It so falls out,That whatwe havewe prize not to the worth,While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,Why then we know its value:then, we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhile it was ours.
It so falls out,That whatwe havewe prize not to the worth,While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,Why then we know its value:then, we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhile it was ours.
It so falls out,That whatwe havewe prize not to the worth,While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,Why then we know its value:then, we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhile it was ours.
It so falls out,That whatwe havewe prize not to the worth,While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,Why then we know its value:then, we findThe virtue that possession would not show usWhile it was ours.
It so falls out,
That whatwe havewe prize not to the worth,
While we enjoy it; but, being lacked and lost,
Why then we know its value:then, we find
The virtue that possession would not show us
While it was ours.
He watches her—and she, at last, suffers her eye to fall upon him. “Is it possible! AmIso changed! Or, perhaps, she has so far forgotten me that, after a lapse of three years, I am not recognized.” These were some of hisnowagonized thoughts; and, with murmured apology, he resigned Bel to her father, and moved toward Edith. Too late! She has taken her place in the quadrille, and he only reaches her former resting place in time to hear the murmurs of admiration from the group of gentlemen left. The graceful, willowy figure of Edith is now moving through the quadrille with a young officer, whom Lennard at once dubs in his heart as “a puppy,” from the very fact of seeing him look onhis ownEdith! with too impassioned an eye to suit his fancy.
As she takes her place, she allows her eyes to meet those of Charles—an electric stream seems to shoot through each heart, for the bright blush of Edith suffuses even her snowy throat.
When the quadrilles were finished, he, of course, had an opportunity of advancing and addressing Edith; and that same inconsistency! which I have before apostrophized—he would rather have the embarrassment of ascenenow, than the smile, and—to his excited imagination—very cool, collected reception which Edith at this time tenders him. She welcomed him, ’tis true, but shared with him—himthe loved—the betrothed—the absent—the smiles whichhisheart so covets with the acquaintance of a day! Could mortal man bear this? Charles felt that the iron had entered into his soul and Edith saw it!
He could not find the opportunity he sought of questioning Edith. He asked her to dance—to promenade with him. She held up to him her tablets, with its lengthy list of names, and with her musical laugh cries, “Mercy, I pray you.” Charles turned off, with a bow he vainly strives to make as careless as her manner to him, and rejoins the Ashtons. Bel will not dance. She is somewhat provoked with Charles, whom she saw addressing Edith with moreempressementanddiffidenceof manner than he exhibited toward herself, and hence the cloud.
Their party leave early, and Lennard, restless and disquieted, wanders forth to the beach seeking company from the moaning and restless waves for his own troubled thoughts. Strains of melody are borne to him on that lonely shore from the scene of gay festivity, and he feels angry with Edith, whom his jealous imagination pictures reveling in the dance, for thus enjoying herself to his own misery. He sat down on the breakwater, watching the waves, and in his despairing mood wished for death, bethinking himself of the heartlessness of all womankind, and of Edith in particular. The stars were paling in the quiet sky when he betook himself homeward, worn out and exhausted. He passed the now deserted ball-room, “whose guests had fled,” and threw himself on his bed, to toss in dark dreams the few remaining hours that intervened between then and the time he could reasonably expect to see Edith.
——
What a glorious night! How dazzling look the shining sand, the glistening water, in the moon’s mellow rays which fall now so brightly upon them, and bathing in its effulgence those two youthful figures who are pacing to and fro on the ramparts of Fortress Monroe, nearest the bay. The lady was gazing on the ground, and he—into her lovely face. ’Twas Edith and Lennard!
Vainly had he sought the interview during the day, but he could only see her the centre of an admiring circle, for Edith was decidedly the “star of beauty” and the “belle” amid the many who thronged the crowded saloons of the Hygeia Hotel. At last she promised to walk with him; and directly after tea had she gone with Charles to the garrison, and there, ’neath that brightly shining moon, had he told her of his fault—of his love.
And Edith?
She like atruewoman forgave him, for she lovedmuch. At first, however, she made him writhe under her assumed inconstancy, until she saw his agony, and then, when almost in despair of regaining his lost treasure—her love—came her forgiveness, like the manna to the starving Israelites. Adding, by way ofcodato her musical words, the laughing exhortation, “To be a good boy, and she would—try to love him.”
A week later finds themen routefor A——, Charles Lennard accompanying them; for he is as eager to ratify his engagementnowas he was before to free himself. He had told Bel Ashton, the day after the ball, of his engagement, andshe did not break her heart, but was soon as gay and as graceful as ever, “winning golden opinions” from all sorts of people, for Mr. Ashton was very wealthy, and Bel was his only child!
Mrs. Morton was very much astonished to see Edith return so full of happiness, and bringing back, as “quiet as a lamb,” the recreant knight. Nor did she advert to the letter or Edith’s protestation, but once, and that was when preparing for their marriage, she exclaimed with a smile: “So, Edith, instead of coming back to love no one but your mother, you only return to fill my hands full of labor and perplexity, andmyheart full of grief at the thoughts of parting with you, even for a while.”
