THE LIBRARY 
 
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 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 TOO STKMGE NOT TO BE TETJE. 
 
 Y©L. I.
 
 LONDOK 
 
 PRI>T1D BY grOTTlSW (>CDE AND CO. 
 
 JfKW-STBEET £QUAK£
 
 ^^^^-^ynv y ^^>C^/^^, 
 
 '-X 
 
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 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY GEOEGIANA FULLEETON, 
 
 AUTHORESS OP 
 ' ELLEN JIIDDLETOX,' ' LADYBIRD,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 EICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1864. 
 
 The right of trantlaliou is reserved.
 
 Fit 
 
 V, / 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 In the following tale, the scene of which 
 is laid in countries, and amidst persons, 
 whose language was not our own, there 
 has been no attempt to adopt the phrase- 
 ology of the epoch over which these events 
 extend. There did not seem any particular 
 object in rendering the thoughts and con- 
 versations of German and French people in 
 the English of the eighteenth, rather than 
 of the nineteenth, century. 
 
 Truth and fiction are closely blended in 
 this tale, and in the Appendix will be found 
 the materials from whence some of its inci- 
 dents have been drawn — as also the narrative 
 which has furnished its groimd-work. Those 
 who are sometimes glad to turn away for a
 
 VI INTRODUCTION. 
 
 wliile from the beaten roads of liistqry, and 
 to tread tlie bye-ways of romance — who love 
 tnitli Avliicli resembles fiction, and fiction 
 which follows closely in the footsteps of 
 truth — niay, perhaps, find some little interest 
 in this story of the last century. 
 
 * Full of hope, and yet of heart-break ; 
 Of the here, and the hereafter.' 
 
 Legend of Hiawatha.
 
 TOO STEANGE NOT TO BE TEUE. 
 
 PAKT I. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 The woods ! solemn are the boundless woods 
 
 Of the great western world when duy declines ; 
 And louder sounds the roll of distant floods, 
 
 More deep the rustling of the ancient pines, 
 When dimness gathers on the stilly air, 
 
 And m3'stery seems on every leaf to brood : 
 Awful it is for human heart to bear 
 
 The weight and burthen of the solitude. 
 
 3frs. He.nans. 
 
 White she is as Lily of June, 
 And beauteous as the silver moon, 
 When out of sight the clouds are driven, 
 And she is left alone in heaven. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 I did not speak — I saw her face : 
 Her face ! it was enough for me ! 
 I turned about, and heard her cry, 
 ' misery ! misery ! ' Wordsworth. 
 
 In tlie earlier part of the last century, 
 through one of the primeval forests of the New 
 World, northward of the reQ;ion which the 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 1: TOO STRANGE 
 
 Freiicli colonists called the Eden of Louisiana, 
 a man was walking one evening with his gim 
 on his shoidder, followed by two dogs of 
 European breed, a spaniel and a bloodliound. 
 The rays of the setting sun were gilding the 
 vast sea of flowers lyhis to his ricrht bevond 
 the limits of the Avood tliroush which he was 
 making his way, impeded every moment by 
 the cords of the slender hana and entangled 
 garlands of Spanish moss. The firmness of 
 his step, the briskness of his movements, the 
 vigour of his frame, his keen eye and manly 
 bearing, and above all the steady perseverance 
 with which he pursued the path he had 
 chosen, and forced his way through all ob- 
 stacles, indicated a physical and moral tem- 
 perament well fitted to cope with the many 
 difiiculties mherent to the life of a settler in 
 the Nouvelle France. 
 
 Henri d'Auban had been a dweller in 
 many lands — had Hved in camps and in 
 courts, and held intercourse "with persons 
 of every rank in most of the great cities of 
 Europe. He was tliirty-five years of age 
 at the time this story opens, and had been in 
 America about four years. Brittany was his
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 6 
 
 native coimtry ; his parental home a small 
 castle on the edge of a cliff overlookmg one 
 of the wildest shores of that rude coast. The 
 sea-beach had been his playground ; its weeds, 
 its shells, its breaking waves, his toys ; the 
 boundless expanse of the ocean and its great 
 ceaseless voice, the endless theme of his secret 
 musings ; and the pious legends of the Ar- 
 morican race, the nursery tales he had heard 
 fi'om his mother's lips. Brittany, hke Scot- 
 land, is ' a meet nurse for a poetic child,' and 
 her bold peasantry have retained to this day 
 very much of the rehgious spirit of their 
 forefathers. Early in life Henri d'Auban 
 lost both his parents — the small-pox, the 
 plague of that ei)och in France, having car- 
 ried them both off within a few days of each 
 other. He saw them buried in the little 
 churchyard of Keir Anna, and was placed 
 soon after by some of his relations at the 
 college of Yannes, where he remained several 
 years. 
 
 On leaving it he began hfewith many friends, 
 much youthfid ambition, and very little fortune. 
 Tlirough the interest of a great-uncle, who 
 had been a distinofuished officer in Marshal 
 
 o 
 
 B 2
 
 4 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Turenne's army, he was appointed military 
 attaclie to the French Embassy at Vienna, 
 and served as volunteer in some of the Austrian 
 campaigns against the Turks. He visited also 
 in the Ambassador's service several of the 
 smaller courts of Germany, and was sent on 
 a secret mission to Italy. On liis way through 
 Switzerland he accidentally made acquaint- 
 ance with General Lefort, the Czar of Mus- 
 covy's confidential friend and admirer. That 
 able man "svas not long in discovering the 
 more than ordinary abiUties of the young 
 Breton gentilhomme. By his advice, and 
 througli his interest, Henry d'Auban entered 
 the Eussian service, advanced rapidly from 
 post to post, and was often favourably noticed 
 by Peter the Great. He seemed as hkely to 
 attain a high position at that monarch's court 
 as any foreigner in his service. His know- 
 ledge of military science, and ])articularly 
 of engineering, having attracted the sove- 
 reign's attention on several occasions when 
 he had accompanied General Lefort on visits 
 of military inspection, the command of a 
 regiment and the title of Colonel were be- 
 stowed upon him. But just as his prospects
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 5 
 
 appeared most brilliant, and his favour with 
 the Emperor was visibly increasing, he secretly- 
 left Eussia and returned to France. Secrecy 
 was a necessary condition of departure in the 
 case of foreigners in the Czar's service. How- 
 ever high in his favour, and indeed by reason 
 of that favour they were no longer freeagents — 
 his most valued servants being only privileged 
 serfs, bound to his dominions by laws which 
 could only be evaded by flight — permission 
 was hardly ever obtained for a withdrawal, 
 which was considered as a sort of treason. 
 
 Colonel d'Auban's abandonment of the 
 Eussian service excited the surprise of his 
 friends. Some painful thoughts seemed to 
 be connected ^\nth the resolution which had 
 cut short his career. He dishked to be ques- 
 tioned on the subject, and evasive answers 
 generally put a stop to such enquiries. He 
 had, however, reached an age when it is 
 difficult to enter on a new career ; when old 
 associations on the one hand, and youthful 
 competitors on the other, stand in the way 
 of a fresh start in hfe. After six or seven 
 years' absence from his country, he scarcely 
 felt at home in France. His acquaintances
 
 6 TOO STRANGE 
 
 thouolit him chaiiQ;ed. The ea2;er ambitious 
 youth liad become a quiet thoughtful man. 
 But if the enthusiasm of his character was 
 subdued, its energy was in no wise impaired. 
 Youthful enthusiasm, in some natures, simply 
 evaporates and leaves nothing behind it but 
 frivohty ; in others, it condenses and becomes 
 earnestness. 
 
 At this turnino; moment one of the insig- 
 nificant circumstances which often influence 
 a person's whole destiny directed Colonel 
 •d'Auban's thoughts to the New World. In 
 Europe, and especially in France, a perfect 
 fever of excitement was raging on the subject 
 of colonisation. The rich territories on the 
 banks of the Mississippi seemed a promised 
 land to speculators of all classes and nations. 
 The eagerness with wliich Law's system was 
 Jiailed in Paris, and the avidity which sought 
 to secure a share in tlie fabulous prospects of 
 w-eaith held out to settlers in the ISTew France, 
 had never known a parallel. This fever was 
 at its height when one day the ex-favourite 
 of the Czar happened to meet in the Luxem- 
 bourg gardens an old school-fellow, who, 
 the instant he recognised his comrade at
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 7 
 
 Valines, threw himself into his arms, and 
 poured forth a torrent of joyful exclamations 
 This was the Vicomte de Harlay, a wealthy, 
 sood-natured, eccentric Parisian, who had em- 
 ployed his time, his wit, and his means, since 
 he had come of age, in committing folHes, 
 wasting money, and doing kindnesses. He 
 had already managed to get rid of one large 
 fortune ; but fortune seemed to have a fancy 
 for this spendthrift son of hers, and had re- 
 cently bestowed upon him, through the death 
 of a relative, a large estate, which he seemed 
 bent upon running through with equal speed. 
 
