Chapter 25 (3)

Having satisfied her curiosity—if such it was—she dropped the
glass, and quietly gave her attention again to the stage; her
profile now being turned toward myself, as before. I continued to
watch her unremittingly, although I was fully conscious of my
rudeness in so doing. Presently I saw the head slowly and
slightly change its position; and soon I became convinced that
the lady, while pretending to look at the stage was, in fact,
attentively regarding myself. It is needless to say what effect
this conduct, on the part of so fascinating a woman, had upon my
excitable mind.

Having thus scrutinized me for perhaps a quarter of an hour, the
fair object of my passion addressed the gentleman who attended
her, and while she spoke, I saw distinctly, by the glances of
both, that the conversation had reference to myself.

Upon its conclusion, Madame Lalande again turned toward the
stage, and, for a few minutes, seemed absorbed in the
performance. At the expiration of this period, however, I was
thrown into an extremity of agitation by seeing her unfold, for
the second time, the eye-glass which hung at her side, fully
confront me as before, and, disregarding the renewed buzz of the
audience, survey me, from head to foot, with the same miraculous
composure which had previously so delighted and confounded my
soul.

This extraordinary behavior, by throwing me into a perfect fever
of excitement—into an absolute delirium of love—served rather to
embolden than to disconcert me. In the mad intensity of my
devotion, I forgot everything but the presence and the majestic
loveliness of the vision which confronted my gaze. Watching my
opportunity, when I thought the audience were fully engaged with
the opera, I at length caught the eyes of Madame Lalande, and,
upon the instant, made a slight but unmistakable bow.

She blushed very deeply—then averted her eyes—then slowly and
cautiously looked around, apparently to see if my rash action had
been noticed—then leaned over toward the gentleman who sat by her
side.

I now felt a burning sense of the impropriety I had committed,
and expected nothing less than instant exposure; while a vision
of pistols upon the morrow floated rapidly and uncomfortably
through my brain. I was greatly and immediately relieved,
however, when I saw the lady merely hand the gentleman a
play-bill, without speaking; but the reader may form some feeble
conception of my astonishment—of my profound amazement—my
delirious bewilderment of heart and soul—when, instantly
afterward, having again glanced furtively around, she allowed her
bright eyes to set fully and steadily upon my own, and then, with
a faint smile, disclosing a bright line of her pearly teeth, made
two distinct, pointed, and unequivocal affirmative inclinations
of the head.

It is useless, of course, to dwell upon my joy—upon my
transport—upon my illimitable ecstasy of heart. If ever man was
mad with excess of happiness, it was myself at that moment. I
loved. This was my first love—so I felt it to be. It was love
supreme—indescribable. It was “love at first sight;” and at first
sight, too, it had been appreciated and returned.

Yes, returned. How and why should I doubt it for an instant. What
other construction could I possibly put upon such conduct, on the
part of a lady so beautiful—so wealthy—evidently so
accomplished—of so high breeding—of so lofty a position in
society—in every regard so entirely respectable as I felt assured
was Madame Lalande? Yes, she loved me—she returned the enthusiasm
of my love, with an enthusiasm as blind—as uncompromising—as
uncalculating—as abandoned—and as utterly unbounded as my own!
These delicious fancies and reflections, however, were now
interrupted by the falling of the drop-curtain. The audience
arose; and the usual tumult immediately supervened. Quitting
Talbot abruptly, I made every effort to force my way into closer
proximity with Madame Lalande. Having failed in this, on account
of the crowd, I at length gave up the chase, and bent my steps
homeward; consoling myself for my disappointment in not having
been able to touch even the hem of her robe, by the reflection
that I should be introduced by Talbot, in due form, upon the
morrow.

This morrow at last came, that is to say, a day finally dawned
upon a long and weary night of impatience; and then the hours
until “one” were snail-paced, dreary, and innumerable. But even
Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and there came an end to
this long delay. The clock struck. As the last echo ceased, I
stepped into B——’s and inquired for Talbot.

“Out,” said the footman—Talbot’s own.

“Out!” I replied, staggering back half a dozen paces—“let me tell
you, my fine fellow, that this thing is thoroughly impossible and
impracticable; Mr. Talbot is not out. What do you mean?”

“Nothing, sir; only Mr. Talbot is not in, that’s all. He rode
over to S——, immediately after breakfast, and left word that he
would not be in town again for a week.”

I stood petrified with horror and rage. I endeavored to reply,
but my tongue refused its office. At length I turned on my heel,
livid with wrath, and inwardly consigning the whole tribe of the
Talbots to the innermost regions of Erebus. It was evident that
my considerate friend, il fanatico, had quite forgotten his
appointment with myself—had forgotten it as soon as it was made.
At no time was he a very scrupulous man of his word. There was no
help for it; so smothering my vexation as well as I could, I
strolled moodily up the street, propounding futile inquiries
about Madame Lalande to every male acquaintance I met. By report
she was known, I found, to all—to many by sight—but she had been
in town only a few weeks, and there were very few, therefore, who
claimed her personal acquaintance. These few, being still
comparatively strangers, could not, or would not, take the
liberty of introducing me through the formality of a morning
call. While I stood thus in despair, conversing with a trio of
friends upon the all-absorbing subject of my heart, it so
happened that the subject itself passed by.

“As I live, there she is!” cried one.

“Surprisingly beautiful!” exclaimed a second.

“An angel upon earth!” ejaculated a third.

I looked; and in an open carriage which approached us, passing
slowly down the street, sat the enchanting vision of the opera,
accompanied by the younger lady who had occupied a portion of her
box.

“Her companion also wears remarkably well,” said the one of my
trio who had spoken first.

“Astonishingly,” said the second; “still quite a brilliant air,
but art will do wonders. Upon my word, she looks better than she
did at Paris five years ago. A beautiful woman still;—don’t you
think so, Froissart?—Simpson, I mean.”