LINES,
SUGGESTED BY ROGERS’ STATUE OF RUTH.
———
BY THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.
———
From age to age, from clime to clime,A spirit, bright as her own morn,She walks the golden fields of Time,As erst amid the yellow corn.A form o’er which the hallowed veilOf years bequeaths a lovelier light,As when the mists of morning sailRound some far isle to make it bright.And as some reaper ’mid the grain,Or binder resting o’er his sheaf,Beheld her on the orient plain,A passing vision, bright and brief;And while he gazed let fall perchanceThe sheaf or sickle from his hand—Thus even here, as in a trance,Before her kneeling form I stand.But not as then she comes and goesTo live in memory alone;The perfect soul before me glowsImmortal in the living stone.And while upon her face I gazeAnd scan her rarely rounded form,The glory of her native daysComes floating o’er me soft and warm;—Comes floating, till this shadowy placeBrightens to noontide, and receivesThe breath of that old harvest spaceWith all its sunshine and its sheaves!It is a form beloved of yore,And when that passed the name breathed on;But now the form lives as beforeTo charm even though the name were gone.And though the future years may dimAnd mar this lovely type of Truth,Through every action, feature, limb,The breathing stone shall whisper Ruth!
From age to age, from clime to clime,A spirit, bright as her own morn,She walks the golden fields of Time,As erst amid the yellow corn.A form o’er which the hallowed veilOf years bequeaths a lovelier light,As when the mists of morning sailRound some far isle to make it bright.And as some reaper ’mid the grain,Or binder resting o’er his sheaf,Beheld her on the orient plain,A passing vision, bright and brief;And while he gazed let fall perchanceThe sheaf or sickle from his hand—Thus even here, as in a trance,Before her kneeling form I stand.But not as then she comes and goesTo live in memory alone;The perfect soul before me glowsImmortal in the living stone.And while upon her face I gazeAnd scan her rarely rounded form,The glory of her native daysComes floating o’er me soft and warm;—Comes floating, till this shadowy placeBrightens to noontide, and receivesThe breath of that old harvest spaceWith all its sunshine and its sheaves!It is a form beloved of yore,And when that passed the name breathed on;But now the form lives as beforeTo charm even though the name were gone.And though the future years may dimAnd mar this lovely type of Truth,Through every action, feature, limb,The breathing stone shall whisper Ruth!
From age to age, from clime to clime,A spirit, bright as her own morn,She walks the golden fields of Time,As erst amid the yellow corn.
From age to age, from clime to clime,
A spirit, bright as her own morn,
She walks the golden fields of Time,
As erst amid the yellow corn.
A form o’er which the hallowed veilOf years bequeaths a lovelier light,As when the mists of morning sailRound some far isle to make it bright.
A form o’er which the hallowed veil
Of years bequeaths a lovelier light,
As when the mists of morning sail
Round some far isle to make it bright.
And as some reaper ’mid the grain,Or binder resting o’er his sheaf,Beheld her on the orient plain,A passing vision, bright and brief;
And as some reaper ’mid the grain,
Or binder resting o’er his sheaf,
Beheld her on the orient plain,
A passing vision, bright and brief;
And while he gazed let fall perchanceThe sheaf or sickle from his hand—Thus even here, as in a trance,Before her kneeling form I stand.
And while he gazed let fall perchance
The sheaf or sickle from his hand—
Thus even here, as in a trance,
Before her kneeling form I stand.
But not as then she comes and goesTo live in memory alone;The perfect soul before me glowsImmortal in the living stone.
But not as then she comes and goes
To live in memory alone;
The perfect soul before me glows
Immortal in the living stone.
And while upon her face I gazeAnd scan her rarely rounded form,The glory of her native daysComes floating o’er me soft and warm;—
And while upon her face I gaze
And scan her rarely rounded form,
The glory of her native days
Comes floating o’er me soft and warm;—
Comes floating, till this shadowy placeBrightens to noontide, and receivesThe breath of that old harvest spaceWith all its sunshine and its sheaves!
Comes floating, till this shadowy place
Brightens to noontide, and receives
The breath of that old harvest space
With all its sunshine and its sheaves!
It is a form beloved of yore,And when that passed the name breathed on;But now the form lives as beforeTo charm even though the name were gone.
It is a form beloved of yore,
And when that passed the name breathed on;
But now the form lives as before
To charm even though the name were gone.
And though the future years may dimAnd mar this lovely type of Truth,Through every action, feature, limb,The breathing stone shall whisper Ruth!
And though the future years may dim
And mar this lovely type of Truth,
Through every action, feature, limb,
The breathing stone shall whisper Ruth!
FERDINAND DE CANDOLLES.
