“France is free. The rights of every Frenchman, having been gained by himself, are sacred and inviolable; the rights of property are abrogated.“Indivisibility is a fundamental principle of the nation. It applies peculiarly to public works. That which the nation gave, the nation now resumes.“We protest against foreign aggression. Satisfied with our own triumph, we shall remain tranquil. We do not ask possession of the Hôtel de Ville, but we are prepared to maintain our righteous occupation of the Tuileries.“Impressed with these high and exalted sentiments, the Provisional Government of the Tuileries decrees—“I. That it is inexpedient to lessen the glory of France, by intrusting the charge of the Tuileries to any other hands save those of the brave citizens who have so nobly captured it.“II. That the Provisional Government does notrecognise coupons as a national medium of exchange.“III. The Minister of Foreign Affairs is charged with the execution of this decree.“Mort aux tyrans!(Signed)Potard.Pomme-de-terre.Dunshunner.Gratte-les-rues.Saigne-du-nez.Destripes.Bagsby(tisserand).”
“France is free. The rights of every Frenchman, having been gained by himself, are sacred and inviolable; the rights of property are abrogated.
“Indivisibility is a fundamental principle of the nation. It applies peculiarly to public works. That which the nation gave, the nation now resumes.
“We protest against foreign aggression. Satisfied with our own triumph, we shall remain tranquil. We do not ask possession of the Hôtel de Ville, but we are prepared to maintain our righteous occupation of the Tuileries.
“Impressed with these high and exalted sentiments, the Provisional Government of the Tuileries decrees—
“I. That it is inexpedient to lessen the glory of France, by intrusting the charge of the Tuileries to any other hands save those of the brave citizens who have so nobly captured it.
“II. That the Provisional Government does notrecognise coupons as a national medium of exchange.
“III. The Minister of Foreign Affairs is charged with the execution of this decree.
“Mort aux tyrans!
(Signed)Potard.Pomme-de-terre.Dunshunner.Gratte-les-rues.Saigne-du-nez.Destripes.Bagsby(tisserand).”
This document was unanimously adopted as the true exponent of our sentiments; and I was highly complimented by my colleagues on my diplomatic ability. I took occasion, however, to fold up the following note along with the despatch:
“If Citizen Albert has any regard for his English friends, he will immediately communicate their situation to the citizen Monte-Christo. Here, affairs look very ill. The public tranquillity depends entirely upon the supply of liquor.”
“If Citizen Albert has any regard for his English friends, he will immediately communicate their situation to the citizen Monte-Christo. Here, affairs look very ill. The public tranquillity depends entirely upon the supply of liquor.”
This business being settled, we occupied ourselves with more industrial duties. The finance was easily disposed of. There were but four francs, six sous, leviable among the whole community; but Gratte-les-rues, with instinctive acuteness, had discovered the watch and chain of the unfortunate Minister of Marine, and these were instantly seized and confiscated as public property.
On investigation we found that the larder was but indifferently supplied. Due allowance being made for the inordinate appetite of the poissardes, of whom there were no less than ten in our company, it was calculated that our stock of food could not last for more than a couple of days. On the other hand, there was a superabundance of wine.
We then proceeded to adjust a scheme for the future regulation of labour throughout France; but I do not think that I need trouble my readers with the detail. It did not differ materially from that propounded by M. Louis Blanc, and the substance of it might shortly be stated as—three days’ wage for half-a-day’s labour. It was also decreed, that all servants should receive, in addition to their wages, a proportion of their masters’ profits.
After some hours of legislation, not altogether harmonious—for Destripes, being baulked in a proposition to fire the palace, threatened to string up old Jupiter Potard to the chandelier, and was only prevented from doing so by the blunderbuss of Saigne-du-nez—we grew weary of labour, and the orgies commenced anew. I have neither patience nor stomach to enter into a description of the scene that was there and then enacted. In charity to the human race, let me hope that such a spectacle may never again be witnessed in the heart of a Christian city.
Poor Bagsby suffered fearfully. The affectionof the poissarde had gradually augmented to a species of insanity, and she never left him for a moment. The unhappy man was dragged out by her to every dance; she gloated on him like an ogress surveying a plump and pursy pilgrim; and at the close of each set she demanded the fraternal salute. He tried to escape from his persecutor by dodging round the furniture; but it was of no use. She followed him as a ferret follows a rabbit through all the intricacies of his warren, and invariably succeeded in capturing her booty in a corner.
At length night came, and with it silence. One by one the revellers had fallen asleep, some still clutching the bottle, which they had plied with unabated vigour so long as sensibility remained, and the broad calm moon looked on reproachfully through the windows of that desecrated hall. There was peace in heaven, but on earth—oh, what madness and pollution!
I was lying wrapped up in some old tapestry, meditating very seriously upon my present precarious situation, when I observed a figure moving amidst the mass of sleepers. The company around was of such a nature, that unpleasant suspicions naturally occurred to my mind, and I continued to watch the apparition until the moonlight shone upon it, when I recognised Bagsby. This poor fellow was a sad incubus upon my motions; foralthough I had no earthly tie towards him, I could not help feeling that in some measure I had been instrumental in placing him in his present dilemma, and I had resolved not to escape without making him the partner of my flight. I was very curious to know the object of his present movements, for the stealthy manner in which he glided through the hall betokened some unusual purpose. I was not long left in doubt. From behind a large screen he drew forth a coil of cord, formerly attached to the curtain, but latterly indicated by Destripes as the implement for Potard’s apotheosis; and approaching a window, he proceeded to attach one end of it very deliberately to a staple. He then gave a cautious glance around, as if to be certain that no one was watching him, and began to undo the fastenings of the window. A new gleam of hope dawned upon me. I was about to rise and move to his assistance, when another figure glided rapidly through the moonshine. In an instant Bagsby was clutched by the throat, and a low voice hissed out—
“Ah traitre! monstre! polisson! tu veux donc fuir?”
It was the poissarde. Nothing on earth is so wakeful as a jealous woman. She had suspected the designs of the wretched Minister of Marine, and counterfeited sleep only to detect him in the act of escaping.
Not a moment was to be lost. I knew that if this woman gave the alarm, Bagsby would inevitably be hanged with his own rope, and I stole towards the couple, in order to effect, if possible, a reconciliation.
“Ah, citizen, is it thou?” said the poissarde more loudly than was at all convenient. “Here is thy fellow trying to play me a pretty trick! Perfidious monster! was this what thou meant by all thy professions of love?”
“For heaven’s sake, take the woman off, or she will strangle me!” muttered Bagsby.
“Pray, hush! my dear madam, hush!” said I, “or you may wake some of our friends.”
“What care I?” said the poissarde; “let them wake, and I will denounce the villain who has dared to trifle with my affections!”
