Abandoning the idea that the Intrepid was intentionally blown up, by Somers and his party, we have the alternatives of believing the disaster to have been the result of the fire of the enemy, or the consequences of an accident. The latter is possible, but the former appears to us to be much the most probable. The light seen by Captain Stewart and Lieutenant Carrol, taken in connection with the circumstance that the explosion occurred immediately after, and apparently at that precise spot, is certainly an incident worthy of our consideration, though it is not easy to see how this light could have produced the calamity. Accidents are much less likely to happen on board such a vessel, than on ordinary occasions, every care being taken to prevent them. As the intention was to fire the splinters, all caution was doubtless used to see that no loose powder was lying about, and that the flames should not communicate with the train, except at the right moment, and in the proper manner. Still an accident from this sourcemayhave occurred, through some unforeseen agency. If this light was really on board the ketch it was probably carried from aft, where it had been kept under the eye of the officers, to the main-hatch in order to kindle the splinters, a step that it was about time to take. Commodore Preble, in his official letter, adverts to the circumstance that this splinter-room had not been set on fire when the ketch blew up, as a proof that the party had been induced to act on an emergency; for he always reasoned as if they blew themselves up; believing that the Intrepid was surrounded, and that many of the enemy were killed. Reasoning on the same circumstance, with the knowledge we now possess that no Turks were near, or that any suffered, and it goes to show that the explosion occurred at a moment when it was not expected by Somers, who would not have neglected to fire this room, in any ordinary case. If the accident had its rise on board the ketch, it probably occurred in the attempt to take this preliminary step.
But the Intrepid may have been blown up, by means of a shot from the enemy. This is the most probable solution of the catastrophe, and the one which is the most consoling to the friends of the sufferers, and which ought to be the most satisfactory to the nation. Commodore Preble says, “on entering the harbor several shot were fired at her (the Intrepid) from the batteries.” The western entrance, in or near which the ketch blew up, is within pistol shot of what is called the Spanish fort, or, indeed, of most of the works on and about the mole. Even the bashaw’s castle lies within fair canister range of this spot, and, prepared as the Turks were for any desperate enterprise on the part of the Americans, nothing is more probable than that they jealously watched the movements of a vessel that was entering their harbor after dark, necessarily passing near, if not coming directly from the American squadron. These batteries may even have been provided with hot shot, for any emergency like this. Gunboat No. 8, Lieutenant Caldwell, was blown up in the attack of the 7th August, and that very circumstance would probably induce the Turks to make a provision for repeating the injury. A cold shot, however, might very well have caused the explosion. The breaking of one of the shells on deck; the collision with a bolt, a spike or even a nail in passing through the hull, may have struck fire. It is possible a shot passed through the splinter-room, and exposed the powder of the train, and that in running below with a lantern to ascertain what damage had been done, the accident may have occurred. The moving light seen by the present Commodore Stewart, would favor such a supposition; though it must be remembered this light may also have been on board some vessel beyond the ketch, or even on the shore.
Only one other supposition has been made concerning this melancholy affair. It has been thought that the ketch grounded on the rocks, in the western entrance, and was blown up there, to prevent the enemy from getting possession of her powder. That the Intrepid may have touched the rocks is not improbable, the pass being laid down in the most accurate chart of the harbor, as less than eighty fathoms wide, with shoal water on each side, the visible rocks being more than double that distance asunder; but grounding does not infer the necessity of blowing up the ketch’s crew. To suppose that Somers would have destroyed himself through mortification, at finding his vessel on shore, is opposed to reason and probability; while it is doing gross injustice to a character of singular chivalry and generosity to believe he would have sacrificed his companions to any consideration so strictly selfish.
In this case, as in all others, the simplest and most natural solution of the difficulty is the most probable. All the known facts of the case, too, help to sustain this mode of reasoning. Those who saw the ketch, think she was advancing to the lost moment, while it is agreed she had not reached, by several hundred yards, the spot to which it was the intention to carry her. By the chart alluded to, one recently made by an English officer of great merit, it is about eleven hundred yards from the western entrance to the bashaw’s castle, and about five hundred and fifty to the inner harbor, or galley mole. Here, close to windward of the enemy’s vessels, Somers intended to have left the ketch, and there is no doubt she would have drifted into their midst, when the destruction must have been fearful. God disposed of the result differently, for some wise purpose of his own, rendering the assailants the sole victims of the enterprise. It is only by considering the utter insignificance of all temporal measures, as compared with what lies beyond, that we can learn to submit to these dispensations, with a just sense of our own impotency.
All agree that the Intrepid blew up, in or quite near to the western entrance. This was the result of direct observation; it is proved by the fact that portions of the wreck and some of the shells fell on the rocks, and by the positions in which the Constitution’s cutter and the bottom of the ketch were found. With the wind at the eastward, the wreck could not have “grounded on thenorthside of the rocks, near the round battery,” as is stated in Commodore Bainbridge’s private journal, had the Intrepid been any distancewithinthe entrance; nor would the Constitution’s boat have drifted past the intervening objects to the westward. The wind had probably a little northing in it, following the line of coast, as is usual with light airs, and, as is shown by the wreck’s touching on thenorthside of the rocks, all of which goes to prove, from an examination of the chart, as well as from the evidence of those who were present, that the accident occurred quite near the place stated. Occurring so far out, with nothing near to endanger the party, it leaves the moral certainly that the explosion was the result of accident, and not of design; or, if the latter, of an attempt of the enemy to destroy the Intrepid.
Thus perished Richard Somers, the subject of our memoir, and one of the “bravest of the brave.” Notwithstanding all our means of reasoning, and the greatest efforts of human ingenuity, there will remain a melancholy interest around the manner of his end, which, by the Almighty will, is forever veiled from human eyes in a sad and solemn mystery. In whatever way we view the result, the service on which he went was one of exceeding peril. He is known to have volunteered for it, with readiness; to have made his preparations with steadiness and alacrity; and, when last seen, to have been entering on its immediate execution, with a calm and intrepid serenity. There was an ennobling motive, too, for undertaking so great a risk. In addition to the usual inducements of country and honor, the immediate liberation of Bainbridge and his brave companions was believed to depend on its success. Exaggerated notions of the sufferings of the Philadelphia’s crew prevailed in the squadron before Tripoli, as well as in the country, and their brethren in arms fought with the double incentive of duty and friendship. Ten minutes more would probably have realized the fondest hopes of the adventurers, but the providence of God was opposed to their success, and the cause, if it is ever to be known to man, must abide the revolutions that await the end of time, and the commencement of eternity.