Of all the social miseries of France, none are more fruitful in catastrophes of every kind than the idle uselessness of the well-born, and the over-education of those who are not so. France being, as one of her writers observes, the China of Europe, her habits, customs, and traditions, endure, in fact, through the organized destruction of succeeding revolutions, and whilst throne after throne lies in the dust, the prejudices of that fictitious universe called the world, are standing still, fixed, firm, and uprising in inflexible strength from roots that plunge deep into the soil. For instance, the old idea that agentilhommeor aGrand Seigneurshould not know how to spell, although obsolete as far as grammar and orthography are concerned, lives on yet in the notion that a gentlemanmust not work. This has hitherto proved an uneradicable opinion, and the general incapability and instinctive laziness of the upper classes in France, can, alas! amply testify to its prevalence throughout the country. It is not that the aristocracy of France are wanting in talent or intelligence; on the contrary, they have far more of what may be called native capacity than the classes beneath them—but they are unpractical, unbusiness-like, unused to any things in the shape of affairs. They are admirable if always in the first place, but rebel at the bare thought of helping on the governing machine in its hidden wheels; and whilst with us every public office counts gentlemen by the dozen, and noble names are to be found even in the most unconspicuous, though useful places; in France an ancient family would think itself degraded if one of its sons were to be discovered amongst the workers of a bureau.
The following tale, the circumstances of which are yet uneffaced from many a memory in Paris, will perhaps serve to exemplify the sad truth of what I advance, and give a slight notion of the immediate action of certain false principles upon our neighbors’ mind. The hero of the ensuing pages, Ferdinand de Candolles, was the last scion of one of the most ancient houses in France. Ferdinand’s father died whilst the boy was in early infancy, and the entire charge of her son, whom she idolized, fell upon Madame de Candolles. At eighteen, Ferdinand was a tall, handsome youth, prodigiously proud of his name, highly romantic in his notions, ready to do battle with any given number of individuals in honor ofDieu, le Roi, ou sa fame, making a terrible quantity of bad verses, but as incapable of explaining to you M. de Villèle’s last financial measure, or the probable influence of the increasing growth of beet-root sugar upon the colonial markets, as he would have been of expounding the doctrines of Confucius in Chinese.
The Revolution of 1830, fell like a thunder-bolt upon France, and the Bourbons of the elder branch allowed themselves to be driven from their post. The elements of revolution had been for the last seven or eight years fermenting far more in society, in the arts and in literature, than in the political sphere; and Ferdinand, with all his heart and soul a devoted royalist, as far as the government was concerned, was naïvely and unsuspectingly in every thing else, a determined revolutionist, overthrowing intellectual dynasties, spurning authority, mocking at control, gloating over Victor Hugo, George Sand,e tutti quanti, and fancying the whole was quite compatible with the political faith he would sooner have died than resign. Sometimes Madame de Candolles would think very seriously of what could be the future career of her son, and the wordNothing!emblazoned in gigantic ideal letters, was the only answer her imagination ever framed. In 1832, it so happened that the now prefect named in the department, was an old friend of the widow’s family—abourgeois, it is true, still a respectable man, whose father and uncle had, in very difficult times, rendered more than one signal service to Madame de Candolles’ own parents. M. Durand and his wife drew Ferdinand and his mother as much about them as they possibly could, and whenever he found an occasion of insinuating any thing of the kind into the widow’s ear, the well-intentioned préfet would talk seriously, nay, almost paternally, of her son’s future, and the little it seemed likely to offer him. One day, after a conversation in which Madame de Candolles had more freely than usual admitted the barrenness of the lad’s prospects, M. Durand contrived to lead her insensibly toward the notion of some employment whereby a becoming existence might be insured, hinted that there were positions where political opinions need be no obstacle, to which the nomination even did not emanate directly from the government, and ended by proposing to invest Ferdinand with the dignity of head librarian to theBibliothèque de la Ville, a place yielding some hundred and fifty pounds a year, and just left vacant by the death of Madame Durand’s nephew. Madame de Candolles’ surprise was scarcely surpassed by her indignation, and, though she managed to cover both by a slight veil of politeness, there was in her refusal a degree of haughtiness that went well-nigh to disturb the honest préfet’s equanimity. As to Ferdinand, he did not exactly know, when the offer was first made clear to him, whether he ought not to take down a certain sword worn at Marigny by his ancestor, Palamède de Candolles, and punish M. Durand with positive loss of life for his audacity; but, when what he calledreasonreturned, he determined simply by the frigid dignity of his manners in future to make thebourgeoisfunctionary of Louis Philippe feel the full extent of his mistake, and bring him to a proper consciousness of the wide difference between their relative positions. Nor was this all; one day, some six months after, Madame de Candolles took occasion to pay a visit to the préfecture, and leading M. Durand aside, to solicit him for the still unfilled post of librarian, in favor of Ferdinand’s foster-brother, a market-gardener’s son! He was, she said, an exceedingly clever young man, knew Latin, Greek, and all sorts of things, had just served his time in a notary’s office, and would be the very thing for the situation proposed!—(successor to Madame Durand’s own nephew!) The préfet was sufficiently master of himself to refuse politely, alleging that he had already made choice of a librarian; but when Madame Durand heard the story, she vowed undying hatred to all aristocrats, and whenever she afterward met Madame de Candolles, tossed her plumed head as though she had been a war-horse. So ended our hero’s first and only chance of official employment, rejected, we have seen with what disdain. He had then attained the age of twenty-three.