“Nay, but consider the consequences!” said I. “Do, pray, be silent for one moment. Bagsby, this is a bad business!”
“You need not tell me that,” groaned Bagsby.
“Your life depends upon this woman, and you must appease her somehow.”
“I’ll agree to anything,” said the terrified Minister of Marine.
“Yes! I will be avenged!” cried the poissarde; “I will have his heart’s blood, since he has dared to deceive me. How! is this the way they treat a daughter of the people?”
“Citoyenne!” I said, “you are wrong—utterly wrong. Believe me, he loves you passionately. What proof do you desire?”
“Let him marry me to-morrow,” said the poissarde, “in this very room, or I shall immediately raise the alarm.”
I tried to mitigate the sentence, but the poissarde was perfectly obdurate.
“Bagsby, there is no help for it!” said I. “We are in the midst of a revolution, and must go along with it. She insists upon you marrying her to-morrow. The alternative is instant death.”
“I’ll do it,” said Bagsby, quietly; “anything is better than being murdered in cold blood.”
The countenance of the poissarde brightened.
“Aha!” said she, taking the submissive Bagsby by the ear, “so thou art to be my republican husband after all,coquin? Come along. I shall take care that thou dost not escape again to-night, and to-morrow I shall keep thee for ever!”
So saying, she conducted her captive to the other end of the hall.
“This is great news!” said Destripes, as we mustered round the revolutionary breakfast table. “Hast heard, citizen? Our colleague the Minister of Marine is about to contract an alliance with a daughter of the people.Corbleu!There is no such sport as a regular republican marriage!”
“In my early days,” said Jupiter Potard, “we had them very frequently. The way was, to tie two young aristocrats together, and throw them into the Seine. How poor dear Carrier used to laugh at the fun! Oh, my friends! we shall never see such merry times again.”
“Come, don’t be down-hearted, old fellow!” cried Destripes. “We never can tell what is before us. I don’t despair of seeing something yet which might make the ghost of Collot d’Herbois rub its hands with ecstasy. But to our present work. Let us get over the business of the day, and then celebrate the wedding with a roaring festival.”
“But where are we to find a priest?” asked Saigne-du-nez. “I question whether any of our fraternity has ever taken orders.”
“Priest!” cried Destripes ferociously. “Is this an age of superstition? I tell thee, Saigne-du-nez, that if any such fellow were here, he should presentlybe dangling from the ceiling! What better priest would’st thou have than our venerable friend Potard?”
“Ay, ay!” said Pomme-de-terre, “Potard will do the work famously. I’ll warrant me, with that long beard of his, he has sate for a high-priest ere now. But look at Citoyenne Corbeille, how fond she seems of her bargain.Ventrebleu!our colleague is sure to be a happy man!”
Whatever happiness might be in store for Bagsby hereafter, there was no appearance of it just then. He sate beside his bride like a criminal on the morning of his execution; and such efforts as he did make to respond to her attentions were rueful and ludicrous in the extreme.
Breakfast over, we proceeded to council; but as we had no deputations to receive, and no fresh arrangements to make, our sitting was rather brief. Bagsby, in order, as I supposed, to gain time, entreated me to broach the topics of free-trade and unrestricted international exchange; but recent events had driven the doctrines of Manchester from my head, and somewhat shaken my belief in the infallibility of the prophets of the League. Besides, I doubted very much whether our Provisional Ministry cared one farthing for duties upon calico and linen, neither of these being articles in which they were wont exorbitantly to indulge; and I perfectly understood the danger of appearing overtedious upon any subject in a society so strangely constituted. I therefore turned a deaf ear to the prayers of Bagsby, and refused to enlighten the council at the risk of the integrity of my neck. No reply whatever had been made by the authorities without, to our communication of the previous day.
One o’clock was the hour appointed by the Provisional Government for the nuptial ceremony, which was to be performed with great solemnity. About twelve the bride, accompanied by three other poissardes, retired, in order to select from the stores of the palace a costume befitting the occasion. In the mean time, I had great difficulty in keeping up the courage of Bagsby,—indeed, he was only manageable through the medium of doses of brandy. At times he would burst out into a paroxysm of passion, and execrate collectively and individually the whole body of the Manchester League, who had sent him upon this unfortunate mission to Paris. This profanity over, he would burst into tears, bewail his wretched lot, and apostrophise a certain buxom widow, who seemed to dwell somewhere in the neighbourhood of Macclesfield. As for the French, the outpourings from the vial of his wrath upon that devoted nation were most awful and unchristian. The plagues of Egypt were a joke to the torments which he invoked upon their heads; and I felt intensely thankful that not one of our companions understood a syllable of English, elsethe grave would inevitably have been the bridal couch of the Bagsby.
It now became my duty to see the bridegroom properly attired; for which purpose, with permission of our colleagues, I conducted Bagsby to a neighbouring room, where a full suit of uniform, perhaps the property of Louis Philippe, had been laid out.
“Come now, Mr Bagsby,” said I, observing that he was about to renew his lamentations, “we have had quite enough of this. You have brought it upon yourself. Had you warned me of your design last night, it is quite possible that both of us might have escaped; but you chose to essay the adventure single-handed, and, having failed, you must stand by the consequences. After all, what is it? Merely marriage, a thing which almost every man must undergo at least once in his lifetime.”
“Oh! but such a woman—such a she-devil rather!” groaned Bagsby. “I shouldn’t be the least surprised if she bites as bad as a crocodile. How can I ever take such a monster home, and introduce her to my friends?”
“I see no occasion for that, my good fellow. Why not stay here and become a naturalised Frenchman?”
“Here? I’d as soon think of staying in a lunatic asylum! Indeed I may be in one soon enough, for flesh and blood can’t stand this kind of torture long.But I say,” continued he, a ray of hope flashing across his countenance, “they surely can’t make it a real marriage after all. Hanged if any one of these blackguards is a clergyman; and even if he was, they haven’t got a special license.”
“Don’t deceive yourself, Mr Bagsby,” said I; “marriage in France is a mere social contract, and can be established by witnesses, of whom there will be but too many present.”
“Then I say they are an infernal set of incarnate pestiferous heathens! What! marry a man whether he will or not, and out of church! It’s enough to draw down a judgment upon the land.”
“You forget, Mr Bagsby. You need not marry unless you choose; it is a mere question of selection between a wedding and an execution,—between the lady and a certain rope, which, I can assure you, Monsieur Destripes, or his friend Gratte-les-rues, will have no hesitation in handling. Indeed, from significant symptoms, I conclude that their fingers are itching for some such practice.”
“They are indeed two horrid-looking blackguards!” said Bagsby dolefully. “I wish I had pluck enough to be hanged: after all, it could not be much worse than marriage. And yet I don’t know. There may be some means of getting a divorce, or she may drink herself to death, for, between you and me, she seems awfully addicted to the use of ardent spirits.”