“_Still!_” said I, “and why shouldn’t she be? But compared with
her friend she is as a rush-light to the evening star—a glow-worm
to Antares.”

“Ha! ha! ha!—why, Simpson, you have an astonishing tact at making
discoveries—original ones, I mean.” And here we separated, while
one of the trio began humming a gay _vaudeville_, of which I
caught only the lines—

Ninon, Ninon, Ninon à bas—
A bas Ninon De L’Enclos!

During this little scene, however, one thing had served greatly
to console me, although it fed the passion by which I was
consumed. As the carriage of Madame Lalande rolled by our group,
I had observed that she recognized me; and more than this, she
had blessed me, by the most seraphic of all imaginable smiles,
with no equivocal mark of the recognition.

As for an introduction, I was obliged to abandon all hope of it
until such time as Talbot should think proper to return from the
country. In the meantime I perseveringly frequented every
reputable place of public amusement; and, at length, at the
theatre, where I first saw her, I had the supreme bliss of
meeting her, and of exchanging glances with her once again. This
did not occur, however, until the lapse of a fortnight. Every
day, in the interim, I had inquired for Talbot at his hotel, and
every day had been thrown into a spasm of wrath by the
everlasting “Not come home yet” of his footman.

Upon the evening in question, therefore, I was in a condition
little short of madness. Madame Lalande, I had been told, was a
Parisian—had lately arrived from Paris—might she not suddenly
return?—return before Talbot came back—and might she not be thus
lost to me forever? The thought was too terrible to bear. Since
my future happiness was at issue, I resolved to act with a manly
decision. In a word, upon the breaking up of the play, I traced
the lady to her residence, noted the address, and the next
morning sent her a full and elaborate letter, in which I poured
out my whole heart.

I spoke boldly, freely—in a word, I spoke with passion. I
concealed nothing—nothing even of my weakness. I alluded to the
romantic circumstances of our first meeting—even to the glances
which had passed between us. I went so far as to say that I felt
assured of her love; while I offered this assurance, and my own
intensity of devotion, as two excuses for my otherwise
unpardonable conduct. As a third, I spoke of my fear that she
might quit the city before I could have the opportunity of a
formal introduction. I concluded the most wildly enthusiastic
epistle ever penned, with a frank declaration of my worldly
circumstances—of my affluence—and with an offer of my heart and
of my hand.

In an agony of expectation I awaited the reply. After what seemed
the lapse of a century it came.

Yes, actually came. Romantic as all this may appear, I really
received a letter from Madame Lalande—the beautiful, the wealthy,
the idolized Madame Lalande. Her eyes—her magnificent eyes, had
not belied her noble heart. Like a true Frenchwoman as she was
she had obeyed the frank dictates of her reason—the generous
impulses of her nature—despising the conventional pruderies of
the world. She had not scorned my proposals. She had not
sheltered herself in silence. She had not returned my letter
unopened. She had even sent me, in reply, one penned by her own
exquisite fingers. It ran thus:

“Monsieur Simpson vill pardonne me for not compose de butefulle
tong of his contrée so vell as might. It is only de late dat I am
arrive, and not yet ave do opportunité for to—l’étudier.

“Vid dis apologie for the manière, I vill now say dat,
hélas!—Monsieur Simpson ave guess but de too true. Need I say de
more? Hélas! am I not ready speak de too moshe?

“EUGENIE LALAND.”

This noble-spirited note I kissed a million times, and committed,
no doubt, on its account, a thousand other extravagances that
have now escaped my memory. Still Talbot _would_ not return.
Alas! could he have formed even the vaguest idea of the suffering
his absence had occasioned his friend, would not his sympathizing
nature have flown immediately to my relief? Still, however, he
came _not_. I wrote. He replied. He was detained by urgent
business—but would shortly return. He begged me not to be
impatient—to moderate my transports—to read soothing books—to
drink nothing stronger than Hock—and to bring the consolations of
philosophy to my aid. The fool! if he could not come himself,
why, in the name of every thing rational, could he not have
enclosed me a letter of presentation? I wrote him again,
entreating him to forward one forthwith. My letter was returned
by _that_ footman, with the following endorsement in pencil. The
scoundrel had joined his master in the country:

“Left S—— yesterday, for parts unknown—did not say where—or when
be back—so thought best to return letter, knowing your
handwriting, and as how you is always, more or less, in a hurry.

“Yours sincerely,

“STUBBS.”

After this, it is needless to say, that I devoted to the infernal
deities both master and valet:—but there was little use in anger,
and no consolation at all in complaint.

But I had yet a resource left, in my constitutional audacity.
Hitherto it had served me well, and I now resolved to make it
avail me to the end. Besides, after the correspondence which had
passed between us, what act of mere informality could I commit,
within bounds, that ought to be regarded as indecorous by Madame
Lalande? Since the affair of the letter, I had been in the habit
of watching her house, and thus discovered that, about twilight,
it was her custom to promenade, attended only by a negro in
livery, in a public square overlooked by her windows. Here, amid
the luxuriant and shadowing groves, in the gray gloom of a sweet
midsummer evening, I observed my opportunity and accosted her.

The better to deceive the servant in attendance, I did this with
the assured air of an old and familiar acquaintance. With a
presence of mind truly Parisian, she took the cue at once, and,
to greet me, held out the most bewitchingly little of hands. The
valet at once fell into the rear, and now, with hearts full to
overflowing, we discoursed long and unreservedly of our love.

As Madame Lalande spoke English even less fluently than she wrote
it, our conversation was necessarily in French. In this sweet
tongue, so adapted to passion, I gave loose to the impetuous
enthusiasm of my nature, and, with all the eloquence I could
command, besought her to consent to an immediate marriage.