 ' My dear d'Auban ! I am dehghted to see 
 you ! Are you come on a mission from the 
 polar bears ? or has the Czar named you his 
 Ambassador in Paris ? ' 
 
 ' I have left the Eussian service.' 
 
 ' You don't say so ! Why people declared 
 you were going to cut out Lefort and Gordon. 
 Have you made your fortune, dear friend?' 
 
 D'Auban smiled and shook his head. ' A 
 rolling stone gathers no moss.' 
 
 ' Do you wish to make your fortune ?' 
 
 ' I should have no objection." 
 
 ' What are you doing, or wishing to do ?'
 
 b TOO STRANGE 
 
 * I am looking out for some employment. 
 A small diplomsTtic post was offered to me 
 some time ago, but it would not have suited me 
 at all. I wish I could get a consulship. I 
 want hard work, and. plenty of it. What an 
 extraordinary being you must think me.' 
 
 'Have you anything else m view at present? ' 
 enquired De Harlay, too eagerly bent on an 
 idea of his own to notice his friend's last 
 observation. 
 
 ' No. When a person has thrown himself 
 out of the beaten track, and then not pursued 
 the path he had struck out, it is no easy 
 matter to retrace his steps. Every road 
 seems shut to him.' 
 
 ' But don't return to the beaten track — to 
 the old road. Come with me to the new 
 France. My cousin M. d'Artagnan is com- 
 mandant of tlie troops at New Orleans, and 
 has unbounded influence with the governor, 
 M. Perrier, and with the Company. I will 
 introduce you to him. I know he wants 
 men like you to come out and redeem the 
 character of the colony, which is oveiTun 
 with scamps of every description.' 
 
 'Amongst whom one might easily nm
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. U 
 
 the risk of being reckoned,' said d'Auban, 
 
 » 
 
 laiigliing. 
 
 ' Nonsense,' cried his friend. ' I am turn- 
 ing emigrant myself, and have just obtained 
 a magnificent concession in the neighbour- 
 hood of Fort St. Louis, and the village of 
 St. Frangois.' 
 
 ' You ! And what on earth can have put 
 such a fancy in your head ? ' 
 
 ' My dear friend, I am weary of civilisation 
 — tired to death of Paris — worn out with 
 the importunities of my relations, who want 
 me to marry. I cannot picture to myself 
 anything more dehghtful than to turn one's 
 back, for a few years, on the world, and 
 oneself into a hermit, especially with so 
 agreeable a companion as M. le Colonel 
 d'Auban. But really, I am quite in earnest. 
 What could you do better than emigrate ? 
 A man of your philosophical turn of mind 
 would be interested in studying the aspect 
 of the New World. If the worst came to 
 the worst, you might return at the end of a 
 year and write a book of travels. I assure 
 you it is not a bad offer I make you. I have 
 considerable interest in the Eue Quincampoix.
 
 10 TOO STEAXGE 
 
 I was invited to little Mcllle. Law's ball the 
 other day, and had the honour of dancing a 
 minuet with her. I shall write a placet to 
 the young lady, begging of her to obtain 
 from Monsieur son Pere a concession for a 
 friend of mine. It would be hard if I could 
 not help a friend to a fortune when Laplace, 
 my valet — ^j^ou remember him, don't you ? — 
 has made such good use of our visits to the 
 Paris Eldorado that the rogue has set up his 
 carriao-e. He was cfood enousrh when he met 
 me trudging along in the mud on a rainy day 
 to offer me a lift. It is evident the world is 
 turned upside clown, on this side of the globe 
 •at least, and we may as well go and take a 
 look at the revers de la medaille. Well, 
 what do you say to my proposal ? ' 
 
 'That it is an exceedingly kind one, De 
 Harla}'. But I have no wish to speculate or, 
 I Avill oAvn the truth, to be considered as an 
 adventurer. That you, with your wealtli, 
 and in your position, should emigrate, can be 
 considered at the worst but as an act of folly. 
 It would be different with me.' 
 
 ' Well, I do not see why the new France is 
 to be made over to the refuse of the old one.
 
 NOT TO BE TTwUE. 11 
 
 I see in your scruples, my dear friend, ves- 
 tiges of that impracticability for wliich you 
 were noted at College. But just think over 
 the question. Nobody asks you to speculate. 
 For a sum not worth speaking of you can 
 obtain a grant of land in a desert, and it will 
 depend on your own ability or activity 
 whether it brings you wealth or not. There 
 is nothing in this, I should think, that can 
 offend the most scrupulous deUcacy.' 
 ' Can you allow me time to reflect ? ' 
 ' Certainly. I do not sail for six weeks. 
 It is amusing in the meantime to hear the 
 ladies lamenting over my departure, and 
 shudderinfT at the dangers I am to nm in 
 those wild regions, where, poor dears, they 
 are dying to go themselves, and I fancy some 
 of them believe that golden apples hang on 
 the trees, and might be had for the trouble 
 of gathering them, if only le hon Monsieur 
 Law would let them into the secret. Have 
 you seen the Hue of carriages up to his house? 
 It is the very Court of Mammon. Duchesses 
 and marchionesses jostle each other and quar- 
 rel on the staircase for shares, that is when 
 they are happy enough to get in, which is not
 
 12 TOO STRANGE 
 
 always tlic case. Madame de la Fere ordered 
 her coachman to drive her chariot into the 
 gutter and overturn it opposite to his door.* 
 Then she screamed with all her might, hoping 
 the divinity would appear. But the wdly 
 Scotchman was up to the trick, and ate his 
 breakfast without stirring. We who were in 
 his room almost died of laughing. Well, 
 good bye, my dear Colonel. When you have 
 made up your mind let me know, that I may 
 bespeak for you in time a berth in the Jean 
 Bart and a concession in the New World.' 
 
 The Vicomte de Harlay walked away, and 
 d'Auban paced for a long time the alleys of the 
 Luxembourg, revolving in his mind the ideas 
 suggested by this conversation. ' After so 
 many doubts, so many projects Avhich hkve 
 ended in nothing, how singular it would be,' 
 he said to himself, ' if a casual meeting with 
 this scatter-brained friend of mine should end 
 in determining the future course of my Hfe.' 
 He had never thought of emigrating to the 
 New World, but when he came to consider it 
 til ere w'as much in the proposal which liarmo- 
 nised with liis inclinations. The scope it 
 
 * A fact.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 13 
 
 afTorded for enterprise and individual exertion 
 was congenial to his temper of mind. Above 
 all, it was sometliing definite to look to, and 
 only those who have experienced it know 
 what a rehef to some natures is the substitu- 
 tion of a definite prospect for a wearying un- 
 certainty. In the evening of that day he 
 called at one of the few houses at which he 
 visited — tliat of M. d'Orgeville. He was dis- 
 tantly related to this gentleman, who held a 
 high position amongst what was called the 
 parliamentary nobihty. His wife received 
 every night a chosen number of friends, men 
 of learning and of letters, members of the 
 haute magistrature, dignitaries of the Church, 
 and women gifted with the talents for con- 
 versation, which the ladies of that epoch so 
 often possessed, frequented the salon of the 
 Hotel d'Orgeville, and formed a society little 
 inferior in agreeableness to the most cele- 
 brated circles of that day. 
 
 Does it not often happen, unaccountably 
 often, that when the mind is full of a par- 
 ticular subject, wdiat we read or what we 
 hear tallies so strangely with what has occu- 
 pied us, that it seems as if a mysterious
 
 I'i TOO STRANG E 
 
 answer were o-iveu to our secret tliou^hts ? 
 When d'Aubaii took his place that evening 
 in the circle wliicli surrounded the mistress 
 of the house, he almost started with surprise 
 at hearing M. de Mesme, a distmguished 
 la^vJ^er and scholar, say — 
 
 ' I maintain that only two sorts of persons 
 go to America, at least to Louisiana — adven- 
 turers and missionaries : you would not find 
 hi the whole colony a man who is not either 
 an official, a priest, a soldier,, or a scamp.' 
 
 'A sweeping assertion indeed,' observed 
 Madame d'Orgeville. ' Can no one here brmg 
 forward an instance to the contrary?' 
 
 ' The Vicomte de Harlay has turned con- 
 cessionist, and is about to sail for 'Nevi 
 Orleans. In which of the four classes he 
 has mentioned would M. de Mesme include 
 him ? ' This was said by a young man who 
 was sitting next to d'Auban. 
 
 ' Exceptions prove the rule. M. de Har- 
 lay 's eccentricities are so well kno\vu that 
 they baffle all calculation.' 
 
 ' Jf'or my part,' said M. d'Orgeville, ' I 
 cannot miderstand why men of character 
 and ability do not take more interest i
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 15 
 
 these new colonies, and tliat the objects of a 
 settler in that distant part of the world 
 should not be considered Avorthy the atten- 
 tion of persons who have at heart not only 
 the making of money, but also the advance- 
 ment of civilisation,' 
 
 ' Civihsation ! ' ejaculated M. de Mesme, 
 with a sarcastic smile. 'What a oiorious 
 idea the natives must conceive of our civil- 
 isation from the specimens we send them 
 from France ! ' 
 
 ' Surely,' exclaimed young Blanemenil, 
 d'Auban's neighbour, 'M. Perrier, M. d'Ai'- 
 tagnan, the Pere Saoel and his companions, 
 are not contemptible specimens of French 
 merit ? ' 
 
 'Officials, soldiers, priests, every one of 
 them,' retorted M. de Mesme. 
 