In person, Somers was a man of middle stature—rather below than above it—but stout of frame; exceedingly active, and muscular. His nose was inclining to the aquiline, his eyes and hair were dark, and his whole face bore marks of the cross of the French blood that was said to run in his veins. It is a remarkable circumstance in the career of this distinguished young officer, that no one has any thing to urge against him. He was mild, amiable and affectionate, both in disposition and deportment, though of singularly chivalrous notions of duty and honor. It has been said by a writer who has had every opportunity of ascertaining the fact, that when a very young man he fought three duels in one day—almost at the same time—being wounded himself in the two first, and fighting the last, seated on the ground, sustained by his friend Decatur. Although such an incident could only have occurred with very young men, and perhaps under the exaggerations of a very young service, it was perfectly characteristic of Somers. There was nothing vindictive in these duels. He fired but once at each adversary—he wounded the last man—and was himself, in a physical sense, the principal sufferer. The quarrels arose from his opponents imputing to him a want of spirit for not resenting some idle expression of Decatur’s, who was the last man living to intend to hurt Somers’ feelings. They loved each other as brothers, and Decatur proved it, by offering to fight the two last duels for his friend, after the latter had received his first wound. But Somers fought for honor, and was determined that the men who doubted him, should be convinced of their mistake. Apart from the error of continuing the affairs after the first injury, and the general moral mistake of supposing that a moral injury can be repaired in this mode at all, these duels had the chivalrous character that should ever characterize such meetings, if meetings of this nature are really necessary to human civilization.
Although it is scarcely possible that a warm-hearted young man, like Somers, should not have felt a preference for some person of the other sex, it is not known that he had any serious attachment when he lost his life. Glory appears to have been his mistress, for the time being at least, and he led no one of this nature behind him to mourn his early loss. He died possessed of a respectable landed property, and one of increasing value; all of which he bequeathed to the only sister mentioned.
Somers was thought to be an expert seaman, by those who were good judges of such qualifications. As a commander he was mild, but sufficiently firm. His education, without being unusual even in his profession at that day, had not been neglected, though he would not probably have been classed among the reading men of the service. A chivalrous sense of honor, an unmoved courage, and perfect devotion to the service in which he was engaged, formed the prominent points of his character, and as all were accompanied by great gentleness of manner and amiability of feeling, he appears to have been equally beloved and respected. The attachment which existed between him and Decatur had something romantic about it. They were rivals in professional daring, while they were bosom friends. As we have already said, it is by no means improbable that the exploits of Decatur induced Somers, through a generous competition, to engage in the perilous enterprise in which he perished, and on which he entered with a known intention of yielding up his life, if necessary to prevent the enemy’s obtaining the great advantage of demanding ransom for his party, or of seizing the powder in the ketch.
Congress passed a resolution of condolence with the friends of the officers who died in the Intrepid, as well as with those of all the officers who fell before Tripoli. Of these brave men, Somers, on account of his rank, the manner of his death, and his previous exploits, has stood foremost with the country and the service. These claims justly entitle him to this high distinction. Among all the gallant young men that this war first made known to the nation, he has always maintained a high place, and, as it is a station sealed with his blood, it has become sacred to the entire republic.
It is a proof of the estimation in which this regretted officer is held, that several small vessels have since been called after him. Perry had a schooner, which was thus designated, under his orders on the memorable 10th September, 1813; and a beautiful little brig has lately been put into the water on the seaboard, which is called the Somers. In short, his name has passed into a watchword in the American navy; and as they who are first associated with the annals of a nation, whether in connection with its institutions, its arms, its literature, or its arts, form the germs of all its future renown, it is probable it will be handed down to posterity, as one of the bright examples which the aspiring and daring in their country’s service will do well to imitate.
[1]There are so many modes for evading the simplest provisions of a written constitution, when power feels itself fettered, that it is not easy to say in what manner the difficulties of this case were got over. The reduction law said that there should be only nine captains, thirty-six lieutenants, and one hundred and fifty midshipmenduring peace, and, as the country was at war with Tripoli in 1804, there was a show of plausibility in getting over the force of this particular enactment. Still the appointments of the commanders were not to fill vacancies, under any common sense construction of their nature; and, even admitting that political ingenuity could torture the law of Congress to build four vessels like those actually put into the water, into an obligation to appoint proper persons to command them, these appointments could have no validity after the termination of the next session of the Senate. Of thefactsof the case we believe there can be no doubt.
[1]
There are so many modes for evading the simplest provisions of a written constitution, when power feels itself fettered, that it is not easy to say in what manner the difficulties of this case were got over. The reduction law said that there should be only nine captains, thirty-six lieutenants, and one hundred and fifty midshipmenduring peace, and, as the country was at war with Tripoli in 1804, there was a show of plausibility in getting over the force of this particular enactment. Still the appointments of the commanders were not to fill vacancies, under any common sense construction of their nature; and, even admitting that political ingenuity could torture the law of Congress to build four vessels like those actually put into the water, into an obligation to appoint proper persons to command them, these appointments could have no validity after the termination of the next session of the Senate. Of thefactsof the case we believe there can be no doubt.
[2]Mr. Ridgely signed a letter to Preble just two months later as a lieutenant. He may possibly have been promoted at the time the Intrepid went in.
[2]
Mr. Ridgely signed a letter to Preble just two months later as a lieutenant. He may possibly have been promoted at the time the Intrepid went in.
WINTEMOYEH.
A LEGEND OF MACKINAW.
———
BY GEORGE H. COLTON.
———
The incident related in the following lines is recorded of a young British officer, commanding at Fort Mackinaw, soon after the French war. His name was Robinson; and the cliff, from which the enraged Indian sprung with his daughter, rising to three hundred feet above the water, is called, to this day,Robinson’s Folly. They had been married about two weeks when the tragical event took place.
