"I will bring one with me," said Mr. Dixwell, rising eager to be gone on his good errand; but John Ayliffe stopped him, saying, "Stay, stay—remember you are not to tell him any thing about it till he is quite away from his own house. I don't choose to have all the people talking of it, and perhaps coming down to stare at me."
Mr. Dixwell was willing to make any terms in order to have what he wished accomplished, and giving Mrs. Best directions to let the patient have some port wine every half hour, he hurried away to the Court.
On inquiring for Sir Philip, the servant said that his master had ridden out.
"Do you know where he is gone, and how long he will be absent?" asked Mr. Dixwell.
"He is gone, I believe, to call at Doctor Juke's, to consult about my lady," replied the man; "and as that is hard upon twenty miles, he can't be back for two or three hours."
"That is most unfortunate," exclaimed the clergyman. "Is your lady up?"
The servant replied in the negative, adding the information that she was very ill.
"Then I must see Mistress Emily," said Mr. Dixwell, walking into the house. "Call her to me as quickly as you can."
The man obeyed, and Emily was with the clergyman in a few moments, while the servant remained in the hall looking out through the open door.
After remaining in conversation with Mr. Dixwell for a few minutes, Emily hurried back to her room, and came down again dressed for walking. She and Mr. Dixwell went out together, and the servant saw them take their way down the road in the direction of Jenny Best's cottage: but when they had gone a couple of hundred yards, the clergyman turned off towards his own house, walking at a very quick pace, while Emily proceeded slowly on her way.
When at a short distance from the cottage, the beautiful girl stopped, and waited till she was rejoined by Mr. Dixwell, who came up very soon, out of breath at the quickness of his pace. "I have ordered the wine down directly," he said, "and I trust we shall be able to keep him up till he has told his story his own way. Now, my dear young lady, follow me;" and walking on he entered the cottage.
Emily was a good deal agitated. Every memory connected with John Ayliffe was painful to her. It seemed as if nothing but misfortune, sorrow, and anxiety, had attended her ever since she first saw him, and all connected themselves more or less with him. The strange sort of mysterious feeling of sympathy which she had experienced when first she beheld him, and which had seemed explained to her when she learned their near relationship, had given place day by day to stronger and stronger personal dislike, and she could not now even come to visit him on his death-bed with the clergyman without feeling a mixture of repugnance and dread which she struggled with not very successfully.
They passed, however, through the outer into the inner room where Mistress Best was sitting with the dying man, reading to him the New Testament. But as soon as Mr. Dixwell, who had led the way, entered, the good woman stopped, and John Ayliffe turned his head faintly towards the door.
"Ah, this is very kind of you," he said when he saw Emily, "I can tell you all better than any one else."
"Sir Philip is absent," said Mr. Dixwell, "and will not be home for several hours."
"Hours!" repeated John Ayliffe. "My time is reduced to minutes!"
Emily approached quietly, and Mrs. Best quitted the room and shut the door. Mr. Dixwell drew the table nearer to the bed, spread some writing paper which he had brought with him upon it, and dipped a pen in the ink, as a hint that no time was to be lost in proceeding.
"Well, well," said John Ayliffe with a sigh, "I won't delay, though it is very hard to have to tell such a story. Mistress Emily, I have done you and your family great wrong and great harm, and I am very, very sorry for it, especially for what I have done against you."
"Then I forgive you from all my heart," cried Emily, who had been inexpressibly shocked at the terrible change which the young man's appearance presented. She had never seen death, nor was aware of the terrible shadow which the dark banner of the great Conqueror often casts before it.
"Thank you, thank you," replied John Ayliffe; "but you must not suppose, Mistress Emily, that all the evil I have done was out of my own head. Others prompted me to a great deal; although I was ready enough to follow their guidance, I must confess. The two principal persons were Shanks the lawyer,and Mrs. Hazleton—Oh, that woman is, I believe, the devil incarnate."
"Hush, hush," said Mr. Dixwell, "I cannot put such words as those down, nor should you speak them. You had better begin in order too, and tell all from the commencement, but calmly and in a Christian spirit, remembering that this is your own confession, and not an accusation of others."
"Well, I will try," said the young man faintly, lifting his hand from the bed-clothes, as if to put it to his head in the act of thought. But he was too weak, and he fell back again, and fixing his eyes on a spot in the wall opposite the foot of the bed, he continued in a sort of dreamy commemorative way as follows: "I loved you—yes, I loved you very much—I feel it now more than ever—I loved you more than you ever knew—more than I myself knew then. (Emily bent her head and hid her eyes with her hands.) It was not," he proceeded to say, "that you were more beautiful than any of the rest—although that was true too—but there was somehow a look about you, an air when you moved, a manner when you spoke, that made it seem as if you were of a different race from the rest—something higher, brighter, better, and as if your nobler nature shone out like a gleam on all you did—I cannot help thinking that if you could have loved me in return, mine would have been a different fate, a different end, a different and brighter hope even now—"
"You are wandering from the subject, my friend," said Mr. Dixwell. "Time is short."
"I am not altogether wandering," said John Ayliffe, "but I feel faint. Give me some more wine." When he had got it, he continued thus: "I found you could not love me—I said in my heart that you would not love me; and my love turned into hate—at least I thought so—and I determined you should rue the day that you had refused me. Long before that, however, Shanks the lawyer had put it into my head that I could take your father's property and title from him, and I resolved some day to try, little knowing all that it would lead me into step by step. I had heard my mother say a hundred times that she had been as good as married to your uncle who was drowned, and that if right had been done I ought to have had the property. So I set to work with Shanks to see what could be done. Sometimes he led, sometimes I led; for he was a coward, and wanted to do all by cunning, and I was bold enough, and thought every thing was to be done by daring. We had both of us got dipped so deep in there was no going back. I tore one leaf out of the parish register myself, to make it seem that your grandfather had caused the record of my mother's marriage to be destroyed—but that was no marriage at all—they never were married—and that's the truth. I did a great number of other very evil things, and then suddenly Mrs. Hazleton came in to help us; and whenever there was any thing particularly shrewd and keen to be devised, especially if there was a spice of malice in it towards Sir Philip or yourself, Mrs. Hazleton planned it for us—not telling us exactly to do this thing or that, but asking if it could not be done, or if it would be very wrong to do it. But I'll tell you them all in order—all that we did."
He went on to relate a great many particulars with which the reader is already acquainted. He told the whole villainous schemes which had been concocted between himself, the attorney, and Mrs. Hazleton, and which had been in part, or as a whole, executed to the ruin of Sir Philip Hastings' fortune and peace. The good clergyman took down his words with a rapid hand, as he spoke, though it was somewhat difficult; for the voice became more and more faint and low.
"There is no use in trying now," said John Ayliffe in conclusion, "when I am going before God who has seen and known it all. There is no use in trying to conceal any thing. I was as ready to do evil as they were to prompt me, and I did it with a willing heart, though sometimes I was a little frightened at what I was doing, especially in the night when I could not sleep. I am sorry enough for it now—I repent from my whole heart; and now tell me—tell me, can you forgive me?"
"As far as I am concerned, I forgive you entirely," said Emily, with the tears in her eyes, "and I trust that your repentance will be fully accepted. As to my father, I am sure that he will forgive you also, and I think I may take upon myself to say, that he will either come or send to you this night to express his forgiveness."