 ' What I have not yet heard of is a con- 
 cessionist a planter, an habitant who is not 
 a mere speculator or a needy adventurer. 
 I appeal to you, M. Maret. Does not your 
 brother write that the conversion of the 
 Indians would be comparatively easy did not 
 the colonists, by theu- selfish grasping con- 
 duct and the scandal of theh' immoral lives,
 
 16 TOO STEANGE 
 
 throw tlie greatest obstacles in the way of 
 the miissionaries ? Did he not add that a 
 few honest intelhgent hiymen would prove 
 most useful auxiharies in evangelising the 
 natives ? ' 
 
 ' Your memory is faithful, M. de Mesme. 
 I cannot deny that you quote correctly my 
 brother's words. But his letters do not 
 quite bear out your sweeping condemnation 
 of the French settlers. If I remember 
 rightly, he speaks in the highest terms of 
 M. Koli and M. de Buisson.' 
 
 ' Is it the Pere Maret that Monsieur is 
 speaking of ?' asked d'Auban of Madame 
 d'Orsreville. 
 
 ' Yes, he is his brother, and the missionary 
 priest at St. Fran9ois des Illinois. M. Maret 
 is Monsigneur le Prince de Conde's private 
 Secretary. Let me introduce you to him. 
 Perhaps you may have seen his brother 
 at St. Petersburg before the expulsion of the 
 Jesuits ? ' 
 
 ' I knew him very well, and wished much 
 to know where he had been sent.' 
 
 ' It may then, perhaps, interest you, sir, to 
 read the last letter I have received from my
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 17 
 
 brother ; it contains no family secrets,' M. 
 Maret said with a smile. 
 
 This letter was dated from the Illinois. It 
 did not give a very attractive picture of 
 the country where d'Auban had already tra- 
 velled in imagination since the morning. It 
 made it evident that Em^ope sent out the 
 sum of her population to people the New 
 World ; and that if good was to be done in 
 those remote regions, it must be by an unusual 
 amount of patience, courage, and persever- 
 ance. 
 
 But what would have disheartened some 
 men proved to d'Auban a stimulus. There 
 were, he perceived, two sides to the question 
 of emigration ; the material one of profit — 
 the higher one well worthy of the attention 
 of a Christian. It seemed to him a singular 
 coincidence that, on the same day on which 
 it had been proposed to him to emigrate to 
 America, a letter should be put into his hands, 
 written from that country by a man for 
 whom he had a profound respect and attach- 
 ment. He found in it the following passage : 
 
 ' The excellence of the climate, the beauty 
 of the scenery, the easy navigation of the 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 TOO STRA^■GE 
 
 river, on the shore of which our mission is 
 situated, and which flows a Httle below it 
 into the Mississippi, the extreme fertility of 
 the soil, the ease with which European pro- 
 ductions grow and European animals thrive 
 here, make this village quite a favoured spot, 
 and one pecuharly adapted for the pur- 
 poses of French colonisation. But whether 
 such estabhshments would be an advantage to 
 our mission, is extremely doubtful. If these 
 emigrants were like some few I have known, 
 men of rehgious principles and moral lives, 
 nothing could be better for our Indians, or 
 a greater consolation to us, than that they 
 should settle in our neighbourhood; but if they 
 are to resemble those who, unfortunatolj^, have 
 of late years been pouring into Louisiana — ad- 
 venturers, hbertines, and scoffers — our peace- 
 fiil and edifying Indian community would be 
 speedily mined. The Indians are very hke 
 children. Their powers of reasoiung are not 
 strong. Wliat they see has an unbounded in- 
 fluence over them. They would quickly dis- 
 cover that men calhng themselves Christians, 
 and wliom they would look upon as wiser 
 than themselves, set at nought the principles
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 19 
 
 of the Gospel, and, in spite of all the mission- 
 aries miglit say or do, the effect would be 
 fatal. From such an evil as tliat I pray that 
 we may be preserved.' * 
 
 ^Vhen the visitors had taken their leave 
 tliat night, and d'Auban remained alone 
 with his friends, he opened his mind to them 
 and asked their advice. M. d'Or£reville 
 hesitated. His wife, a shrewd httle woman, 
 who understood character more readily than 
 her excellent husband, fixed lier dark pene- 
 trating eyes on Colonel d'Auban, and said, 
 'My dear friend, my opinion is that you 
 will do well to go to the New World. I 
 say it with regret, for we shall miss you 
 very much. If, indeed, you had accepted 
 the heiress I proposed to you, and advanced 
 yoiu: interests by means of her connections, 
 it might have been different; but a man 
 who at tliirty years of age refrises to marry 
 an heiress foohsh enough to be in love with 
 him, because, forsooth, he is not in love witli 
 her — who does not accept a place offered to 
 him because it would happen to break 
 another man's heart not to get it, and who 
 
 * From the Lettres edifiantes. 
 c 2
 
 20 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Avill not make himself asreeable to the Ee- 
 gent's friends because lie thinks them, and 
 because they are, a set of despicable scoun- 
 drels — my dear Colonel, such a man has no 
 business here. He had better pack up his 
 trunks and no off to the New World, or to 
 any world but this. Tenderness of heart, 
 unswerving principles, the temper of Lafon- 
 taine's oak, which breaks and does not bend, 
 do not answer in a country where everyone 
 is scrambling up the shppery ascent to for- 
 tune, holding on by another's coat.' 
 
 * And yet,' answered d'Auban, ' there are 
 men in France whose noble truthfulness and 
 unshaken integrity none venture to call in 
 question ;' and as he spoke he glanced at 
 M. d'Orgeville. 
 
 ' True,' quickly answered his wife, laying 
 her hand on her husband's embroidered coat- 
 sleeve ; ' but remember this, such men have 
 not their fortunes to make. They are at the 
 top of the ladder, not at the bottom, and that 
 makes all the difference. It is always better 
 to look matters in tlie face. Here you have 
 — some people say wantonly — I am persuaded 
 for some good reason — but anyhow you have
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 21 
 
 turned your back upon fortune in a most 
 affronting manner, and the fickle goddess is 
 not likely, I am afraid, to give you in a 
 hurry another opportunity of insulting her. 
 I really think you would be wrong to refuse 
 M. de Harlay's proposal. You see, my dear 
 friend, you are not a practical man.' 
 
 ' Well, I will not urge you to define that 
 word,' said d'Auban, with a smile ; ' but if 
 your accusation is just, how can you believe 
 that I shall triumph over the difficulties of a 
 settler's life?' 
 
 ' Oh, that is quite a different affair. Wliat 
 I call a practical man in Europe is one who 
 bends before the blast, and slips through 
 the meshes of a net. In the desert, and 
 among savages, the temper of the oak may 
 find its use, and stern self-rehance its ele- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' I am afraid she is right,' said M. d'Orge- 
 ville, with a sigh ; ' though I would fain not 
 think so.' 
 
 'At any rate, you will not be in a 
 hurry to come to a conclusion on this im- 
 portant question, and if you do emigrate, all 
 I can say is, that you will be a glorious
 
 22 TOO STRANGE 
 
 instance of the sort of settler M. de Mesme 
 does not believe in.' 
 
 A few weeks after this conversation had 
 taken place, M. de Harlay and Hemi d'Aii- 
 ban were watchino- the receding; coasts of 
 France from the deck of the Jean Bart, and 
 four or five years later the latter was crossmg 
 the forest, on his way back to the Mission of 
 St. Francis, after a visit to an Indian village, 
 the chiefs of which had smoked the pipe of 
 peace with their French neighbom"s. He had 
 learnt the language, and successfidly culti- 
 vated the acquaintance of many of the native 
 tribes, and was at the head of a flourishing 
 plantation. Madame d'Orgeville had proved 
 right. The peculiarities of character which 
 had stood m the way of a poor gentWiomme 
 seeking to better his fortimes in France, 
 favoured the successful issue of his trans- 
 atlantic undertakings. M. de Harlay had 
 fulfilled Ijis promise by obtaining from the 
 Company a grant of land for his friend adja- 
 cent to his own . concession, and he had 
 worked it to good purpose. His small for- 
 tune was employed in the purchase of stock, 
 of instruments of labour, and, it must be
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 2.3 
 
 owned, of negroes at New Orleans. But it 
 was a happy clay for the poor creatures m 
 the skve-market of that city, when they 
 became the property of a man whose princi- 
 ples and disposition differed so widely from 
 tliose of the generahty of colonists. He en- 
 gaged also as labourers Christian Indians of 
 tlie Mission, and a few ruined emigrants, too 
 happy to lind employment m a country 
 where, from Avant of capital or ability, their 
 own specidations had failed. It was no easy 
 task to govern a number of men of various 
 races and characters, to watch over theii' 
 health, to stimulate their activity, to main- 
 tain peace amongst them, and, above all, to 
 improve their morals. The Indians needed 
 to be confirmed in their recently acqui;-ed 
 faith, the negroes to be instructed, and the 
 Europeans, with some few exceptions, re- 
 called to the practice of it. He laboured 
 indefatigably, and on the whole successfully, 
 for these ends. His courage in endming pri- 
 vations, his generosity, perhaps even more his 
 strict justice, his kindness to the sick and 
 suffering, endeared him to his dependants. 
 He seemed formed for command. His out-
 