“Fie! Mr Bagsby; how can you talk so of your bride upon the wedding-day! Be quick! get into those trousers, and never mind the fit. It may be dangerous to keep them waiting long; and, under present circumstances, it would be prudent to abstain from trying the temper of the lady too severely.”
“I never thought to be married this way!” sighed Bagsby, putting on the military coat, which, being stiff with embroidery, and twice too big for him, stuck out like an enormous cuirass. “If my poor old mother could see me now, getting into the cast-off clothes of some outlandish Frenchman—”
“She would admire you exceedingly, I am sure. Do you know, you look quite warlike with these epaulets! Come now—on with the sash, take another thimbleful of brandy, and then to the altar like a man!”
“I daresay you mean well, Mr Dunshunner; but I have listened to more pleasant conversation. I say—what is to prevent my getting up the chimney?”
“Mere madness! The moment you are missed they will fire up it. Believe me, you have not a chance of escape; so the sooner you resign yourself to your inevitable destiny the better.”
Here a loud knocking was heard at the door.
“Citizen Minister of Marine, art thou ready?” cried the voice of Pomme-de-terre. “Thy bride iswaiting for thee, the altar is decked, and Père Potard in his robes of office!”
“Come, then,” said I, seizing Bagsby by the arm. “Take courage, man! In ten minutes it will all be over.”
Our colleagues had not been idle in the interim. At one end of the hall they had built up an extempore altar covered with a carpet, behind which stood Jupiter Potard, arrayed in a royal mantle of crimson velvet, which very possibly in former days might have decorated the shoulders of Napoleon. Indeed the imperial eagle was worked upon it in gold, and it had been abstracted from one of the numerous repositories of the palace. Jupiter, with his long beard and fine sloping forehead, looked the perfect image of a pontiff, and might have been appropriately drawn as a principal figure in a picture of the marriage of Heliogabalus.
Gratte-les-rues and Pomme-de-terre, being of bellicose temperament, had encased themselves in suits of armour, and stood, like two champions of antiquity, on each side of the venerable prelate. Destripes, who had accepted the office of temporary father to Demoiselle Corbeille, appeared as a patriot of the Reign of Terror. His brawny chest was bare; his shirt sleeves rolled up to the shoulder; and in his belt was stuck the axe, a fitting emblem alike of his principles and his profession.
At his right hand stood the bride, bedizened with brocade and finery. From what antiquated lumber-chest they had fished out her apparel, it would be utterly in vain to inquire. One thing was clear, that the former occupant of the robes had been decidedly inferior in girth to the blooming poissarde, since it was now necessary to fasten them across the bosom by a curious network of tape. I am afraid I have done injustice to this lady, for really, on the present occasion, she did not look superlatively hideous. She was a woman of about forty-five, strong-built, with an immense development of foot and ancle, and arms of masculine proportion. Yet she had a pair of decidedly fine black eyes, betokening perhaps little of maiden modesty, but flashing with love and triumph; anez retroussé, which, but for its perpetual redness, might have given a piquant expression to her countenance; a large mouth, and a set of prodigious teeth, which, to say the truth, were enough to justify the apprehensions of the bridegroom.
“Silence!” cried Jupiter Potard as we entered; “let the present august solemnity be conducted as befits the sovereignty of the people! Citizen Saigne-du-nez, advance!”
Saigne-du-nez was clad in a black frock, I suppose to represent a notary. He came forward:—
“In the name of the French nation, one and indivisible,I demand the celebration of the nuptials of Citizen Hutton Bagsby, adopted child of France, and Provisional Minister of her Marine in the department of the Tuileries, and of Citoyenne Céphyse Corbeille, poissarde, and daughter of the people.”
“Is there any one here to gainsay the marriage?” asked Jupiter.
There was no reply.
“Then, in the name of the French nation, I decree that the ceremony shall proceed. Citizen Minister of Marine, are you willing to take this woman as your lawful wife?”
A cold sweat stood upon the brow of Bagsby, his knees knocked together, and he leaned the whole weight of his body upon my arm, as I interpreted to him the demand of Jupiter.
“Say anything you like,” muttered he; “it will all come to the same thing at last!”
“The citizen consents, most venerable President.”
“Then nothing remains but to put the same question to the citoyenne,” said Potard. “Who appears as the father of the bride?”
“Chûte de la Bastille!that do I,” cried Destripes.
“Citizen Destripes, do you of your own free will and accord—”
Here a thundering rap was heard at the door.
“What is that?” cried Destripes, starting back. “Some one has passed the barricade!”
“In the name of the Provisional Government!” cried a loud voice. The door was flung open, and to my inexpressible joy, I beheld the Count of Monte-Christo, backed by a large detachment of the National Guard.
“Treason! treachery!” shouted Destripes. “Ah, villain, thou hast neglected thy post!” and he fetched a tremendous blow with his axe at the head of Gratte-les-rues. It was fortunate for that chief that his helmet was of excellent temper, otherwise he must have been cloven to the chin. As it was, he staggered backwards and fell.
The National Guard immediately presented their muskets.
“I have the honour to inform the citizens,” said Monte-Christo, “that I have imperative orders to fire if the slightest resistance is made. Monsieur, therefore, will have the goodness immediately to lay down that axe.”
Destripes glared on him for a moment, as though he meditated a rush, but the steady attitude of the National Guard involuntarily subdued him.
“This is freedom!” he exclaimed, flinging away his weapon. “This is what we fought for at the barricades! Always deceived—always sold by the aristocrats! But the day may come when I shall hold a tight reckoning with thee, my master, or I am not the nephew of the citizen Samson!”
“Pray, may I ask the meaning of this extraordinaryscene?” said Monte-Christo, gazing in astonishment at the motley group before him. “Is it the intention of the gentlemen to institute a Crusade, or have we lighted by chance upon an assemblage of the chivalry of Malta?”
“Neither,” I replied. “The fact is, that just as you came in we were engaged in celebrating a republican marriage.”
“Far be it from me to interfere with domestic or connubial arrangements!” replied the polite Monte-Christo. “Let the marriage go on, by all means; I shall be delighted to witness it, and we can proceed to business thereafter.”
“You will see no marriage here, I can tell you!” cried Bagsby, who at the first symptom of relief had taken shelter under the shadow of the Marquis. “I put myself under your protection; and, by Jove, if you don’t help me, I shall immediately complain to Lord Normanby!”
“What is this?” cried Monte-Christo. “Do I see Monsieur Bagsby in a general’s uniform? Why, my good sir, you have become a naturalised Frenchman indeed! The nation has a claim upon you.”