How glorious, gleaming o’er the wave,Whereon the evening sun is shining,With woods, and bannered fortress brave,And chalky cliff, and scallop cave,And vines o’er gray old rocks entwining,Proud Mackinaw uplifts her form,Unchanged by years of sun and storm!Borne from afar, around her feetThe purple waters murmuring meet;In milder beauty’s dimpling smilesRise, near, her deep-born sister isles,And, winding wild, with forests green,Low banks, and lonely coves unseen,Stretch wide away, on either hand,Shores fair as an enchanted land.Ah, me! there is no spot of earth,Though brightest with the smile of God,Where’er the human heart hath birth,Or human foot hath trod,That doth no deed of terror know,Or thought of unrecorded wo!Nor ever hath the evening sunLooked forth the rounded world upon,And witnessed in no lovely placeSome scene of sin or dark distress!Of all the sons of Tarke[3]noneIn battle braver deeds had done,Or mightier in the council satWhere chieftains joined the deep debate,Than proud Peechiki. He had trodWith Pontiac on the path of blood;With Pontiac had at every chanceStill struggled for the love of France;With Pontiac in the battle’s crashHewed down the hated Sagaunash;[4]And when his last the Ottowa breathed,To stern Peechiki was bequeathedA hidden hatred—such as burnsWhere Ætna’s heart to ashes turns.But suddenly a terror came,A swift disease of fearful name.All whom he loved, or could have wept,One hour beheld to darkness swept—All but his youngest, fairest child,On which the mother dying smiled,Sweet Wintemoyeh, sweetest flower,Lone lingerer in his rifled bower,The loveliest far of Tarke’s daughtersBeside St. Mary’s rushing waters.And now beyond their empty homeNo more the mourning sire would roam,But all his moody hours employIn hovering near his only joy.So sweet to gaze upon her face,Why should his foot the wild deer trace?So light her step green leaves among,Why should he seek the warrior throng?Or where could tones so soft and clearMake music to his aged ear?Oh! thus to love can only beRefined, absorbing misery!But cloudy years were gathering fast,And ere they should their shadows castUpon his grave, the sole, fair flowerHe would might grace some chieftain’s bower.And when, to woo her for his bride,The Children-of-the-Reindeer’s pride,Great Assiboin, his love gifts bore:From far Superior’s farthest shore,The father gave her youthful age,With joy, to be his heritage.For who like him could hunt the roe?Who track so fast a flying foe?Whose feet by lake and lonely glenSo oft had led his dauntless menFrom Mississippi’s haunted caveTo Saskatchawan’s gloomy wave?Beloved by one so brave as heHow happy would her portion be!In truth, he was a warrior bold,But wedded, ugly, fierce and old,To maiden’s heart a terror, wereNo brighter image worshiped there:And ah! the maid had chanced to seeA face that lived in memory!The wild flowers of the early springHer gentle hands were gathering,When lo! before her gazing stoodA pale-face in the leafy wood.And as she looked upon him there,So young, so proud, so nobly fair,A thrill of strange emotion stoleIn tremblings through her timid soul.Yet turned she not—and then he tookHis seat beside her, where the brookRan rippling o’er its pebbly bed;And soft and earnest things he saidWith broken words and many a signThat only Love could e’er divine.He was a white man—hated race!But ah! what looks, what winning grace!And who such gentle words could say?Her simple heart was stol’n away!The hideous bridegroom comes at last—The feast is gorged—the night is past—At morn behold the father lieIn writhing, wildered agony!He hastes the nuptials that his eyesMay see her blest before he dies:Alas! her father’s couch of pain!But how with such a spouse remain?Poor girl! how sad the lot that laidSuch choice upon a guileless maid!She trembles—flees—that gentle being—Her lover clasps her—trembling—fleeing.An April day was hers—so brief,With tears and sunshine, joy and grief.Upon the island’s lofty verge,That overhangs the chiding surge,Within a sylvan bower, arrayedOf cedars green and woven shade,In festive mirth with comrades boon,The lover sat, from radiant noonTill shadowy eve: and by him smiledFair Wintemoyeh, now beguiledOf thought by melting music wild;Love keeping watch in her dark eye,How fast the speaking moments fly!Now sank the sun, but lingering gaveLast looks of love each rising wave,That wooed his smile—when suddenlyA rifle rang, and, bounding highIn baffled rage, as, with a yell,By death-bolt at the lover sped,Another than his victim fell,The father, minister of dread,Whom wrath had rescued from the dead,Dashed through the revel—seized his child—Yelled in her frighted ear “defiled!”At one stride bore her to the ledge,Then, turning darkly on the edge,His clenched hand shook. The lover sprungTo save his love. With whoop and whirl,Far from the cliff exulting flung,The savage bore the wretched girl;And as to every gazing eyeThey gleamed, like meteor hurled from high,Wild rose through mid air to the skyHiscry of triumph,hersof terror:Down, down, careering, headlong borne,Dashed on the rocks, disjointed, torn,The chieftain found his vengeance sworn,The maid atoned her first, last error.The waves, the broken rocks that lave,Received them to a restless grave,Whose mangled forms, unclasping never,Move with the moving tide forever.