 24 TOO STEANGE 
 
 ward person was in keeping with his moral 
 quahties. He hunted, fished, and rode better 
 than any other man in the Mission or the 
 tribe. In physical strength and stature he sur- 
 passed them all. This secured the respect of 
 those unable to appreciate mental superiority. 
 It was not extraordinary, under these cir- 
 cumstances, that his concession thrived, that 
 fortune once more smiled upon him. He was 
 glad of it, not only from a natural pleasure 
 in success, but also from the consciousness 
 that, as his wealth increased, so would his 
 means of usefulness. He became deeply 
 attached to the land which was bountifully 
 bestowing its treasures upon him, and dis- 
 plapng every day before his eyes the grand 
 spectacle of its incomparable natural beauties. 
 His heart warmed towards the children of 
 the soil, and he took a hvely interest in the 
 evangehsation of the Indian race, and the 
 lal^ours of the missionaries, especially those 
 of his old friend Father Maret, whose church 
 and the villajie which surrounded it stood 
 on the opposite bank of the stream, on the 
 side of Avhich his own house was built. K 
 his hfe had not been one of incessant labour.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 25 
 
 lie must have suffered from its loneliness. 
 But he had scarcely had time during those 
 busy years to feel the want of compa- 
 nionship. Month after month had elapsed 
 in the midst of engrossing occupations. On 
 the whole, he was happy — happier than 
 most men are — much happier, certainly, than 
 his poor friend, M. de Harlay, who wasted a 
 large sum of money in building an habitation, 
 as the houses of the French settlers were 
 called, totaUy out of keepmg with the habits 
 and requirements of the mode of hfe he had 
 adopted. For one whole year he tried to 
 persuade himself that he enjoyed that kind 
 of existence ; it was only at the close of the 
 second year of his residence in America 
 that he acknowledged to his companion that 
 he was bored to death with the whole thing, 
 and willing to spend as large a sum to get 
 rid of his concession as he had already ex- 
 pended upon it. At last, he declared one 
 morning that he could endure it no longer. 
 
 Maitre Simon's barge was about to descend 
 the Mississippi to New Orleans. The tempta- 
 tion was irresistible, and he made up his 
 mind to return to France, leaving behind
 
 26 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 liiin his laud, liis plantatious, his horses, and 
 the cliarming habitation^ called the Pavilion, 
 or sometimes, ' La Folic de Ilarlay.' D'Au- 
 bau, he said, might cultivate it himself, and 
 pay him a nominal rent, or sell it for whatever 
 it would fetch to some other planter. But in 
 America he Avould not remain a day longer 
 if he could help it, and if Monsieur Law 
 had cheated all the world, as the last letters 
 from Paris had stated, the worst punishment 
 he wished him was banishment to his Ger- 
 man settlement in the New World. And 
 so he stood, waving; liis handkerchief and 
 kissmg his hand to his friend, as the clumsy 
 barge ghded away down the giant river ; and 
 d' Auban sighed when he lost sight of it, for he 
 knew he should miss his hght-hearted country- 
 man, whose very foUies had served to cheer 
 and enliven the first years of his emigration. 
 And, indeed, from that time up to the moment 
 when this story begins, with the sole excep- 
 tion of Father Maret, he had not associated 
 with anyone whose habits of thought and 
 tone of conversation were at all congenial to 
 his own. No two persons could differ more 
 in character and mind than De Harlay and
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 27 
 
 himself ; but when people have been educated 
 together, have mutual friends, acquaintances, 
 and recollections, there is a common ground 
 of thought and sympathy, which in some 
 measure supplies the place of a more inti- 
 mate congeniahty of feehngs and opinions. 
 
 He sometimes asked himself if this isola- 
 tion was always to be his portion. He had 
 no wish to return to Europe. He was on the 
 whole well satisfied with his lot, nay, grateful 
 for its many advantages ; but in the course 
 of a long solitary walk througli the forest, 
 such as he had taken that day, or in the even- 
 ings in his log-built home, when the Avind 
 moaned through the pine woods with a sound 
 which reminded him of the nim^mur of the 
 sea on his native coast, feehngs would be 
 awakened in his heart more like yearnings, 
 indeed, than regrets. In many persons' lives 
 there is a past which claims nothing from 
 them but a transient sif^h. breathed not seldom 
 with a sense of escape — phases in their pil- 
 grimage never to be travelled over any more 
 — earthly spots which they do not hope, 
 nay, do not desire to revisit — but the remem- 
 brance of which affects them just because it
 
 28 TOO STRANGE 
 
 belongs to tlie dim shadowy past, that past 
 which was once aUve and now is dead. This 
 had been the case with d'Auban as he passed 
 that evening throug]i the httle cemetery of 
 the Christian Mission, where many a wan- 
 derer from the Old World rested in a foreign 
 soil by the side of the children of another 
 race, ahens in blood but brethren in the faith. 
 A httle farther on he met Therese, the cate- 
 chist and schoolmistress of the village. He 
 stopped lier in order to enquire after a boy, 
 the son of one of his labourers, whom he 
 knew she had been to visit. Therese was an 
 Indian girl, the daughter of an Algonquin 
 chief, w^ho, after a battle with another tribe, in 
 which lie had been mortally wounded, had 
 sent one of his soldiers with his child to the 
 black robe of St. Frangois des Illinois, with 
 the prayer that he would bring her up as a 
 Christian. He had been himself baptised a 
 short time before. The little maiden had 
 ever since been called the Mower of t]ie 
 Mission. Its church had been her home ; 
 its festivals her pleasures ; its sacred enclo- 
 sure her playground. Before she could speak 
 plainly she gathered flowers and carried tliem
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 29 
 
 in her little brown arms into the sanctuary 
 When older, she was wont to assemble the 
 children of her own age, and to lead tliem 
 into the prairies to make garlands of the 
 purple amorpha, or by the side of the 
 streams to steal golden-crowned lotuses from 
 their broad beds of leaves for our Lady's altar; 
 and under the catalpa trees and the ilexes she 
 told them stories of Jesus and of Mary, till 
 the shades of evening fell, and " the compass 
 flower, true as a magnet, pointed to the north." 
 As she advanced in age her labours extended ; 
 but such as her childhood had been, such 
 was her womanhood. She became the cate- 
 chist of the Indian converts, and the teacher 
 of their children. The earnest piety and the 
 poetic genius of her race gave a pecuhar 
 originality and beauty to her figurative lan- 
 guage ; andd'Auban had sometimes concealed 
 himself behind the wall of the school hut and 
 listened to the Algonquin maiden's simple 
 instructions. 
 
 ' How is Pompey's son to-day ? ' he asked, 
 as they met near the church. 
 
 ' About to depart for the house of the great 
 spirits,' she answered. 'lie wants nothing
 
 so TOO STRANGE 
 
 now ; angels will soon bear liim away to the 
 land of the hereafter. We should not grieve 
 for him.' 
 
 ' But you look as if you had been grieving. 
 Theresa, do not hurry away. Cannot you 
 spare me a few minutes, even though I am a 
 white man.^ I am afraid you do not like 
 French people.' 
 
 ' Ah ! if all white men were like you it 
 would be well for them and for us. It is for one 
 of the daughters of your tribe that 1 have been 
 grieving, not for the child of the black man.' 
 ' Indeed, and what is her name ? ' 
 ' I do not know her name. She is whiter 
 than any of the white women I have seen — 
 as white as that magnoha flower, and the 
 scent of her clothes is like that of hay when 
 newly mown.' 
 
 ' Where did you meet with her ? ' 
 ' I have seen her walking in the forest, or 
 by the side of the river, late in the evening ; 
 and sometimes she sits down on one of the 
 tombs near the church. She lives with her 
 father in a hut someway off, amongst the white 
 people, who speak a harsher language than 
 yours.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. ol 
 
 ' The German colony, I suppose ? Is this 
 woman young ? ' 
 
 'She must have seen from twenty to twenty- 
 five summers.' 
 
 ' When did tliey arrive ? ' 
 
 ' On the day of the great tempest, which 
 blew down so many trees and unroofed our 
 cabins. A little boat attached to Simon's 
 barge brought them to the shore. They took 
 shelter in a ruined hut by the side of the 
 river, and have remained there ever since.' 
 
 ' Have they any servants ? ' 
 
 ' A negro boy and an Indian woman, whom 
 they hn-ed since they came. She buys food 
 for them in the village. The old man I have 
 never seen.' 
 