“The nation will find it very difficult to get it settled then!” said Bagsby. “But I want to get out. I say, can’t I get away?”
“Certainly. There is nothing to prevent you. But I am rather curious to hear about this marriage.”
“Why,” said I, “the truth is, my dear Marquis,that the subject is rather a delicate one for our friend. He has just been officiating in the capacity of bridegroom.”
“You amaze me!” said Monte-Christo; “and which, may I ask, is the fair lady?”
Here Demoiselle Céphyse came forward.
“Citizen officer,” she said, “I want my husband!”
“You hear, Monsieur Bagsby?” said Monte-Christo, in intense enjoyment of the scene. “The lady says she has a claim upon you.”
“It’s all a lie!” shouted Bagsby. “I’ve got nothing to say to the woman. I hate and abhor her!”
“Monstre!” shrieked the poissarde, judging of Bagsby’s ungallant repudiation rather from his gestures than his words. And she sprang towards him with the extended talons of a tigress. Bagsby, however, was this time too nimble for her, and took refuge behind the ranks of the National Guard, who were literally in convulsions of laughter.
“I will have thee, though,polisson!” cried the exasperated bride. “I will have thee, though I were to follow thee to the end of the world! Thou hast consented to be my husband, littletisserand, and I never will give thee up.”
“Keep her off! good, dear soldiers,” cried Bagsby: “pray, keep her off! I shall be murdered and torn to pieces if she gets hold of me! Oh, Mr Dunshunner! do tell them to protect me with their bayonets.”
“Be under no alarm, Mr Bagsby,” said Monte-Christo; “you are now under the protection of the National Guard. But to business. Which of the citizens assembled is spokesman here?”
“I am the president!” hiccupped Jupiter Potard, who, throughout the morning, had been unremitting in his attentions to the bottle.
“Then, you will understand that, by orders of the Provisional Government, all must evacuate the palace within a quarter of an hour.”
“Louis Philippe had seventeen years of it,” replied Jupiter Potard. “I won’t abdicate a minute sooner!”
“And I,” said Pomme-de-terre, “expect a handsome pension for my pains.”
“Or at least,” said Saigne-du-nez, “we must have permission to gut the interior.”
“You have done quite enough mischief already,” said Monte-Christo; “so prepare to move. My orders are quite peremptory, and I shall execute them to the letter!”
“Come along, then, citizens!” cried Destripes. “I always knew what would come of it, if these rascallybourgeoisiegot the upper hand of the workmen. They are all black aristocrats in their hearts. But, by the head of Robespierre, thou shalt find that thy government is not settled yet, and there shall be more blood before we let them trample down the rights of the people!”
So saying, the democratic butcher strode from the apartment, followed by the rest of the Provisional Government and their adherents, each retaining the garb which he had chosen to wear in honour of the nuptials of Bagsby. The poissarde lingered for a moment, eyeing her faithless betrothed as he stood in the midst of the Guard, like a lioness robbed of her cub; and then, with a cry of wrath, and a gesture of menace, she rushed after her companions.
“Thank Heaven!” cried Bagsby, dropping on his knees, “the bitterest hour of my whole existence is over!”
“And so you received the message from M. Albert?” said I to Monte-Christo, as we walked together to the Hôtel de Ville.
“I did; and to say the truth, I was rather apprehensive about you. Revolutions are all very well; but it is a frightful thing when the dregs of the population get the upper hand.”
“I am glad to hear you acknowledge so much. For my part, Marquis, having seen one revolution, I never wish to witness another.”
“We could not possibly avoid it,” said Monte-Christo. “It was a mere question of time. Noone doubts that a revolutionary spirit may be carried too far.”
“Can’t you contrive to write it down?” said I.
“Unfortunately, the majority of gentlemen with whom you have lately been associating, are not strongly addicted to letters. I question whether M. Destripes has even read La Tour de Nêsle.”
“If he had,” said I, “it must have tended very greatly to his moral improvement. But how is it with the Provisional Government?”
“Faith, I must own they are rather in a critical position. Had it not been for Lamartine—who, I must confess, is a noble fellow, and a man of undaunted courage—they would have been torn to pieces long ago. Hitherto they have managed tolerably by means of the National Guard; but the atmosphere is charged with thunder. Here we are, however, at the Hôtel de Ville.”
Not the least curious of the revolutionary scenes of Paris was the aspect of the seat of government. At the moment I reached it, many thousands of the lower orders were assembled in front, and one of the Provisional Government, I believe Louis Blanc, was haranguing them from a window. Immense crowds were likewise gathered round the entrance. These consisted of the deputations, who were doing their very best to exhaust the physical energies, and distract the mental powers, of the men who had undertaken the perilous task of government.
Under conduct of my friend, I made my way to the room where the mysteriousouvrierwas performing his part of the onerous duty. He greeted me with a brief nod and a grim smile, but did not pretermit his paternal functions.
The body which occupied his attention at this crisis of the commonwealth, was a musical deputation, which craved sweet counsel regarding some matter of crotchets or of bars. It is not the first time that music has been heard in the midst of stirring events. Nero took a fancy to fiddle when Rome was blazing around him.
I could not but admire the gravity with which Albert listened to the somewhat elaborate address, and the dexterity with which he contrived to blend the subjects of pipes and patriotism.
“Citizens!” he said, “the Provisional Government are deeply impressed with the importance of the views which you advocate. Republican institutions cannot hope to exist without music, for to the sound of music even the spheres themselves revolve in the mighty and illimitable expanse of ether.
“At this crisis your suggestions become doubly valuable. I have listened to them with emotions which I would struggle in vain to express. Oh, that we may see the day when, with a glorious nation as an orchestra, the psalm of universal freedom may rise in a swell of triumphant jubilee!
“And it will come! Rely upon us. Return to your homes. Cherish fraternity and music. Meantime we shall work without intermission for your sake. Harmony is our sole object: believe me that, in reconstituted France, there shall be nothing but perfect harmony.”
The deputation withdrew in tears; and another entered to state certain grievances touching the manufacture of steel beads. I need not say that in this, as in several other instances, theouvriercomported himself like an eminent member of the Society of Universal Knowledge.
“That’s the last of them, praise be to Mumbo Jumbo!” said he, as the representatives of the shoe-blacks departed. “Faith, this is work hard enough to kill a horse. So, Mr Dunshunner! you have been getting up a counter-revolution at the Tuileries, I see. How are Monsieur Potard and all the rest of your colleagues?”
“I am afraid they are finally expelled from paradise,” said I.
“Serve them right! a parcel of democratic scum. And what has become of Citizen Bagsby?”
“I have sent him to my hotel. He was in reality very near becoming an actual child of France.” And I told the story of the nuptials, at which theouvriernearly split himself with laughter.
“And now, Mr Dunshunner,” said he, “may I ask the nature of your plans?”