"No, no, no," said the young man with a great effort. "He must not come—he must not send. I have made the atonement that he (pointing to Mr. Dixwell) required, and I have but one favor to ask. Pray, pray grant it to me. It is but this. That you will not tell any one of this confession so long as I am still living. He has got it all down. It can't be needed for a few hours, and in a few, a very few, I shall be gone. Mr. Dixwell will tell you when it is all over. Then tell what you like; but I would rather not die with more shame upon my head if I can help it."
The good clergyman was about to reason with him upon the differences between healthful shame, and real shame, and false shame, but Emily gently interposed, saying, "It does not matter, my dear sir; a few hours can make no difference."
Then rising, she once more repeated the words of forgiveness, and added, "I will now go and pray for you, my poor cousin—I will pray that your repentance may be sincere and true—that it may be accepted forChrist's sake, and that God may comfort you and support you even at the very last."
Mr. Dixwell rose too, and telling John Ayliffe that he would return in a few minutes, accompanied Emily back towards her house. They parted, however, at the gates of the garden; and while Emily threaded her way through innumerable gravelled walks, the clergyman went back to the cottage, and once more resumed his place by the side of the dying man.
Sir Philip Hastings returned to his own house earlier than had been expected, bringing with him the physician he had gone to seek, and whom—contrary to the ordinary course of events—he had found at once. They both went up to Lady Hastings's room where the physician, according to the usual practice of medical men in consultation, approved of all that his predecessor had done, yet ordered some insignificant changes in the medicines in order to prove that he had not come there for nothing. He took the same view of the case that Mr. Short had taken, declaring that there was no immediate danger; but at the same time he inquired particularly how that lady rested in the night, whether she started in her sleep, was long watchful, and whether she breathed freely during slumber.
The maid's account was not very distinct in regard to several of these points; but she acknowledged that it was her young lady who usually sat up with Lady Hastings till three or four o'clock in the morning.
Sir Philip immediately directed Emily to be summoned, but the maid informed him she had gone out about an hour and a half before, and had not then returned.
When the physician took his leave and departed, Sir Philip summoned the butler to his presence, and inquired, with an eager yet gloomy tone, if he knew where Mistress Emily had gone.
"I really do not, Sir Philip," replied the man. "She went out with Mr. Dixwell, but they parted a little way down the road, and my young lady went on as if she were going to farmer Wallop's or Jenny Best's."
At the latter name Sir Philip started as if a serpent had stung him, and he waved to the man to quit the room. As soon as he was alone he commenced pacing up and down in more agitation than he usually displayed, and once or twice words broke from him which gave some indications of what was passing in his mind.
"Too clear, too clear," he said, and then after a pause exclaimed, holding up his hands; "so young, and so deceitful! Marlow must be told of this, and then must act as he thinks fit—it were better she were dead—far better! What is the cold, dull corruption of the grave, the mere rotting of the flesh, and the mouldering of the bones, to this corruption of the spirit, this foul dissolution of the whole moral nature?"
He then began to pace up and down more vehemently than before, fixing his eyes upon the ground, and seeming to think profoundly, with a quivering lip and knitted brow. "Hard, hard task for a father," he said—"God of heaven that I should ever dream of such a thing!—yet it might be a duty. What can Marlow be doing during this long unexplained absence? France—can he have discovered all this and quitted her, seeking, in charity, to make the breach as little painful as possible? Perhaps, after all," he continued, after a few moments' thought, "the man may have been mistaken when he told me that he believed that this young scoundrel was lying ill of a fall at this woman's cottage; yet at the best it was bad enough to quit a sick mother's bed-side for long hours, when I too was absent. Can she have done it to show her spleen at this foolish opposition to her marriage?"
There is no character so difficult to deal with—there is none which is such a constant hell to its possessor—as that of a moody man. Sir Philip had been moody, as I have endeavored to show, from his very earliest years; but all the evils of that sort of disposition had increased upon him rapidly during the latter part of his life. Unaware, like all the rest of mankind, of the faults of his own character, he had rather encouraged than struggled against its many great defects. Because he was stern and harsh, he fancied himself just, and forgot that it is not enough for justice to judge rightly of that which is placed clearly and truly before it, and did not remember, or at all events apply the principle, that an accurate search for truth, and an unprejudiced suspension of opinion till truth has been obtained, are necessary steps to justice. Suspicion—always a part and parcel of the character of the moody man—had of late years obtained a strong hold upon him, and unfortunately it had so happened that event after event had occurred to turn his suspicion against his own guiltless child. The very lights and shades of her character, which he could in no degree comprehend, from his own nature being destitute of all such impulsiveness, had not only puzzled him, but laid the foundation of doubts. Then the little incident which I have related in a preceding part of this work, regarding the Italian singing-master—Emily's resolute but unexplained determination to take no more lessons from that man, had set his moody mind to ponder and to doubt still more. The too successful schemes and suggestions of Mrs. Hazleton had given point and vigor to his suspicions, and the betrayal of his private conversation to the government had seemed a climax to the whole, so that he almost believed his fair sweet child a fiend concealed beneath the form of an angel.
It was in vain that he asked himself, Whatcould be her motives? He had an answer ready, that her motives had always been a mystery to him, even in her lightest acts. "There are some people," he thought, "who act without motives—in whom the devil himself seems to have implanted an impulse to do evil without any cause or object, for the mere pleasure of doing wrong."
On the present occasion he had accidentally heard from the farmer, who was the next neighbor of Jenny Best, that he was quite certain Sir John Hastings, as he called him, was lying ill from a fall at that good woman's cottage. His horse had been found at a great distance on a wild common, with the bridle broken, and every appearance of having fallen over in rearing. Blood and other marks of an accident had been discovered on the road. Mr. Short, the surgeon, was seen to pay several visits every day to the old woman's house, and yet maintained the most profound secrecy in regard to his patient. The farmer argued that the surgeon would not be so attentive unless that patient was a person of some importance, and it was clear he was not one of Jenny Best's own family, for every member of it had been well and active after the surgeon's visits had been commenced.
All these considerations, together with the absence of John Ayliffe from his residence, had led the good farmer to a right conclusion, and he had stated the fact broadly to Sir Philip Hastings.
Sir Philip, on his part, had made no particular inquiries, for the very name of John Ayliffe was hateful to him; but when he heard that his daughter had gone forth alone to that very cottage, and had remained there for a considerable time in the same place with the man whom he abhorred, and remembered that the tale which had been boldly put forth of her having visited him in secret, the very blood, as it flowed through his heart, seemed turned into fire, and his brain reeled with anguish and indignation.
Presently the hall door was heard to open, and there was a light step in the passage. Sir Philip darted forth from his room, and met his daughter coming in with a sad and anxious face, and as he thought with traces of tears upon her eyelids.
"Where have you been?" asked her father in a stern low tone.
"I have been to Jenny Best's down the lane, my father," replied Emily, startled by his look and manner, but still speaking the plain truth, as she always did. "Is my mother worse?"
Without a word of reply Sir Philip turned away into his room again and closed the door.
Alarmed by her father's demeanor, Emily hurried up at once to Lady Hastings's room, but found her certainly more cheerful and apparently better.