 ' And why do you grieve for this white 
 woman, Therese ? ' 
 
 ' Because I saw her face some nio-hts a^o 
 when she was sitting on the stump of a tree, 
 and the moon was shining full upon it. It 
 was beautiful, but so sad ; it made me think 
 of a dove I once found lying on the grass 
 with a wound in her breast. When I went 
 near the poor bird it fluttered painfully and 
 flew away. And the daughter of the white
 
 32 TOO STKANGE 
 
 man is like that dove ; she would not stay to 
 be comforted.' 
 
 'Does she ever come to the house of 
 prayer ? ' 
 
 ' No. She wanders about the enclosure 
 and sits on the tombstones, and sometimes 
 she seems to listen to the singing, but if she 
 sees anyone coming she hurries oflf hke a 
 frightened fawn.' 
 
 ' And her father, what does he do ? ' 
 ' He never comes here at all, I believe.' 
 ' And you think this young woman is un- 
 happy ? ' 
 
 ' Yes. I have seen her weep as if her eyes 
 were two fountains, and her soul the spring 
 from whence they flowed. It is not with us 
 as with the white people. We do not shed 
 tears wlien we suffer. The pain is within, 
 deep in the heart. It gives no outward sign. 
 We are not used to see men and women 
 weep. One day I was talking to Catherine, 
 a slave, on the Lormois Concession, who 
 would fain be a Christian, but that she hates 
 the wliite people. Many years ago she was 
 stolen from her own country and her little 
 children, and sold to a Frenchman. There
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 33 
 
 are times when she is ahnost mad, and raves 
 hke a wild beast robbed of its young. But 
 Catherine loves me because I am not white, 
 and that I tell her of the Great Spirit who was 
 made man, and said that little children were to 
 come to Him. I was trying to persuade her 
 to forgive the white people and not to curse 
 them any more, and then, I said, she would 
 see her cliildren in a more beautiftd country 
 than her own, in the land of the hereafter ; 
 that the Great Spirit, if she asked Him, 
 would send His servants to teach them the 
 way to that land where mothers and children 
 meet again if they are good. Then in my ear 
 I heard the sound of a deep sigh, and turning 
 round I saw- the white man's daughter, half- 
 concealed by the green boughs, and on her 
 pale cheeks were tears that looked like dew- 
 drops on a prairie lily. Her eyes met mine, 
 and, as usual, she was off into the forest be- 
 fore I could utter a word. I have not seen 
 her since.' 
 
 ' I wish you did know her,' said d'Auban, 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 Therese shook her head. 
 
 ' It is not for the Indian to speak comfort 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 TOO STRANGE 
 
 to the dauHiter of the wliite man. She does 
 not know the words which would reach her 
 heart. The black robe, the chief of prayer, 
 whom the Great Spirit sends to His black, 
 His Indian, and His white children ; His voice 
 is strong Uke the west wind ; from His hps 
 consolations flow, and blessings from His 
 hand. And you, the eagle of her tribe, will 
 you not stoop to shelter the wliite dove who 
 has flown across the Great Salt Lake to the 
 land of the red men ? ' 
 
 D'Auban felt touched by the earnestness 
 of Therese's manner, and interested by her 
 description of the stranger. He could easily 
 imagine how desolate a European woman 
 would feel on arriving in such a miserable 
 place as the German settlement, and he pro- 
 mised that as soon as he could find leisure 
 he would ride to that spot and see if he 
 could be of use to the white man's daughter. 
 Upon this they parted, but the whole of the 
 evening, and the next day in the maize fields 
 and the cotton groves, his imagination was 
 continually drawing pictures of the sorrowful 
 woman — the wounded bird — that would not 
 stay to be comforted.
 
 NOT TO EE TRUE. 35 
 
 CHAPTEE II. 
 
 He is a proper man's picture, but . . . how oddly he i« 
 suited. I think he bought his doiiblet in Italy, his round hose 
 in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his bchavioiu- every- 
 where. — Shakespeare. 
 
 The power that dwelleth in a word to waken 
 
 Vague yearnings, like the sailor's for the shore. 
 And dim remembrances whose hues seem taken 
 
 From some bright former state, our own no more. 
 The sudden images of vanished things 
 That o'er the spirit flash, we know not why, 
 And the strange inborn sense of coming ill 
 That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, 
 Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? 
 Whence are those thoughts ? ' 'Tis mystery all.' 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 A FEW days after his conversation with 
 Therese, d'Auban rode to a place where 
 some Saxon colonists were clearing a part of 
 the forest. He wished to purchase some 
 of the wood they had been felhng, and, dis- 
 mounting, he tied his horse to a tree and 
 walked to the spot where the overseer was 
 directing the work. Whilst he was talking 
 to him, he noticed an old man who was 
 
 D 2
 
 36 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 standing a little way off, leaning with both 
 hands on a heavy gold-he«.ded cane. He 
 wore the ordinary European dress of the 
 time, but there was an elaborate neatness, a 
 studied refinement in his appearance singu- 
 lar enou2;h amidst the rude settlers of the 
 New World. His ruffles were made of 
 the finest lace, and the buckles on his 
 shoes silver gilt. There was nothing the 
 least remarkable in the face or attitude of 
 this stranger, nothing that would liave at- 
 tracted attention at Paris or perhaps at New 
 Orleans ; but it was out of keeping with the 
 rough activity of the men and the wild 
 character of the scenery in that remote 
 region. His pale grey eyes, shaded with 
 white eyebrows, wandered listlessly over the 
 busy scene, and he gave a nervous start 
 whenever a tree fell with a louder crash 
 than usual. One of the labourers had left 
 an axe on the grass near where he was 
 standing. He raised it as if to measure its 
 weight, but his feeble grasp could not retain 
 its hold of the heavy implement, and it fell 
 to the ground. D'Auban stepped forward 
 to pick it up and restore it to him. He 
 thanked him, and said in French, but with a
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 37 
 
 German accent, that he would not meddle 
 with it any more. This little incident served 
 as an introduction, and the old man seemed 
 pleased to find somebody not too busy to 
 talk to him. His own observations betrayed 
 great ignorance as to the nature of the 
 country or the general habits of colonists. 
 He talked about the want of accommodation 
 he had met with in America, and the dirty 
 state of the Indian villages, as if he had been 
 travelUng through a civilised country. He 
 told d'Auban that he intended to purchase 
 land in that neighbourhood, and to build a 
 house. 
 
 ' I begin to despair,' he said, ' of finding 
 one which would suit us to buy or to hire. 
 I suppose, sir, you do not know of one ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly not of one to let,' d'Auban 
 answered with a smile, for the idea of hiring 
 a house in the backwoods struck him in a 
 ludicrous light. 
 
 ' But I have had a concession left on my 
 hands by a friend who has returned to 
 Europe, and which has upon it a house very 
 superior to anything we see in this part of 
 the world. Many thousand francs have 
 been spent on this little pavilion, which is
 
 38 TOO STRANGE 
 
 reckoned quite a curiosity, and goes by 
 the name of tlie Vicomte de Harlay's Folly. 
 The purchaser of the concession would get 
 the house simply tlirown into the bargain.' 
 
 ' That sounds very well,' exclaimed the 
 old man ; ' I think it would suit us.' 
 
 'Well, M. de Harlay has empowered me 
 to dispose of his land and house. It is close 
 to my own plantation, a few leagues up the 
 river. I should be very happy to let you 
 see it, and to explain its advantages as an 
 investment. I am going back there this 
 morning, and if you would like to visit it at 
 once, I am quite at your orders. We have 
 still the day before us.' 
 
 The stranger bowed, coughed, and then 
 said in a hesitating manner — 
 
 ' Am I by any chance speaking to Colonel 
 d'Auban ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I am Colonel dAuban, pour vous 
 servii\ as the peasants say in France.' 
 
 ' Then indeed, sir, I am inexpressibly 
 honoured and dehghted to have made your 
 acquaintance. I have been assured that in 
 this country an honest man is a rarity which 
 Diogenes might well have needed his lanthorn
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 39 
 
 to discover. A merchant at New Orleans, to 
 whom I brought letters of introduction, told 
 me that if I was o-oing^ to the IILinois I should 
 try to consult Colonel d'Auban about the 
 purchase of a plantation, and not hesitate a 
 moment about followino; his advice. I there- 
 fore gratefully accept your obhging proposal, 
 but I must beg you to be so good as to allow 
 me first to inform my daughter of our in- 
 tended excursion. I will be with you again in 
 a quarter of an hour, my amiable friend, 
 ready and happy to sm-render myself to your 
 invaluable guidance.' 
 
 ' Who is that gentleman ? ' asked d'Auban 
 of the German overseer, as soon as the httle 
 old man had trotted away. 
 
 ' He is called M. de Chambelle. Though 
 his name is French, I think he is a German. 
 Nobody knows whence he comes, or why he 
 is come at all. He talks of houses and gar- 
 dens, as if he was living in France or in 
 Saxony. I wish him joy of the villas he Avill 
 find here. And then he speaks to the Indians 
 and the negroes for all the world as if they 
 were Christians.' 
 
