come?"

De Montalvan looked keenly at his companion, as if endeavoring to detect some hidden meaning in these last words, drank some more wine, and remained silent.

"Come, De Montalvan, an answer."

M. de Montalvan scowled, and drank again. He appeared to be considering in what manner he could most readily make himself offensive to M. de Berniers. Presently he remarked, in a tone which was intended to be deeply satirical, but which his frequent imbibitions rendered merely malicious, "Have you made any wagers of late, my little friend?"

M. de Berniers's countenance fell into the same expression of discontent as that which it had displayed on his companion's first appearance. He essayed a frown,--a feat it would have been difficult for him to execute at any time, but which was now simply impossible. He was not equal even to a distortion. But he answered spitefully: "To the Devil with you and your wagers! But I will make it even yet. Perhaps another time you will not dare to compete so readily."

"Dare, Monsieur!" said De Montalvan, hastily. Then, checking himself, he added, more composedly: "But why should I quarrel with Fronsacquin? It is clear he knows nothing. If I must ease my mind by quarrelling, there are plenty hereabout," and he glared around quite savagely. His eye lighted upon a _brouette_, one of the small hand-carriages then in vogue, in which a large and heavily built young man was reclining, while the owner of the vehicle, a slender lad, toiled with difficulty before him. "Dare, is it, De Berniers? Do you see that sluggard, wasting this beautiful day in a lazy _brouette_? Ten louis that I have him out, and walking, as he ought, in less than five minutes."

"You are mad, M. de Montalvan."

"You decline?"

"No, I accept!" and De Berniers, who was not so tipsy but that he could plainly see De Montalvan was more so, wore upon his face what by one who was acquainted with him would have been understood as an air of triumph, but to a casual observer would convey no direct idea of any kind.

M. de Montalvan rose and advanced, hat in hand. "Pardon me, Monsieur," he began, "I have a few observations to address to you. It is a singular spectacle to behold a man of your health and vigor, and especially of your size, compelling a poor wretch like this to drag you through the streets in the midsummer heat."

"It is more singular, Monsieur, that you should venture to address me in this manner," said the stranger, and he directed his attendant to move forward.

"No, Monsieur," said De Montalvan, placing himself in the way, "that is out of the question. I feel it my duty to object to your making use of a _brouette_ on such a day as this."

"Ah, you object!"

"Most decidedly. In fact I will not allow it."

The stranger sprang with alacrity upon the sidewalk, and, drawing his sword, advanced upon his persecutor. "We shall see," he said, grimly.

"As you please, Monsieur," said De Montalvan, putting himself on guard.

But, as may be supposed, the soldier's hand was unsteady, and his eye uncertain. After a few rapid passes, he let fall his right arm, which had been sharply punctured above the elbow. M. de Berniers absolutely cackled with delight.

"Now, Monsieur," said the stout stranger, "you will probably suffer me to traverse the streets in the manner that best suits me."

"Pardon me again," responded De Montalvan; "you have fairly wounded me, but I am sure you are too gallant a gentleman to deprive a bleeding adversary of the most convenient means of reaching his home";--with which he quietly stepped into the _brouette_ and was wheeled away, while the stranger gazed after him in stupefaction.

De Berniers would have gnashed his teeth, but that he had not yet recovered from the exertion of his previous cackle. For a week thenceforth he was the sport of Paris, and, to complete his disgust, the adventure was circulated by the celebrated _raconteur_, M. de Lugeac, in the _salons_ of the Dauphine and elsewhere, with embellishments by no means favorable to his reputation as a _bel esprit_.