The assurance given by the physician that there was no immediate danger, nor any very unfavorable symptom, had been in a certain degree a relief to Lady Hastings herself; for, although she had undoubtedly been acting a part when in the morning she had declared herself dying, yet, as very often happens with those who deceive, she had so far partially deceived herself as to believe that she was in reality very ill. She was surprised at Emily's sudden appearance and alarmed look, but her daughter did not think it right to tell her the strange demeanor of Sir Philip, but sitting down as calmly as she could by her mother's side, talked to her for several minutes on indifferent subjects. It was evident to Emily that, although her father's tone was so harsh, her mother viewed her more kindly than in the morning, and the information which had been given her by the surgeon accounted for the change. The conduct of Sir Philip, however, seemed not to be explained, and Emily could hardly prevent herself from falling into one of those reveries which have often been mentioned before. She struggled against the tendency, however, for some time, till at length she was relieved by the announcement that Mistress Hazleton was below, but when Lady Hastings gave her maid directions to bring her friend up, Emily could refrain no longer from uttering at least one word of warning.
"Give me two minutes more, dear mamma," she said, in a low voice. "I have something very particular to say to you—let Mrs. Hazleton wait but for two minutes."
"Well," said Lady Hastings, languidly; and then turning to the maid she added, "Tell dear Mrs. Hazleton that I will receive her in five minutes, and when I ring my bell, bring her up."
As soon as the maid had retired Emily sank upon her knees by her mother's bed-side, and kissed her hand, saying, "I have one great favor to ask, dear mother, and I beseech you to grant it."
"Well, my child," answered Lady Hastings, thinking she was going to petition for a recall of her injunction against the marriage with Marlow, "I have but one object in life, my dear Emily, and that is your happiness. I am willing to make any sacrifice of personal feelings for that object. What is it you desire?"
"It is merely this," replied Emily, "that you would not put any trust or confidence whatever in Mrs. Hazleton. That you would doubt her representations, and confide nothing to her, for a short time at least."
Lady Hastings looked perfectly aghast. "What do yon mean, Emily?" she said. "What can you mean? Put no trust in Mrs. Hazleton, my oldest and dearest friend?"
"She is not your friend," replied Emily, earnestly, "nor my friend, nor my father's friend, but the enemy of every one in this house. I have long had doubts—Marlow changed those doubts into suspicions, andthis day I have accidentally received proof positive of her cruel machinations against my father, yourself, and me. This justifies me in speaking as I now do, otherwise I should have remained silent still."
"But explain, explain, my child," said Lady Hastings. "What has she done? What are these proofs you talk of? I cannot comprehend at all unless you explain."
"There would be no time, even if I were not bound by a promise," replied Emily; "but all I ask is that you suspend all trust and confidence in Mrs. Hazleton for one short day—perhaps it may be sooner; but I promise you that at the end of that time, if not before, good Mr. Dixwell shall explain every thing to you, and place in your hands a paper which will render all Mrs. Hazleton's conduct for the last two years perfectly clear and distinct."
"But do tell me something, at least, Emily," urged her mother. "I hate to wait in suspense. You used to be very fond of Mrs. Hazleton and she of you. When did these suspicions of her first begin, and how?"
"Do you not remember a visit I made to her some time ago," replied Emily, "when I remained with her for several days? Then I first learned to doubt her. She then plotted and contrived to induce me to do what would have been the most repugnant to your feelings and my father's, as well as to my own. But moreover she came into my room one night walking in her sleep, and all her bitter hatred showed itself then."
"Good gracious! What did she say? What did she do?" exclaimed Lady Hastings, now thoroughly forgetting herself in the curiosity Emily's words excited.
Her daughter related all that had occurred on the occasion of Mrs. Hazleton's sleeping visit to her room, and repeated her words as nearly as she could recollect them.
"But why, my dearest child, did you not tell us all this before?" asked Lady Hastings.
"Because the words were spoken in sleep," answered Emily, "and excited at the time but a vague doubt. Sleep is full of delusions; and though I thought the dream must be a strange one which could prompt such feelings, yet still it might all be a troublous dream. It was not till afterwards, when I saw cause to believe that Mrs. Hazleton wished to influence me in a way which I thought wrong, that I began to suspect the words that had come unconsciously from the depths of her secret heart. Since then suspicion has increased every day, and now has ripened into certainty. I tell you, dear mother, that good Mr. Dixwell, whom you know and can trust, has the information as well as myself. But we are both bound to be silent as to the particulars for some hours more. I could not let Mrs. Hazleton be with you again, however—remembering, as I do, that seldom has she crossed this threshold or we crossed hers, without some evil befalling us—and not say as much as I have said, to give you the only hint in my power of facts which, if you knew them fully, you could judge of much better than myself. Believe me, dear mother, that as soon as I am permitted—and a very few hours will set me free—I will fly at once to tell you all, and leave you and my father to decide and act as your own good judgment shall direct."
"You had better tell me first, Emily," replied Lady Hastings; "a woman can always best understand the secrets of a woman's heart. I wish you had not made any promise of secrecy; but as you have, so it must be. Has Marlow had any share in this discovery?" she added, with some slight jealousy of his influence over her daughter's mind.
"Not in the least with that which I have made to-day," replied Emily; "but I need not at all conceal from you that he has long suspected Mrs. Hazleton of evil feelings and evil acts towards our whole family; and that he believes that he has discovered almost to a certainty that Mrs. Hazleton aided greatly in all the wrong and injury that has been done my father. The object of his going to France was solely to trace out the whole threads of the intrigue, and he went, not doubting in the least that he should succeed in restoring to my parents all that has been unjustly taken from them. That such a restoration must take place, I now know; but what he has learned or what he has done I cannot tell you, for I am not aware. I am sure, however, that if he brings all he hopes about, it will be his greatest joy to have aided to right you even in a small degree."
"I do believe he is a very excellent and amiable young man," said Lady Hastings thoughtfully.
She seemed as if she were on the point of saying something farther on the subject of Marlow's merits; but then checked herself, and added, "But now indeed, Emily, I think I ought to send for Mrs. Hazleton."
"But you promise me, dear mother," urged Emily eagerly, "that you will put no faith in any thing she tells you, and will not confide in her in any way till you have heard the whole?"
"That I certainly will take care to avoid, my dear," replied Lady Hastings. "After what you have told me, it would be madness to put any confidence in her—especially when a few short hours will reveal all. You are sure, Emily, that it will not be longer!"
"Perfectly certain, my dear mother," answered her daughter. "I would not have promised to refrain from speaking, had I not been certain that the time for such painful concealment must be very short."
"Well, then, my dear child, ring the bell," said Lady Hastings. "I will be very guarded merely on your assurances, for I am sure that you are always candid and sincere whatever your poor father may think."
Emily rung the bell, and retired to herown room, repeating mournfully to herself, "whatever my poor father may think!—Well, well," she added, "the time will soon come when he will be undeceived, and do his child justice. Alas, that it should ever have been otherwise!"
She found relief in tears; and while she wept in solitude Lady Hastings prepared to receive Mrs. Hazleton with cold dignity. She had fully resolved when Emily left her to be as silent as possible in regard to every thing that had occurred that day, not to allude directly or indirectly to the warning which had been given her, and to leave Mrs. Hazleton to attribute her unwonted reserve to caprice or any thing else she pleased. But the resolutions of Lady Hastings were very fragile commodities when she fell into the hands of artful people who knew her character, and one was then approaching not easily frustrated in her designs.
FOOTNOTES:[6]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.Continued from page 41.
[6]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.Continued from page 41.