In the course of the following year General de Candolles died, leaving all he possessed to his nephew. This “all” was not much, still it was something—some twenty-odd thousand francs, or so—and if the widow had lived long enough, it might have increased; but, unfortunately, before Ferdinand had reached the age of twenty-five, his mother also died, leaving him completely—positively “alone in the world.” With what Madame de Candolles left (her chief resources had come from a small annuity) Ferdinand found himself at the head of about two thousand pounds sterling. With two thousand francs a year, which this would yield, he might have lived comfortably enough in any part of the provinces, and indulged in a quiet laugh at the préfet, who wanted to make abibliothécaireof him. But, of course, such sensible arrangements did not enter into his head. He was (thenaïfroyalist and aristocrat!) wild with admiration of “Hernani” andle Roi s’amuse, and for the moment thought of little beyond the soul-stirring delights of seeing Bocage inAntony, or Madame Dorval inMarion Delorme. To Paris, of course, tended all his desires, and to Paris he accordingly went, as soon as the first months of mourning were expired, and he had put what he termed order into his affairs.
We will not dive into the details of his existence in the great capital during the first period of his residence there. Suffice it to say, that the literary mania soon possessed him entirely, and he dreamt of little short of European fame. Here, indeed, thought he, was a career into which he might throw himself with all his energy. Lamartine and De Vigny were gentlemen like himself, and there was in poetry nothing to sully his escutcheon. Unfortunately, Ferdinand mistook for talent the means afforded him by his purse for drawing flatterers about him, and for some time he bought his most fatal illusions with his positive substance. Dinners to journalists, and parties of pleasure with all the world, soon reduced his capital considerably, but what did that matter? when he should be famous, publishers would besiege him, laying thousands at his feet for a fortnight’s labor. He was already the acknowledged idol of certainsalons, and when the tragedy he had written should be performed, his name would be glorious throughout the world. By dint of pecuniary sacrifices, the performance of this play at the Théâtre Français had been obtained, and what with newspaper scribblers,claqueurs, actresses, and human leeches of every sort who fastened upon his pocket, the author found himself, half an hour before the curtain drew up, on the fancied dawn of his glory, literally deprived of every farthing he possessed, except one solitary five-franc piece in his waistcoat pouch. Ferdinand smiled gayly on perceiving this, and thought what a strange thing fortune was, and fame, too, and how, on the morrow, he should be on the high road to riches!
Well, to cut the matter short, the tragedy was a dead failure, as it merited to be, and before the last act was ended, Ferdinand’s golden dreams were rudely dispelled, and he clutched thepièce de cent sousin his waistcoat-pocket as though it were to save him from going crazy. When the curtain dropped he escaped from the theatre unseen, muffled up in his cloak like some criminal flying from detection. But his fate was lying in wait for him. As he turned round the corner of the house which led into the least frequented of the surrounding streets, he perceived three or four carriages waiting for their occupants, and he stood for an instant, hesitating whether to go backward or forward. At that moment, a ray from theréverbèrefell upon the face of a lady who, enveloped in mantle and hood, was waiting for the arrival of her equipage. Ferdinand had never seen that face before, but he stood riveted to the spot, for something in his heart whispered,it is she—the one! The preceding carriages received their respective charges, and whirled them off; the last one drew up, and the door was opened by the footman—the lady dropped her glove, whilst turning to bid adieu to her companion. Ferdinand, unconscious that he had sprung to her side, raised it up, and offered it to its owner. “Thank you, Armand,” said she, “what a wretched stupid play—was it not?” and then turning round—“A thousand pardons, monsieur!” she exclaimed, “I mistook you for another person;” and so, with a bow, she entered her carriage, and the door closed with a bang.
Ferdinand stood upon the spot where he had seen her stand, until asergent de villetouched him on the arm, and told him to move on. “What a wretched stupid play!—was it not?” the sentence rang in his ear, but brought with it the echo of the tone—that magic sound that had struck upon the chords of his secret soul, and under whose vibration they were still striking their response—the honeyed voice, not the hard words, had wounded him, and he confessed that, though deadly, the poison was nectar to the taste.
Day after day, hour after hour, did Ferdinand spend in the vain attempt to discover his unknown idol, and the less he succeeded in the enterprise, the more the object of his pursuit became lovely in his eyes, and was surrounded with ideal charms. It would be useless to enter into the painful details of Ferdinand’s life during this period.