At this impatience she smiled. She urged the old story of
decorum—that bug-bear which deters so many from bliss until the
opportunity for bliss has forever gone by. I had most imprudently
made it known among my friends, she observed, that I desired her
acquaintance—thus that I did not possess it—thus, again, there
was no possibility of concealing the date of our first knowledge
of each other. And then she adverted, with a blush, to the
extreme recency of this date. To wed immediately would be
improper—would be indecorous—would be outre. All this she said
with a charming air of naivete which enraptured while it grieved
and convinced me. She went even so far as to accuse me,
laughingly, of rashness—of imprudence. She bade me remember that
I really even knew not who she was—what were her prospects, her
connections, her standing in society. She begged me, but with a
sigh, to reconsider my proposal, and termed my love an
infatuation—a will o’ the wisp—a fancy or fantasy of the moment—a
baseless and unstable creation rather of the imagination than of
the heart. These things she uttered as the shadows of the sweet
twilight gathered darkly and more darkly around us—and then, with
a gentle pressure of her fairy-like hand, overthrew, in a single
sweet instant, all the argumentative fabric she had reared.

I replied as best I could—as only a true lover can. I spoke at
length, and perseveringly of my devotion, of my passion—of her
exceeding beauty, and of my own enthusiastic admiration. In
conclusion, I dwelt, with a convincing energy, upon the perils
that encompass the course of love—that course of true love that
never did run smooth—and thus deduced the manifest danger of
rendering that course unnecessarily long.

This latter argument seemed finally to soften the rigor of her
determination. She relented; but there was yet an obstacle, she
said, which she felt assured I had not properly considered. This
was a delicate point—for a woman to urge, especially so; in
mentioning it, she saw that she must make a sacrifice of her
feelings; still, for me, every sacrifice should be made. She
alluded to the topic of age. Was I aware—was I fully aware of the
discrepancy between us? That the age of the husband, should
surpass by a few years—even by fifteen or twenty—the age of the
wife, was regarded by the world as admissible, and, indeed, as
even proper; but she had always entertained the belief that the
years of the wife should never exceed in number those of the
husband. A discrepancy of this unnatural kind gave rise, too
frequently, alas! to a life of unhappiness. Now she was aware
that my own age did not exceed two and twenty; and I, on the
contrary, perhaps, was not aware that the years of my Eugénie
extended very considerably beyond that sum.

About all this there was a nobility of soul—a dignity of
candor—which delighted—which enchanted me—which eternally riveted
my chains. I could scarcely restrain the excessive transport
which possessed me.

“My sweetest Eugénie,” I cried, “what is all this about which you
are discoursing? Your years surpass in some measure my own. But
what then? The customs of the world are so many conventional
follies. To those who love as ourselves, in what respect differs
a year from an hour? I am twenty-two, you say; granted: indeed,
you may as well call me, at once, twenty-three. Now you yourself,
my dearest Eugénie, can have numbered no more than—can have
numbered no more than—no more than—than—than—than—”

Here I paused for an instant, in the expectation that Madame
Lalande would interrupt me by supplying her true age. But a
Frenchwoman is seldom direct, and has always, by way of answer to
an embarrassing query, some little practical reply of her own. In
the present instance, Eugénie, who for a few moments past had
seemed to be searching for something in her bosom, at length let
fall upon the grass a miniature, which I immediately picked up
and presented to her.

“Keep it!” she said, with one of her most ravishing smiles. “Keep
it for my sake—for the sake of her whom it too flatteringly
represents. Besides, upon the back of the trinket you may
discover, perhaps, the very information you seem to desire. It is
now, to be sure, growing rather dark—but you can examine it at
your leisure in the morning. In the meantime, you shall be my
escort home to-night. My friends are about holding a little
musical _levée_. I can promise you, too, some good singing. We
French are not nearly so punctilious as you Americans, and I
shall have no difficulty in smuggling you in, in the character of
an old acquaintance.”

With this, she took my arm, and I attended her home. The mansion
was quite a fine one, and, I believe, furnished in good taste. Of
this latter point, however, I am scarcely qualified to judge; for
it was just dark as we arrived; and in American mansions of the
better sort lights seldom, during the heat of summer, make their
appearance at this, the most pleasant period of the day. In about
an hour after my arrival, to be sure, a single shaded solar lamp
was lit in the principal drawing-room; and this apartment, I
could thus see, was arranged with unusual good taste and even
splendor; but two other rooms of the suite, and in which the
company chiefly assembled, remained, during the whole evening, in
a very agreeable shadow. This is a well-conceived custom, giving
the party at least a choice of light or shade, and one which our
friends over the water could not do better than immediately
adopt.

The evening thus spent was unquestionably the most delicious of
my life. Madame Lalande had not overrated the musical abilities
of her friends; and the singing I here heard I had never heard
excelled in any private circle out of Vienna. The instrumental
performers were many and of superior talents. The vocalists were
chiefly ladies, and no individual sang less than well. At length,
upon a peremptory call for “Madame Lalande,” she arose at once,
without affectation or demur, from the chaise longue upon which
she had sat by my side, and, accompanied by one or two gentlemen
and her female friend of the opera, repaired to the piano in the
main drawing-room. I would have escorted her myself, but felt
that, under the circumstances of my introduction to the house, I
had better remain unobserved where I was. I was thus deprived of
the pleasure of seeing, although not of hearing, her sing.