[6]Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1850, by G. P. R. James, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New-York.
Continued from page 41.
Some of the best poetry in America makes its appearance in the newspapers, without pretension, and often without the names of its authors. It is enough for them to write, and publish, whoever will may take the fame. This indifference to public opinion does not arise from any want of autorial vanity perhaps, but in most cases from that modesty which an acquaintance with and self-measurement by the best standards never fails to produce in sincere lovers of art.
Recently a series of noticeable poems has from time to time appeared in theTribune, without any name or clue to their authorship except the enigmatical initials O. O. They are by Mr. Charles Weldon; he is still a young man, and the poems below, we have been told, are the first that he wrote. Their niceties of rhythm in many cases would reflect credit on the recognized masters of the poetic art. In this respect they are remarkable; but perhaps their greatest charm is a certain kind of subtle but masculine thought. They embody what most men feel, but lack words to express; strange facts of impression and consciousness, half-formed philosophies, and those glimpses of truth which are revealed to the mind in certain moods, as stray rays of the moon on a cloudy night. In this respect they resemble the best pieces of Emerson, who seems to be a favorite with Mr. Weldon. In others they remind us of the simplicity of "In Memoriam." By this we intend a compliment rather than a charge of imitation. Mr. Weldon's thoughts are too peculiar to come from any one but himself, and too original to be cast in other moulds. We shall watch his progress with interest, and are mistaken if he does not do something worthy to be long remembered.
Mysterious interpreter,Dear Aid that God has given to me!Instruct me, for I meanly err;Inform me, for I dimly see.I know thee not: How can I know?—I sought thee long, and lately found,Wearing the sable weeds of wo,A figure cast upon the ground.Thouwert that figure. Face to faceWe have not stood: I dare not seeThy features. We did once embrace,And all my being went to thee.Henceforward never more apartWe wander. All thy steps are mine.Thou hast my brain: thou hast my heart:Thou hast my soul. And I am thine....*...*...*...*The Sun has his appointed place,He never rests, and never tires;And ever in serenest spaceBurn the celestial, upper fires.They shine into the soul of man—Good works of God, but not the best—And he adores them as he can,Cherishing a supremer guest.He does not know the alphabetOf angel-language, who aspiresAgainst the sky his tube to set,And spell them into worlds, those fires....*...*...*...*The Petrel, bird of storms, is foundFive hundred leagues from any ground:He dwells upon the ocean-wave;He screams above the sailor's grave.How many tens of centuriesEre mankind built their theories,Skimming the foamy tracks of whales,Did he outride the stoutest gales,Upon three thousand miles of seaFrom land to land perpetuallyRolling; and not a wave could stay,From day to night, from night to day,Without an anthem? Where are goneThe anthem, and the sea-bird's moan?Where is the splendor of the mornThat rose on seas, ere man was born?Where are the roses of the years,Ere Mother Eve knew mother's cares?Where is the clang of Tubal-Cain'sFirst brass, and where are Jubal's strains?Where is the rainbow Noah sawAnd heard a law, or thought a law?The rainbow fades, the beauty lives;The creature falls, the race survives....*...*...*...*They tell us that the brain is mind,Or the mind enters through the brain,Even as light that is confinedAnd colored by the window pane.The act is fashioned by the head,And thus man does or cannot do;Through the red glass the light is red.Through the blue glass the light is blue.They do not urge their world-machineTo sounder progress, nor explainThe difficulties that were seenAnd felt before—pray whatisbrain?All undiscoverable, howCan they resolve the Whence or WhyMan grew to being in the Now,Or what is his Futurity....*...*...*...*Down the world's steep, dread abysmal,Icy as Spitzbergen's coast,Through the night hours, long and dismal,Ghost is calling unto ghost;Crushed is every fairer promise,And the good is taken from us;Sorrow adds to former sorrow,And, with every new to-morrow,Some expected joy is lost.But I will not shrink nor murmur.Though a spectre leads me on;Now I set my footsteps firmer,Face me now, thou skeleton!Trance me with thy fleshless eyeholes—But I move to other violsThan the rattling of thy bones,As we tread the crazy stones,For I see the risen sun.With my face behind my shadowThrown before the risen sun,Life I follow o'er the meadow,And an angel thrusts me on.Every little flower below meSeems to see me, seems to know me;Every bird and cloud above meSeems (or do I dream?) to love me,While the Angel thrusts me on.Where the turf is softest, greenest,Does that Angel thrust me on;Where the landscape lies serenestIn the journey of the sun.I shall pass through golden portalsWith him, to the wise Immortals,And behold the saints and sagesWho outshone their several ages,For an Angel thrust them on....*...*...*...*The poem of the UniverseNor rhythm has, nor rhyme;Some god recites the wondrous song,A stanza at a time.Great deeds he is foredoomed to do,With Freedom's flag unfurled,Who hears the echo of that song,As it goes down the world.Great words he is compelled to speak,Who understands the song;He rises up like fifty men—Fifty good men and strong.A stanza for each century!Now, heed it, all who can,Who hears it, he, and only he,Is the elected man....*...*...*...*The frost upon the window paneMakes crystal pictures in the night;The Earth, old mother, wears againHer garment of the shining white.We fly across the frozen snowWith bounding blood that will not pause.Oh Heaven! we are far below—Oh Earth! above thee, with thy laws.The happy horses toss their bells;The sleigh goes on into the farAnd far away. (A whisper tellsOf flight to where the angels are.)Glide forward. As a star that slipsThrough space, we know a large desire;And though our steeds are urged by whips,We haste as they were urged by fire.Dash forward, Let us know no rest—But on, and on, and ever on,Until the palace of the WestWe enter, with the sinking sun.And forward still, until the EastReleases the aspiring day;And forward till the hours have ceased,Oh Earth! now art thou far away....*...*...*...*The mountains truly have a glorious roughness;I do not hear the pyramids are smooth;The ocean grandly foams into abruptness;Does God peal thunder down a well-oiled groove?Thou, with a poet's roughness, friend, would'st quarrel;Staggering o'er the ridges of ploughed speech,You move uneasily. Well, the apparelOf verse is trivial. Try the sense to reach.
Mysterious interpreter,Dear Aid that God has given to me!Instruct me, for I meanly err;Inform me, for I dimly see.
I know thee not: How can I know?—I sought thee long, and lately found,Wearing the sable weeds of wo,A figure cast upon the ground.
Thouwert that figure. Face to faceWe have not stood: I dare not seeThy features. We did once embrace,And all my being went to thee.
Henceforward never more apartWe wander. All thy steps are mine.Thou hast my brain: thou hast my heart:Thou hast my soul. And I am thine.
...*...*...*...*
The Sun has his appointed place,He never rests, and never tires;And ever in serenest spaceBurn the celestial, upper fires.
They shine into the soul of man—Good works of God, but not the best—And he adores them as he can,Cherishing a supremer guest.
He does not know the alphabetOf angel-language, who aspiresAgainst the sky his tube to set,And spell them into worlds, those fires.
...*...*...*...*
The Petrel, bird of storms, is foundFive hundred leagues from any ground:He dwells upon the ocean-wave;He screams above the sailor's grave.
How many tens of centuriesEre mankind built their theories,Skimming the foamy tracks of whales,Did he outride the stoutest gales,
Upon three thousand miles of seaFrom land to land perpetuallyRolling; and not a wave could stay,From day to night, from night to day,
Without an anthem? Where are goneThe anthem, and the sea-bird's moan?Where is the splendor of the mornThat rose on seas, ere man was born?