How glorious, gleaming o’er the wave,Whereon the evening sun is shining,With woods, and bannered fortress brave,And chalky cliff, and scallop cave,And vines o’er gray old rocks entwining,Proud Mackinaw uplifts her form,Unchanged by years of sun and storm!Borne from afar, around her feetThe purple waters murmuring meet;In milder beauty’s dimpling smilesRise, near, her deep-born sister isles,And, winding wild, with forests green,Low banks, and lonely coves unseen,Stretch wide away, on either hand,Shores fair as an enchanted land.Ah, me! there is no spot of earth,Though brightest with the smile of God,Where’er the human heart hath birth,Or human foot hath trod,That doth no deed of terror know,Or thought of unrecorded wo!Nor ever hath the evening sunLooked forth the rounded world upon,And witnessed in no lovely placeSome scene of sin or dark distress!Of all the sons of Tarke[3]noneIn battle braver deeds had done,Or mightier in the council satWhere chieftains joined the deep debate,Than proud Peechiki. He had trodWith Pontiac on the path of blood;With Pontiac had at every chanceStill struggled for the love of France;With Pontiac in the battle’s crashHewed down the hated Sagaunash;[4]And when his last the Ottowa breathed,To stern Peechiki was bequeathedA hidden hatred—such as burnsWhere Ætna’s heart to ashes turns.But suddenly a terror came,A swift disease of fearful name.All whom he loved, or could have wept,One hour beheld to darkness swept—All but his youngest, fairest child,On which the mother dying smiled,Sweet Wintemoyeh, sweetest flower,Lone lingerer in his rifled bower,The loveliest far of Tarke’s daughtersBeside St. Mary’s rushing waters.And now beyond their empty homeNo more the mourning sire would roam,But all his moody hours employIn hovering near his only joy.So sweet to gaze upon her face,Why should his foot the wild deer trace?So light her step green leaves among,Why should he seek the warrior throng?Or where could tones so soft and clearMake music to his aged ear?Oh! thus to love can only beRefined, absorbing misery!But cloudy years were gathering fast,And ere they should their shadows castUpon his grave, the sole, fair flowerHe would might grace some chieftain’s bower.And when, to woo her for his bride,The Children-of-the-Reindeer’s pride,Great Assiboin, his love gifts bore:From far Superior’s farthest shore,The father gave her youthful age,With joy, to be his heritage.For who like him could hunt the roe?Who track so fast a flying foe?Whose feet by lake and lonely glenSo oft had led his dauntless menFrom Mississippi’s haunted caveTo Saskatchawan’s gloomy wave?Beloved by one so brave as heHow happy would her portion be!In truth, he was a warrior bold,But wedded, ugly, fierce and old,To maiden’s heart a terror, wereNo brighter image worshiped there:And ah! the maid had chanced to seeA face that lived in memory!The wild flowers of the early springHer gentle hands were gathering,When lo! before her gazing stoodA pale-face in the leafy wood.And as she looked upon him there,So young, so proud, so nobly fair,A thrill of strange emotion stoleIn tremblings through her timid soul.Yet turned she not—and then he tookHis seat beside her, where the brookRan rippling o’er its pebbly bed;And soft and earnest things he saidWith broken words and many a signThat only Love could e’er divine.He was a white man—hated race!But ah! what looks, what winning grace!And who such gentle words could say?Her simple heart was stol’n away!The hideous bridegroom comes at last—The feast is gorged—the night is past—At morn behold the father lieIn writhing, wildered agony!He hastes the nuptials that his eyesMay see her blest before he dies:Alas! her father’s couch of pain!But how with such a spouse remain?Poor girl! how sad the lot that laidSuch choice upon a guileless maid!She trembles—flees—that gentle being—Her lover clasps her—trembling—fleeing.An April day was hers—so brief,With tears and sunshine, joy and grief.Upon the island’s lofty verge,That overhangs the chiding surge,Within a sylvan bower, arrayedOf cedars green and woven shade,In festive mirth with comrades boon,The lover sat, from radiant noonTill shadowy eve: and by him smiledFair Wintemoyeh, now beguiledOf thought by melting music wild;Love keeping watch in her dark eye,How fast the speaking moments fly!Now sank the sun, but lingering gaveLast looks of love each rising wave,That wooed his smile—when suddenlyA rifle rang, and, bounding highIn baffled rage, as, with a yell,By death-bolt at the lover sped,Another than his victim fell,The father, minister of dread,Whom wrath had rescued from the dead,Dashed through the revel—seized his child—Yelled in her frighted ear “defiled!”At one stride bore her to the ledge,Then, turning darkly on the edge,His clenched hand shook. The lover sprungTo save his love. With whoop and whirl,Far from the cliff exulting flung,The savage bore the wretched girl;And as to every gazing eyeThey gleamed, like meteor hurled from high,Wild rose through mid air to the skyHiscry of triumph,hersof terror:Down, down, careering, headlong borne,Dashed on the rocks, disjointed, torn,The chieftain found his vengeance sworn,The maid atoned her first, last error.The waves, the broken rocks that lave,Received them to a restless grave,Whose mangled forms, unclasping never,Move with the moving tide forever.
How glorious, gleaming o’er the wave,Whereon the evening sun is shining,With woods, and bannered fortress brave,And chalky cliff, and scallop cave,And vines o’er gray old rocks entwining,Proud Mackinaw uplifts her form,Unchanged by years of sun and storm!Borne from afar, around her feetThe purple waters murmuring meet;In milder beauty’s dimpling smilesRise, near, her deep-born sister isles,And, winding wild, with forests green,Low banks, and lonely coves unseen,Stretch wide away, on either hand,Shores fair as an enchanted land.
How glorious, gleaming o’er the wave,
Whereon the evening sun is shining,
With woods, and bannered fortress brave,
And chalky cliff, and scallop cave,
And vines o’er gray old rocks entwining,
Proud Mackinaw uplifts her form,
Unchanged by years of sun and storm!
Borne from afar, around her feet
The purple waters murmuring meet;
In milder beauty’s dimpling smiles
Rise, near, her deep-born sister isles,
And, winding wild, with forests green,
Low banks, and lonely coves unseen,
Stretch wide away, on either hand,
Shores fair as an enchanted land.
Ah, me! there is no spot of earth,Though brightest with the smile of God,Where’er the human heart hath birth,Or human foot hath trod,That doth no deed of terror know,Or thought of unrecorded wo!Nor ever hath the evening sunLooked forth the rounded world upon,And witnessed in no lovely placeSome scene of sin or dark distress!
Ah, me! there is no spot of earth,
Though brightest with the smile of God,
Where’er the human heart hath birth,
Or human foot hath trod,
That doth no deed of terror know,
Or thought of unrecorded wo!
Nor ever hath the evening sun
Looked forth the rounded world upon,
And witnessed in no lovely place
Some scene of sin or dark distress!
Of all the sons of Tarke[3]noneIn battle braver deeds had done,Or mightier in the council satWhere chieftains joined the deep debate,Than proud Peechiki. He had trodWith Pontiac on the path of blood;With Pontiac had at every chanceStill struggled for the love of France;With Pontiac in the battle’s crashHewed down the hated Sagaunash;[4]And when his last the Ottowa breathed,To stern Peechiki was bequeathedA hidden hatred—such as burnsWhere Ætna’s heart to ashes turns.
Of all the sons of Tarke[3]none
In battle braver deeds had done,
Or mightier in the council sat
Where chieftains joined the deep debate,
Than proud Peechiki. He had trod
With Pontiac on the path of blood;
With Pontiac had at every chance
Still struggled for the love of France;
With Pontiac in the battle’s crash
Hewed down the hated Sagaunash;[4]
And when his last the Ottowa breathed,
To stern Peechiki was bequeathed
A hidden hatred—such as burns
Where Ætna’s heart to ashes turns.
But suddenly a terror came,A swift disease of fearful name.All whom he loved, or could have wept,One hour beheld to darkness swept—All but his youngest, fairest child,On which the mother dying smiled,Sweet Wintemoyeh, sweetest flower,Lone lingerer in his rifled bower,The loveliest far of Tarke’s daughtersBeside St. Mary’s rushing waters.
But suddenly a terror came,
A swift disease of fearful name.