“These may depend a good deal upon your advice,” said I.
“I never give advice,” replied theouvrierwith a nasal twitch. “Sometimes it is rather dangerous. But tell me—what would you think of the state of the British government, if Earl Grey at a cabinet-council were to threaten to call in the mob, and if Lord Johnny Russell prevented him by clapping a pistol to his ear.”
“I should think very badly of it indeed,” said I.
“Or if Incapability Wood should threaten, in the event of the populace appearing, to produce from the Earl’s pocket a surreptitious order on the Treasury for something like twelve thousand pounds?”
“Worse still.”
“Well, then; I don’t think you’ll findthatsort of thing going on in London, at all events.”
“Have you any commands for the other side of the Channel?”
“Oh, then, you are determined to leave? Well, perhaps upon the whole it is your wisest plan. But do not you regret having evacuated the Tuileries?”
“Indeed, I do not. Nevertheless, Monsieur Albert, it may yet be occupied by one of my family.”
“C’est bien possible.You are a clever race.What began with a Clovis, may well end with a Dunshunner.”
And so, with a cordial pressure of the hand, we parted.
“Monte-Christo,” I said, as that very evening I bundled Bagsby into afiacreon our way to the railroad station—“Monte-Christo, my good fellow, let me give you a slight piece of advice, which it would be well if all of our craft and calling would keep in memory, ‘Think twice before you write up another revolution.’”
Touch once more a sober measure,And let punch and tears be shed,For a prince of good old fellows,That, alack-a-day! is dead;For a prince of worthy fellows,And a pretty man also,That has left the SaltmarketIn sorrow, grief, and woe.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!2.His waistcoat, coat, and breeches,Were all cut off the same web,Of a beautiful snuff-colour,Or a modest genty drab;The blue stripe in his stockingRound his neat slim leg did go,And his ruffles of the cambric fineThey were whiter than the snow.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!3.His hair was curled in order,At the rising of the sun,In comely rows and buckles smartThat about his ears did run;And before there was a toupéeThat some inches up did grow,And behind there was a long queueThat did o’er his shoulders flow.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!4.And whenever we forgathered,He took off his wee three-cockit,And he proffered you his snuff-box,Which he drew from his side pocket,And on Burdett or Buonaparte,He would make a remark or so,And then along the plainstonesLike a provost he would go.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!5.In dirty days he picked wellHis footsteps with his rattan,Oh! you ne’er could see the least speckOn the shoes of Captain Paton;And on entering the Coffee-roomAbouttwo, all men did know,They would see him with his CourierIn the middle of the row.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!6.Now and then upon a SundayHe invited me to dine,On a herring and a mutton-chopWhich his maid dressed very fine;There was also a little Malmsey,And a bottle of Bordeaux,Which between me and the CaptainPassed nimbly to and fro.Oh! I ne’er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo!7.Or if a bowl was mentioned,The Captain he would ring,And bid Nelly run to the West-port.And a stoup of water bring;Then would he mix the genuine stuff,As they made it long ago,With limes that on his propertyIn Trinidad did grow.Oh! we ne’er shall taste the like of Captain Paton’s punch no mo!8.And then all the time he would discourseSo sensible and courteous,Perhaps talking of last sermonHe had heard from Dr Porteous,Or some little bit of scandalAbout Mrs so and so,Which he scarce could credit, having heardTheconbut not thepro.Oh! we ne’er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!9.Or when the candles were brought forth,And the night was fairly setting in,He would tell some fine old storiesAbout Minden-field or Dettingen—How he fought with a French major,And despatched him at a blow,While his blood ran out like waterOn the soft grass below.Oh! we ne’er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!10.But at last the Captain sickenedAnd grew worse from day to day.And all missed him in the Coffee-roomFrom which now he stayed away;On Sabbaths, too, the Wee KirkMade a melancholy show,All for wanting of the presenceOf our venerable beau.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!11.And in spite of all that CleghornAnd Corkindale could do,It was plain from twenty symptomsThat death was in his view;So the Captain made his test’ment,And submitted to his foe,And we layed him by the Rams-horn Kirk—’Tis the way we all must go.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!12.Join all in chorus, jolly boys,And let punch and tears be shed,For this prince of good old fellows,That, alack-a-day! is dead;For this prince of worthy fellows,And a pretty man also,That has left the SaltmarketIn sorrow, grief, and woe!For it ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
Touch once more a sober measure,And let punch and tears be shed,For a prince of good old fellows,That, alack-a-day! is dead;For a prince of worthy fellows,And a pretty man also,That has left the SaltmarketIn sorrow, grief, and woe.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
His waistcoat, coat, and breeches,Were all cut off the same web,Of a beautiful snuff-colour,Or a modest genty drab;The blue stripe in his stockingRound his neat slim leg did go,And his ruffles of the cambric fineThey were whiter than the snow.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
His hair was curled in order,At the rising of the sun,In comely rows and buckles smartThat about his ears did run;And before there was a toupéeThat some inches up did grow,And behind there was a long queueThat did o’er his shoulders flow.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
And whenever we forgathered,He took off his wee three-cockit,And he proffered you his snuff-box,Which he drew from his side pocket,And on Burdett or Buonaparte,He would make a remark or so,And then along the plainstonesLike a provost he would go.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
In dirty days he picked wellHis footsteps with his rattan,Oh! you ne’er could see the least speckOn the shoes of Captain Paton;And on entering the Coffee-roomAbouttwo, all men did know,They would see him with his CourierIn the middle of the row.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
Now and then upon a SundayHe invited me to dine,On a herring and a mutton-chopWhich his maid dressed very fine;There was also a little Malmsey,And a bottle of Bordeaux,Which between me and the CaptainPassed nimbly to and fro.Oh! I ne’er shall take pot-luck with Captain Paton no mo!
Or if a bowl was mentioned,The Captain he would ring,And bid Nelly run to the West-port.And a stoup of water bring;Then would he mix the genuine stuff,As they made it long ago,With limes that on his propertyIn Trinidad did grow.Oh! we ne’er shall taste the like of Captain Paton’s punch no mo!
And then all the time he would discourseSo sensible and courteous,Perhaps talking of last sermonHe had heard from Dr Porteous,Or some little bit of scandalAbout Mrs so and so,Which he scarce could credit, having heardTheconbut not thepro.Oh! we ne’er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!
Or when the candles were brought forth,And the night was fairly setting in,He would tell some fine old storiesAbout Minden-field or Dettingen—How he fought with a French major,And despatched him at a blow,While his blood ran out like waterOn the soft grass below.Oh! we ne’er shall hear the like of Captain Paton no mo!