Where are the roses of the years,Ere Mother Eve knew mother's cares?Where is the clang of Tubal-Cain'sFirst brass, and where are Jubal's strains?
Where is the rainbow Noah sawAnd heard a law, or thought a law?The rainbow fades, the beauty lives;The creature falls, the race survives.
...*...*...*...*
They tell us that the brain is mind,Or the mind enters through the brain,Even as light that is confinedAnd colored by the window pane.
The act is fashioned by the head,And thus man does or cannot do;Through the red glass the light is red.Through the blue glass the light is blue.
They do not urge their world-machineTo sounder progress, nor explainThe difficulties that were seenAnd felt before—pray whatisbrain?
All undiscoverable, howCan they resolve the Whence or WhyMan grew to being in the Now,Or what is his Futurity.
...*...*...*...*
Down the world's steep, dread abysmal,Icy as Spitzbergen's coast,Through the night hours, long and dismal,Ghost is calling unto ghost;Crushed is every fairer promise,And the good is taken from us;Sorrow adds to former sorrow,And, with every new to-morrow,Some expected joy is lost.
But I will not shrink nor murmur.Though a spectre leads me on;Now I set my footsteps firmer,Face me now, thou skeleton!Trance me with thy fleshless eyeholes—But I move to other violsThan the rattling of thy bones,As we tread the crazy stones,For I see the risen sun.
With my face behind my shadowThrown before the risen sun,Life I follow o'er the meadow,And an angel thrusts me on.Every little flower below meSeems to see me, seems to know me;Every bird and cloud above meSeems (or do I dream?) to love me,While the Angel thrusts me on.
Where the turf is softest, greenest,Does that Angel thrust me on;Where the landscape lies serenestIn the journey of the sun.I shall pass through golden portalsWith him, to the wise Immortals,And behold the saints and sagesWho outshone their several ages,For an Angel thrust them on.
...*...*...*...*
The poem of the UniverseNor rhythm has, nor rhyme;Some god recites the wondrous song,A stanza at a time.
Great deeds he is foredoomed to do,With Freedom's flag unfurled,Who hears the echo of that song,As it goes down the world.
Great words he is compelled to speak,Who understands the song;He rises up like fifty men—Fifty good men and strong.
A stanza for each century!Now, heed it, all who can,Who hears it, he, and only he,Is the elected man.
...*...*...*...*
The frost upon the window paneMakes crystal pictures in the night;The Earth, old mother, wears againHer garment of the shining white.We fly across the frozen snowWith bounding blood that will not pause.Oh Heaven! we are far below—Oh Earth! above thee, with thy laws.
The happy horses toss their bells;The sleigh goes on into the farAnd far away. (A whisper tellsOf flight to where the angels are.)Glide forward. As a star that slipsThrough space, we know a large desire;And though our steeds are urged by whips,We haste as they were urged by fire.
Dash forward, Let us know no rest—But on, and on, and ever on,Until the palace of the WestWe enter, with the sinking sun.And forward still, until the EastReleases the aspiring day;And forward till the hours have ceased,Oh Earth! now art thou far away.
...*...*...*...*
The mountains truly have a glorious roughness;I do not hear the pyramids are smooth;The ocean grandly foams into abruptness;Does God peal thunder down a well-oiled groove?Thou, with a poet's roughness, friend, would'st quarrel;Staggering o'er the ridges of ploughed speech,You move uneasily. Well, the apparelOf verse is trivial. Try the sense to reach.
The Count of Monte-Leone was cast down on receiving from the minister an order to leave France. So many interests bound him to his country; not that he cherished still the hope of being loved by Aminta, and of one day giving her his name. His ruin had dissipated all his bright dreams of future happiness. But he resided in the same place as the marquise; he breathed the same air that she breathed. To live near her thus, without seeing her, without telling her of that love which consumed his soul, was indeed cruel—it was a bitter sorrow to him every hour and every moment. But to remove himself from her and France was to die. And then, his political work—that work, his life and glory—that work which he loved because it avenged him of kings in avenging his father, the victim of a king—in which he believed he saw the regeneration of the world—that great work, in fine, of which the confidence of almost all theVentesof Europe rendered him in some way the master and arbiter—it was necessary to renounce at the very moment of accomplishment. He must abandon his associates, his brothers, who relied in the hour of danger on his devotion and energy, and on the firm and bold will with which he had often controlled chance, and by which he had produced safety from apparent shipwreck. Had the Count been denounced? was the plan for the completion of which he and his friends toiled known? He told Taddeo, Von Apsbery, and d'Harcourt, of the order he had received, and they had consulted about it. Their plans, as it will be seen, though difficult, were susceptible of penetration. The house of the false Matheus as yet appeared unsuspected, and that was a great point. It was the holy ark in which were deposited the archives of the association, and the names of the agents, and if it were violated, all was lost. The expulsion from France of the Count might be the signal of the persecutions about to be begun against Carbonarism. At once, by means of a spontaneity which was one of the characteristics of the association, all theVenteof Paris were informed of the measures adopted against Count Monte-Leone. The mighty serpent then coiled up its innumerable rings and then its federal union apparently ceased in the whole capital. The orders were transmitted, received, and executed the very night after the decree of the minister had been signified to Monte-Leone. The friends during the night could not fancy why the order had been given. Monte-Leone seemed, as it were, struck by a new idea and said: "Perhaps it has no political motive, but has been dictated by private vengeance." He then paused, for he saw Taddeo's eyes fixed on him. He continued—"I have a few hours left to ascertain it, and will do so, not for my own sake, for whatever motive it may have, it will not trouble me less, but for your sake, my friends, who will remain here to defend the breach and to receive the enemy's attack."
It was then resolved that up to the time of Monte-Leone's departure, he should not again visit Matheus's house, nor receive the adieus of his friends even at his hotel. All this took place on the night after the interview of the stranger and M. H——, and on the day Louis XVIII. received the visit of the Prince de Maulear. In relation to privaterevenge the Count could think of no one except the beautiful and passionate Duchess of Palma, who had loved him so devotedly that she wished even to die for him. This passionate woman he had driven to despair. For some time, though, calmness and resignation seemed to occupy her once desolate heart. The Count rarely visited her, but occasionally went to her hotel. Every time he did so, he found her more reasonable and calm. The Duchess evidently avoided all allusion to their old relations. She inquired calmly after his affairs, his pleasures, and his friends. When her mind recurred to the past, as a skiff drifts towards the river it has left, an effort of will was required again to push it into the wide stream of worldliness and indifference. The Count, however, was a delicate and acute observer, and sounded the abyss of her mind through the flowers which grew across its brink. The Count then went to his hotel at theChamps Elysées, to clear up his suspicions, and to ascertain if his expulsion had not been caused by the Duchess of Palma. Monte-Leone was ushered in and found her with a few visitors. The features of the Duchess evidently became flushed at the sound of Monte-Leone's name. This, however, was but a flash of light in the dark, and the pale and beautiful face of La Felina soon became cold and passionless. "I expected you, Signor," said she, "when I learned from the Duke the unpleasant event which has occurred. I did not think you would leave the city without seeing me."