All whom he loved, or could have wept,
One hour beheld to darkness swept—
All but his youngest, fairest child,
On which the mother dying smiled,
Sweet Wintemoyeh, sweetest flower,
Lone lingerer in his rifled bower,
The loveliest far of Tarke’s daughters
Beside St. Mary’s rushing waters.
And now beyond their empty homeNo more the mourning sire would roam,But all his moody hours employIn hovering near his only joy.So sweet to gaze upon her face,Why should his foot the wild deer trace?So light her step green leaves among,Why should he seek the warrior throng?Or where could tones so soft and clearMake music to his aged ear?Oh! thus to love can only beRefined, absorbing misery!
And now beyond their empty home
No more the mourning sire would roam,
But all his moody hours employ
In hovering near his only joy.
So sweet to gaze upon her face,
Why should his foot the wild deer trace?
So light her step green leaves among,
Why should he seek the warrior throng?
Or where could tones so soft and clear
Make music to his aged ear?
Oh! thus to love can only be
Refined, absorbing misery!
But cloudy years were gathering fast,And ere they should their shadows castUpon his grave, the sole, fair flowerHe would might grace some chieftain’s bower.And when, to woo her for his bride,The Children-of-the-Reindeer’s pride,Great Assiboin, his love gifts bore:From far Superior’s farthest shore,The father gave her youthful age,With joy, to be his heritage.For who like him could hunt the roe?Who track so fast a flying foe?Whose feet by lake and lonely glenSo oft had led his dauntless menFrom Mississippi’s haunted caveTo Saskatchawan’s gloomy wave?Beloved by one so brave as heHow happy would her portion be!
But cloudy years were gathering fast,
And ere they should their shadows cast
Upon his grave, the sole, fair flower
He would might grace some chieftain’s bower.
And when, to woo her for his bride,
The Children-of-the-Reindeer’s pride,
Great Assiboin, his love gifts bore:
From far Superior’s farthest shore,
The father gave her youthful age,
With joy, to be his heritage.
For who like him could hunt the roe?
Who track so fast a flying foe?
Whose feet by lake and lonely glen
So oft had led his dauntless men
From Mississippi’s haunted cave
To Saskatchawan’s gloomy wave?
Beloved by one so brave as he
How happy would her portion be!
In truth, he was a warrior bold,But wedded, ugly, fierce and old,To maiden’s heart a terror, wereNo brighter image worshiped there:And ah! the maid had chanced to seeA face that lived in memory!The wild flowers of the early springHer gentle hands were gathering,When lo! before her gazing stoodA pale-face in the leafy wood.And as she looked upon him there,So young, so proud, so nobly fair,A thrill of strange emotion stoleIn tremblings through her timid soul.
In truth, he was a warrior bold,
But wedded, ugly, fierce and old,
To maiden’s heart a terror, were
No brighter image worshiped there:
And ah! the maid had chanced to see
A face that lived in memory!
The wild flowers of the early spring
Her gentle hands were gathering,
When lo! before her gazing stood
A pale-face in the leafy wood.
And as she looked upon him there,
So young, so proud, so nobly fair,
A thrill of strange emotion stole
In tremblings through her timid soul.
Yet turned she not—and then he tookHis seat beside her, where the brookRan rippling o’er its pebbly bed;And soft and earnest things he saidWith broken words and many a signThat only Love could e’er divine.He was a white man—hated race!But ah! what looks, what winning grace!And who such gentle words could say?Her simple heart was stol’n away!
Yet turned she not—and then he took
His seat beside her, where the brook
Ran rippling o’er its pebbly bed;
And soft and earnest things he said
With broken words and many a sign
That only Love could e’er divine.
He was a white man—hated race!
But ah! what looks, what winning grace!
And who such gentle words could say?
Her simple heart was stol’n away!
The hideous bridegroom comes at last—The feast is gorged—the night is past—At morn behold the father lieIn writhing, wildered agony!He hastes the nuptials that his eyesMay see her blest before he dies:Alas! her father’s couch of pain!But how with such a spouse remain?Poor girl! how sad the lot that laidSuch choice upon a guileless maid!She trembles—flees—that gentle being—Her lover clasps her—trembling—fleeing.
The hideous bridegroom comes at last—
The feast is gorged—the night is past—
At morn behold the father lie
In writhing, wildered agony!
He hastes the nuptials that his eyes
May see her blest before he dies:
Alas! her father’s couch of pain!
But how with such a spouse remain?
Poor girl! how sad the lot that laid
Such choice upon a guileless maid!
She trembles—flees—that gentle being—
Her lover clasps her—trembling—fleeing.
An April day was hers—so brief,With tears and sunshine, joy and grief.Upon the island’s lofty verge,That overhangs the chiding surge,Within a sylvan bower, arrayedOf cedars green and woven shade,In festive mirth with comrades boon,The lover sat, from radiant noonTill shadowy eve: and by him smiledFair Wintemoyeh, now beguiledOf thought by melting music wild;Love keeping watch in her dark eye,How fast the speaking moments fly!
An April day was hers—so brief,
With tears and sunshine, joy and grief.
Upon the island’s lofty verge,
That overhangs the chiding surge,
Within a sylvan bower, arrayed
Of cedars green and woven shade,
In festive mirth with comrades boon,
The lover sat, from radiant noon
Till shadowy eve: and by him smiled
Fair Wintemoyeh, now beguiled
Of thought by melting music wild;
Love keeping watch in her dark eye,
How fast the speaking moments fly!
Now sank the sun, but lingering gaveLast looks of love each rising wave,That wooed his smile—when suddenlyA rifle rang, and, bounding highIn baffled rage, as, with a yell,By death-bolt at the lover sped,Another than his victim fell,The father, minister of dread,Whom wrath had rescued from the dead,Dashed through the revel—seized his child—Yelled in her frighted ear “defiled!”At one stride bore her to the ledge,Then, turning darkly on the edge,His clenched hand shook. The lover sprungTo save his love. With whoop and whirl,Far from the cliff exulting flung,The savage bore the wretched girl;And as to every gazing eyeThey gleamed, like meteor hurled from high,Wild rose through mid air to the skyHiscry of triumph,hersof terror:Down, down, careering, headlong borne,Dashed on the rocks, disjointed, torn,The chieftain found his vengeance sworn,The maid atoned her first, last error.The waves, the broken rocks that lave,Received them to a restless grave,Whose mangled forms, unclasping never,Move with the moving tide forever.