The day after the failure of his tragedy, the Marquise de Guesvillers, an ancient dowager of the Faubourg St. Germain, and his chiefprôneuse, sent to beg the discomfited author would come dine with hertête-à-tête. Ferdinand had a reason now for desiring to explore to the utmost extent the upper regions of society, and he accepted the invitation. The old lady greeted him with a half-benevolent, half-mischievous smile—“My dear child,” said she, when the servant had closed the door, “now that Providence has saved you from becoming anhomme de lettres, we must try to make something of you. Heaven be praised! pen and ink must have lost its charm for you at last;” (a pinch of snuff,) “it seems your play was as bad as your enemy could wish; Madame de Rouvion was there, and has just told me so—poor dear Hector de Candolles,” (another pinch of snuff,) “if he could have guessed that a great-grandson of his would write a play! But, however, that is over now, and we have only to rejoice that things were no worse: when the recollection of youraventureshall have quite subsided, we will find a wife for you, and settle you in life! Thank Heaven! you are cured of your taste for pen and ink!” and these last words the good lady repeated over and over again in the course of the evening, and each time with remarkable satisfaction. Once or twice Ferdinand was tempted to shake the monotonous little dowager to pieces, and shout in her ear—“Woman! I mustliveby pen and ink, or starve!” but the remembrance ofthe facehe had seen the night before, froze the words on his tongue, and he submitted to the torture in silence.
For months in thesalons, whither Madame de Guesvillers carried him, he sought out the object of his dreams, but she never appeared, and Ferdinand went on leadingla vie de Bohème, until hope began almost entirely to fade away. One evening, he had, for the fiftieth time, accepted an invitation to somesoirée, where his indefatigable patroness insisted upon his going; and he was, as usual, looking on whilst others amused (or fancied they amused) themselves, when the conversation of two ladies near him attracted his attention—he knew not why.
“So Blanche Vouvray is come back at last?” said one.
“She is coming here to-night,” replied the other.
As the two talkers moved away, a certain movement might have been observed toward the middle of the room, and many and loud greetings welcomed a new comer, who seemed to have been long absent. Mysterious magnetism of the heart! Ferdinand knew what had happened, and was prepared, when he turned round, to recognize at last—standing in the midst of a group, who were pressing eagerly around her—theone, so long, so vainly sought; the vision that had risen over his ruin like a star over the tempest-torn sea, that had come and vanished in the momentous night, when it was proved to him that his sole resources, for a bare existence, must depend, in future, upon hard, ignoble, unavowed and insufficient toil!
There she stood—bright, beautiful and glad, beaming on all about her; dispensing favors in look, gesture and smile, and inflicting wound after wound on Ferdinand’s heart by the incomparably sweet voice that, do what he would, seemed to his ear always to repeat—“What a wretched, stupid play!—is it not?” It was the only link between them—the one sole sign whereby she had acknowledged his existence.
How long thesoiréelasted, was what M. de Candolles never knew; he simply thought it a time—it might be one protracted moment—during which there was light; then, the light went out, and darkness spread over every thing around. He would not ask to be presented to Mademoiselle de Vouvray; he was content to watch her; and, when she was gone, he mechanically closed his eyes, locked up his vision within his inmost self, and then, re-awakening, went forth, to be once more alone with his idea!
Time passed on, and Ferdinand’s passion increased with every hour. Three or four times in the week he found means to feast his eyes upon the object of his adoration, and the remaining days and nights were spent in trying to draw poetic inspiration from what threatened to be the source of something very nearly akin to madness. Ferdinand’s actual talent, however, was of such a perfectly ordinary stamp, that it profited in no degree by the strong element love afforded it, and one fine morning—when he least expected it—a blow so stunning was dealt him that his whole fabric of existence was well-nigh shivered to the earth. The proprietor of the paper wherein, for the last year or two, M. de Candolles had published anonymously the chief productions of his pen, suddenly told him that he should in future be obliged to refuse his contributions unlesssigned by his own name! M. de Candolles, he urged, was known in manysalonsof thebeau monde, and probably what he might write would be read by a good number of people, whereas the lucubrations ofJaques Bargel—Ferdinand’spseudonyms—only occupied space, and brought neither fame nor money to the journal. M. de Candolles received the announcement, which went near to show destitution staring him in the face, with becoming fortitude. He would sooner have died than allow his name to be dragged forward into publicity; and at the thought of the elegant, aristocratical, disdainful lady of his worship discovering that he lived by writingfeuilletons, he felt the very ground fail beneath his feet.