* * * * *

Raoul de Montalvan was a young gentleman of moderate fortune, who, at the age of twenty, sold his small estates in Avignon in order to equip a company and join the Chevalier de Modène in the campaign of 1745, under the Maréchal Saxe. At Fontenoy he was acknowledged to have distinguished himself; but his recollections of that battle were embittered by the fact that the Comte de Lally had robbed him of the honor which he most coveted,--that of having detected, by a bold reconnoissance, the weak point in the enemy's front, by piercing which the field was ultimately won.[102] Nevertheless, he had been praised; and praise, at that period, was his best reward. With a light heart and high hopes he started for Paris, in further pursuit of fortune. In company with his patron, M. de Modène, he presented himself at court. The sentinel on duty curiously eyed their uniforms, and refused to admit them. The King, fatigued with war's alarms, and anxious to banish from court all memories of carnage and confusion, had ordered that no military dresses should appear in his _salons_. In vain the young soldiers represented that they had parted with all their possessions to serve their monarch, and that they had surrendered the last means of otherwise arraying themselves; in vain they insisted that the noblest decorations in the eyes of his Majesty should be the dust and blood of the field of Fontenoy. They were repulsed. De Modène revenged himself by the famous epigram which caused an order of arrest, and compelled his flight. De Montalvan, taking the insult more to heart, swore furiously that, excepting as a soldier and in soldier's dress, he would never enter the French court, and from that time had steadfastly persisted in the rigorous costume which excited M. de Berniers's criticism. There were, indeed, some who declared that he claimed as a virtue of obstinacy that which was only a necessity of poverty; but for such aspersions he cared little.

As a further mark of his disgust, he quitted France altogether, and, in his twenty-first year, joined the expedition of the Pretender; but as his fortunes were not materially improved by this enterprise, he next year became loyal, and assisted M. de Belle-Isle in the extirpation of the Austrians from Dauphiny. In 1748 he again followed his old leader, M. de Saxe, to victory, after which, the war in France having ceased, he turned his attention to foreign fields of glory and profit. He served two years in India, with Dupleix, where he found that, although the glory was free to any man's clutch, the profit was sacred to a few. After Dupleix's fall, he joined the French troops in America, where, with his comrades, he assisted in the defeat of Lieutenant-Colonel Washington in the action which followed the massacre of M. de Jumonville. Finally, after ten years of military hardship and heroism, he returned to Paris, bringing with him as the result of his career a high repute for skill and courage, a well-worn sword, and a dozen deep scars.

It may be imagined that these ten years had not softened the asperity with which M. de Montalvan regarded the court and society. His manners were bizarre, his language was cynical, and his wilful deviations from the strict etiquette of the day could never have been tolerated excepting for the brilliant notoriety he had gained as a daring adventurer. He permitted himself to mingle in fashionable circles, that he might the better ridicule them, which he did audaciously. The edict against military dress was no longer in force, so that he was enabled to hover upon the outskirts of the court without sacrifice of dignity. But nothing in that effeminate world seemed to satisfy his turbulent instincts. _Homo erat_,--yet _everything_ human, in that sphere, was foreign to him. At one of the court balls, however, an incident occurred which momentarily turned him from the course of his ill-humor.

Mlle. Virginie de Terville, a noble Nantaise, whose life, though not one of seclusion, had been judiciously kept apart from the corrupting influences of the capital, was at Paris for the first time, with her uncle, an ex-officer of the king's household. To the fair neophyte the scene was one of rare enchantment; and although her keen instincts enabled her to conform with aptitude to the usages of the lively world around her, there was a freshness and a _naïveté_ in her manner which contrasted charmingly with the effete and ceremonious forms of the experienced. M. de Montalvan met her at a masked ball, and was captivated with becoming rapidity. Although poor beyond description, his family was among the best, and he found no difficulty in making M. de Terville's acquaintance, and in due season that of his niece. For once he abandoned his acerbity, and returned to the character which had been natural to him ten years before. None could be more winning than M. de Montalvan if the impulse prompted him; and his graceful conversation, overflowing with anecdote and illustration which the homely wits of the home-keeping youth of Paris could not rival, made a vivid impression upon Virginie's imagination. They met only twice; for, just as M. de Montalvan was beginning to take serious thought of where this would lead him, he received an appointment from M. de Richelieu to the command of a company in the Minorca expedition, and was obliged to sail for Port Mahon without even the opportunity of a hasty adieu. Partly by good luck, partly by hard fighting, and partly owing to the blunders of Admiral Byng, the island was captured in a few months, and it was not long after his return from victory--as full of honors and as empty in purse as ever--that De Montalvan encountered his "little Fronsacquin" on the threshold of the Café de la Régence.