"Signora," said the Count, "you were right. But you are mistaken in calling the terrible blow, the almost humiliating attack to which I have been subjected, a disagreeable event."
"Certainly," said La Felina, "it is a catastrophe, and I can understand how severe it must be. We will talk of it by and by, however, when we arealone."
The last words of the Duchess were a dismissal to those in the room, and a few moments after they left. When the ambassadress had seen the last visitor leave, she rang the bell by her side. A footman came, to whom she said, "Remember I am at home to no one, not even to the Duke, if he take it into his head to ask for me. Now," said she to the Count, who was surprised at the precautions she had taken, "we are now alone, and can talk together safely. You tell me you are ordered to leave France?"
"At once, without the assignment of any reason."
"Have you not seen the Minister and asked an explanation?"
"I did not think it dignified to do so. Besides, my legal protector in France, the Duke of Palma, the Neapolitan ambassador, alone can defend me. I am, too, unwilling to ask justice, even, far less a favor, from his excellency."
"You are right," said the Duchess. "You would not have been successful, for at the instance of the Duke himself have you been ordered away."
The reply of the Duchess was clear and precise. The Count had every reason to suspect she had participated in the affair, but wished to be sure of it.
"And has not the Duchess discovered why the Duke has done so?"
"Certainly," said La Felina. "The Duke has little confidence in me, not deigning to initiate me in the mysteries of diplomacy. This is not the case, though, with the secretaries. Now," said she kindly, "you must know that nothing which relates to you is uninteresting and I therefore sought to discover why such a stern course had been adopted."
"Indeed."
"Your Neapolitan enemies, or perhaps yourfriends, have caused this. The court of Naples had, by means of the Duke of Palma, pointed you out to that of France as maintaining communications with Italy, which endangered the peace of the country. You are accused of being engaged in a plot to control from Paris the insurrectionary movements of the two Sicilies. You may," said she, "be innocent of those crimes, but you have left terrible recollections behind you in Naples, and your name will long continue a standard of revolt and sedition."
"The court of Naples," said the Count, "does me honor by believing me thus powerful and formidable. I do not see, however, the use of bringing so dangerous a person to Italy."
The Duchess said, "At home, it will be able to watch you more closely than at a distance. I trust, however, we will be able to defeat their plans and keep you here."
"What say you?" said the Count.
"I say that I am willing to abandon many schemes, but will not be diverted from being useful to you—from defending you against your enemies—nor cease to be what I once was, a secret providence, an Ægis against danger. You know I learned this long ago, and am happy to be again able to assume the part."
The Count did not know what to think, and his face expressed doubt and incredulity.
"Well, well," said she bitterly, "you suspect, you doubt me, and do not think me generous enough to return good for evil. So be it; judge me by my actions rather than my words. The former will soon convince you of my devotion."
"What devotion, Signora, do you speak of?" said the Count with curiosity.
"Plainly speaking, of the most sublime of all devotion—of making you happy at the expense of myself. I wish to retain you here in France, where the happiness of which I speak exists, to keep you by her who loves you and by whom you are loved."
"What say you?" said the Count, "would you do so?"
"I will try," said Felina. "I have been forced to adopt strange and extreme means," added she, with a smile. "You know serious cases require violent remedies, and I had no choice."
"Felina," said the Count, with emotion, "I have just committed an offence against you, for which I blush, and which my frankness alone can excuse. When you were busy in my behalf I fancied you the cause of my troubles."
"That is very natural, and I am not at all surprised," said the Duchess. "People in this world are not apt to repay evil with good. I, however, do not wish to appear to you to be better than I am. Perhaps I am less deserving than you think. Time, it is said, cures the greatest mortifications, and dissipates the deepest passions. Three months ago I did not think it possible that I could have acted thus on your behalf. Then I was but a poor despised woman, passionate and deserted. Now I am your friend, sincere and devoted."
"You are an angel," said the Count, with a deep transport of gratitude.
"An angel," said the Duchess. "Then there are only good angels. But," continued she, as if she were unwilling to suffer the Count to think on what she had said, "let us descend from heaven, where you give me so excellent a resting place, to earth. Speak to me of your plans and of her you love."
"Of her I love!" said the Count, with hesitation.
"Certainly; have not all your old hopes returned? Has not the death of the Marquis revived your old passion?"
"Felina," said the Count, "should I talk to you of such matters?"
"Why not? am I not the first to mention them? You must, from mysang-froid, see that I can now listen to your confessions and hear all your tender sentiments. The French proverb says:'Il n'y a que le premier pas qui coute;'[8]I have already taken that. Treat me as a sister, but as a sister you love, and let me at least have the satisfaction of knowing that my self-denial has made you happy."
"Happy!" said the Count, relapsing into sad thoughts, "may I always be happy, as you seem to wish me! I do not know that I may not hope some day for her to share my fate. She once refused my hand. I do not know but that her heart at last listens to mine; but that which Count Monte-Leone, amid all his luxury, once could offer, the poor and exiled Italian does not now propose."
"Really," said Felina, "I am predestined to make you happy. By a single word I am about to dissipate the clouds around you, and light up your brow and heart with joy."
"That is impossible," said the Count. "I henceforth have nothing, and have lost even hope."
"The present," said the Duchess, "is less sombre than you think it. You are yet rich, almost as you ever were."
The features of the Count expressed the greatest astonishment.
"Listen to me," said the Duchess. "Yesterday one of my Neapolitan friends came to see me. He spoke of you, and I did not conceal the interest with which you had inspired me. He told me he had a confidential letter for Count Monte-Leone from his banker, Antonio Lamberti. The man is not so bad as he is thought to be; for, forced to give way before the burden of his obligations, he only pretended to fail. United by friendship, and especially by political opinions, with you, he has saved your fortune, and will send you the income until he can arrange his affairs and send you the capital."
"Can this be true?" said the Count, beside himself.
"All this can be effected only on certain conditions, that you will answer the letter of Lamberti, which now should be at your hotel."
Monte-Leone could not repress his joy. "Rich," said he; "yet rich! Fortune has now its value forhersake."
Scarcely had he uttered the last word when the face of the Duchess changed its expression. Her eyes glared with madness, and a mortal pallor covered her face.
"Excuse me," said the Count, as he saw this change. This was however but a flash, and by her powerful self-control Mme. de Palma became calm and smiling. She said "convalescents sometimes have relapses. Time is indispensable for a radical cure. The storm has passed, and the old nature reappears but for a moment, and gives place to the new but true friend, who rejoices with you at your unanticipated good fortune. It will secure your happiness."
"My friend," added she, reaching out her hand to Monte-Leone, "you must be impatient to ascertain if what I have said is true. Go home, and you will find my prediction correct."
"Felina," said the Count, "if your hopes are not realized, if you be not again my good star, I shall not be less grateful to you."
"Gratitude is cold, indeed," said Felina. "I ask your friendship."
"It is all yours," said the Count.
"Well, go now," said the Duchess, with a smile.