Ferdinand was, after the circumstance we have just related, reduced to a species of misery even he had as yet not suspected. Unable to pay for the lodging, small and dirty as it was, that he had hitherto inhabited, he was now reduced to rent a small attic belonging to the collection of servants’ rooms in a tolerably good-looking house. The one thought that absorbed him was fear lest Blanche de Vouvray should discover the necessities of his life. This, and this alone, combated the wild passion wherewith she had inspired him. But he reckoned without feminine instinct and feminine curiosity. Blanche de Vouvray had not been half-a-dozen times in the samesalonwith M. de Candolles, before she felt she was adored, and her next feeling was one of considerable anxiety to know how she should bring her slave to confess the charm. Blanche was a person of irreproachable conduct; but still, it was tiresome to be so evidently worshiped, and yet know nothing at all about it!
Poor Ferdinand! The struggle for existence was rapidly wearing him out. The want of almost every necessary of life, the constant recourse to a morsel of bread, or a little rice, and a few potatoes, for daily food, coupled with the perpetual tension of the brain, required to secure even these, miserable as they were—all this was doing its deadly work, and M. de Candolles’ health was visibly failing every day. One evening, this was so plain to all eyes that, at Madame de Guesvillers’ house, many good-natured persons told Ferdinand he really must take care, or they should hear of his going off in a galloping consumption. An hour or two later, some one opened a window behind where he was standing—
“Do not remain where you are—pray!” said a voice beside him. It was timidly yet earnestly said—the sweet voice was unsteady, and there was such an expression in the last word, “Pray!” Ferdinand turned without answering: his eyes met Blanche de Vouvray’s—she looked down, but not before she had involuntarily replied to his passionate and melancholy glance.
M. de Candolles soon left the room. His brain was on fire, and he rushed homeward like one possessed. Part of his prudence was gone. He snatched up pen and ink, andwrote—wrote toher! All that Ferdinand had never yet found, was found now—the hidden spring was reached, and the tide of eloquence gushed forth, strong, rapid, irresistible.
Such a letter as few women have ever received was put, the next morning, into Mademoiselle de Vouvray’s hands. The first effect of it was electrical—she became confused, and like one in a dream; but, almost as soon, the feminine instinct awoke, and involuntarily she admitted thather end was gained—he had spoken at last! What lay beyond was uncertain—might be dangerous, and had best be altogether set aside. She would avoid M. de Candolles in future. This was not so easy: that very night she met him in the vestibule of theGrand Opera, with little, old Madame de Guesvillers on his arm. He bowed to, but did not look at her; was cold, silent and reserved, and really did seem as though he had one foot in the tomb. He would, perhaps, not live another year—that was a shocking thought—and Blanche shivered as she rolled over thePont Royalin her comfortable carriage. There could be no harm in answering his letter from a certain point of view she now adopted, and accordingly she did answer it, and a very virtuous, and consoling, and amiable composition her answer was. From this moment the possibility of writing tempted both; and, from time to time, they availed themselves of it, though it never degenerated into a habit. Ferdinand’s pecuniary resources growing less and less with every day, he literallystarvedhimself, in order to cover the extravagance of hisheart-expenses. For a bouquet dropped in at her carriage-window, as she drove from theItaliens—for a perfume to put upon his own handkerchief, that she should inhale, he constantly observed a four-and-twenty hours’ fast, broken only by a crust of bread and a glass of water.
There were days, it cannot be denied, when the fair Blanche de Vouvray admitted to herself that it might have been better for her never to have seen M. de Candolles. His strange adoration captivated and preoccupied her by its very strangeness, probably far more than if it had followed the ordinary method in such cases.
One day, after saving during three weeks, and Heaven only knows with what pains, the sum of fifteen francs, Ferdinand therewith secured the loan of a really handsome horse, from one of the dealers in the Champs Elysées. When the carriage came in view—than which there was no other in the world for him—he made his steed execute certain evolutions gracefully enough, for he was a remarkably good horseman, darted off upon the road to theBois de Boulogne, crossed once or twice the path of thecalèchehe was pursuing, receivedonelook of recognition,onesign from a small gloved hand, and was over-paid! That evening, they met in the samesalon: a lady—who was standing by the piano whereon Blanche had just been playing a new waltz—asked Ferdinand whether she had not seen him on horseback in the Champs Elysées.
“I thought I would try how it might suit me now,” was his reply: “but I find it will not do; the exercise is too strong, and I am unequal to it.” Blanche de Vouvray grew pale, and bent down to look over some music.
“If riding is too much for his nerves,” observed—later in the evening, to his neighbor—one of the beardlesslionswho happened to be present, “I should imagine such a monstrous quantity of cake must be equally so!” and jumping forward to Ferdinand’s side—
“Halte là, mon vieux!” he exclaimed, with all the elegance and atticism ofMabillein his intonation. “Leave a little of thatSavarinfor me, will you?Que diable!why, one would swear you hadn’t eaten since yesterday!”