But at last the Captain sickenedAnd grew worse from day to day.And all missed him in the Coffee-roomFrom which now he stayed away;On Sabbaths, too, the Wee KirkMade a melancholy show,All for wanting of the presenceOf our venerable beau.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
And in spite of all that CleghornAnd Corkindale could do,It was plain from twenty symptomsThat death was in his view;So the Captain made his test’ment,And submitted to his foe,And we layed him by the Rams-horn Kirk—’Tis the way we all must go.Oh! we ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
Join all in chorus, jolly boys,And let punch and tears be shed,For this prince of good old fellows,That, alack-a-day! is dead;For this prince of worthy fellows,And a pretty man also,That has left the SaltmarketIn sorrow, grief, and woe!For it ne’er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo!
“
What is that?” exclaimed several persons assembled in the dining-room of the chateau of Burcy.
The Countess of Moncar had just inherited, from a distant and slightly regretted relation, an ancient chateau which she had never seen, although it was at barely fifteen leagues from her habitual summer residence. One of the most elegant and admired women in Paris, Madame de Moncar was but moderately attached to the country. Quitting the capital at the end of June, to return thither early in October, she usually took with her some of the companions of her winter gaieties, and a few young men, selected amongst her most assiduous partners. Madame de Moncar was married to a man much older than herself, who did not always protect her by his presence. Without abusing the great liberty she enjoyed, she was gracefully coquettish, elegantlyfrivolous, pleased with trifles—with a compliment, an amiable word, an hour’s triumph—loving a ball for the pleasure of adorning herself, fond of admiration, and not sorry to inspire love. When some grave old aunt ventured a sage remonstrance—“Mon Dieu!” she replied; “do let me laugh and take life gaily. It is far less dangerous than to listen in solitude to the beating of one’s heart. For my part, I do not know if I even have a heart!” She spoke the truth, and really was uncertain upon that point. Desirous to remain so, she thought it prudent to leave herself no time for reflection.
One fine morning in September, the countess and her guests set out for the unknown chateau, intending to pass the day there. A cross road, reputed practicable, was to reduce the journey to twelve leagues. The cross road proved execrable: the travellers lost their way in the forest; a carriage broke down; in short, it was not till mid-day that the party, much fatigued, and but moderately gratified by the picturesque beauties of the scenery, reached the chateau of Burcy, whose aspect was scarcely such as to console them for the annoyances of the journey. It was a large sombre building with dingy walls. In its front a garden, then out of cultivation, descended from terrace to terrace; for the chateau, built upon the slope of a wooded hill, had no level ground in its vicinity. On all sides it was hemmed in by mountains, thetrees upon which sprang up amidst rocks, and had a dark and gloomy foliage that saddened the eyesight. Man’s neglect added to the natural wild disorder of the scene. Madame de Moncar stood motionless and disconcerted upon the threshold of her newly-acquired mansion.
“This is very unlike a party of pleasure,” said she; “I could weep at sight of this dismal abode. Nevertheless here are noble trees, lofty rocks, a roaring cataract; doubtless, there is a certain beauty in all that; but it is of too grave an order for my humour,” added she with a smile. “Let us go in and view the interior.”
The hungry guests, eager to see if the cook, who had been sent forward upon the previous day, as an advanced guard, had safely arrived, willingly assented. Having obtained the agreeable certainty that breakfast would soon be upon the table, they rambled through the chateau. The old-fashioned furniture with tattered coverings, the arm-chairs with three legs, the tottering tables, the discordant sounds of a piano, which for a good score of years had not felt a finger, afforded abundant food for jest and merriment. Gaiety returned. Instead of grumbling at the inconveniences of this uncomfortable mansion, it was agreed to laugh at everything. Moreover, for these young and idle persons, the expedition was a sort of event, an almost perilous campaign, whose originality appealed to the imagination.A faggot was lighted beneath the wide chimney of the drawing-room; but clouds of smoke were the result, and the company took refuge in the pleasure-grounds. The aspect of the gardens was strange enough: the stone-benches were covered with moss; the walls of the terraces, crumbling in many places, left space between their ill-joined stones for the growth of numerous wild plants, which sprung out erect and lofty, or trailed with flexible grace towards the earth. The walks were overgrown and obliterated by grass; the parterres, reserved for garden-flowers, were invaded by wild ones, which grow wherever the heavens afford a drop of water and a ray of sun; the insipid bear-bine enveloped and stifled in its envious embrace the beauteous rose of Provence; the blackberry mingled its acrid fruits with the red clusters of the currant-bush; ferns, wild mint with its faint perfume, thistles with their thorny crowns, grew beside a few forgotten lilies. When the company entered the enclosure, numbers of the smaller animals, alarmed at the unaccustomed intrusion, darted into the long grass, and the startled birds flew chirping from branch to branch. Silence, for many years the undisturbed tenant of this peaceful spot, fled at the sound of human voices and of joyous laughter. The solitude was appreciated by none—none grew pensive under its influence; it was recklessly broken and profaned. The conversation ran uponthe gay evenings of the past season, and was interspersed with amiable allusions, expressive looks, covert compliments, with all the thousand nothings, in short, resorted to by persons desirous to please each other, but who have not yet acquired the right to be serious.
The steward, after long search for a breakfast-bell along the dilapidated walls of the chateau, at last made up his mind to shout from the steps that the meal was ready—the half-smile with which he accompanied the announcement, proving that, like his betters, he resigned himself for one day to a deviation from his habits of etiquette and propriety. Soon a merry party surrounded the board. The gloom of the chateau, its desert site and uncheery aspect, were all forgotten; the conversation was general and well sustained; the health of the lady of the castle—the fairy whose presence converted the crazy old edifice into an enchanted palace, was drunk by all present. Suddenly all eyes were turned to the windows of the dining-room.
“What is that?” exclaimed several of the guests.
A small carriage of green wicker-work, with great wheels as high as the body of the vehicle, passed before the windows, and stopped at the door. It was drawn by a grey horse, short and punchy, whose eyes seemed in danger from the shafts, which, from their point of junction with the carriage, sloped obliquely upwards. The hood of thelittle cabriolet was brought forward, concealing its contents, with the exception of two arms covered with the sleeves of a blueblouse, and of a whip which fluttered about the ears of the grey horse.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Madame de Moncar, “I forgot to tell you I was obliged to invite the village doctor to breakfast. The old man was formerly of some service to my uncle’s family, and I have seen him once or twice. Be not alarmed at the addition to our party: he is very taciturn. After a few civil words, we may forget his presence; besides, I do not suppose he will remain very long.”