* * * * *

Louis de Berniers was the incarnation of aristocratic _niaiserie_. He was young, titled, not ill-looking, and had vast wealth at his command. But for this latter possession he might possibly have distinguished himself otherwise than by his follies; for he was not without one or two good qualities,--for example, generosity. But with him generosity took the form of a reckless prodigality, which caused him to be surrounded by a swarm of flatterers and parasites, male and female, who so fed and pampered his raging vanity that he believed himself a Crichton at eighteen. His ambition soared only to the height of emulating the boudoir exploits of M. de Richelieu, and he fancied himself a master of all the social ceremonies of the capital. So far as his languid nature would allow him, he sought notoriety in every quarter. "No man's pie was free from his ambitious finger." He had acted with Madame de Pompadour's company of amateurs at Versailles, and, though surrounded by clever gentlemen like D'Entragues and De Maillebois, firmly believed himself the only worthy supporter of Madame d'Etioles. On the strength of his supposed supremacy, he had from time to time graciously volunteered his aid to Lekain and Mlle. Clairon in the preparation of their most difficult _rôles_. He had supplied the poet Beauverset with now and then a topic, and imagined himself to be the true source whence that incendiary rhymer drew his choicest inspirations. After the success of Rousseau's _Devin du Village_, he had driven the composer wild by his offers to assist him in the purification of his melodies. Nothing in the way of notoriety was too high or too low for him. He had laid out a plan for the replanting of the Trianon gardens, and was disgusted because Richard, the king's gardener, politely declined to adopt it; and he had been heard to say that in the composition of sauces and _ragoûts_ he could easily rival his Majesty himself, and would prove his superiority, but for the fear of losing favor at court.

M. de Berniers and M. de Montalvan had met a short time before the attack upon Minorca. The gallant soldier was no flatterer, but the conceited little Parisian amused him sufficiently to occupy a good share of his leisure. He satirized De Berniers mercilessly from morning till night, to the latter's great astonishment, he having up to that time received only adulation and deference from his companions. But the name of "Fronsacquin," which De Montalvan had jestingly applied, so gratified his puerile vanity, that for a few days he looked upon the warlike adventurer almost with affection. Their intimacy had, however, been broken off a few days before De Montalvan's departure, in consequence of De Berniers's chagrin at losing a wager he had boastingly made. He had declared himself capable of securing the attention of any lady, however distinguished in appearance and however reserved in manner, that his friends might indicate, at a certain masked ball, and of bringing her openly to sup with them. De Montalvan defied him, and, selecting a fresh-faced lad from the opera, trained him to a perfect illustration of feminine modesty and simplicity, and set De Berniers upon him. Of course the farce was easily carried through. After the requisite preliminaries of shy evasion and coy resistance, the supposed fair one was led triumphantly to the supper-table,--the mask was removed, the secret exposed, and for ten humiliating days De Berniers was the laugh of the town.

It may be supposed that his peevishness was not diminished by the loss of a second public wager; but his opponent had been wounded, and that afforded him some comfort. Besides, he was still confident of winning his revenge, so he stifled his angry feelings, and renewed the request that De Montalvan would accompany him to Nantes. De Montalvan was moody, and swore he would go and join Montcalm in Canada. But his own recollection of the charms of Mademoiselle de Terville, added to the solicitations of De Berniers,--who was all unconscious that they had ever known one another,--induced him to change his resolution, and he half graciously consented.