Ferdinand turned round suddenly upon the ill-bred youth, and in his haggard glance there was a flash of positive ferocity: it was but a flash, but to an observer it would have sufficed to testify the truth of the horrid words uttered in jest. An instant after, the impression was chased away, and a laugh was the only visible result of the incident; but any one who could have decyphered what was engraven on M. de Candolles’ countenance that night, would have seen that a convulsion so violent had passed over his whole being; that reason was almost shaken from its throne.
The constant recurrence of these violent emotions acted more and more visibly each day upon Ferdinand’s wasted frame; and, at last, a moment came when he disappeared altogether from his habitual haunts. Few marked his absence, except a few women, in whose albums he wrote bad verses, and for whom he procured autographs from great theatrical celebrities. Upward of ten days passed, and M. de Candolles had not yet been heard of. His old friend, Madame de Guesvillers, drove herself to his door, and the answer at first was—as usual—that he was “out.” Two days later, however, the porter admitted that he was in reality very ill, but that the doctor had forbidden any one from visiting him, as the slightest agitation or exertion might produce the worst effects. That very evening, whilst her circle ofhabituéswas around her, Madame de Guesvillers received a note from Ferdinand, expressing his gratitude for her inquiries, but saying that his illness was little or nothing—a cold—and that he hoped in a few days to be able to resume his place at her tea-table. Blanche was present, heard the contents of the note, and if it had been any one’s interest—which it luckily was not—to watch her, would have betrayed by many little signs, her involuntary joy. But, on returning home, that joy was turned to dismay. There was a letter, too, for her—such a letter—it was written from a death-bed, and contained a last farewell! She dismissed her maid, and sat through the first hours of the night, with the letter lying before her. Every feeling of commiseration, of womanly sympathy was touched, and the true womanly wish to comfort and console aroused.
When she arose the next morning, it was with the determination to afford the last sad alleviation in her power to the sufferings she had caused. She accordingly, after attiring herself as modestly as possible, sallied forth, and, on foot, reached M. de Candolles’ abode. Here, for a moment, she paused, and her courage began to fail.
It was a bright, sunny morning, and it would have seemed that all the shopkeepers in the street were determined to take their part of air and light, for Blanche thought they were all congregated upon their respective thresholds to see her pass. She blushed at every step, and felt so confused, that more than once she had nearly stumbled. Before entering theporte cochereshe stood an instant still, all the blood rushed to her heart, and she was ready to faint,lest she should be too late! When she had mastered this first strong emotion she began to reflect upon the means of gaining the sufferer’s presence.
Blanche commenced her ascent, but when she reached the topmost stair of the fifth flight, and saw before her the narrow, winding, dirty steps that led to the last story, she paused, and began to wonder whither she was going. How strange that M. de Candolles should live in such a place! M. de Candolles, who was “one of her set,” and whom she had pictured to herself surrounded by the same elegancies of life which, to the small number of individuals she calledevery bodywere indispensable!—what could it mean, and where was she going?
She mounted the flight of stairs, and found herself in a long, winding corridor, lighted by skylights placed at stated distances. Doors were on either hand, and they were numbered. Blanche de Vouvray drew her silk dress and her cachemire shawl closely around her, to avoid the contact of the greasy looking wall. She was hesitating whether she would not return at once, when a low moan, followed by a short, hollow cough, struck her ear—all the woman’s pitying sympathy was instantaneously re-awakened, and she advanced, her hand raised in order to knock.
But, reader, let us in a few words depict to you the scene that is yet hidden by that closed door. On a miserable bed stretched upon apaillasseof straw, lies the invalid, upon whose pallid features a ray of light falls mournfully after having filtered through a ragged piece of green calico hung up before the dim pane of the roof-window. The walls are dingy and bare; in one corner only hangs something in the form of clothing, covered by an old square of ticking. On a broken-backed straw chair at the bed-head, rests a broken tea-pot, apparently filled withtisane; whilst upon a small table near the door are crowded together papers and perfume-bottles, inkstands and soiled gloves, a wash-hand basin and a candlestick, a hair-brush and two or three books—the heterogeneous symbols of all the wretched inmate’s wants, vanities and toil!
The night had been a bad one, and the morning sun brought but small alleviation to Ferdinand’s sufferings, whilst the malady itself held him prisoner in its clutches; the want of proper sustenance so weakened his frame that it could oppose no resistance to disease. The brain, without as yet precisely wandering, still from time to time created for itself fair illusions, gentle dreams.Oneform ever floated before Ferdinand’s mental vision—far, far off, as in another sphere—and he would stretch forth his arms toward the image, and longing, cry to it for a look, a sign of recognition.
A knock came at his door, uncertain, timid, loud; why did they disturb him?—Another knock!—He groaned forth the word to enter, and a hand was laid upon the key.
“Come in,” he again peevishly repeated. The door opened!