 ' Many of them are Christians, M. Klein,
 
 40 TOO STRANGE 
 
 and often better ones tlian ourselves,' ob- 
 served d'Auban. 
 
 ' Oh ! I did not mean Christians in that 
 sense. It is only a way of speaking, you 
 know.' 
 
 ' True,' said d'Auban. ' A man told me the 
 other day, that his horse was so clever that 
 he never forgave or forgot — just like a 
 Christian.' 
 
 The overseer laughed. 
 
 ' You should see that old o-entleman bow- 
 ing and speecliifying to the Indian women. 
 He said the other day to a hideous old squaw, 
 " Madame la Saiwagesse, will you seU me 
 some of the fruit your fair hands have 
 gathered ? " She said she would give him 
 some without intentioti, which in their 
 phraseology means without expecting to be 
 paid. The next day, however, she came to 
 his hut, and enquired if he was not going to 
 give her something icitliout intention. The 
 poor old man, who is dreadfully afraid of the 
 natives, was obliged to part with some clothes 
 Madame la Sauvagesse had taken a fancy to.' 
 
 ' Has M. de Chambello a daugliter ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, a pale handsome woman, much too
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 41 
 
 delicate and helpless, from what I hear, for 
 this sort of hand-to-niouth hfe. They say 
 she is a widow. It is somewhat funny that the 
 French people who come here almost always 
 stick a de before their names. The father is 
 called M. de Chambelle, and the daughter, 
 Madame de Moldau.' 
 
 ' Do you know if they have brought letters 
 of introduction with them to anyone in this 
 or the neighbouring settlements ? ' 
 
 ' I have not heard that they have ; except 
 M. Koli and yourself, there is scarcely a 
 planter hereabouts whom it would be of any 
 advantao;e to know.' 
 
 ' I thought as they were Germans that 
 some of your countrymen might have written 
 about them.' 
 
 ' We are a poor set here now that M. Law's 
 grand schemes have come to nought. We 
 do a little business on our own account by 
 feUing and selhng trees, and it is lucky we 
 do so, for not a sou of his money have we 
 seen for a long time. It is impossible to 
 maintain his slaves, and the plantation is going 
 to ruin. . Ah ! there is M. de Chambelle 
 coming back ; did you ever see such a figure
 
 42 TOO STRANGE 
 
 for an habitant ? One would fancy he carried 
 a hair-dresser about, his hair is always so 
 neatly powdered.' 
 
 ' Will a long walk tu-e you? ' asked d'Auban 
 as his new acquaintance joined them, ' or will 
 you ride my horse ? Do not have any scruples. 
 No amount of walking ever tires me.' 
 
 ' Dear sir, if we might both walk I should 
 like it better,' answered M. de Chambelle, 
 glancing uneasily at the horse, who, weary 
 of the long delay, was paAving in a man- 
 ner he did not quite fancy. 'If you Avill 
 now and then lend me your arm, I can keep 
 on my legs without fatigue for three or four 
 hours.' 
 
 D'Auban passed the horse's bridle over 
 his arm, and led the way to an opening in the 
 forest, through which they had to pass on their 
 way to the Pavilion St. Agathe, which was the 
 proper name of M. de Harlay's habitation. 
 Whenever they came to a rough bit of 
 ground lie gave his arm to his companion, 
 who leant upon it hghtly, and chatted as he 
 went alono; with a sort of child-hke confi- 
 dence in his new friend. D'Auban's con- 
 cession, and the neiglibouring one of St.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 43 
 
 Agathe, were situated much higher up the 
 river than the German settlement. His own 
 house was close to the water-side. The pavil- 
 ion stood on an eminence in the midst of a 
 beautiful grove, and overlooked a wide 
 extent of prairie land, bounded only in 
 one direction by the outhne of the Rocky 
 Mountains. The magnificent scenery which 
 surrounded this little oasis, the luxuriant 
 vegetation, the grandeur of the wide spread- 
 ing trees, the domes of blossom which here 
 and there showed amidst masses of verdure, 
 the numberless islets scattered over the sur- 
 face of the broad-bosomed river, the shady 
 recesses and verdant glades which formed 
 natural alleys and bowers in its encircling 
 forest, combined to make its position so 
 beautiful, that it almost accounted for M. 
 de Harlay's short-hved but violent fancy for 
 liis transatlantic property. It was a lovely 
 scene which met the eyes of the pedestrians, 
 when about mid-day they reached the brow 
 of the hill. A noontide stillness reigned in 
 the savannahs, where herds of buffaloes re- 
 posed in the long grass. Now and then a 
 slight tremulous motion, like a ripple on the
 
 44 TOO STRANGE 
 
 sea, stirred that boundless expanse of green, 
 but not a sound of human or animal life rose 
 from its flowery depths. 
 
 Not so in the grove round the pavilion. 
 There the ear was almost deafened by the 
 multifarious cries of beasts, the chirpings of 
 birds, the hum of myriads of insects. The 
 eye was dazzled by the rapidity of their 
 movements. Hares and rabbits and squirrels 
 darted every instant out of the thickets, and 
 monkeys grinned and chattered amongst the 
 branches. Winged creatures of every shape 
 and hue were springing out of the willow 
 grass, hovering over clusters of roses, swing- 
 ing on the cordages of the grape vine, flying 
 up into the sky, diving in the streamlets, 
 fluttering amongst the leaves, and producing 
 a confused murmur very strange to an unac- 
 customed ear. 
 
 Neither the magnificence of the scenery 
 nor the vivacity of the denizens of the sur- 
 rounding grove attracted much of M. de 
 Chambelle's attention. When he caught sight 
 of the pavilion, he burst forth in exclamations 
 of dehght. ' Is it possible ! ' he exclaimed. 
 ' Do I really see, not a cabin or a hut, not one
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 45 
 
 of those abominable wigwams, but a house, 
 a real house ! fit for civilised people to live 
 in ! and is it really to be sold, my dear 
 sir, there, just as it stands, furniture, birds, 
 flowers, and all ? What may be the price of 
 this charminsT; habitation ? ' 
 
 D'Auban named the sum he thought it fair 
 to ask for the plantation, and said the house 
 was included in the purchase. M. de Cham- 
 belle took out his pocket-book and made a 
 brief calculation. 
 
 ' It will do perfectly well,' he exclaimed. 
 ' The interest of this sum Avill not exceed the 
 rent we should have had to pay for a house 
 at New Orleans. It is exactly what we 
 w^anted.' 
 
 ' You have been fortunate to hit upon it, 
 then,' said d'Auban with a smile, 'for I 
 suppose that from the mouth of the Mississippi 
 to the sources of the Missouri you would not 
 have found such a habitation as my poor 
 friend's Folly. However, as Providence has 
 conducted you to this spot, and you think the 
 etablissement will suit you, we better go over 
 the house and afterwards visit the plantations, 
 in order that you may judge of the present
 
 46 TOO STRAJs'GE 
 
 condition and the prospects of the conces- 
 sion.' 
 
 ' I do not much care about tliat, my dear 
 sir. My knowledge on agricultural subjects 
 is very limited, and I am no judge of crops. 
 Indeed I greatly doubt if I should know a 
 field of maize from one of barley, or dis- 
 tinguish between a coffee and a cotton 
 plantation.' 
 
 D'Auban looked in astonishment at his 
 companion. ' Is this a cunning adventurer, 
 or the most simple of men ? ' was the thought 
 in his mind as he led M. de Chambelle into 
 the house, who was at once as much delighted 
 with the inside as he had been with the out- 
 side of the building. The entrance-chamber 
 was decorated with the skms of various ■svild 
 animals, and the horns of antelopes ingeniously 
 arranged in the form of trophies. Bows and 
 arrows, hatchets, tomahawks, and clubs, aU 
 instruments of Indian warfare, were hanging 
 against the waUs. There was a smaU room 
 on one side of this hall fitted up with exquisite 
 specimens of Canadian workmanship, and pos- 
 sessing several articles of Eui'opean furniture, 
 which had been conveyed at an immense
 
 NOT TO EE TllUE. 47 
 
 expense from New Orleans. There was an 
 appearance of civilisation, if not of what we 
 should call comfort, in this parlour, as well 
 as in two sleeping chambers, in which real 
 beds were to be found; a verandah, which 
 formed a charming sitting-room in hot 
 weather, and at the back of the house a well- 
 fitted up kitchen, put the finishing touch to 
 M. de Chambelle's ecstasies. 
 
 ' One could really fancy oneself in Europe,' 
 he exclaimed, rubbing his hands with delight. 
 
 ' I do not think Madame de Moldau will 
 beheve her eyes when she sees this charming 
 pavilion. It is really more than we could 
 have expected. . . .' 
 
 ' I should think so, indeed,' said d'Auban, 
 laughing;. ' You might have travelled far and 
 wide before you stumbled on such a house in 
 the New World.' 
 