Virginie de Terville, as has been said, was a different being, not only in the freshness and bloom of her beauty, but also by virtue of her domestic education, from the artificial goddesses of the Parisian sphere with whom she had been thrown into temporary contact. But her visit had not been long enough to reveal to her what lay beneath the glittering exterior of life at court. Her cautious uncle had cut short their sojourn at what he deemed a judicious period, and brought his ward back to the tranquil old chateau near Nantes, not entirely, it must be admitted, to her satisfaction. The splendors of the capital had just begun to fascinate her, and, what was more, she had been loath to think that that last brief interview with the handsome and eccentric captain, who had seen so much and told what he had seen so well, might never be repeated. Not that she cared to hear anything beyond his strange tales of adventure. Indeed no. He had lightly touched upon one or two other topics, during that same last interview, and she was sorry she had not checked him. Yet she _did_ wonder what ever had become of him, and really would have been glad to know the result of his long journey through the tropical Indian forests with that beautiful Rajah's daughter of whom he had begun to tell her.

But these ideas did not occur to Virginie until after she had left Paris. While there, the constant succession of gayeties left no room for other than merry thoughts. She was a belle of high distinction,--an heiress, and a lovely one. For a month she was a leader of fashionable revels, and a very princess of masquerade. If it were known that at a particular ball she would appear as a heathen goddess, the _salons_ were thronged with illustrations of mythology. When she wore the quaint dress of a Brittany peasant, all classes affected a rural simplicity. She had only to personate Joan of Arc, and a martial spirit fired the assembly; and when she crowned her triumphs by enacting a dashing young cavalier of the period, women as well as men yielded their admiration and contended for her smiles. After so brilliant a career, what could she care for the applause which her dexterous disguises excited in the drowsy masquerades of Nantes. It served only to recall to her the vanished glories of the capital.

M. de Berniers, as chance would have it, was ignorant of the peculiar sensation which Virginie had created in the _beau monde_. During her month at Paris he had been hunting upon the estates of a noble friend in the East of France, and when he returned to his accustomed haunts, some time after, the fickle heart of society was fixed upon some new object of adoration, and cherished no recollection of the past. So he arrived at Terville with little knowledge of his intended _fiancée_, except that she was young, reputed good-looking, and the possessor of great riches. Leaving M. de Montalvan at the village inn, he rode over to the chateau the first morning after their arrival, to present himself in due form.

The fresh country atmosphere and the picturesque surroundings of the journey had done more to cheer M. de Montalvan's spirits than a college of physicians could have accomplished. The wound which he had received in his ridiculous duel was nearly healed, and he seemed more a man of the world than at any previous period in ten years,--always excepting the brief term of his acquaintance with Virginie. In spite of his natural hardihood, he was somewhat uneasy at the thought of again meeting that young lady, for whom he entertained, to say the least, a feeling of profound admiration; but curiosity was powerful within him, and he waited anxiously for the expected summons to the chateau. Any other sentiment than that of curiosity it would have been absurd for him to acknowledge. He was poor, and therefore unavailable in a matrimonial way. He had no domains adjoining the Terville estates, nor indeed anywhere else. He had nothing but his sword and his renown; and these would not serve him in such a case. So, if ever the flame of hope had for a moment lighted his mind, he had summarily extinguished it, and flung aside, as it were, the tinder-box of every inflammable recollection.

The day before M. de Berniers's arrival, M. de Terville had been suddenly called to the South in consequence of the dangerous illness of a relative. The ceremony of welcome rested therefore with Mlle. Virginie. That young lady was far better acquainted with the habits and character of her proposed bridegroom than he imagined. She had heard much of him in Paris, and, since the project of an alliance had been submitted, contrived to learn more. Being a girl of spirit and intelligence, the information which she gained was not agreeable to her. She regretted not having met M. de Berniers in Paris, and longed for the opportunity of encountering him at least once or twice under other circumstances than those which now seemed inevitable. Upon the departure of her uncle, she set her wit to work; and as of wit she had no lack, there presently arose from the depths of her consciousness a scheme which promised to be successful.

"Mariotte," she said, summoning her waiting-maid, "bring me my cavalier's dress,--wig, buckles, stockings, everything."

"Yes, Ma'm'selle. Would Ma'm'selle wish to put them on?"

"Most certainly."

"But Monsieur de Berniers is expected this morning."

"Precisely."

"And Ma'm'selle will hardly have time--"

"I shall receive him _en cavalier_."

"_Seigneur Dieu du ciel!_" said Mariotte, astounded, "but that is impossible."