She was right, for when he reached his hotel, his old and faithful Giacomo, who, since his master's misfortune, had discharged his servants, and now performed all his functions, with the addition of those of valet, factotum, and cook, was busy with preparations for the departure of Monte-Leone. The old man gave him a letter, saying that it had been brought during his absence. The Count opened it, and read as follows:
"Count Monte-Leone: You will lose nothingby Antonio Lamberti. He is not a person to destroy one of our great association. You will find within a check for fifty thousand livres, drawn in your favor by one of the first houses in Naples, on the house of Casimer Périer of Paris. This is the interest at five per cent. on the million deposited by you with Antonio Lamberti. Every year the same sum will be paid down, and before six months you will receive security for your principal. One condition only is interposed on the return of your fortune. This is indispensable—that you maintain the most profound secrecy in relation to your new resources, and attribute them to any other than the real cause. The least indiscretion on your part will awake attention in relation to means employed to save from the wreck of Antonio Lamberti your own fortune."
This letter was signed,A Brother of the Venta of Castel-à-Mare.
Count Monte-Leone, though master of himself in adversity, could not repress his joy as he read this saving letter. As he had said at the house of La Felina, it was not for himself but for another that he rejoiced at this return of prosperity.
"A fine time, indeed, to be laughing," said Giacomo, ill-tempered as possible, "when we are being driven from the country as if we were spotted with plague. Only think, a Monte-Leone expelled, when his ancestor, Andrea Monte-Leone, Viceroy of Sicily, received royal honors in every town he passed through. You, however, have no shame. No, Signor," added he, as he saw Monte-Leone smiling. "Had I been in your place, I would have picked a quarrel and killed the damned minister who has forced us to resume our wandering gipsy life. Besides we are ruined gipsies. At my age to begin my wanderings, to be badly lodged, badly fed, like the servant of a pedler. If I were only twenty I would undertake a game of dagger-play with my minister."
"That is very fine, Giacomo," said Monte-Leone, "but the dagger is not the fashion in France. As for your apprehensions of the future, you may get rid of them by leaving me."
The wrath of the old man disappeared at these words of his master, and great tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks.
"Leave you! I leave you, when you are lost and ruined, Count?" said the good man. "Your father would not have spoken thus to me."
"Come, come, old boy, you know well enough I cannot get on without you. If you did not scold me every day, if you did not bark everlastingly at me, like those old servants to whom age gives impunity—if I did not hear every morning and night your magisterial reprimands, I would have fancied I missed some luxury. Be easy, however, Giacomo. You saw me happy just now because my sky began to grow bright, because our fortune is about to change, because we are nearer good fortune than you thought."
Full of these happy ideas, and anxious to take advantage of the few hours yet under his control, in case his departure should be enforced, the Count went to the hotel of the Prince. His heart beat violently when he was shown into the saloon of the Marquise, and he was glad that her not being in the room enabled him to repress his agitation. Aminta came in soon after. When Monte-Leone was announced, she felt almost as he had done.
She spoke first, but with a voice full of agitation. "We had almost despaired of seeing you, Count, for the Prince told me you were about to go. You have however neglected us for so long a time that we knew not whether we might expect you to bid us adieu."
The fact was, that since the news of his ruin the Count had not called to see Aminta. He felt that every interview made his departure more painful and the wreck of his hopes more terrible.
"Madame," said he, without replying immediately to her kind reproach, "you are not mistaken, for an exile comes to bid you farewell. That exile, however, will bear away a perpetual memory of your kindness."
"You will seeourcountry," said the Marquise, with an effort.
"I shall see my country, but not that which made it dear to me."
"You will find many friends there," said the Marquise, becoming more and more troubled.
"Friends are like swallows, Signora, they love the summer, but leave when winter comes."
"You must have thought the Prince and myself were like them," said Aminta, "and that winter was come. You have not been for a long time to see us."
"Ah, Signora, had I known—had I guessed—such a sympathy would have made me wish for misfortune."
"No, Count, not so. It should, however, aid you to bear it."
"There are misfortunes," said the Count, "which often disturb the strongest mind and destroy the greatest courage."
"Ah, Signor, should the loss of a fortune cause such regret?"
"But what if the loss of fortune," continued the Count, "involved that of the only blessing dreamed of—if this loss deprived you even of the right to be happy—then, Signora, do you understand, what would be the effect of such a loss?"
The future fate of the Count was thus exhibited to Aminta. She saw at once that this noble and energetic man, born to command, must be proscribed, wandering, and wretched. The idea was too much for herheart, already crushed by the idea of a separation which became every moment more painful to her, and she therefore formed in her mind a generous resolution.
"Signor," said she, "there are hearts which are attracted rather than alienated by misfortune, and sentiments which they would conceal from the happy, they confess to those who suffer."
Monte-Leone, perfectly overcome, fell at the Marquise's feet. He was about to confess the unexpected good fortune which had befallen him. He, however, forgot all, and covered the hand which the Marquise abandoned to him with kisses. The Prince de Maulear entered, and appeared surprised but not offended by what he saw. "Do not disturb yourself, dear Count,—I know the meaning of all that, and expected it. But if, however, you are making an exhibition of your despair and misery, you have lost your time; for you will not go. The King places a high estimate on you, and will not forget you. He told me so."
Three hours after the revelation made to M. H—— by his mysterious visitor in the cabinet of the chief of the political police, a man about fifty years of age rang at the door of a room on the second story of a furnished house in Jacob-street. He looked like a substantial citizen with a property of fifty thousand francs—or an income of 2,500 francs at five per cent. The mulberry frock of this man, over a vest of yellow silk, spotted with snuff, and a cravat of white mousseline, with gloves of sea-green, and pantaloons of brown cloth twisted like a cork-screw around his legs, an ivory-headed cane, and all theet cetera, might appropriately belong to a shopkeeper, retired from business, living in somethebaideof the streets d'Enfer or Vaugirard, and sustaining their intellects by the leaders of "The White Flag" of Martainville, and by witnessing once a year some chef-d'œuvre of Picard at the Odeon.
We will make no conjectures about the social position of this gentleman,—he will hereafter explain himself. Almost before the bell he rang had ceased to sound, the door was opened by another person. The latter was tall, dark and athletic, so that we would really have taken him for the lover of Mlle. Celestine Crepineau, had he worn the magnificent moustache and voluminous whiskers of the bear-hunter, which the lady admired so much. His costume, too, was different from that of the Spaniard. He wore a blue frock over his chest, at the bottom hole of which was a bit of red ribbon, not a little discolored.
"Ah! M. Morisseau," said the inmate of the room, "you are welcome, but late. The dinner is cold. And," added he in a low tone, "the dinner ofa brigand of the Loire, as they call such fragments of the imperial guard as myself, must be hot, it being too small to eat in any other way."
"I think it always excellent, MonsieurRhinoceros," said Morisseau.
"Permit me," said the brigand of the Loire,—for so the man called himself—"My name is not Rhinoceros. A certain African animal has that beautiful name, as I have often told you during the many games ofdominoeswe have played together at theCafé Lemblin, whither you are attracted by my company. My name isRinoccio—Paolo Rinoccio, born in Corsica, as my foreign accent tells you. I am the countryman ofhim." He made a military salute. "I served ten years beneath the Eagles. You, too, adore our Emperor. Each Buonapartist has a hand for his brother," continued he, shaking that of Morisseau. "Already thinking alike, eight days ago, over M. Lemblin's cognac, we swore eternal friendship. You, therefore, deigned to visit the warrior in his tent, in Jacob-street, to share the bread and soup of the soldier, and drink to the return ofhimof Austerlitz."
"M. Rhinoceros,—no, no, Rhino,—damn the name," said the Corsican's guest, "it is indeed an honor for me to sit at the table of so brave a man—for that reason, I accepted your invitation."