The impression she produced upon the company seemed
electrical—but the effect upon myself was something even more. I
know not how adequately to describe it. It arose in part, no
doubt, from the sentiment of love with which I was imbued; but
chiefly from my conviction of the extreme sensibility of the
singer. It is beyond the reach of art to endow either air or
recitative with more impassioned expression than was hers. Her
utterance of the romance in Otello—the tone with which she gave
the words “Sul mio sasso,” in the Capuletti—is ringing in my
memory yet. Her lower tones were absolutely miraculous. Her voice
embraced three complete octaves, extending from the contralto D
to the D upper soprano, and, though sufficiently powerful to have
filled the San Carlos, executed, with the minutest precision,
every difficulty of vocal composition—ascending and descending
scales, cadences, or fiorituri. In the final of the Somnambula,
she brought about a most remarkable effect at the words:

Ah! non guinge uman pensiero
Al contento ond ’io son piena.

Here, in imitation of Malibran, she modified the original phrase
of Bellini, so as to let her voice descend to the tenor G, when,
by a rapid transition, she struck the G above the treble stave,
springing over an interval of two octaves.

Upon rising from the piano after these miracles of vocal
execution, she resumed her seat by my side; when I expressed to
her, in terms of the deepest enthusiasm, my delight at her
performance. Of my surprise I said nothing, and yet was I most
unfeignedly surprised; for a certain feebleness, or rather a
certain tremulous indecision of voice in ordinary conversation,
had prepared me to anticipate that, in singing, she would not
acquit herself with any remarkable ability.

Our conversation was now long, earnest, uninterrupted, and
totally unreserved. She made me relate many of the earlier
passages of my life, and listened with breathless attention to
every word of the narrative. I concealed nothing—felt that I had
a right to conceal nothing—from her confiding affection.
Encouraged by her candor upon the delicate point of her age, I
entered, with perfect frankness, not only into a detail of my
many minor vices, but made full confession of those moral and
even of those physical infirmities, the disclosure of which, in
demanding so much higher a degree of courage, is so much surer an
evidence of love. I touched upon my college indiscretions—upon my
extravagances—upon my carousals—upon my debts—upon my
flirtations. I even went so far as to speak of a slightly hectic
cough with which, at one time, I had been troubled—of a chronic
rheumatism—of a twinge of hereditary gout—and, in conclusion, of
the disagreeable and inconvenient, but hitherto carefully
concealed, weakness of my eyes.

“Upon this latter point,” said Madame Lalande, laughingly, “you
have been surely injudicious in coming to confession; for,
without the confession, I take it for granted that no one would
have accused you of the crime. By the by,” she continued, “have
you any recollection—” and here I fancied that a blush, even
through the gloom of the apartment, became distinctly visible
upon her cheek—“have you any recollection, _mon cher ami_, of
this little ocular assistant, which now depends from my neck?”

As she spoke she twirled in her fingers the identical double
eye-glass which had so overwhelmed me with confusion at the
opera.

“Full well—alas! do I remember it,” I exclaimed, pressing
passionately the delicate hand which offered the glasses for my
inspection. They formed a complex and magnificent toy, richly
chased and filigreed, and gleaming with jewels, which, even in
the deficient light, I could not help perceiving were of high
value.

“_Eh bien! mon ami_,” she resumed with a certain _empressment_ of
manner that rather surprised me—“_Eh bien! mon ami_, you have
earnestly besought of me a favor which you have been pleased to
denominate priceless. You have demanded of me my hand upon the
morrow. Should I yield to your entreaties—and, I may add, to the
pleadings of my own bosom—would I not be entitled to demand of
you a very—a very little boon in return?”

“Name it!” I exclaimed with an energy that had nearly drawn upon
us the observation of the company, and restrained by their
presence alone from throwing myself impetuously at her feet.
“Name it, my beloved, my Eugénie, my own!—name it!—but, alas! it
is already yielded ere named.”

“You shall conquer, then, _mon ami_,” said she, “for the sake of
the Eugénie whom you love, this little weakness which you have at
last confessed—this weakness more moral than physical—and which,
let me assure you, is so unbecoming the nobility of your real
nature—so inconsistent with the candor of your usual
character—and which, if permitted further control, will assuredly
involve you, sooner or later, in some very disagreeable scrape.
You shall conquer, for my sake, this affectation which leads you,
as you yourself acknowledge, to the tacit or implied denial of
your infirmity of vision. For, this infirmity you virtually deny,
in refusing to employ the customary means for its relief. You
will understand me to say, then, that I wish you to wear
spectacles;—ah, hush!—you have already consented to wear them,
for my sake. You shall accept the little toy which I now hold in
my hand, and which, though admirable as an aid to vision, is
really of no very immense value as a gem. You perceive that, by a
trifling modification thus—or thus—it can be adapted to the eyes
in the form of spectacles, or worn in the waistcoat pocket as an
eye-glass. It is in the former mode, however, and habitually,
that you have already consented to wear it for my sake.”

This request—must I confess it?—confused me in no little degree.
But the condition with which it was coupled rendered hesitation,
of course, a matter altogether out of the question.

“It is done!” I cried, with all the enthusiasm that I could
muster at the moment. “It is done—it is most cheerfully agreed. I
sacrifice every feeling for your sake. To-night I wear this dear
eye-glass, as an eye-glass, and upon my heart; but with the
earliest dawn of that morning which gives me the pleasure of
calling you wife, I will place it upon my—upon my nose,—and there
wear it ever afterward, in the less romantic, and less
fashionable, but certainly in the more serviceable, form which
you desire.”

Our conversation now turned upon the details of our arrangements
for the morrow. Talbot, I learned from my betrothed, had just
arrived in town. I was to see him at once, and procure a
carriage. The _soirée_ would scarcely break up before two; and by
this hour the vehicle was to be at the door; when, in the
confusion occasioned by the departure of the company, Madame L.
could easily enter it unobserved. We were then to call at the
house of a clergyman who would be in waiting; there be married,
drop Talbot, and proceed on a short tour to the East; leaving the
fashionable world at home to make whatever comments upon the
matter it thought best.