Now sank the sun, but lingering gave
Last looks of love each rising wave,
That wooed his smile—when suddenly
A rifle rang, and, bounding high
In baffled rage, as, with a yell,
By death-bolt at the lover sped,
Another than his victim fell,
The father, minister of dread,
Whom wrath had rescued from the dead,
Dashed through the revel—seized his child—
Yelled in her frighted ear “defiled!”
At one stride bore her to the ledge,
Then, turning darkly on the edge,
His clenched hand shook. The lover sprung
To save his love. With whoop and whirl,
Far from the cliff exulting flung,
The savage bore the wretched girl;
And as to every gazing eye
They gleamed, like meteor hurled from high,
Wild rose through mid air to the sky
Hiscry of triumph,hersof terror:
Down, down, careering, headlong borne,
Dashed on the rocks, disjointed, torn,
The chieftain found his vengeance sworn,
The maid atoned her first, last error.
The waves, the broken rocks that lave,
Received them to a restless grave,
Whose mangled forms, unclasping never,
Move with the moving tide forever.
[3]“Tarke,”the crane, was the totem, or animal chosen as the head and symbol of a Chippewa tribe, formerly resident along the St. Mary.
[3]
“Tarke,”the crane, was the totem, or animal chosen as the head and symbol of a Chippewa tribe, formerly resident along the St. Mary.
[4]“Sagaunash” is the Indian for “English.”
[4]
“Sagaunash” is the Indian for “English.”
DE PONTIS.
A TALE OF RICHELIEU.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “HENRI QUATRE; OR THE DAYS OF THE LEAGUE.”
———
(Continued from page 141.)
Marguerite had cause of self congratulation in the issue of the second interview with the all powerful Richelieu. Difficulties, which the imagination paints as an Herculean labor to remove, shrink to trifles when the will is resolute and stern necessity impels.
The dread audience over, she flew with the intelligence to the zealous and faithful advocate, but when the first tumult of the mind had subsided, there was much to ponder over ere she could meet Monsieur Giraud. What account could be rendered concerning the page? Would he not question, and perhaps tax her with imprudence, and misplaced confidence? And was there no one else, fair Marguerite, interested? No question to ask thy own heart?
Richelieu’s page was daring, reckless, and seemingly a very unscrupulous youth, following the impulses of his will even to the periling of liberty and life! Yet her heart pleaded in his favor—the homage he paid was flattering—even the peril was incurred for her sake—and though their first rencontre was humiliating to her delicacy, and strangely indecorous on his part, yet, ere parting, it must be confessed that the rudeness had been forgiven, and his frankness and sincerity won favor. We will not say how far atonement was rendered easier in the culprit by the advantages of a handsome figure, youthful tresses and the fire of a proud dark eye!
Could she with honor, even with safety, expose his secret to the advocate? Nay, to confess that her intelligence was derived from a page in a confidential interview, would it not bring more blushes to the cheek than being exposed to the gaze of the score of cavaliers who environed Richelieu?
It could not be thought of—yet must the intelligence be communicated to the worthy Giraud—it was even so intended by François himself, although in terms so flattering to her discretion, he left the means to the maiden’s own judgment, making no stipulation, merely the memento that life and liberty were in her hands. And ought they not to be held sacred? Yes! even the very shadow of his name should be secret, no allusion escape her lips, which might in the slightest degree compromise the youth, even to so trusty a friend as Giraud.
The advocate was at home, waiting anxiously her appearance, for to-morrow would the sharpprocureurpray for the decree of sequestration, and the venal president doubtless affirm it.
She had not taken his advice, but preferred a second appeal to the flinty cardinal rather than beseech the king’s interference. Yet had she been successful! He was delighted, prayed that every particular might be narrated, exclaimed that no such maiden had graced the lineage of De Pontis these five centuries past.
Gravely bidding the learned man cool his ardor, and take repose in the easy chair, the oracular seat in which he gave audience to clients, she detailed the circumstances of the meeting with the cardinal in the garden.
But who pointed out to Mademoiselle the locality? Who dictated the stratagem—for such it appeared to be—as the garden was not the usual gate of egress to the minister?
These questions the maiden solemnly declared that she must not answer—under whosever guidance she had acted, Monsieur Giraud might perceive that it had been successful. He must not even make further inquiries, or she would withhold secrets yet in store. It was not perhaps delicate or befitting, that one of her age should obtain intelligence from sources which she dare not reveal to her father, or her father’s friend—yet Monsieur Giraud must remember that therôleshe played in the affair was altogether unsuitable to her sex, and parental affection alone had stimulated her to endure what she had undergone. As the advocate had encouraged the resolution, he must not complain of an inevitable consequence—as she had ventured on a business, and strayed into haunts fitting only a man to explore, it must be permitted her to retain a privilege of manhood—the keeping her own secret.
There was no answering this positive declaration, so the wondering, but good natured lawyer, shifted ground, and requested a recital of such secrets as he might be permitted to hear. At the mention of the Count De Fontrailles, a flush overspread his pale face, and when Mademoiselle had concluded the narration, he sat awhile in deep thought. “Fontrailles!” cried the advocate, breaking silence, “he was one of three whom I suspected—but I am glad he is the man, for if I mistake not, I hold that which will ruin him with the cardinal. Shall we consult with Monsieur De Pontis to-morrow morning? I might obtain an order at the bureau this evening. No! he is useless to our plans. Mademoiselle and myself, and,” he added, looking significantly at the maiden, “her unknown friend, with his budget of secrets, are a trio equal to the emergency. But tell me, Marguerite, have you not been to the Tuileries to-day?”
She assured him that she had not.
“Then my conjectures are all vain,” cried Giraud, “but let us to council.”
He pointed out with clearness the position in which the affairs of De Pontis now stood in relation to all the parties with whom he was unfortunately engaged. The suit of Pedro Olivera gave but little concern. If all the presidents of that court were not biased, he thought he should be able to disprove the equity of Pedro’s claim, through documents in his possession, or failing this he could produce many sets-off, moneys lent to the claimant of which he acknowledged no account, of itself tending to cast suspicion on the suitor, and at any rate convict him of dishonesty.
But it mattered little what became of Pedro’s suit, if the estate of De Pontis, together with thedroit d’aubaine, were sequestered by theprocureur’sdecree in the meanwhile. The week’s grace would afford the opportunity wanted to arrange a plan of operations.
“But if Monsieur should lay these papers before the cardinal, is he sure that it would effect the count’s ruin?—he may be so necessary, that his eminence cannot part with him,” remarked the damsel.