At this moment the dining-room door opened, and Dr Barnaby entered. He was a little old man, feeble and insignificant-looking, of calm and gentle countenance. His grey hairs were collected into a queue, according to a bygone fashion; a dash of powder whitened his temples, and extended to his furrowed brow. He wore a black coat, and steel buckles to his breeches. Over one arm hung a riding-coat of brown taffety. In the opposite hand he carried his hat and a thick cane. His whole appearance proved that he had taken unusual pains with his toilet; but his black stockings and coat were stained with mud, as if the poor old man had fallen into a ditch. He paused at the door, astonished at the presence of so many persons. For an instant a tinge of embarrassment appeared uponhis face; but recovering himself, he silently saluted the company. The strange manner of his entrance gave the guests a violent inclination to laugh, which they repressed more or less successfully. Madame de Moncar alone, in her character of mistress of the house, and incapable of failing in politeness, perfectly preserved her gravity.
“Dear me, doctor! have you had an overturn?” was her first inquiry.
Before replying, Dr Barnaby glanced at all these young people in the midst of whom he found himself, and, simple and artless though his physiognomy was, he could not but guess the cause of their hilarity. He replied quietly:
“I have not been overturned. A poor carter fell under the wheels of his vehicle; I was passing, and I helped him up.” And the doctor took possession of a chair left vacant for him at the table. Unfolding his napkin, he passed a corner through the button-hole of his coat, and spread out the rest over his waistcoat and knees. At these preparations, smiles hovered upon the lips of many of the guests, and a whisper or two broke the silence; but this time the doctor did not raise his eyes. Perhaps he observed nothing.
“Is there much sickness in the village?” inquired Madame de Moncar, whilst they were helping the new-comer.
“Yes, madam, a good deal.”
“This is an unhealthy neighbourhood?”
“No, madam.”
“But the sickness. What causes it?”
“The heat of the sun in harvest time and the cold and wet of winter.”
One of the guests, affecting great gravity, joined in the conversation.
“So that in this healthy district, sir, people are ill all the year round?”
The doctor raised his little grey eyes to the speaker’s face, looked at him, hesitated, and seemed either to check or to seek a reply. Madame de Moncar kindly came to his relief.
“I know,” she said, “that you are here the guardian genius of all who suffer.”
“Oh, you are too good,” replied the old man, apparently much engrossed with the slice of pasty upon his plate. Then the gay party left Dr Barnaby to himself, and the conversation flowed in its previous channel. If any notice was taken of the peaceable old man, it was in the form of some slight sarcasm, which, mingled with other discourse, would pass, it was thought, unperceived by its object. Not that these young men and women were generally otherwise than polite and kind-hearted; but upon that day the journey, the breakfast, the merriment and slight excitement that had attended all the events of the morning, had brought on asort of heedless gaiety and communicative mockery, which rendered them pitiless to the victim whom chance had thrown in their way. The doctor continued quietly to eat, without looking up, or uttering a word, or seeming to hear one; they voted him deaf and dumb, and he was no restraint upon the conversation.
When the guests rose from table, Dr Barnaby took a step or two backwards, and allowed each man to select the lady he wished to take into the drawing-room. One of Madame de Moncar’s friends remaining without a cavalier, the village doctor timidly advanced, and offered her his hand—not his arm. His fingers scarcely touched hers as he proceeded, his body slightly bent in sign of respect, with measured steps towards the drawing-room. Fresh smiles greeted his entrance, but not a cloud appeared upon the placid countenance of the old man, who was now declared blind, as well as deaf and dumb. Quitting his companion, Dr Barnaby selected the smallest, humblest-looking chair in the room, placed it in a corner, at some distance from everybody else, put his stick between his knees, crossed his hands upon the knob, and rested his chin upon his hands. In this meditative attitude he remained silent, and from time to time his eyes closed, as if a gentle slumber, which he neither invoked nor repelled, were stealing over him.
“Madame de Moncar!” cried one of the guests, “I presume it is not your intention to inhabit this ruin in a desert?”
“Certainly I have no such project. But here are lofty trees and wild woods. M. de Moncar may very likely be tempted to pass a few weeks here in the shooting season.”
“In that case you must pull down and rebuild; clear, alter, and improve!”
“Let us make a plan!” cried the young countess. “Let us mark out the future garden of my domains.”
It was decreed that this party of pleasure should be unsuccessful. At that moment a heavy cloud burst, and a close fine rain began to fall. Impossible to leave the house.
“How very vexatious!” cried Madame de Moncar. “What shall we do with ourselves? The horses require several hours’ rest. It will evidently be a wet afternoon. For a week to come, the grass, which overgrows everything, will not be dry enough to walk upon; all the strings of the piano are broken; there is not a book within ten leagues. This room is wretchedly dismal. What can we do with ourselves?”
The party, lately so joyous, was gradually losing its gaiety. The blithe laugh and arch whisper were succeeded by dull silence. The guests sauntered to the windows and examined the sky, butthe sky remained dark and cloud-laden. Their hopes of a walk were completely blighted. They established themselves as comfortably as they could upon the old chairs and settees, and tried to revive the conversation; but there are thoughts which, like flowers, require a little sun, and which will not flourish under a bleak sky. All these young heads appeared to droop, oppressed by the storm, like the poplars in the garden, which bowed their tops at the will of the wind. A tedious hour dragged by.
The lady of the castle, a little disheartened by the failure of her party of pleasure, leaned languidly upon a window-sill, and gazed vaguely at the prospect without.
“There,” said she—“yonder, upon the hill, is a white cottage that must come down: it hides the view.”
“The white cottage!” cried the doctor. For upwards of an hour Dr Barnaby had been mute and motionless upon his chair. Mirth and weariness, sun and rain, had succeeded each other without eliciting a syllable from his lips. His presence was forgotten by everybody: every eye turned quickly upon him when he uttered these three words—“The white cottage!”
“What interest do you take in it, doctor?” asked the countess.
“Mon Dieu, madame!Pray forget that I spoke.The cottage will come down, undoubtedly, since such is your good pleasure.”
“But why should you regret the old shed?”
“I—Mon Dieu!it was inhabited by persons I loved—and—”
“And they think of returning to it, doctor?”
“They are long since dead, madam; they died when I was young!” And the old man gazed mournfully at the white cottage, which rose amongst the trees upon the hill-side, like a daisy in a green field. There was a brief silence.
“Madam,” said one of the guests in a low voice to Madame de Moncar, “there is mystery here. Observe the melancholy of our Esculapius. Some pathetic drama has been enacted in yonder house; a tale of love, perhaps. Ask the doctor to tell it us.”
“Yes, yes!” was murmured on all sides, “a tale, a story! And should it prove of little interest, at any rate the narrator will divert us.”
“Not so, gentlemen,” replied Madame de Moncar, in the same suppressed voice. “If I ask Dr Barnaby to tell us the history of the white cottage, it is on the express condition that no one laughs.” All having promised to be serious and well-behaved, Madame de Moncar approached the old man. “Doctor,” said she, seating herself beside him, “that house, I plainly see, is connected with some reminiscence of former days, stored preciouslyin your memory. Will you tell it us? I should be grieved to cause you a regret which it is in my power to spare you; the house shall remain, if you tell me why you love it.”