Having planned all this, I immediately took leave, and went in
search of Talbot, but, on the way, I could not refrain from
stepping into a hotel, for the purpose of inspecting the
miniature; and this I did by the powerful aid of the glasses. The
countenance was a surpassingly beautiful one! Those large
luminous eyes!—that proud Grecian nose!—those dark luxuriant
curls!—“Ah!” said I, exultingly to myself, “this is indeed the
speaking image of my beloved!” I turned the reverse, and
discovered the words—“Eugénie Lalande—aged twenty-seven years and
seven months.”

I found Talbot at home, and proceeded at once to acquaint him
with my good fortune. He professed excessive astonishment, of
course, but congratulated me most cordially, and proffered every
assistance in his power. In a word, we carried out our
arrangement to the letter, and, at two in the morning, just ten
minutes after the ceremony, I found myself in a close carriage
with Madame Lalande—with Mrs. Simpson, I should say—and driving
at a great rate out of town, in a direction northeast by north,
half-north.

It had been determined for us by Talbot, that, as we were to be
up all night, we should make our first stop at C——, a village
about twenty miles from the city, and there get an early
breakfast and some repose, before proceeding upon our route. At
four precisely, therefore, the carriage drew up at the door of
the principal inn. I handed my adored wife out, and ordered
breakfast forthwith. In the meantime we were shown into a small
parlor, and sat down.

It was now nearly if not altogether daylight; and, as I gazed,
enraptured, at the angel by my side, the singular idea came, all
at once, into my head, that this was really the very first moment
since my acquaintance with the celebrated loveliness of Madame
Lalande, that I had enjoyed a near inspection of that loveliness
by daylight at all.

“And now, _mon ami_,” said she, taking my hand, and so
interrupting this train of reflection, “and now, _mon cher ami_,
since we are indissolubly one—since I have yielded to your
passionate entreaties, and performed my portion of our
agreement—I presume you have not forgotten that you also have a
little favor to bestow—a little promise which it is your
intention to keep. Ah! let me see! Let me remember! Yes; full
easily do I call to mind the precise words of the dear promise
you made to Eugénie last night. Listen! You spoke thus: ‘It is
done!—it is most cheerfully agreed! I sacrifice every feeling for
your sake. To-night I wear this dear eye-glass as an eye-glass,
and upon my heart; but with the earliest dawn of that morning
which gives me the privilege of calling you wife, I will place it
upon my—upon my nose,—and there wear it ever afterward, in the
less romantic, and less fashionable, but certainly in the more
serviceable, form which you desire.’ These were the exact words,
my beloved husband, were they not?”

“They were,” I said; “you have an excellent memory; and
assuredly, my beautiful Eugénie, there is no disposition on my
part to evade the performance of the trivial promise they imply.
See! Behold! they are becoming—rather—are they not?” And here,
having arranged the glasses in the ordinary form of spectacles, I
applied them gingerly in their proper position; while Madame
Simpson, adjusting her cap, and folding her arms, sat bolt
upright in her chair, in a somewhat stiff and prim, and indeed,
in a somewhat undignified position.

“Goodness gracious me!” I exclaimed, almost at the very instant
that the rim of the spectacles had settled upon my nose—“_My!_
goodness gracious me!—why, what can be the matter with these
glasses?” and taking them quickly off, I wiped them carefully
with a silk handkerchief, and adjusted them again.

But if, in the first instance, there had occurred something which
occasioned me surprise, in the second, this surprise became
elevated into astonishment; and this astonishment was
profound—was extreme—indeed I may say it was horrific. What, in
the name of everything hideous, did this mean? Could I believe my
eyes?—could I?—that was the question. Was that—was that—was that
rouge? And were those—and were those—were those wrinkles, upon
the visage of Eugénie Lalande? And oh! Jupiter, and every one of
the gods and goddesses, little and big!—what—what—what—_what_ had
become of her teeth? I dashed the spectacles violently to the
ground, and, leaping to my feet, stood erect in the middle of the
floor, confronting Mrs. Simpson, with my arms set a-kimbo, and
grinning and foaming, but, at the same time, utterly speechless
with terror and with rage.

Now I have already said that Madame Eugénie Lalande—that is to
say, Simpson—spoke the English language but very little better
than she wrote it, and for this reason she very properly never
attempted to speak it upon ordinary occasions. But rage will
carry a lady to any extreme; and in the present care it carried
Mrs. Simpson to the very extraordinary extreme of attempting to
hold a conversation in a tongue that she did not altogether
understand.

“Vell, Monsieur,” said she, after surveying me, in great apparent
astonishment, for some moments—“Vell, Monsieur?—and vat den?—vat
de matter now? Is it de dance of de Saint itusse dat you ave? If
not like me, vat for vy buy de pig in the poke?”

“You wretch!” said I, catching my breath—“you—you—you villainous
old hag!”

“Ag?—ole?—me not so ver ole, after all! Me not one single day
more dan de eighty-doo.”

“Eighty-two!” I ejaculated, staggering to the wall—“eighty-two
hundred thousand baboons! The miniature said twenty-seven years
and seven months!”

“To be sure!—dat is so!—ver true! but den de portraite has been
take for dese fifty-five year. Ven I go marry my segonde usbande,
Monsieur Lalande, at dat time I had de portraite take for my
daughter by my first usbande, Monsieur Moissart!”

“Moissart!” said I.

“Yes, Moissart,” said she, mimicking my pronunciation, which, to
speak the truth, was none of the best,—“and vat den? Vat you know
about de Moissart?”

“Nothing, you old fright!—I know nothing about him at all; only I
had an ancestor of that name, once upon a time.”

“Dat name! and vat you ave for say to dat name? ’Tis ver _goot_
name; and so is Voissart—dat is ver goot name too. My daughter,
Mademoiselle Moissart, she marry von Monsieur Voissart,—and de
name is bot _ver_ respectable name.”

“Moissart?” I exclaimed, “and Voissart! Why, what is it you
mean?”

“Vat I mean?—I mean Moissart and Voissart; and for de matter of
dat, I mean Croissart and Froissart, too, if I only tink proper
to mean it. My daughter’s daughter, Mademoiselle Voissart, she
marry von Monsieur Croissart, and den again, my daughter’s grande
daughter, Mademoiselle Croissart, she marry von Monsieur
Froissart; and I suppose you say dat _dat_ is not von _ver_
respectaable name.”

“Froissart!” said I, beginning to faint, “why, surely you don’t
say Moissart, and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart?”

“Yes,” she replied, leaning fully back in her chair, and
stretching out her lower limbs at great length; “yes, Moissart,
and Voissart, and Croissart, and Froissart. But Monsieur
Froissart, he vas von _ver_ big vat you call fool—he vas von ver
great big donce like yourself—for he lef _la belle France_ for
come to dis stupide Amérique—and ven he get here he went and ave
von _ver_ stupid, von _ver, ver_ stupide sonn, so I hear, dough I
not yet av ad de plaisir to meet vid him—neither me nor my
companion, de Madame Stéphanie Lalande. He is name de Napoleon
Bonaparte Froissart, and I suppose you say dat _dat_, too, is not
von ver respectable name.”

Either the length or the nature of this speech, had the effect of
working up Mrs. Simpson into a very extraordinary passion indeed;
and as she made an end of it, with great labor, she jumped up
from her chair like somebody bewitched, dropping upon the floor
an entire universe of bustle as she jumped. Once upon her feet,
she gnashed her gums, brandished her arms, rolled up her sleeves,
shook her fist in my face, and concluded the performance by
tearing the cap from her head, and with it an immense wig of the
most valuable and beautiful black hair, the whole of which she
dashed upon the ground with a yell, and there trammpled and
danced a fandango upon it, in an absolute ecstasy and agony of
rage.

Meantime I sank aghast into the chair which she had vacated.
“Moissart and Voissart!” I repeated, thoughtfully, as she cut one
of her pigeon-wings, and “Croissart and Froissart!” as she
completed another—“Moissart and Voissart and Croissart and
Napoleon Bonaparte Froissart!—why, you ineffable old serpent,
that’s me—that’s me—d’ye hear? that’s me”—here I screamed at the
top of my voice—“that’s me-e-e! I am Napoleon Bonaparte
Froissart! and if I havn’t married my great, great, grandmother,
I wish I may be everlastingly confounded!”

Madame Eugénie Lalande, _quasi_ Simpson—formerly Moissart—was, in
sober fact, my great, great, grandmother. In her youth she had
been beautiful, and even at eighty-two, retained the majestic
height, the sculptural contour of head, the fine eyes and the
Grecian nose of her girlhood. By the aid of these, of
pearl-powder, of rouge, of false hair, false teeth, and false
tournure, as well as of the most skilful modistes of Paris, she
contrived to hold a respectable footing among the beauties _en
peu passées_ of the French metropolis. In this respect, indeed,
she might have been regarded as little less than the equal of the
celebrated Ninon De L’Enclos.

She was immensely wealthy, and being left, for the second time, a
widow without children, she bethought herself of my existence in
America, and for the purpose of making me her heir, paid a visit
to the United States, in company with a distant and exceedingly
lovely relative of her second husband’s—a Madame Stéphanie
Lalande.

At the opera, my great, great, grandmother’s attention was
arrested by my notice; and, upon surveying me through her
eye-glass, she was struck with a certain family resemblance to
herself. Thus interested, and knowing that the heir she sought
was actually in the city, she made inquiries of her party
respecting me. The gentleman who attended her knew my person, and
told her who I was. The information thus obtained induced her to
renew her scrutiny; and this scrutiny it was which so emboldened
me that I behaved in the absurd manner already detailed. She
returned my bow, however, under the impression that, by some odd
accident, I had discovered her identity. When, deceived by my
weakness of vision, and the arts of the toilet, in respect to the
age and charms of the strange lady, I demanded so
enthusiastically of Talbot who she was, he concluded that I meant
the younger beauty, as a matter of course, and so informed me,
with perfect truth, that she was “the celebrated widow, Madame
Lalande.”

In the street, next morning, my great, great, grandmother
encountered Talbot, an old Parisian acquaintance; and the
conversation, very naturally turned upon myself. My deficiencies
of vision were then explained; for these were notorious, although
I was entirely ignorant of their notoriety, and my good old
relative discovered, much to her chagrin, that she had been
deceived in supposing me aware of her identity, and that I had
been merely making a fool of myself in making open love, in a
theatre, to an old woman unknown. By way of punishing me for this
imprudence, she concocted with Talbot a plot. He purposely kept
out of my way to avoid giving me the introduction. My street
inquiries about “the lovely widow, Madame Lalande,” were supposed
to refer to the younger lady, of course, and thus the
conversation with the three gentlemen whom I encountered shortly
after leaving Talbot’s hotel will be easily explained, as also
their allusion to Ninon De L’Enclos. I had no opportunity of
seeing Madame Lalande closely during daylight; and, at her
musical _soirée_, my silly weakness in refusing the aid of
glasses effectually prevented me from making a discovery of her
age. When “Madame Lalande” was called upon to sing, the younger
lady was intended; and it was she who arose to obey the call; my
great, great, grandmother, to further the deception, arising at
the same moment and accompanying her to the piano in the main
drawing-room. Had I decided upon escorting her thither, it had
been her design to suggest the propriety of my remaining where I
was; but my own prudential views rendered this unnecessary. The
songs which I so much admired, and which so confirmed my
impression of the youth of my mistress, were executed by Madame
Stéphanie Lalande. The eyeglass was presented by way of adding a
reproof to the hoax—a sting to the epigram of the deception. Its
presentation afforded an opportunity for the lecture upon
affectation with which I was so especially edified. It is almost
superfluous to add that the glasses of the instrument, as worn by
the old lady, had been exchanged by her for a pair better adapted
to my years. They suited me, in fact, to a T.

The clergyman, who merely pretended to tie the fatal knot, was a
boon companion of Talbot’s, and no priest. He was an excellent
“whip,” however; and having doffed his cassock to put on a
great-coat, he drove the hack which conveyed the “happy couple”
out of town. Talbot took a seat at his side. The two scoundrels
were thus “in at the death,” and through a half-open window of
the back parlor of the inn, amused themselves in grinning at the
_dénouement_ of the drama. I believe I shall be forced to call
them both out.

Nevertheless, I am _not_ the husband of my great, great,
grandmother; and this is a reflection which affords me infinite
relief;—but I _am_ the husband of Madame Lalande—of Madame
Stéphanie Lalande—with whom my good old relative, besides making
me her sole heir when she dies—if she ever does—has been at the
trouble of concocting me a match. In conclusion: I am done
forever with _billets doux_, and am never to be met without
SPECTACLES.

KING PEST

A Tale Containing an Allegory.

The gods do bear and will allow in kings
The things which they abhor in rascal routes.
—_Buckhurst’s Tragedy of Ferrex and Porrex._

About twelve o’clock, one night in the month of October, and
during the chivalrous reign of the third Edward, two seamen
belonging to the crew of the _>Free and Easy_, a trading schooner
plying between Sluys and the Thames, and then at anchor in that
river, were much astonished to find themselves seated in the
tap-room of an ale-house in the parish of St. Andrews,
London—which ale-house bore for sign the portraiture of a “Jolly
Tar.”

The room, although ill-contrived, smoke-blackened, low-pitched,
and in every other respect agreeing with the general character of
such places at the period—was, nevertheless, in the opinion of
the grotesque groups scattered here and there within it,
sufficiently well adapted to its purpose.

Of these groups our two seamen formed, I think, the most
interesting, if not the most conspicuous.

The one who appeared to be the elder, and whom his companion
addressed by the characteristic appellation of “Legs,” was at the
same time much the taller of the two. He might have measured six
feet and a half, and an habitual stoop in the shoulders seemed to
have been the necessary consequence of an altitude so enormous.
Superfluities in height were, however, more than accounted for by
deficiencies in other respects. He was exceedingly thin; and
might, as his associates asserted, have answered, when drunk, for
a pennant at the mast-head, or, when sober, have served for a
jib-boom. But these jests, and others of a similar nature, had
evidently produced, at no time, any effect upon the cachinnatory
muscles of the tar. With high cheek-bones, a large hawk-nose,
retreating chin, fallen under-jaw, and huge protruding white
eyes, the expression of his countenance, although tinged with a
species of dogged indifference to matters and things in general,
was not the less utterly solemn and serious beyond all attempts
at imitation or description.

The younger seaman was, in all outward appearance, the converse
of his companion. His stature could not have exceeded four feet.
A pair of stumpy bow-legs supported his squat, unwieldy figure,
while his unusually short and thick arms, with no ordinary fists
at their extremities, swung off dangling from his sides like the
fins of a sea-turtle. Small eyes, of no particular color,
twinkled far back in his head. His nose remained buried in the
mass of flesh which enveloped his round, full, and purple face;
and his thick upper-lip rested upon the still thicker one beneath
with an air of complacent self-satisfaction, much heightened by
the owner’s habit of licking them at intervals. He evidently
regarded his tall shipmate with a feeling half-wondrous,
half-quizzical; and stared up occasionally in his face as the red
setting sun stares up at the crags of Ben Nevis.

Various and eventful, however, had been the peregrinations of the
worthy couple in and about the different tap-houses of the
neighbourhood during the earlier hours of the night. Funds even
the most ample, are not always everlasting: and it was with empty
pockets our friends had ventured upon the present hostelrie.

At the precise period, then, when this history properly
commences, Legs, and his fellow Hugh Tarpaulin, sat, each with
both elbows resting upon the large oaken table in the middle of
the floor, and with a hand upon either cheek. They were eyeing,
from behind a huge flagon of unpaid-for “humming-stuff,” the
portentous words, “No Chalk,” which to their indignation and
astonishment were scored over the doorway by means of that very
mineral whose presence they purported to deny. Not that the gift
of decyphering written characters—a gift among the commonalty of
that day considered little less cabalistical than the art of
inditing—could, in strict justice, have been laid to the charge
of either disciple of the sea; but there was, to say the truth, a
certain twist in the formation of the letters—an indescribable
lee-lurch about the whole—which foreboded, in the opinion of both
seamen, a long run of dirty weather; and determined them at once,
in the allegorical words of Legs himself, to “pump ship, clew up
all sail, and scud before the wind.”

Having accordingly disposed of what remained of the ale, and
looped up the points of their short doublets, they finally made a
bolt for the street. Although Tarpaulin rolled twice into the
fire-place, mistaking it for the door, yet their escape was at
length happily effected—and half after twelve o’clock found our
heroes ripe for mischief, and running for life down a dark alley
in the direction of St. Andrew’s Stair, hotly pursued by the
landlady of the “Jolly Tar.”

At the epoch of this eventful tale, and periodically, for many
years before and after, all England, but more especially the
metropolis, resounded with the fearful cry of “Plague!” The city
was in a great measure depopulated—and in those horrible regions,
in the vicinity of the Thames, where amid the dark, narrow, and
filthy lanes and alleys, the Demon of Disease was supposed to
have had his nativity, Awe, Terror, and Superstition were alone
to be found stalking abroad.