“A very pertinent question,” cried Giraud, “but still betraying ignorance of a proper procedure with Fontrailles. If I went to his eminence, and succeeded in ruining the favorite, that would not likely stop Pedro’s suit, or theprocureur’sproceedings, as the cardinal is now embittered personally against Monsieur De Pontis, and might divert thedroit d’aubaineto some other channel than the treacherous count, Mademoiselle’s unknown friend for instance, whom I am persuaded holds the keys of the cardinal duke’s cabinet.”
Marguerite blushed, but made no reply, and the advocate continued.
“Effectually to serve my good friend, I must make Fontrailles so tremble in his shoes at the very idea of the ruin I hold over his head, that he shall himself intercede with Richelieu to cancel all the court’s proceedings, and leave your father in peaceful possession of thedroit. These are the terms I shall offer!”
“But how will the count get over the surprise of his eminence at what will appear such extraordinary conduct on his part?” asked Marguerite.
“When Mademoiselle has had longer experience in the haunts into which she strayed,” replied the advocate, “more communings with her all-wise secret friend, she will not need be told that when a man of Fontraille’s stamp has chosen a line of conduct, nothing is easier than to assign a motive for it. I have no positive objection, if he need such aid, that we should give the count a helping hand on that point.”
“And what remains to be done?” asked Marguerite.
“Nothing but for your humble servant to arm himself for conflict with the dark-souled intriguer,” replied the advocate, smiling; “it will be a desperate strife, I can assure Mademoiselle, a hard struggle ere the count, overwhelmed with debts, and panting for the rich effects of the Spaniard, will yield the prey!”
“And what part shall I take in the contest?” said the maiden, “how can I aid Monsieur?”
“I have little doubt,” replied the advocate, taking the damsel’s hand, and raising it to his lips with an air of gallantry, “that this soft hand has been pressed before to-day, but if a grave man in years, like myself, were to repeat the foolish things that were said over it, as for instance, that to press such a treasure to my lips, were overpaying me for all the secrets I disclosed, I have little doubt that for me to say so, would look very silly! You blush, Marguerite, it is very hard to deceive an old advocate, our profession is learned in the world’s ways. But beware, Mademoiselle! beware! danger lurks in the precincts of courts.”
“Has Monsieur faith in my discretion?” asked Marguerite, smiling through her blushes.
“I have,” replied Giraud with earnestness, “and I am about to afford such proof of it, as might with many men rank me as one capable of acting with deliberate folly.”
He then informed Marguerite, what had not before struck her, that in attacking Fontrailles, he ran risk in many shapes, even of personal danger; he might lose his life in bearding the count in his own hotel. Every species of menace and intimidation would be undoubtedly employed to silence one armed, like the advocate, with documents threatening ruin; these failing, personal violence might be resorted to.
“Nay, Marguerite! look not so pale,” said Giraud, whose language had awakened extreme terror in the maiden, “I am a bachelor, and my life would be well lost in defending a just cause—but the count, I believe, would venture on a different system, though equally desperate. It appears your unknown friend confirms what we have all surmised respecting these papers, and when I acknowledge possession he will, I have reason to fear, avail of some scheme of villany to dispossess me. No means, however reckless, will he fail of using. If I loose the proofs of his treachery my weapon is broken—and then farewell the cause of De Pontis!”
“And how is this to be avoided? O! go not near such a man!” cried Marguerite, distressed and alarmed.
The advocate laughed at her fears. He knew, he said, whom he had to deal with too well to venture into the arena of conflict unprepared. That he might not be deprived by force of the documents, it were necessary that they should no longer remain in his custody—nor would he meet the count till he knew they were in the hands of a party who would still hold themin terroremover Richelieu’s favorite, should he, Giraud, be kidnapped, thrown into prison, or otherwise disposed of. And that his safety might rest on securer footing, he should take especial care to let Fontrailles understand that whatever became of the humble advocate the haughty noble had not removed one iota of the peril which menaced himself.
But whom could he trust? Not De Pontis, for the veteran had neither place of concealment for them, nor freedom to make an active use of the weapons should circumstances require it. And whom else confide in? Certainly none of his professional brethren—and he had no near kinsman, save De Pontis—nor did he know any friend of the latter to whom he could delegate the trust, for the veteran had been abandoned when Richelieu became his foe. Marguerite herself was eminently trustworthy, but the papers could not remain, even with the shadow of safety, in her possession—her lodging would undoubtedly be subjected to a domiciliary visit.
And yet he was about to confide the charge to her, but with the condition that it be immediately transferred to sure hands, and to one who had the courage and heart to stand in his place should he fall.
“You see, Marguerite De Pontis, how weighty will be the responsibility,” said he, “and yet, I confess, I know not what other course to pursue. As you have not made me your confidant, I know not all your friends—but if you are aware of none other to whom so precious a charge can be conveyed, involving your father’s, your own, and my fortunes, then place the papers in the hands of his majesty—he is no match for the cardinal or Fontrailles either—but he has pledged himself to Monsieur De Pontis, and his faith is good though his courage be poor.”
He then handed her the rather bulky packet, repeating the injunction, if she were cognizant of no abler or trustier friend, to make Louis the depositary.
“I am acting strangely,” said the advocate, “in permitting Mademoiselle, so young, to choose her own and her father’s champion, but I feel an impulse to which I yield without strictly satisfying my reason. When Marguerite informs me that the packet is transferred, then I go forth to the encounter.”
Kissing her forehead, he bade the damsel farewell. Concealing the packet under her mantle, the tears starting to her eyes at the solemnity of the injunction, she retraced her way sadly to theRue St. Denis.
In the solitude of her chamber—only broken by the occasional entrance of the aged female, the last link of a once numerous household—she had much to reflect on. The noble, though eccentric, behavior of Giraud; the proud Richelieu, serene and tranquil even in his implacability; the poor, weak Louis; the dark, intriguing Fontrailles; and, lastly, the page, with his sudden birth of passion.
Was it a dream? Was she Marguerite De Pontis, daughter of a poor gentleman of Limousin, and so deeply involved in the thickening strife of the master intellects of France? It was even so—the fatal packet met her eyes, cause of past, present and future contest—and her own destiny it was to cast the firebrand at the enemies which beset her imprisoned father!
Whilst indulging these meditations, the tinkling bell of thehoublieur, or itinerant dealer in wafer cakes, fell upon her ear. She started from the reverie, and, hastening to the door, beheld the slim vender, apron tied round the waist, basket on arm, and bell in hand, seemingly more anxious to attract a customer from the lodging of De Pontis than solicitous to dispose of his cakes to the frequenters of theRue St. Denis.