To describe what passed in the minds of the two thus suddenly face to face to one another, is impossible. All the squalid, ugly, poverty and apparent degradation we have tried to depict, flashed like lightning over Blanche de Vouvray’s comprehension—she stood aghast, but the involuntary scream that escaped her was drowned in the violence of the exclamation that burst from M. de Candolles’ lips. With one hand drawing over him convulsively the blanket which was his only covering, and waving the other imperiously—“Depart hence, depart,” he shrieked in bitter agony, and with eyes that started with horror from their sockets.
The terror was mutual; and she who had come to console fled in dismay, and he, who would have paid with his heart’s blood a touch of her hand, drove her from him as ruthlessly as though she had been his deadliest foe!
Ferdinand de Candolles did not die then; he went raving mad, was confined at Charenton for many years, grew to be a harmless maniac, and died in the year 1848. Blanche de Vouvray is still a reigning beauty in thesalonsof Paris, universally respected, and only known by a very few as the heroine of this sad tale.
THE GHOST-RAISER.
My Uncle Beagley, who commenced his commercial career very early in the present century as a bagman,willtell stories. Among them, he tells his Single Ghost story so often, that I am heartily tired of it. In self-defense, therefore, I publish the tale in order that when next the good, kind old gentleman offers to bore us with it, every body may say they know it. I remember every word of it.
One fine autumn evening, about forty years ago, I was traveling on horseback from Shrewsbury to Chester. I felt tolerably tired, and was beginning to look out for some snug way-side inn, where I might pass the night, when a sudden and violent thunder-storm came on. My horse, terrified by the lightning, fairly took the bridle between his teeth, and started off with me at full gallop through lanes and cross-roads, until at length I managed to pull him up just near the door of a neat-looking country inn.
“Well,” thought I, “there was wit in your madness, old boy, since it brought us to this comfortable refuge.” And alighting, I gave him in charge to the stout farmer’s boy who acted as ostler. The inn-kitchen, which was also the guest-room, was large, clean, neat and comfortable, very like the pleasant hostelry described by Izaak Walton. There were several travelers already in the room—probably, like myself, driven there for shelter—and they were all warming themselves by the blazing fire while waiting for supper. I joined the party. Presently, being summoned by the hostess, we all sat down, twelve in number, to a smoking repast of bacon and eggs, corned beef and carrots, and stewed hare.
The conversation turned naturally on the mishaps occasioned by the storm, of which every one seemed to have had his full share. One had been thrown off his horse; another, driving in a gig, had been upset into a muddy dyke; all had got a thorough wetting, and agreed unanimously that it was dreadful weather—a regular witches’ sabbath!
“Witches and ghosts prefer for their sabbath a fine moonlight night to such weather as this!”
These words were uttered in a solemn tone, and with strange emphasis, by one of the company. He was a tall, dark-looking man, and I had set him down in my own mind as a traveling merchant or pedler. My next neighbor was a gay, well-looking, fashionably-dressed young man, who, bursting into a peal of laughter, said:
“You must know the manners and customs of ghosts very well, to be able to tell that they dislike getting wet or muddy.”
The first speaker giving him a dark, fierce look, said:
“Young man, speak not so lightly of things above your comprehension.”
“Do you mean to imply that there are such things as ghosts?”
“Perhaps there are, if you had courage to look at them.”
The young man stood up, flushed with anger. But presently resuming his seat, he said calmly:
“That taunt should cost you dear if it were not such a foolish one.”
“A foolish one!” exclaimed the merchant, throwing on the table a heavy leathern purse. “There are fifty guineas. I am content to lose them, if, before the hour is ended, I do not succeed in showing you, who are so obstinately prejudiced, the form of any one of your deceased friends; and if, after you have recognized him, you allow him to kiss your lips.”
We all looked at each other, but my young neighbor, still in the same mocking manner, replied:
“You will do that, will you?”
“Yes,” said the other—“I will stake these fifty guineas, on condition that you will pay a similar sum if you lose.”
After a short silence, the young man said, gayly:
“Fifty guineas, my worthy sorcerer, are more than a poor college sizar ever possessed; but here are five, which, if you are satisfied, I shall be most willing to wager.”
The other took up his purse, saying, in a contemptuous tone:
“Young gentleman, you wish to draw back?”
“Idraw back!” exclaimed the student. “Well! if I had the fifty guineas, you should see whether I wish to draw back!”
“Here,” said I, “are four guineas, which I will stake on your wager.”
No sooner had I made this proposition than the rest of the company, attracted by the singularity of the affair, came forward to lay down their money; and in a minute or two the fifty guineas were subscribed. The merchant appeared so sure of winning, that he placed all the stakes in the student’s hands, and prepared for his experiment. We selected for the purpose a small summer-house in the garden, perfectly isolated, and having no means of exit but a window and a door, which we carefully fastened, after placing the young man within. We put writing materials on a small table in the summer-house, and took away the candles. We remained outside, with the pedler amongst us. In a low, solemn voice he began to chant the following lines: