They are one and the same, said every heart that gazed upon them. Reader,they were! For the “Night” was also aportrait, and the last work of Martin Gray!
Alas! alas! sweet Alice! splendid and courted Alice! wretched and ruined Alice!
THE MISANTHROPE.
———
BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.
———
Speak no more!
Thou canst not comfort me. I’d rather hear
The serpent’s hiss than speech from a false heart.
There was a time thy voice had power to calm,
And lay the fiend within me: Let me rest
Lonely and cursed amid my wretchedness;
I have ventured all and lost—’twas Destiny!
There are dark spirits moving through the world,
Casting a saddening influence over all
Within their vortex: Such perchance is mine;
With its wild, fitful struggles, and its gleams
Now good, now evil, stronger with my strength
The eclipse of Heaven’s brightness. Who can read
The unknown language of the human heart,
Though writ in fiery characters? Where the power
To judge an erring creature, when the thoughts,
Hidden even to himself, cannot be fathomed
Save by Omniscience? In thy hollow hand
Measure the waters of the depthless sea,
Or with far-seeing vision through the expanse
Of yonder firmament of Heaven, speak
Of that which is to be, though yet unseen
In its bright pages: Easier task for man
Than judge his brother justly. To myself
I am a mystery, why not to thee?
The waters of my heart are deeper far
Than plummet ever sounded. Oh, dark Future!
Thy veil once lifted, will the power be given
To note their secret depths. Why have I trusted
But to be deceived? and not by man alone!
Why have I ever loved, if but to love
Has been to bind myself upon the wheel
Of wretchedness? The punishment of gods!
Why should I ask for sunshine on my heart,
If with it, it must wither? ask thyself.
Reading thine own heart’s secret, thou may’st learn
How much I needed sympathy. My path,
Now filled with rankest weeds, might have been pure
Under thy smile and teaching. Now, too late!
To wrestle with the world for an existence,
Bowed, but not crushed by Fate, is of itself
Enough to turn the heart to bitter gall,
And make it curse, where, in its sunnier hours,
It might have shed a blessing. Fortune’s smile,
Unto the favored, clothes the earth with flowers;
Its frown, alas! will make the brightest spot
Black as a demon’s glance—its fruit as bitter
As the Dead Sea’s—and like it naught but ashes!
The meanest thing,
Infuriated in the hunter’s toils,
Turns at the last with fierce and vengeful cry
To battle with its foe; and some there are,
Lost to all hope, in their own quiv’ring flesh
Implant their poisonous venom, choosing thus
To be themselves their executioners,
Than fall upon the spear of might and wrong.
Such do I fear myself: That I have been,
In happier days, a lover of my kind—
Heart as capacious, hand as firm and true,
As ever graced the proudest in the land.
I have been thus—Answer!what am I now?
I have found coldness where I looked for love—
Ingrates ’mid friends—the half averted head,
With the neglectful glance, that seemed to say,
Thou art not of us now! Half-way to meet
And pay back scorn by scorn, keener than that
The eye of man e’er threw upon me—thus
Was I ever—thus will ever be:
Though it heap coals of fire upon my head,
And writhe me with its tortures, still my soul,
Strong in its desperate fury, asks no boon
But hate, to be repaid by darker hate—
Failing in that, to die unwept, unsung.
Madness is not my portion—I shall live!
And from the chaplet round the brow of Fame
Yet seize, perchance, a leaf. Love in my heart
Is not yet all extinct: what it has been,
Brighter and purer than the present hour,
Has fled forever! Yet I cannot live
Unloving and unloved. But hand in hand
With my ambition, upward must it rise,
Subordinate, yet true unto the truthful.
Into the channels where deceit has crept—
Into the hearts unfaithful—o’er the paths
Of those who have repaid my love with guile,
The blast of my sirocco hate shall sweep,
Sudden to rise and swift to overthrow.
Such are my thoughts.
Would they were written on my brow, that all
Might read the tale untold. My story’s brief.
’Tis the twin passions—they have mastery,
And sway my pulse of life.
There are brief moments
When passion lieth sleeping, and my mind
Reveling in its dominion, far removed
From petty cares and struggles, soars aloft
(Smiling amid its tortures, then forgotten,)
Through the dark Future; with untiring wing,
Restless as the young eaglet, seeks the sun
Of light, and truth, and wisdom: or retiring
Back to the brilliant, unforgotten past,
Where every foot of earth contains a portion
Of immortality, seeks out its mate,
That may have wrestled with the storms of Time
And won the victor’s crown: or, from the page
Of mighty spirits, who have left a deep
And never-failing well of giant thought,
Feeding my flickering lamp of life, nor dream
There is a world elsewhere, but in the visions
The arch-enchanters have raised up for Time!
God’s blessings on ye, noble-hearted men!
How often to this saddened soul of mine
Have ye brought strength and hope! Earth has not
Jewels so rare, as those ye thickly scatter
Upon the wind for your posterity.
To me your voices,
In the still midnight, in the garish day,
Have ever gently come: I trust in you—
And ye are faithful: Rest forever with me.
The prophet lore of Israel—the sound
Of swelling harps by Grecian wizards strung—
Promethean echoes!—the ever-burning page
Of England’s brighter days—the undying song
Of richest Shakspeare—and the noble strains
Of master-minds drinking their inspiration
From his pure fountain—all the mighty line—
Sweeps by this distant shallow generation,
The monody of Time!
Sweet friends!
My heart henceforth must nestle in your loves,
Or be forever lost. When forgotten,
For a brief period, ’mid the worldly strife
And emptiness of things, how sinks my spirit,
Imprisoned ’mid the iron bars of forms.
I have no hope of happiness in life,
That is not bound up with the mighty past.
The present is a Hell—the future, dark.
Earth’s comforters are for the happy few.
No denizen am I. I stand alone.
Alone, for judgment?
Stormy and wild my passions—full of sins,
Grievous and bitter. Who shall succor me?
I looked to love—I found it hollowness.
I looked to hate—I found it bitterness.
Unto ambition—and it smiled upon me
But to elude my grasp:—unto a future,
My stubborn heart refuses its belief.
I have not learned deceit, nor schooled myself
To be a hypocrite. What I am, I am!
The secret sin of man—Hypocrisy—
Can never mate with me: Would that it could.
Wer’t so, I would not suffer as I must.
Could I but veil myself thus from men’s eyes,
And seem the thing I am not, I might live
Happier in this world’s love. But let that pass.
I will not bend my knee, or lose one spark
Of Heaven’s heritage—my manhood’s truth—
But trample on the vampires of the world,
Who fatten on the blood of noble things.
What though the strife’s unequal? Let me fall,
Strong in my ruined hopes; the shrine profaned
Within the inner temple, is to me
Dearer than all now opened to my soul;
So let me die with prayer upon my lips,
And like old Israel’s stricken one, pull down
A glorious desolation in my fall!
Wild are my thoughts, oh God!
And wilder still the passionate heart that beats
With a fallen angel’s power. There liveth not
Among earth’s myriads, a more restless spirit,
So formed for good or ill!
I have been gentle,
Loving and kind to all. My curse has been
To feel the unkind thought—to doubt all truth—
Of woman and of man. Naught’s left me now
But shaken confidence and cheated hopes,
A long and drear account to be repaid
With interest manifold. The restless fire
That has preyed upon my brain, and blasted life—
Destroyed my peace, and made me stern and strong
As the avenging fury, must recoil
Upon the heads of those whose path has been
In triumph o’er my heart.
Shall I then spare?
Who spared me where I trusted most? Whose hand
Clasped firmly mine? Speak! whose kind word,
When sorrow was upon me, came unto me,
As it should come, in peace, and bid me hope?
The butterflies that thronged around my steps,
But to fly from me when the sun went down?
I think of them, not to give blow for blow,
But to tramp out their false hearts ’neath my heel.
They left a sting behind—but yet I live!
Ay! they shall feel I live.
Their loss was naught.
The serpent’s tooth was nearer to my heart
That tortured me to madness. I had loved;
Thou knowest it. Call it love—idolatry!
For it was my religion. All but that—
Power, wealth and friends—I could have lost,
Hadst thou but trustfully still kept thy vow,
Calming the raging fever of my brain!
Well! when these painted lizards crawled aside,
And I clung, like the wretched mariner,
Unto a straw, I deemed a plank, for life.
Whose voice came o’er the deep and angry sea,
Bidding me be of faith and hope? Speak, now!
What! art thou voiceless? Nearer, bend thine ear!
Nay, shudder not—there’s “method in my madness!”
I would not shriek it out aloud, for fear
The sound might create revelry in Hell!
Not the one I loved.
Not hers, whose every thought was mine—not hers,
Who should have searched my deep, unquiet heart,
And soothed it in its agony. Oh no!
Too hard a task to ask this boon of her,
Whose dearest thought seemed but to learn the way
To help to crush—not save.
Oh God! forgive me!
How much of sorrow, sin and shame, my life
Would have been guiltless of, had but the one—
The only one of earth—reached forth her hand,
And with that hand, her heart, to lift me up
And keep my manhood pure.
It was a dream!
I only deemed it but her duty here;
I may have asked too much! ’Tis over now.
The sharpest strife is o’er, and I must be
Sufficient to myself. The past can ne’er
Recall itself to me, but with my tears,
That have been tears of blood. Would that the fate
Of the Olympus-stricken Niobe
Had been mine also—that I had been marble.
Oh charity! oh love! how much we need
Thy softening power. Ye, whose hearts are bowed
Before a great Creator; ye, whose thoughts
Should be all purity—cannot ye feel
The power given you to soothe and calm
The troubled souls of weary-hearted men,
Who wrestle, like the Titan, ’gainst the power
Of the Omnipotent! Hurling ever back
Against the thunderer’s bolts, an avalanche,
Cleft from the cloud-topped hills of human pride,
The settlings of a world of hate and scorn.
So fades my life,
And with it, all the poetry of youth,
The summer of existence—lost forever.
As fleeting as the bubble, Reputation—
As false as social ties—delusive all—
The mirage of the world.
In this, my deep communing with myself,
New strength has come upon me. Oh, my soul!
Gird on thy armor of Indifference,
And forth into the world to toil and strive,
Bearing thy secret ever present to thee,
Lest weak Humanity should tamely yield
Unto its earlier promptings: Up and work!
There is a pathway left for Lucifer;
All portals are not closed. Up, up, the time
Is present now; fearless and bold press on;
Stay not for counsel or impediment,
But, like the Roman matron’s chariot,
Pass recklessly upon thy destined course,
Though Nature’s holiest ruin stops the way.
ALICE VERNON.
———
BY E. CURTISS HINE, U. S. N.
———
There is many a bright star gleaming,In memory’s distant sky,And their soft light is streamingOn days long, long gone by.And often hover round meThe loved and lost of yore,Ere cankering care had found me,Or life’s young dream was o’er!We see at early morningSoft hues steal o’er the sky,Its eastern arch adorning,To glad the raptured eye,But deem not their complexion,Like flowers in joyous spring,Is caused by the reflectionFrom passing angel’s wing!E’en thus, our thoughts concealing.We watch o’er woman’s cheekThe hues of beauty stealing,With hearts too full to speak,And little think those blushes,Like June’s young roses fair,Come when some angel brushesHis loving pinions there!
There is many a bright star gleaming,In memory’s distant sky,And their soft light is streamingOn days long, long gone by.And often hover round meThe loved and lost of yore,Ere cankering care had found me,Or life’s young dream was o’er!We see at early morningSoft hues steal o’er the sky,Its eastern arch adorning,To glad the raptured eye,But deem not their complexion,Like flowers in joyous spring,Is caused by the reflectionFrom passing angel’s wing!E’en thus, our thoughts concealing.We watch o’er woman’s cheekThe hues of beauty stealing,With hearts too full to speak,And little think those blushes,Like June’s young roses fair,Come when some angel brushesHis loving pinions there!
There is many a bright star gleaming,In memory’s distant sky,And their soft light is streamingOn days long, long gone by.And often hover round meThe loved and lost of yore,Ere cankering care had found me,Or life’s young dream was o’er!
There is many a bright star gleaming,
In memory’s distant sky,
And their soft light is streaming
On days long, long gone by.
And often hover round me
The loved and lost of yore,
Ere cankering care had found me,
Or life’s young dream was o’er!
We see at early morningSoft hues steal o’er the sky,Its eastern arch adorning,To glad the raptured eye,But deem not their complexion,Like flowers in joyous spring,Is caused by the reflectionFrom passing angel’s wing!
We see at early morning
Soft hues steal o’er the sky,
Its eastern arch adorning,
To glad the raptured eye,
But deem not their complexion,
Like flowers in joyous spring,
Is caused by the reflection
From passing angel’s wing!
E’en thus, our thoughts concealing.We watch o’er woman’s cheekThe hues of beauty stealing,With hearts too full to speak,And little think those blushes,Like June’s young roses fair,Come when some angel brushesHis loving pinions there!
E’en thus, our thoughts concealing.
We watch o’er woman’s cheek
The hues of beauty stealing,
With hearts too full to speak,
And little think those blushes,
Like June’s young roses fair,
Come when some angel brushes
His loving pinions there!
O, fair youngAlice Vernon,To thee fond memory turns,As loving sun-flowers turn onTheir stems when noon-day burns!We roamed the woods togetherIn life’s young break of day,Ere clouds and wintry weatherHad shadowed o’er our way!Bright were thy braided tresses,As braided sunbeams are,And like a glimpse of HeavenThe smile that thou didst wear.That smile still haunts my memoryLike tale of fairy land,And oft in dreamy mood I seeThy form before me stand!Sweet, laughingAlice Vernon,It seemeth strange to me,And yet they tell me Time hath laidHis heavy hand on thee!I cannot deem thee faded,Though weary suns have setOn weary, weary, weary daysAnd years since last we met!I feel it now—the fairest thingsAre doomed to pass away,And yet my heart the firmest clingsTo those that first decay!And so, sweetAlice Vernon,I turn to thee always,As flowers their stems will turn onTo drink the sun’s bright rays!
O, fair youngAlice Vernon,To thee fond memory turns,As loving sun-flowers turn onTheir stems when noon-day burns!We roamed the woods togetherIn life’s young break of day,Ere clouds and wintry weatherHad shadowed o’er our way!Bright were thy braided tresses,As braided sunbeams are,And like a glimpse of HeavenThe smile that thou didst wear.That smile still haunts my memoryLike tale of fairy land,And oft in dreamy mood I seeThy form before me stand!Sweet, laughingAlice Vernon,It seemeth strange to me,And yet they tell me Time hath laidHis heavy hand on thee!I cannot deem thee faded,Though weary suns have setOn weary, weary, weary daysAnd years since last we met!I feel it now—the fairest thingsAre doomed to pass away,And yet my heart the firmest clingsTo those that first decay!And so, sweetAlice Vernon,I turn to thee always,As flowers their stems will turn onTo drink the sun’s bright rays!
O, fair youngAlice Vernon,To thee fond memory turns,As loving sun-flowers turn onTheir stems when noon-day burns!We roamed the woods togetherIn life’s young break of day,Ere clouds and wintry weatherHad shadowed o’er our way!
O, fair youngAlice Vernon,
To thee fond memory turns,
As loving sun-flowers turn on
Their stems when noon-day burns!
We roamed the woods together
In life’s young break of day,
Ere clouds and wintry weather
Had shadowed o’er our way!
Bright were thy braided tresses,As braided sunbeams are,And like a glimpse of HeavenThe smile that thou didst wear.That smile still haunts my memoryLike tale of fairy land,And oft in dreamy mood I seeThy form before me stand!
Bright were thy braided tresses,
As braided sunbeams are,
And like a glimpse of Heaven
The smile that thou didst wear.
That smile still haunts my memory
Like tale of fairy land,
And oft in dreamy mood I see
Thy form before me stand!
Sweet, laughingAlice Vernon,It seemeth strange to me,And yet they tell me Time hath laidHis heavy hand on thee!I cannot deem thee faded,Though weary suns have setOn weary, weary, weary daysAnd years since last we met!
Sweet, laughingAlice Vernon,
It seemeth strange to me,
And yet they tell me Time hath laid
His heavy hand on thee!
I cannot deem thee faded,
Though weary suns have set
On weary, weary, weary days
And years since last we met!
I feel it now—the fairest thingsAre doomed to pass away,And yet my heart the firmest clingsTo those that first decay!And so, sweetAlice Vernon,I turn to thee always,As flowers their stems will turn onTo drink the sun’s bright rays!
I feel it now—the fairest things
Are doomed to pass away,
And yet my heart the firmest clings
To those that first decay!
And so, sweetAlice Vernon,
I turn to thee always,
As flowers their stems will turn on
To drink the sun’s bright rays!
SONG.
ON THE WIDE WORLD I AM SAILING.
On the wide world I am sailing,My bark is on the tide;The lead and the line are trailing,And the spread sail reaches wide.With the ebb and flow I’m gliding,Adown the stream of Time;’Mong breakers oft I am riding,And o’er the wrecks of crime.’Mid troubled waves wild dashing,When storms and tempests come;’Mid heaven and earth’s wild crashing,My life-boat is my home.Then out on the wild world roaming,In troubles or in sport;On the stream of Time wild foaming,My cold grave is my port!Agnes.
On the wide world I am sailing,My bark is on the tide;The lead and the line are trailing,And the spread sail reaches wide.With the ebb and flow I’m gliding,Adown the stream of Time;’Mong breakers oft I am riding,And o’er the wrecks of crime.’Mid troubled waves wild dashing,When storms and tempests come;’Mid heaven and earth’s wild crashing,My life-boat is my home.Then out on the wild world roaming,In troubles or in sport;On the stream of Time wild foaming,My cold grave is my port!Agnes.
On the wide world I am sailing,My bark is on the tide;The lead and the line are trailing,And the spread sail reaches wide.
On the wide world I am sailing,
My bark is on the tide;
The lead and the line are trailing,
And the spread sail reaches wide.
With the ebb and flow I’m gliding,Adown the stream of Time;’Mong breakers oft I am riding,And o’er the wrecks of crime.
With the ebb and flow I’m gliding,
Adown the stream of Time;
’Mong breakers oft I am riding,
And o’er the wrecks of crime.
’Mid troubled waves wild dashing,When storms and tempests come;’Mid heaven and earth’s wild crashing,My life-boat is my home.
’Mid troubled waves wild dashing,
When storms and tempests come;
’Mid heaven and earth’s wild crashing,
My life-boat is my home.
Then out on the wild world roaming,In troubles or in sport;On the stream of Time wild foaming,My cold grave is my port!Agnes.
Then out on the wild world roaming,In troubles or in sport;On the stream of Time wild foaming,My cold grave is my port!Agnes.
Then out on the wild world roaming,
In troubles or in sport;
On the stream of Time wild foaming,
My cold grave is my port!
Agnes.
MAJOR ANSPACH.
———
FROM THE FRENCH OF MARC FOURNIER.
———
(Concluded from page 286)
We should be seriously grieved if the expressionsageof which we made use at the end of the preceding chapter should lead the too credulous reader into a dangerous error.
The tendency of this edifying history is to prove, on the contrary, in the most simple and incontrovertible manner, that however man may subdue his passions and limit his enjoyments to the rigorous circle traced by fortune, it is sufficient that these passions exist, and that he is their slave, to disturb the most philosophical mind, and to excite tempests that are the more violent because concentrated in a narrow space. Of what import are the dimensions of the scene? A perturbation in a glass of water is a tempest full of horror to the fly who ventures to brave its dangers. Well, the worthy Major Anspach was this imprudent insect.
One fine day in April, when the air was soft and balmy, the descendant by the female line of the last Dukes of Lorraine, having brushed with the greatest care his long brown overcoat and his black plush pantaloons, sought, at his usual stately pace, his favorite resting-place, and its perfumes. The frequenters of “Provence in Miniature,” as that end of the garden is called. Children, nurses, young men and girls, were so well acquainted with the “man of the bench,” that no one was permitted to usurp the seat which so long possession had consecrated to his use; what, then, was the painful surprise of the major on approaching his domain to find it occupied!
His first impulse was to take the affair in the simplest form of view, to go up and explain to the audacious invader of his privileges by what a continuous occupation he, Major Anspach, Baron of Phalsbourg, descended in the female line from the last Dukes of Lorraine, had acquired the exclusive right to sit in that angle of the wall, between the jasmine and the flowering roses.
But the necessity he would be under of divulging his birth was repugnant to his pride; and as the individual occupying the bench—hisbench—was an old man like himself; long like himself, thin and unhappy like himself, and who appeared, like himself, not to enjoy many of the luxuries of life, and whose face,like his own, bore traces of long suffering, and painful struggles with adversity; our worthy major contented himself by throwing upon the unknown the glance of an old lion—who on returning to his den and finding it occupied by another old lion dying, passes on—so our major. “It assuredly is only a temporary occupant,” said he mentally—“a walk to the end of the avenue and he will have departed.”
But he deceived himself—he wandered from walk to walk, from avenue to avenue, passing and repassing his “Paradise Lost,” shooting fiery glances from his eyes upon the indiscreet possessor of the coveted seat; but this last, took no notice of the menacing looks of our unhappy and irritated old friend, and continued peacefully to sun himself whilst gazing with melancholy eye upon the joyous circle of young girls who danced up almost to his feet.
The sun neared the horizon—the shadows began to lengthen—and, at last, twilight overspread the landscape; then the unknown arose, and making a turn or two to relieve his limbs, slowly disappeared by the Rue St.Honoré.
M. Anspach returned home in feverish exasperation.
On the following morning the sun again shone out beautifully, and our friend the major proceeded to finish elaborately his toilet. He had grown calm, and reason suggested that yesterday’s intruder could have no motive, for two days in succession, to make him miserable; nevertheless the old gentleman was unhappy—for at his age a day lost is something!
On arriving at the Tuileries, the first object to which he directed his longing eyes was his bench, and there again was seated his perverse old substitute. The major was astounded! He made a move as if to go and tear the invader from a place of happiness of which he was so unjustly deprived; but old age controls impulse, and the major felt that he could not depart from those rules of politeness which belonged to his rank and former position in society. It was a flagrant imposition it was true: there was even a kind of impertinence in the conduct of the intruder, who must have observed how much the major was chagrined by his adverse possession the day before.
All this was plausible, but it would not justify a quarrel: and, whatever the right of the major to the estate shaded with roses and jasmine, its assertion at first view offered something so absurd, and even ridiculous, that it hardly consorted with the dignity of the descendant by the female side of the last Dukes of Lorraine.
These reflections, which presented themselves confusedly to the mind of the major, as he wended his tedious way among the walks, did not however calm his irritation. He wandered without object among the cross-alleys of the garden, running against passengers, and even the trees and benches, and chairs, like a dismasted ship at the mercy of winds and waves.
It was really painful to see that long overcoat trotting about, going, turning, and returning, its owner given up to a thousand diverse emotions, in which were intermixed chagrin, unhappiness and regret.
As often as this changeful temper brought the old man opposite to his lost Eden—that is to say, the bench and bower of roses where imperturbably sat his rival, the major raised his eyes upward and heaved so lamentable a sigh that the passers by, not knowing the cause, were struck with wonder.
The next day Major Anspach returned, timid, nervous, breathless, and filled with inquietude—there again was theexecutioner of his happiness!
Once again in the morning M. Anspach dragged himself to the spot, without strength and without hope—he could scarcely raise his longing eyes from afar toward his terrestrial paradise, where, as usual, sat his tormentor, like the implacable angel of destruction; that impassive face, that form, as long, as thin, as venerable as the major’s own, but infinitely more enduring in its cruelty—than the patience of its victim!
This excitement could not last without seriously affecting the major’s health; he took to his bed; a burning fever raged in his blood; weeks of unconsciousness passed by, and a long convalescence only permitted him to walk slowly along the Boulevard, with cane, and umbrella to shade him from the influence of the raging Dog Star; he sighed deeply and constantly. When his thoughts rested upon his past happiness, the wounds opened afresh, and he would stand for a long time plunged in melancholy reverie, interrupted only by nervous tremblings and audible groans.
When, at last, he was entirely able to resume his walks, instead of revisiting the Tuileries, he studiously avoided them, and turning his course by the Rue du Bac, passed on to the Luxembourg; he wished to cheat his heart. But the effort was unsuccessful notwithstanding his heroism—the habits of old age are tenacious because they are egotistic. The Luxembourg presented no object that he loved, neither the people he was accustomed to see, nor the palace of his kings, which at times he had worshiped with stolen glances; neither the kindly memories of the past, suggested by the sight of objects on the other side of the river.
At the end of some days, the major felt that he would infallibly return to his bed if he continued to quarrel with his inclinations; but in the apprehension of again meeting his adversary—whom he had come to regard with a mixture of hatred and fear—he conceived a most extravagant project. It is necessary, in order to admit for a moment that such an idea could enter the mind of one with head as gray as that of the major, to reflect that the infatuation of the old man, instead of relaxing during the paroxysms of fever, and passing away with its weakness, only became concentrated and fixed as an incurable mania.
Whatever it was, he resolved to put it in execution the very day of its conception, if necessity forced him.
——
“Palsambleu!” the old major exclaimed to himself, as he crossed the Pont Royal; “I have an idea that things have changed a little in three months in ‘Little Provence,’ and that my gentleman, tired of waiting to see my chagrin, has vacated his place—or at least some new rascal has taken it into his head to finish the other’s work; that is, to disgust me with existence.Bah! that’s all nonsense, I shall find my little bench smaller than ever—if however Fortune is still against me—then, mille diables, I will show him that I am a Phalsbourg—morbleu!—a descendant of the Lorraines, corbleu!—a gray musqueteer!—bombs and cannon!—and we will see whether this fellow will keep his ground. It is indifferent to me whether I die by the stroke of a sabre, or of a little bench usurped. By the bye! how long is it since my last duel? Let me see! forty two years! Humph! that’s rather a long interval for the honor of Phalsbourg. But that duel had great results, and cost me dear—one hundred thousand crowns! I would like to know whether my money went to the bottom of the sea with that Palissandre—whom may Heaven confound! When I think that we endeavored to cut each other’s throats for that little sinner Guimard!—a little fool! who had no other merit, on my conscience, but that she was her mother’s daughter—another adventuress who so completely turned inside out the pockets of the infatuated and unfortunate Soubise.”
Major Anspach hummed a tune as he lounged along with a most gallant air in the long brownscabbardwhich he called his overcoat, and which gave something so extravagant to his appearance, that the gate-keeper at the Tuileries had some remorse for letting him pass: nevertheless, the major, when he had entered the orangery, resumed his gravity and dignified deportment; besides, he stretched out his neck and held his head so proudly, that his length was increased beyond all conception, giving one an idea of the sword of a Swiss guard perambulating the garden.
The promenade offered that day every imaginable splendor—the sunlight danced upon the liquid surface of the fountains, and its red rays piercing the interstices of the foliage, bathed the atmosphere in glittering vapor—the rays of warm light striking upon the marble statues, started them as it were into being, while Reverie, with bended head, seemed to throw its somniferous influence over flowery meads and shaded walks—and Zephyr, escorted by voluptuous Idleness, sought each wooded recess like a nymph of Délos under the sacred laurel.
We dare not affirm that our ex-musqueteer sensibly enjoyed the delights of the garden, thus illumined by the morning sun as we have described them, for it is the opinion of philosophers that a less pleasure is swallowed up in a greater one—the little bench, its roses and jasmine, alone entered his thoughts, and at that moment for it alone he lived. His eyes on approaching it were directed timidly toward the little seat, and who can describe the bounding pulsation of his heart on perceiving it vacant! And besides, how much was it embellished since he last beheld it! the roses had climbed up and mingled with the jasmine, and formed a delicious bower of perfume and beauty, almost concealing the little bench in its deep recesses.
A hundred thousand pounds weight, and something more, slid from the heart of the dear old major, and enabled him for the first time in three months to breathe freely. His emotion was so great that his limbs tottered, and he was obliged to cling to an orange tree for support—tears sprang to his eyes—he tried to utter some words to himself that he might hear his own voice, as if he doubted the evidence of his senses—but he could only bring forth inarticulate sounds whilst his chest heaved convulsively. He fell into a reverie. “The storm that lowered on his house” was about to be dissipated, and he had now only to combat the unhappy daughter of Memory—talon-fingered Regret!
In celebrating thus in thought his returning happiness Major Anspach resumed his march, and walked along with eyes cast down, as if overcome with his own pleasant thoughts, when he raised them he was within two feet of his Mecca. He suddenly bounded backward as if an adder had stung him, and then stood breathing wildly and with glassy stare—his rival was there!
The reader would be wrong to conclude that the ill opinion formed in the mind of Major Anspach regarding the unknown was a just one. The face of the old man was wrinkled like that of an old soldier of Italy, as painted by M. Charlet, giving evidence of years of hardship spent in the service of his country—and if his countenance was somewhat austere, that severity in his looks was softened by something of amiability and sweetness.
It was easy to perceive that he had suffered much and long. His person partook of the military rigidity of his countenance, the blue coat he wore over a white waistcoat buttoning to the throat, with nankeen pantaloons, and buckled shoes, indicated a fashion long gone by, and its well-brushed surface, though worn, presented to the eye a tout ensemble which claimed the respect of the stranger. In a word, there existed between the unknown and the major so many points of resemblance, that it required the blind aversion which had taken possession of the latter to prevent a feeling of the warmest sympathy springing up between him and his antagonist: but far from perceiving these symptoms of a poverty noble and proud in his rival, and which should have inclined him to stretch out the arms of a brother rather than those of an enemy, the descendant of the Phalsbourgs, blinded with rage, could scarce recover himself sufficiently to salute the stranger with a touch of his beaver of very sinister augury.
The unknown returned the salutation with much urbanity and self-possession.
M. Anspach, this duty to politeness performed, mechanically as it were, drew his hat down over his eyes and made a step forward.
At this gesture his rival smiled, and looked around him as if to make his visiter comprehend that it was impossible from the narrowness of his quarters to offer him hospitality.
M. Anspach observing this pantomime, smiled also, but it was a bitter smile. He made increditable efforts to recover his voice.
“I believe I see in you a lover of the Tuileries,” observed he of the blue coat, bowing gracefully, “and that you have come, like myself, to enjoy here the fine weather?”
“It is three months since I have enjoyed it, sir,” the choking major answered, rolling his eyes.
“True—I have remarked your absence.”
“Ah!” growled M. Anspach de Phalsbourg.
That “ah!” was a little fiendish.
“You appear to suffer,” rejoined he of the blue coat, “and are fatigued,” he added, without offering, however, to yield his seat.
“You are right,” replied the major, all at once recovering the use of his epiglottis. “Yes, sir! Iamfatigued—no one was ever more fatigued.”
The major made a pause as if gathering himself up for an encounter—then stepping up boldly under the very nose of his adversary, continued:
“Hear me, my verydearsir. I have not the honor to know you, but I take you to be an honorable man; besides, your exterior pleases me; you suit me well, and I should be pleased if you will permit me the honor of cutting your throat.”
The blue coat drew back in astonishment, mingled with fright; he began to think he had to deal with an insane person, but the major, interpreting the movement, continued—
“Do not judge the horse by his harness”—assuming at the same time a port full of dignity and well-bred self-possession. “You will have in me an antagonist not unworthy of the sword of a man of honor—and if reasons altogether personal did not at present oblige me to ask as a favor the permission to conceal my name, you would learn that I was of a blood which has never dishonored the veins through which it ran.”
“Then, sir,” replied the unknown, in a tone almost serious, “I am delighted by the accident, whatsoever it may be, that brings us together; for the name I bear, though I boast not of it, is one of the most esteemed in Angoumois.”
“This meeting is delightful!” chimed in the major.
“Nevertheless,” resumed our blue coat, rising as he spoke—“perhaps you will do me the pleasure to explain to me to what unexpected cause I owe the honor of your challenge?”
“You shall have it in few words. You have not formally insulted me, I acknowledge, but you have nearly killed me—and I plainly perceive from the course you have taken that you will eventually accomplish it. I prefer to anticipate my end.”
The unknown reseated himself; for the idea returned that he was conversing with a lunatic. But this time the major, appearing to comprehend most perfectly the suspicions of his enemy, shrugged his shoulders and smiled in disdain, as he said—
“I hoped that your age, sir, would have prevented any precipitate judgment concerning my motives; but I see that I was mistaken, for you appear to partake of that vulgar prejudice which puts beyond the pale of a just opinion all that apparently outrages the conventionalities of social life. Be pleased, then, to excuse the strangeness of my address, and I dare hope that you will reconsider your opinion, when you know the just grounds I have to seek the honor of a meeting with you.”