By authority of the king such districts were placed under ban,
and all persons forbidden, under pain of death, to intrude upon
their dismal solitude. Yet neither the mandate of the monarch,
nor the huge barriers erected at the entrances of the streets,
nor the prospect of that loathsome death which, with almost
absolute certainty, overwhelmed the wretch whom no peril could
deter from the adventure, prevented the unfurnished and
untenanted dwellings from being stripped, by the hand of nightly
rapine, of every article, such as iron, brass, or lead-work,
which could in any manner be turned to a profitable account.

Above all, it was usually found, upon the annual winter opening
of the barriers, that locks, bolts, and secret cellars, had
proved but slender protection to those rich stores of wines and
liquors which, in consideration of the risk and trouble of
removal, many of the numerous dealers having shops in the
neighbourhood had consented to trust, during the period of exile,
to so insufficient a security.

But there were very few of the terror-stricken people who
attributed these doings to the agency of human hands.
Pest-spirits, plague-goblins, and fever-demons, were the popular
imps of mischief; and tales so blood-chilling were hourly told,
that the whole mass of forbidden buildings was, at length,
enveloped in terror as in a shroud, and the plunderer himself was
often scared away by the horrors his own depreciations had
created; leaving the entire vast circuit of prohibited district
to gloom, silence, pestilence, and death.

It was by one of the terrific barriers already mentioned, and
which indicated the region beyond to be under the Pest-ban, that,
in scrambling down an alley, Legs and the worthy Hugh Tarpaulin
found their progress suddenly impeded. To return was out of the
question, and no time was to be lost, as their pursuers were
close upon their heels. With thorough-bred seamen to clamber up
the roughly fashioned plank-work was a trifle; and, maddened with
the twofold excitement of exercise and liquor, they leaped
unhesitatingly down within the enclosure, and holding on their
drunken course with shouts and yellings, were soon bewildered in
its noisome and intricate recesses.

Had they not, indeed, been intoxicated beyond moral sense, their
reeling footsteps must have been palsied by the horrors of their
situation. The air was cold and misty. The paving-stones,
loosened from their beds, lay in wild disorder amid the tall,
rank grass, which sprang up around the feet and ankles. Fallen
houses choked up the streets. The most fetid and poisonous smells
everywhere prevailed;—and by the aid of that ghastly light which,
even at midnight, never fails to emanate from a vapory and
pestilential atmosphere, might be discerned lying in the by-paths
and alleys, or rotting in the windowless habitations, the carcass
of many a nocturnal plunderer arrested by the hand of the plague
in the very perpetration of his robbery.

But it lay not in the power of images, or sensations, or
impediments such as these, to stay the course of men who,
naturally brave, and at that time especially, brimful of courage
and of “humming-stuff,” would have reeled, as straight as their
condition might have permitted, undauntedly into the very jaws of
Death. Onward—still onward stalked the grim Legs, making the
desolate solemnity echo and re-echo with yells like the terrific
war-whoop of the Indian; and onward, still onward rolled the
dumpy Tarpaulin, hanging on to the doublet of his more active
companion, and far surpassing the latter’s most strenuous
exertions in the way of vocal music, by bull-roarings _in basso_,
from the profundity of his stentorian lungs.

They had now evidently reached the strong hold of the pestilence.
Their way at every step or plunge grew more noisome and more
horrible—the paths more narrow and more intricate. Huge stones
and beams falling momently from the decaying roofs above them,
gave evidence, by their sullen and heavy descent, of the vast
height of the surrounding houses; and while actual exertion
became necessary to force a passage through frequent heaps of
rubbish, it was by no means seldom that the hand fell upon a
skeleton or rested upon a more fleshly corpse.

Suddenly, as the seamen stumbled against the entrance of a tall
and ghastly-looking building, a yell more than usually shrill
from the throat of the excited Legs, was replied to from within,
in a rapid succession of wild, laughter-like, and fiendish
shrieks. Nothing daunted at sounds which, of such a nature, at
such a time, and in such a place, might have curdled the very
blood in hearts less irrevocably on fire, the drunken couple
rushed headlong against the door, burst it open, and staggered
into the midst of things with a volley of curses.

The room within which they found themselves proved to be the shop
of an undertaker; but an open trap-door, in a corner of the floor
near the entrance, looked down upon a long range of wine-cellars,
whose depths the occasional sound of bursting bottles proclaimed
to be well stored with their appropriate contents. In the middle
of the room stood a table—in the centre of which again arose a
huge tub of what appeared to be punch. Bottles of various wines
and cordials, together with jugs, pitchers, and flagons of every
shape and quality, were scattered profusely upon the board.
Around it, upon coffin-tressels, was seated a company of six.
This company I will endeavor to delineate one by one.

Fronting the entrance, and elevated a little above his
companions, sat a personage who appeared to be the president of
the table. His stature was gaunt and tall, and Legs was
confounded to behold in him a figure more emaciated than himself.
His face was as yellow as saffron—but no feature excepting one
alone, was sufficiently marked to merit a particular description.
This one consisted in a forehead so unusually and hideously
lofty, as to have the appearance of a bonnet or crown of flesh
superadded upon the natural head. His mouth was puckered and
dimpled into an expression of ghastly affability, and his eyes,
as indeed the eyes of all at table, were glazed over with the
fumes of intoxication. This gentleman was clothed from head to
foot in a richly-embroidered black silk-velvet pall, wrapped
negligently around his form after the fashion of a Spanish cloak.
His head was stuck full of sable hearse-plumes, which he nodded
to and fro with a jaunty and knowing air; and, in his right hand,
he held a huge human thigh-bone, with which he appeared to have
been just knocking down some member of the company for a song.