Perceiving the door open, he made no hesitation in entering, although Marguerite had been careful not to expose herself to view. The noise, however, attracted old Marie, bringing her from her retreat in the domestic offices of the domicil.
“Holy Virgin!” cried the ancient dame, “there is a man in the hall.”
“Yes,ma bonne mère!” said the disguised page, “and he has a tongue which will rival the loudest gossip in theRue St. Denis;” and thereupon the youth commenced ringing his bell violently, to the extreme vexation of Marguerite, and the astonishment of the old crone.
Alarmed at the noise, and the unexpected apparition in the gloom, the old woman shouted for help. The damsel knew not what to do, or how to explain the matter to her ancient retainer—something must be done to silence both parties, so suddenly seizing the bell, she wrested it from his grasp; then approaching the old woman, she spoke in a loud whisper that the man was not what he appeared to be, that he came on her father’s business by direction of Monsieur Giraud, and that the visit must be kept secret. With these words she quieted and dismissed Marie, and then turning to the youth, said disdainfully, that she was much beholden for his services—that their second meeting was in strict keeping with their first rencontre.
“Pardon me, Mademoiselle,” said François, apologizing, “but I am in such good spirits that my joy cannot contain itself.”
“Such feelings may agree with the prosperity of thePalais-Cardinal,” replied Marguerite, “but you are now in a house of mourning, and it will be so as long as my poor father lies in theConciergerie.”
The course Marguerite was embarked on necessitated courage and decision, nor was she deficient. Without fear, or at least without betraying any, she led the youth to thesalle, or parlor, and requesting him to be seated, said she was afraid that more discretion than he possessed would be requisite to aid her father. Still she was very grateful for the interview with the cardinal, obtained, as she confessed, solely through his directions; also for the clue to the machinations of the Count De Fontrailles.
“I have been employed alone both in Germany and in England, young as I appear to be, and on the cardinal’s business,” said the page, in rather a haughty tone, “and his eminence is not the man to employ those in his affairs who lack discretion. Does my present garb indicate want of precaution, or imply foresight? I appeal to Mademoiselle’s candor!”
“But consider, sir—consider, Monsieur Romainville,” exclaimed Marguerite, “if the troubles of our family should have led me to place confidence in a stranger, does that warrant him in entering our house in a style and with a noise calculated to bring observation and remarks on my conduct?”
“Suppose there were a disposition to scandal, which Heaven forbid!” replied the youth, “the real object of my visit would still be masked. In the short period which I hope will terminate Monsieur De Pontis’ imprisonment, it were even better that I were suspected wrongly than my real motives guessed at. But I have not unfolded my news.”
He then informed the damsel that the Count De Fontrailles was in attendance on the cardinal when he left the palace, and of course heard Mademoiselle’s petition and the favorable though sarcastic reply of the minister. A little scene of remonstrance and replication occurred afterwards, as the page knew, though he would not say how he became possessed of the information, between patron and dependent, in the course of which the cardinal rallying his favorite, declared thedroit d’aubainewas worth another week’s waiting, and the affairs of De Pontis would stand at the expiration exactly where they did. The count left the presence much disappointed, remarking that he was happy to find Monseigneur regaining the feelings of youth—if a taste for beauty were a criterion. Richelieu only smiled, for the count was a useful man.
Elsewhere, Fontrailles swore horribly at the delay, and vowed vengeance against all who stood in the way of his desires. His creditors were gaping for their claims, and there were debts of honor unpaid. This statement Mademoiselle might rely on.
“Alas!” exclaimed Marguerite, “I tremble for my father’s kind friend, Monsieur Giraud, he will fall a sacrifice to the count’s rage. It is far better we should abandon thedroitthan expose so worthy a man to peril.”
In explanation, she ventured to inform François of the advocate’s intention. But Pedro Olivera’s statement of claim on Fontrailles—where was it? demanded the youth eagerly. The maiden was silent! Had she disclosed aught concerning himself to Monsieur Giraud? Marguerite repeated what had passed on that topic.
De Romainville, who observed her hesitation, assured her that in aught which concerned her father’s affairs she might safely confide in him. He did not profess to be disinterested—he might even claim a boon, but on this point would be silent till M. De Pontis were liberated. That she might know the history of one who asked her confidence, he related that his father had been sacrificed by a similar juggle to that attempted against Monsieur, and for the benefit of the same party, Fontrailles. The count pretending to pity his orphan state—and well he might, as he had himself wrought the calamity—recommended him to the cardinal. He served his eminence, it is true, and on occasions usefully, but hatred to the two prominent authors of his father’s ruin was not diminished thereby; and this feeling had twice produced a refractoriness leading to incarceration in the guard-room of thePalais-Cardinal.
Sympathizing with De Pontis, detesting Fontrailles and the tyrannical Richelieu—but for whom he might still have had a parent alive, and been himself very different from the reckless scapegrace he was now accounted—he might, he thought, be fairly trusted with any scheme which promised revenge on either the count or his patron.
Monsieur Giraud, he said, acted wisely in attacking Fontrailles in the way pointed out, but there was one matter which it behoved him to take care of with the count, which was to have especial regard that he be not robbed of the documents.
Marguerite replied that that subject had been already considered by the advocate, and he had bestowed the papers elsewhere.
“They are not safe from Fontrailles with Mademoiselle De Pontis,” said the page, smiling.
“Would they be safe with the Sieur De Romainville in thePalais-Cardinal?” asked the maiden significantly.
“Not so safe as this hand is from my lips!” exclaimed François, suiting the action to the word and kneeling at her feet; “if Mademoiselle permit—”
“That she remind him of his promise not to show interested motives till her father be free,” cried Marguerite, interrupting him.
“Indeed, I had forgotten it!” said the page, laughing and springing to his feet; “but before I depart let me give proof of disinterestedness, at least to one of the household. Let Marie have this cargo of wafers, it will requite the alarm and may help to stop her mouth. The basket I shall want again.”
So saying, he upset the entire stock in trade on the table, and replacing the basket on his left arm, seized the hand-bell, which Marguerite construing into an intention of inflicting another serenade on the quiet household, cried,
“For my sake, Monsieur, forbear!”
“I can assure Mademoiselle I shall not be guilty a second time of such folly,” replied François, “but I was so delighted with the check given to Fontrailles!”
In place of the wafers, he took with him the packet, and the good wishes of her who had given it in charge.