The composed and self-possessed manner with which these last words were spoken, struck the unknown, and he again stood up, while the major, throwing a rapid glance over the blue coat, continued—
“I believe, sir, you are in a condition to feel some sympathy for those whom fortune has not deigned to favor. I can, then, without a blush acknowledge to you that I am one of her victims. Happily, I have not received in the New World, where I passed many years, severe lessons of wisdom and moderation without profiting somewhat by them. I have been twice entirely ruined, and yet am consoled by my philosophy. Returning from America, I saw myself neglected—even repulsed—by my royal masters, to whom I had consecrated the best years of my life—a king—princes who have not deigned to extend the hand of friendship to an old and faithful servant, and who let him grow old in indigence and want. Well, I am still resigned, and for more than ten years have lived without complaint, in a state bordering on the extremest misery. But you know, sir, that man’s strength is not inexhaustible—there is a point beyond endurance—it is to that point you, sir, have brought me—”
“I, sir? I?”
“You will see, sir. The necessity I was under to contract my desires has conducted me, little by little, to a modesty of enjoyment which will astonish you. Our desires increase with fortune; but a wise man has strength of mind enough to diminish them in inverse ratio to his misfortunes. Mine, sir, are concentrated upon an object so humble that I might well believe it beyond the caprice of destiny. The object of which I speak is the little bench where you are seated—where, since the 17th of April, you, sir, have come to seat yourself each day, a little earlier than it was my custom to come out to rest myself. For two years I have taken a fancy to this spot in the garden. I love that bench—that shade—those flowers. In summer I come here in the sweet morning hour, peacefully to enjoy the perfume of these honeysuckles. In autumn—in winter—the smallest ray of sunshine upon the corner of the garden wall reflects its heat upon that narrow bench, making it a delightful resting-place for the worn out frame of an old man. What shall I say? This sweet resort obtained soon such an empire over me, that I had but one end—but one desire to gratify—the least sunshine upon the roofs which my garret overlooks—the least smile of heaven had for me, a poor old man, more intoxicating charms than ever glance of a mistress to the most devoted lover. It was a real passion—a love with all its joys and delicious griefs—a cloudy or a rainy day threw me in despair, and I felt all the torments of absence from the thing I loved—but was the morrow beautiful, I made the most brilliant toilet I could imagine, and ran to my little bench, convinced that I should find its pleasures increased.
“Is it necessary to tell you now, sir, that since the 17th of April you have driven me from my paradise, and that you have become my executioner!
“I have but little more to say but that when I was a gray musqueteer I would have killed any one who raised his eyes toward my mistress; you, sir, have done more than raise your eyes toward her—you have robbed me of her—you have taken my little bench. It is more than an insult. It is, believe me, a murder—an assassination. Then, sir, give me again that seat; assure me on your honor that you will respect my right in future, or name your place and weapons.”
The unknown listened to the major with increasing interest; the impress of a thousand contrary feelings flitted by turns across his countenance, and an observer might have remarked at times that lively combats were going on within.
When M. Anspach ceased to speak, waiting the answer of our blue coat, the latter walked backward and forward for some time in silence, a prey to a visible sorrow, which the major could not but respect.
At length he stopped, and fixing upon the major a grave and melancholy look, replied—
“I am an old soldier, and the alternative you offer is not repugnant to me. I, too, for three months have had the habit of resorting to this sweet spot, and to it I have consecrated the last enjoyments of a life without happiness.
“You speak of your misfortunes,” added he, with a serious smile; “mine do not cede to them in number or severity: I was noble and wealthy before the Revolution, but on my return, after a long absence, I found France republican, and I too became a republican from love to her. My nobility was opposed to public opinion—I renounced it. My wealth appeared to insult the public poverty—I offered my entire fortune upon the altar of my country. The enemy menaced our frontiers—I hastened to join the phalanx under Moreau. I gave my all to France—my name, my blood, my fortune. But Bonaparte appeared, and nothing remained for me to offer to the expiring Republic but my tears and my despair. Advances were made to me—I rejected them. They would have restored my fortune and my rank—I preferred my honor and my misery—and it was only in 1815, when France made a last effort, that I prepared to die at Waterloo. Alas! much better would it have been to have died there! Prisoner, and designedly overlooked in the exchanges, (for you are aware that it could not be forgiven to a count to have fought for France,) I was banished to the end of Russia, dragged to Tobolsk, and abandoned there without resources to all the horrors of nakedness and hunger.
“How I escaped from those deserts would not interest you. Heaven has permitted me to revisit France, and here I am a mark for the resentments of the throne; regarded as a traitor to the monarchy, and contemned by those who to-day might aid me.”
The old man on concluding these words slowly crossed his arms upon his breast, his head drooped, as if memory remounted the lapse of years of misfortune, and without apparent consciousness of the presence of his interlocutor.
The major, let us say it to his praise, had equally lost sight of the subject of their quarrel. Touched by this recital, which awakened in his heart sensibilities somewhat moss-grown by age, he approached the unknown, and placing his hand upon his arm, said in a voice filled with emotion—
“Providence has had its secret designs, my dear count, (for I perceive you bear that title,) in permitting two unfortunates such as we are to cross each other’s path; and if I experience something soothing to my pain in listening to the recital of your sorrows, it is in thinking that you have met the only person in the world capable of sympathizing with you as you deserve.”