Dr Barnaby seemed surprised, and remained silent. The countess drew still nearer to him. “Dear doctor!” said she, “see what wretched weather; how dreary everything looks. You are the senior of us all; tell us a tale. Make us forget rain, and fog, and cold.”
Dr Barnaby looked at the countess with great astonishment.
“There is no tale,” he said. “What occurred in the cottage is very simple, and has no interest but for me, who loved the young people; strangers would not call it a tale. And I am unaccustomed to speak before many listeners. Besides, what I should tell you is sad, and you came to amuse yourselves.” And again the doctor rested his chin upon his stick.
“Dear doctor,” resumed the countess, “the white cottage shall stand, if you say why you love it.”
The old man appeared somewhat moved; he crossed and uncrossed his legs; took out his snuff-box, returned it to his pocket without opening it; then, looking at the countess—“You will not pull it down?” he said, indicating with his thin and tremulous hand the habitation visible at the horizon.
“I promise you I will not.”
“Well, so be it; I will do that much for them; I will save the house in which they were happy.”
“Ladies,” continued the old man, “I am but a poor speaker; but I believe that even the least eloquent succeed in making themselves understood when they tell what they have seen. This story, I warn you beforehand, is not gay. To dance and to sing, people send for a musician; they call in the physician when they suffer, and are near to death.”
A circle was formed round Dr Barnaby, who, his hands still crossed upon his cane, quietly commenced the following narrative, to an audience prepared beforehand to smile at his discourse.
“It was a long time ago, when I was young—for, I, too, have been young! Youth is a fortune that belongs to all the world—to the poor as well as to the rich—but which abides with none. I had just passed my examination; I had taken my physician’s degree, and I returned to my village to exercise my wonderful talents, well convinced that, thanks to me, men would now cease to die.
“My village is not far from here. From the little window of my room, I behold yonder white house upon the opposite side to that you now discern. You certainly would not find my village handsome. In my eyes, it was superb; I was born there, and I loved it. We all see with our own eyes thethings we love. God suffers us to be sometimes a little blind; for He well knows that in this lower world a clear sight is not always profitable. To me, then, this neighbourhood appeared smiling and pleasant, and I lived happily. The white cottage alone, each morning when I opened my shutters, impressed me disagreeably: it was always closed, still and sad like a forsaken thing. Never had I seen its windows open and shut, or its door ajar; never had I known its inhospitable garden-gate give passage to human being. Your uncle, madam, who had no occasion for a cottage so near his chateau, sought to let it; but the rent was rather higher than anybody here was rich enough to give. It remained empty, therefore, whilst in the hamlet every window exhibited two or three children’s faces peering through the branches of gillyflower at the first noise in the street. But one morning, on getting up, I was quite astonished to see a long ladder resting against the cottage wall; a painter was painting the window-shutters green, whilst a maid-servant polished the panes, and a gardener hoed the flower-beds.
“All the better,” said I to myself; “a good roof like that, which covers no one, is so much lost.
“From day to day the house improved in appearance. Pots of flowers veiled the nudity of the walls; the parterres were planted, the walks weededand gravelled, and muslin curtains, white as snow, shone in the sun-rays. One day a post-chaise rattled through the village, and drove up to the little house. Who were the strangers? None knew, and all desired to learn. For a long time nothing transpired without of what passed within the dwelling. The rose-trees bloomed, and the fresh-laid lawn grew verdant; still nothing was known. Many were the commentaries upon the mystery. They were adventurers concealing themselves—they were a young man and his mistress—in short, everything was guessed except the truth. The truth is so simple, that one does not always think of it; once the mind is in movement, it seeks to the right and to the left, and often forgets to look straight before it. The mystery gave me little concern. No matter who is there, thought I; they are human, therefore they will not be long without suffering, and then they will send for me. I waited patiently.
“At last one morning a messenger came from Mr William Meredith, to request me to call upon him. I put on my best coat, and, endeavouring to assume a gravity suitable to my profession, I traversed the village, not without some little pride at my importance. That day many envied me. The villagers stood at their doors to see me pass. ‘He is going to the white cottage!’ they said; whilst I, avoiding all appearance of haste and vulgar curosity,walked deliberately, nodding to my peasant neighbours. ‘Good-day, my friends,’ I said; ‘I will see you by-and-by; this morning I am busy.’ And thus I reached the hill-side.
“On entering the sitting-room of the mysterious house, the scene I beheld rejoiced my eyesight. Everything was so simple and elegant. Flowers, the chief ornament of the apartment, were so tastefully arranged, that gold would not better have embellished the modest interior. White muslin was at the windows, white calico on the chairs—that was all; but there were roses, and jessamine, and flowers of all kinds, as in a garden. The light was softened by the curtains, the atmosphere was fragrant; and a young girl or woman, fair and fresh as all that surrounded her, reclined upon a sofa, and welcomed me with a smile. A handsome young man, seated near her upon an ottoman, rose when the servant announced Dr Barnaby.
“‘Sir,’ said he, with a strong foreign accent, ‘I have heard so much of your skill that I expected to see an old man.’
“‘I have studied diligently, sir,’ I replied. ‘I am deeply impressed with the importance and responsibility of my calling: you may confide in me.’
“‘’Tis well,’ he said. ‘I recommend my wife to your best care. Her present state demands advice and precaution. She was born in a distant land: for my sake she has quitted family andfriends. I can bring but my affection to her aid, for I am without experience. I reckon upon you, sir. If possible, preserve her from all suffering.’
“As he spoke, the young man fixed upon his wife a look so full of love, that the large blue eyes of the beautiful foreigner glistened with tears of gratitude. She dropped the tiny cap she was embroidering, and her two hands clasped the hand of her husband. I looked at them, and I ought to have found their lot enviable, but somehow or other, the contrary was the case. I felt sad; I could not tell why. I had often seen persons weep, of whom I said—They are happy! I saw William Meredith and his wife smile, and I could not help thinking they had much sorrow. I seated myself near my charming patient. Never have I seen anything so lovely as that sweet face, shaded by long ringlets of fair hair.
“‘What is your age, madam?’
“‘Seventeen.’
“‘Is the climate of your native country very different from ours?’
“‘I was born in America—at New Orleans. Oh! the sun is far brighter than here.’
“Doubtless she feared she had uttered a regret, for she added—
““But every country is beautiful when one is in one’s husband’s house, with him, and awaiting his child!’
“Her gaze sought that of William Meredith: then, in a tongue I did not understand, she spoke a few words which sounded so soft that they must have been words of love.