 ' Ah, the New World — the New World, 
 my dear sir. Don't you find it dreadfully 
 uncivilised? I cannot accustom myself to 
 the manners of the savages. Their counte- 
 nances are so wild, their habits so unpleasant, 
 there is something so — so, in short, so savage 
 in all their ways, that I cannot feel at all at
 
 48 TOO STEANGE 
 
 home with them. By-the-bye, there is only 
 one thinsi I do not like in this delishtful 
 habitation' 
 
 'What is it?' 
 
 I am afraid it is a very solitary residence. 
 You see the Indian servant, our negro boy, 
 Madame de Moldau, and myself, we do not 
 compose a very formidable garrison.' 
 
 ' But my house is at a stone's throw from 
 this one. In the winter you can see it 
 through those trees, and then the wigwams 
 of our labourers are scattered about at no 
 great distance.' 
 
 'All, your labourers live in wigwams ! 
 Horrible things, I think ; l^ut I suppose they 
 are used to them. Have you many savages, 
 then, in your employment ? ' 
 
 ' I have some Indian labourers, but they are 
 Christians, and no longer deserv^e the name of 
 savages. I like them better than the negroes. 
 My French servants and I live in the house I 
 spoke of 
 
 ' Oh, then it is all riglit, all cliarming, all 
 perfect. With a loud cry of " A moi, mes 
 amis, Messieurs les Sauvages are upon us!" 
 we could call you to our assistance. Well,
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 49 
 
 my dear sir, I \vish to conclude the purchase 
 of this place as soon as possible. Will it 
 suit your convenience if I give you a cheque 
 on Messrs. Dumont et Compagnie, New 
 Orleans ? ' 
 
 ' Certainly. I have no doubt they will 
 undertake to transmit the amount to M. de 
 Harlay's bankers in Paris.' 
 
 ' I hope we may be allowed to take pos- 
 session of the house without much delay. 
 Madame de Moldau is so weary of the vile 
 hut where we have spent so many weeks.' 
 
 ' I can take upon myself to place the 
 pavilion at once at your disposal for a few 
 days, and you can then make up your mind 
 at leisure about concluding the purchase.' 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear sir ; but my mind 
 is, I assure you, quite made up. I am sure 
 we could go farther and fare worse ; the 
 saying w^as never more apphcable.' 
 
 ' But you are not at all acquainted yet 
 with the state or the value of the concession. 
 You have not gone over the accounts of the 
 last years.' 
 
 ' Is that necessary ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 'Indispensable, I should say,' d'Auban 
 answered, rather coldly. 
 
 ' It woidd be quite impossible, I suppose, 
 to let us have the house mthout the land ? 
 You see it will suit us perfectly as a residence, 
 but I do not see how I am to manage the 
 business of the concession. Is not that what 
 you caU it?' 
 
 D'Auban, more puzzled than ever by the 
 sunphcity of this avowal, exclaimed, ' But in 
 the name of patience, sir, what can you 
 want a house for in this country, unless you 
 intend to w^ork the land ? You do not mean, 
 I suppose, to throw it out of cultivation and 
 to sell the slaves ? ' 
 
 ' no ! I suppose that would not be right. 
 There are slaves, too. I had not thought 
 of that. Wlio has managed it all since M. 
 de Harlay went away ? ' 
 
 ' I have.' 
 
 ' Then you will help me with your advice ? ' 
 Tliis idea made M. de Chambelle brighten 
 up like a person who suddenly sees a ray 
 of hgl)t in a dark wood. ' Oh yes, of course, 
 everything must go on as usual, and you 
 Avill put me in the way of it all.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 51 
 
 ' I now propose,' said d'Auban, ' that we 
 take some refreshment at my house, where 
 you can see the accounts, and then that we 
 should go over the plantations.' 
 
 ' By all means, by all means,' cried M. de 
 Chambelle, trying to put a good face on the 
 matter. ' And as we walk along, you can 
 point out the principal things that have to 
 be attended to in the management of a 
 concession.' 
 
 During the remainder of the day, d'Auban 
 took great pains to explain to his guest the 
 nature and capabilities of his proposed pur- 
 chase, and the amount of its value as an 
 investment. M. de Chambelle listened with 
 great attention, and assented to everytliing. 
 Two or three times he interrupted him with 
 such remarks as these : ' She will like the 
 low couch in the parlour ; ' or ' Madame de 
 Moldau can sit in the verandah on fine 
 summer evenings;' or again, 'I hope the 
 noise of the birds and insects will not annoy 
 Madame de Moldau. Do you think, my 
 dear sir, the slaves could drive them away ? ' 
 
 ' I am afraid that would be a task bevond 
 their power,' d'Auban said as gravely as he 
 
 E 2
 
 52 TOO STRANGE 
 
 could. But depend upou it, after the first few 
 days yoiu' daughter will get so accustomed 
 to the sound as scarcely to hear it. I am 
 afraid,' he added, 'she must have suffered 
 very much dming the voyage up the river ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, she has suffered very much,' the 
 old man answered ; and then he hastened to 
 change the subject l)y asking some question 
 about crops, which certainly evinced an 
 incredible absence of the most ordinary 
 knowledge and experience in such matters. 
 
 Before they parted, M. de Chambelle and 
 d'Auban asfreed that in the afternoon of the 
 following day he should remove with his 
 daughter to St. Aijathe. D'Auban offered to 
 fetch them himself in his boat and to send a 
 baro^e for their lufrorao:e. M. de Chambelle 
 thanked him very much, hesitated a little, 
 and then said that, if he Avoiild not take it 
 amiss, he should beg of him not to come 
 himself, but only to send his boatmen. 
 Madame de Moldau was so unaccustomed 
 to the siofht of strangers, and in such delicate 
 health, that the very efforts she Avould make 
 to express her gratitude to Colonel d'Auban 
 would tax her strength too severely. He felt
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 53 
 
 a little disappointed, but of course assented. 
 The following morning he went through the 
 rooms of the pavilion, arranging and re- 
 arranging tlie furniture, and conveying from 
 his own house some of the not over-abundant 
 articles it contained to the chamber Madame 
 de Moldau was to occupy. 
 
 ' Antoine,' he said to his servant, who was 
 in the kitchen at St. Agathe, storing it with 
 provisions, 'just go home and fetch me the 
 two pictures in my study ; the walls here 
 look so bare.' 
 
 ' But Monsieur's own room will look very 
 dull without them,' answered Antoine, who 
 by no means approved of the dismantling 
 process which had been going on all the 
 morning in his master's house.' 
 
 ' Never mind, I want them here ; and bring 
 some nails and some string with you.' 
 
 A little water-colour view of a castle on a 
 cliff and a tolerable copy of the Madonna 
 della Seggiola soon ornamented the lady's 
 bed-room, whilst a selection from his scanty 
 library gave a home-like appearance to the 
 little parlour. A basket ftill of grapes was 
 placed on the table, and then Therese
 
 5-i TOO STR.V:fGE 
 
 came in witli an immense nosegay in her 
 hand. 
 
 ' Ah 1 that is just what I wanted,' d'Auban 
 exclaimed. 
 
 ' For the nest of the white dove,' she 
 answered, with the sudden hghting up of the 
 eye which supphes the place of a smile in an 
 Indian face. 
 
 ' You see we have found a cage for your 
 wounded bird, Therese, and now we shall 
 have to tame her.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Therese, putting her hand to 
 her mouth — a token of admiration amongst 
 the Indians — ' you have brought her pictures, 
 which will not fade hke my poor flowers.' 
 
 ' But she may get tired of the pictures, 
 and you may bring her, if you like, fresh 
 flowers every day.' 
 
 ' Look,' said Therese, pointing to the 
 river. ' There is your boat ; they are 
 coming.' 
 
 ' So they are. I did not expect them so 
 soon.' 
 
 He sent Antoine to meet the strangers and 
 conduct them to the house, and walked across 
 the wooded lawn to his own home. All the
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 55 
 
 evening he felt unsettled. In his monotonous 
 life an event of any sort was an unusual ex- 
 citement. He went in and out of the house, 
 paced restlessly up and down the margin of 
 the stream. His eyes were continually turn- 
 ing towards the pavilion, from the chimney of 
 which, for the &st time for tliree years, smoke 
 was issuing. He watched that blue curling 
 smoke, and felt as if it warmed his heart. 
 Perhaps he had suffered from a sense of lone- 
 liness more than he was quite aware of, and 
 that the thought of those helpless beings close 
 at hand, of whom he knew so httle, but who 
 inspired him with a vague interest, was an 
 imconscious rehef. He pictured them to him- 
 self in their new home. He wondered what 
 impression the first sight of it had made on 
 Madame de Moldau, and then he tried to 
 fancy what she was lika Therese thought 
 her beautiful, and the German overseer said 
 she was handsome. She was not, in that 
 case, hke her father. Would he feel disap- 
 pointed when he saw her ? Would she tm^n 
 out to be a good-looking woman with wliite 
 cheeks and yellow hau", such as an Indian and 
 a German boor would admire, one because
 
 56 TOO STRANGE 
 
 it was tlie first of the sort she had seen, and 
 the other because he had not known any 
 others. He missed his pictures a httle. The 
 room, as Antoine liad said, would look dull 
 without them. Perhaps they had not attracted 
 her notice at all, or if they had, she did not 
 perhaps care at all about them. He grew tired 
 of thmking, but could not banish the subject 
 from his mind. As the shades of evening 
 deepened, and the crescent moon arose, and 
 myriads of stars, ' the common people of the 
 sky,' as Sir Henry Wootton calls them, showed 
 one by one in the blue vault of heaven, and 
 were pictured in the mirror of the smooth 
 broad river, he still wandered about the grove, 
 wlience he could see St. Agathe and the 
 window of the chamber which he supposed 
 was Madame de Moldau's. There was a 
 hght in it — perhaps she was reading one of 
 his books — perhaps she was gazing on the 
 dark woods and shining river, and thinking 
 of a far-distant home. She was weeping, 
 perhaps, or praying, or sleeping. ' Again,' 
 he impatiently exclaimed, ' again at this 
 guessing work ! What a fool 1 am ! Wliat 
 are these people to me, and why on earth 
 have they come here ? '
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 57 
 
 Tliat last question he was destined very 
 often to put to himself, with more or less 
 of curiosity, of anxiet}^ and it might be, of 
 pain, as time went on. 
 