"Sit down, then, and let us drink to the health of the little corporal."
As he spoke he filled two glasses and emptied his own. M. Morisseau simply moistened his lips. "The Emperor," he said, on receiving his part of the soup, "the Emperor, M. Rhino, was my god."
"And that of France," said the Corsican.
"He was my god and my best customer; I had the honor to be his furrier."
"His what?"
"His furrier. I furnished his majesty's robes—not only his own, but those of all the kings he made. You know the Emperor used to make a king a year, and he used to insist that all his brothers and friends should reign only in my robes. I had the honor, therefore, of wrapping up the august forms of Kings Louis, Joseph, Jerome, Bernadotte and Murat, without particularizing the sovereign princes, grand dukes, and grand judges, who to pleasehimdealt with me."
"Tohishealth," said the Corsican, and he emptied the second glass. "You never served, Monsieur Morisseau?"
"Yes," said the furrier, "I marched beneath the imperial eagles. I belonged to the glorious army of theSambreandMeuse. I even now suffer in myfemur."
"From a ball?"
"No, from the rheumatism, contracted during a forced march during the winter of '93. Having been surprised during the night by the enemy, I had not time to dress myself comfortably, and was compelled to march fifteen leagues barefooted, and in my drawers. That, by the bye, was the usual uniform of our army. Those who were bestdressed only wore shoes and pantaloons. To dress thus, though, something more than our pay was necessary, which we never got."
"You were then discharged?"
"Yes, for my rheumatism became very severe. But for it I might now be a general. I asked a pension as having been wounded in service. It was, however, refused me—a great injustice."
"The soup is gone. It is a very indigestible food, and we must therefore attack the enemy in his strong-holds. Two glasses of vin de Beaume will settle him."
"But," said Morisseau, as he saw his host filling up his glass, "my head is very weak, and I have not gotten drunk since I left the service."
"So be it, dear Morisseau. I will go for the second service, which the restorateur leaves in the kitchen. Excuse my having no servant, but two old soldiers like us can do without attendants."
Rinoccio went into the next room. When Morisseau was alone he took a little vial from his pocket, opened it, and poured a few drops into the Corsican's glass, the third portion of the contents of which he had swallowed. Scarcely had he replaced the vial when the Corsican entered, having a plate on which were two large pork chops, with a gravy ofcornichons. "The second entry will make a man drink like a fish," said the Corsican.
"Let us drink, then," said Morisseau, knocking his glass against his host's.
"Let us drink," said the latter; and Morisseau's eyes glared as he saw him bear the glass to his lips. His joy, however, was short. "Let us drink something better than this," said the Corsican, who, as he spoke, threw away the contents of his glass. "I have some champagne given me by my General, one of the old guard, and I shall never find a more suitable occasion to uncork it." He took from a shelf near the table a long wire-fastened bottle, covered with a venerable dust.
Morisseau was not yet in despair, for he relied for an opportunity to use his vial on the third service. Paolo dexterously uncorked the bottle, and poured out a glass of perfumed wine to the imperial furrier, who, when he had knocked his glass against the Corsican's, drank it down, while the latter, just when he got it to his mouth, saw a fragment of cork on its brim. He took it out with his knife, lifted up the glass, and said: "To the Emperor. May he whom the enemies call the Corsican Ogre, soon eat up the Prussians, Austrians, and beggarly Cossacks. May he cut them into cat's-meat. May he cut off theailles de Pigeonof all theVoltigeurs de Louis XVI.restored by the Bourbons. May he—"
Rinoccio paused in his speech, for his guest looked pale and disturbed, and seemed about to go to sleep.
"Per Bacco!" said M. Morisseau, at once speaking the purest Italian, "what did that devil give me to drink?"
"Probably," said the Corsican, in the same tongue, "what you would have given me, had I not taken care to empty in the fireplace the glass into which you had poured some narcotic or other."
"Christ!" said the furrier, "the beggar saw me!"
"Perfectly, Signor Pignana."
"He knows me," said the false furrier, attempting to rise.
The Corsican, however, pushed him back, and Pignana sank stupidly on his seat.
"Curse you, Stenio, you shall pay for this!..."
"Ah, ah," said the Corsican, "so two played at the same game. Funny! and we were both good actors. I do not ask you," continued he, ironically, "why you came hither, and why you consented to share my frugal meal, for I know already, and will tell you. You met me in Paris, my presence annoyed you and your friends, and I know why. You watched and pursued me to find where I lived, and you succeeded. You joined me at the Café Lemblin, and we neither seemed to recognize each other. I asked you to dine, and you accepted my invitation, for with the drug you have you intended to put me to sleep, and expected then to be able to examine all my plans. You would have failed, Signor Pignana, for I do not live in this house. I took this room only for your especial benefit, and intend to give it up to-morrow. Do not, therefore, be disturbed, my good fellow; but go to sleep, and digest your dinner."
"But I will not go to sleep," said Signor Pignana, attempting again to rise, "I will not go to sleep here, in the house of a man I think capable of any thing."
"Not exactly that," said the Corsican, "but I am capable of much."
"What do you wish to do with me?" said Pignana, articulating with great pain, for his tongue began to grow heavy and his ideas confused.
"That you must not know; but do not be afraid, your life and health being dear to me. I would not deprive the Carbonari of so skilful an agent, who is so daring and prudent as you are. Lest, however, you should be uneasy and your sleep be troubled, I will tell you what I mean, and you will yourself admire my plan."
Half stupid with sleep and terror, Pignana glared at Stenio Salvatori.
"Here," said he, lifting up Pignana from the floor and placing him on a kind of sofa, "lie there, and then you can both sleep better and hear me more at your ease. You will for twelve hours have the most pleasant dreams imaginable. A glass will make you sleep twelve hours—a bottle for eternity." Pignana made a gesture expressive ofthe greatest terror. "Do not be so uneasy," said Stenio, "and remember you have had only a glass. To-morrow, at six o'clock, you will wake up, with a slight headache, but in other respects perfectly well. Then the master of the house will come to ask after you. If you are generous, you will give him something to drink your health. Otherwise you will thank him and go, for all has been paid for. You see I do things genteelly, and know how to receive my friends. You will then leave this house, and go about your usual business, and will never mention this matter."
"Eh? who will prevent me?" muttered Pignana.
"Oh, you will take care not to do so. For if you own that you have been duped, your confederates will think you a fool, and dismiss you without wages. Now this would be bad—just on the eve of their success. If you tell them how long you have slept, they will think you an idiot, for I never saw any one take to champagne so kindly as you did just now, my dear Pignana. Now, adieu, for I must go. Be still," said he, pushing Pignana down with all his strength. "No, no, do not take the trouble to go with me—you are too kind. Go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep, my dear fellow." He left the room, and sleep took possession of its prey. Pignana felt his ideas grow gradually more confused, and his real life pass away. A few minutes after Stenio's departure, M. Pignana was sound asleep. Stenio then slowly opened the door of the room, and glided like a shadow over the floor to the sleeper, into whose pockets he placed his hand. "Nothing here—not here. The devil, can it be that it is not about him!" A smile of triumph, however, soon appeared on his lips, for he had found what he wanted. He discovered a kind of pocket in the waistcoat of the false tradesman, and felt in it. "Here it is!" said he. Pignana moved. Stenio paused, and then took from the sleeper's pocket a door-key. He then left, and did not return....