“You forget, my dear sir,” replied the blue coat, smiling blandly, “that we have to cut each other’s throats to-morrow.”
The major hung his head in confusion.
“Hear me,” said the old soldier of the Republic. “I do not really think that this affair is important enough to fight about. Confess, besides, that such pastime does not become our age. Ah! there was a time I did not say so! In coming from the theatre, I as willingly went to fight at the Porte Maillôt as to laugh at the Café Procope. Sir, would you believe it, he who speaks to you has fought and been wounded, and afterward voyaged six thousand miles to seek his antagonist, and all because one evening Mademoiselle Guimard, the younger, let her handkerchief fall!”
“What do I hear!” exclaimed Major Anspach, making a start of surprise, “you said—you—ah! mon Dieu!”
“What do I see! you tremble—you become pale—do you know any thing of that unhappy affair? Ah! sir, if it is true that you do, render me a service that I will never forget—tell me what has become of Major Anspach?—but now I think of it, you said you had been a gray musqueteer under the Comte D’Artois—perhaps you have known the major—you certainly must have been acquainted with him—ah! speak. I only possess six hundred francs of revenue, but I would give it all only to see the major once more before I die.”
“You are then the Chevalier De Palissandre?” murmured the grand-nephew of the Guises by the female line, who had fallen upon the little bench from a faintness he in vain endeavored to overcome.
“I inherited the title of count on the death of my two brothers, but you, sir—may I believe—my eyes do not deceive me!—those features! Oh, speak once more—you are—”
“Yes, count. I am—I am your ancient rival—”
“Oh, joy! Heaven is just—it would not let me perish without seeing him once more. Oh! if you knew, my dear baron, how often since your departure from France—your flight I may call it—I have cursed the ill-fortune which did not allow me to arrive in London in time to join you—I was acquainted with the rascality of your banker, and not wishing to entrust to his hands the fortune which you had left in your carriage, I hastened after you to inform you of it—to advise you of your danger of loss through him in time to remedy it. Missing you there, I did not feel myself relieved of the obligation to seek you. I followed you to the Havana—I pursued your traces, but meeting contrary winds and tempests, the vessel in which I embarked failed to overtake you, and I was obliged to renounce the dearest object of my life.”
“Well, chevalier—that is to say, sir count—pardon me the neglect. Take the hand I offer you, and let us bless the good fortune which permits us to meet in our unhappy circumstances, in which we both have need of the friendly offices of the other.”
“What the devil do you say, D’Anspach?” cried the count, crushing in his own the offered hand of themajor. “What do you say about unhappy circumstances? There are none hereafter for you, my friend—you are rich, devilish rich—I believe, devil take me! that you are a monstrous millionaire!”
The old major fixed his eye on De Palissandre in stupid astonishment.
“Notwithstanding your surprise, it is nevertheless true,” continued the count, “for despairing of ever seeing you again, I took the only course which remained, which was to wait until you should yourself return to seek your 300,000 francs. But not wishing to resemble the bad servant in the parable who buried his talent in the earth, and not believing your money safe in France, I returned to London, placed your little fortune in the hands of one of my friends connected with the East Company—and remember, major, that forty years have passed away since that! May I go to the devil, if I can pretend to tell you what the honorable baronet has done to multiply your francs; but his son, who succeeded him in business fifteen years ago, and with whom I have corresponded since my return from Russia, wrote me the other day that the funds invested in the house of Ashburton & Co. amounted to nearly eight hundred thousand pounds sterling—twenty millions of francs! It seems like a fairy tale!”
We will not attempt to paint the expression upon the face of Major Anspach. He remained for a long time without speech or color—his eyes shut—like a man half-killed by some overwhelming blow, and who seems bewildered in his mind—at length his features regained their natural appearance, his cheeks their color; he drew a long sigh, opened his eyes, and saw before him M. de Palissandre anxiously watching the effect of the crisis—stretched out his arms and threw them around the neck of his old friend; shedding torrents of tears.
When the first effervescence of feeling was a little subdued, the major seized the hand of the count anew. “Hear me, Palissandre—if you do not promise me to submit yourself without the slightest remark to my wishes, I take to witness my great grand-aunt, who was cousin in the eighth degree removed of Monsieur de Guise le Balafré, that I will go to London, receive my millions, and on my return will throw them into the sea. Ma foi! it will only be the second fortune old ocean owes to me.”
“Sarpejeu! speak then!”
“Well, then, we will live together—be happy—be rich together—andboth shall have new suits of clothes!—and when we have lived long enough, I hope Heaven will put an end to us both at the same time. I shall give immediate orders for the purchase, at whatever cost, of the lands of De Phalbourg and our Castle de Palissandre. Then we shall have two fine estates, and you will see what lots of nephews and nieces, who do not know us to-day, will spring out of the earth as it were, expressly to continue the rank and blood of the two noble houses. We shall not want for heirs, depend upon it!”
The two friends again embraced each other—the treaty was concluded.
Then the count and baron, with arms interlaced, marched from the Tuileries with a step which would have done honor to two voltigeurs of Louis Quinze—
And the little seat?
We feel ashamed to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. Yes, dear lady reader, Major Anspach in departing forgot to salute even with a parting glance that little embowered seat, perfumed with jasmine and rose—the object of so much tender regard, and for which a single hour ago he was willing to risk cutting throats with a stranger. Alas! Mademoiselle, love will not last forever even at sixty years! Nevertheless, it must be confessed the little bench, like your sex, soon obtained consolation.