 The purchaser of St. Agathe was enchanted 
 with his new possession,and began in earnest, 
 as he considered, to apply himself to his new 
 pursuits as an agriculturist and planter, but 
 the absurd mistakes which attended his first 
 attempts at the management of his property, 
 increased d'Auban's astonishment that a man 
 so unfitted for business should ever have 
 thought of becoming a settler. Instruction 
 and advice wxre simply thrown away on 
 M. de Chambelle. He might as well have 
 talked to a child about the mana2;ement of a 
 plantation, and he plainly fores iw that unless 
 some more experienced person were entrusted 
 with the business, the concession might be as 
 well at once given up. At the end of a few 
 days he frankly told him as much, and ad- 
 vised him to engage some other emigrant 
 to act as his agent, or to join him as a 
 partner in the specidation. 
 
 M. de Chambelle eagerly caught at the 
 idea, and proposed to d'Auban himself to 
 enter into partnership with him.
 
 58 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' Indeed, my dear Colonel,' he urged, 
 ' you will be doing a truly charitable action. 
 Whom else could I trust ? on whose honour 
 could I rely in this dreadful country of 
 savages and settlers, many of whom have not 
 more conscience than the natives ? ' 
 
 ' Not half as much, I fear,' said d'Auban ; 
 ' but you could write to M. Dumont and 
 ask him to look out for you at New 
 Orleans ' 
 
 ' And in the meantime ruin the plantation 
 and go out of my mind. M. d'Auban. do 
 consider my position.' 
 
 There was an eager wistful expression on 
 the old man's face, which at once touched 
 and provoked d'Auban, and ' why on earth 
 did he put himself in that position P ' was 
 his inward exclamation. He was not in a 
 very good humour that day. He could not 
 help feeling a httle hurt at the manner in 
 which, wliilst he was assisting her father in 
 eveiy possible way, and showering kind- 
 nesses upon them, Madame de Moldau 
 avoided him. M. de Chambelle had asked 
 him one day to call at St. Agathe, and assured 
 him that, much as she dreaded the sitrht of 
 stranger.-;, she really did wish to make his
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 59 
 
 acqiiaiutance. D'Aubaii mdd lie would go 
 with him to the pavilion, but begged him 
 to wait a few minutes till he had finished 
 dii^ecting some letters which a traveller was 
 going to take with him that evening. M. 
 de Chambelle sat down, and as each letter 
 was thrown on the table, he read the direc- 
 tions. One of them was to a Prince Mitroski, 
 at St. Petersburg. As they were walking 
 to St. Agathe, he asked d'Auban if he had 
 ever been m Eussia. 
 
 ' Yes,' was the answer. ' I was there for 
 some years.' 
 
 ' How long ago, my dear sir ? ' 
 ' I left it about five years ago.' 
 ' Were you in the Eussian service ? ' 
 ' Yes, I commanded a regiment of artillery. 
 And you, M. de Chambelle, have you ever 
 been at St. Petersburg?' 
 
 ' Oh, I have been all over the world,' 
 M. de Chambelle answered with a shrug, 
 and then began to chatter in liis random 
 sort of w^ay, passing from one subject to 
 another without allowing time for any com- 
 ments. When they arrived at the pavilion, 
 he begged d'Auban to wait in the parlour, 
 and went to look for Madame de Moldau.
 
 60 TOO STRANGE 
 
 In a few niiiiiites lie returned, and said she 
 had a bad headache, and begged M. d'Auban 
 to excuse her. Several days had elapsed 
 smce then, and no message had been sent to 
 uivite his return. He felt a little angry with 
 the lady, and still more with himself, for 
 carinn; wli ether she saw him or not. 
 
 Foolish as all this was, it did not incline 
 him to a favourable consideration of M. de 
 Chambelle's proposal. 
 
 ' You are so clever,' the latter pleaded. ' You 
 know all about this concession, and you manage 
 your own so beautifully, and you understand 
 so well how to behave to the labourers. 
 When I speak civilly to them they laugh, and 
 if I find fault they turn their backs upon me, 
 and make remarks in their own language, 
 which I have every reason to suppose are not 
 over and above polite. We are not in any 
 particular hurry about profits; I do not 
 mind letting you into the secret. We have 
 got a large sum of money at the banker's at 
 New Orleans, and I can draw upon them if 
 necessary. You would then make all the 
 bargains for us with Messieurs les Sauvages, 
 and I need not have anything to say to them.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. Gl 
 
 I cannot tell you how happy it would make 
 me, and Madame de Moldau also.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! ' d'Auban said, with a rather 
 scornful smile. 
 
 'Of course you would make your own 
 conditions. I assure you that I look upon it 
 as a providential event to have met with such 
 a friend as you have been to us in this land 
 of savages and alligators. By the way, I 
 forgot to tell you how narrowly I escaped 
 yesterday one of those horrible animals.' 
 
 ' Your reliance on Providence seems to me 
 to have been carried to excess,' d'Auban ob- 
 served, still in a sarcastic tone. 'Suppose we 
 had not met, what would yoxi have done ? 
 Your daughter could not have endured the 
 ordinary hardships of a settler's life. Had it 
 not been for St. Agathe — — ' 
 
 ' Aye, and for Colonel d'Auban, what 
 would have become of us ? But you see she 
 would come to Louisiana, and when we got 
 to New Orleans nothing would serve her but 
 to come on to this place. What could I do?' 
 
 D'Auban laughed. 'Is it, then, the new 
 fashion in France for parents to obey their 
 children ?
 
 62 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' Ah ! ce que femrae vent Dieu le veut ! 
 One cannot refuse lier anytliing.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she has had some great sorrow. 
 Has she lost her husband lately ? ' 
 
 'I suppose she has suffered everything a 
 woman can suffer,' the old man answered, in 
 a tone of feehnj? which touched d'Auban. 
 
 ' She has one great blessing left,' he Mndly 
 said — * an affectionate father.' 
 
 ' no, no ! what can such a one as I do for 
 her ? But what I meant was that if she is 
 bent upon a thing ' 
 
 ' She cannot be dissuaded from it,' said 
 d'Auban, again smiling. 
 
 ' Well, I could never say nay to a lady, and 
 when you see Madame de Moldau^ — ' 
 
 ' I shall understand that her wishes are not 
 to be resisted. I am quite wilhng to believe it.' 
 
 'But with regard to the partnersliip, M. 
 d'Auban.' 
 
 ' Well, I am sure you will excuse my speak- 
 ing plainly, M. de Chambelle. I perfectly 
 admit that you cannot manage your property 
 yourself, but at the same time I would greatly 
 prefer your applying to some other colonist 
 to join you in the undertaking.'
 
 XOT TO BE TKUE. 63 
 
 ' Wliat is tlie use of talking to me of some 
 other colonist ? Is there a single person in 
 this neighbourhood whom you could now 
 really recommend to me as a partner ? Only 
 consider how I am situated.' 
 
 ' Et que diable est-il venu faire dans cette 
 ijalere ! ' muttered d'Auban, and then said 
 out loud : ' But it is impossible to conclude an 
 arrangement of this kind in an off-hand 
 manner. There must be an agreement drawn 
 up and signed before witnesses.' 
 
 ' By all means, my dear sir, as many as 
 you please.' 
 
 'But such formahties are not easily ac- 
 complished in a place hke this.' 
 
 'Then, for heaven's sake, let us dispense 
 with them ! The case Hes m a nut-shell. 
 I have pm-chased this land for the sake of the 
 little bijou of a house upon it ; and as 
 regards the plantation, I am much in the 
 same position as a Milord Anglais I once 
 heard of, who bought PoUchinelle, and was 
 smprised to find, when he brought it home, 
 that it did not act of its own accord. I have 
 used my best endeavours to master the sub- 
 ject. I have tried to assume the manners
 
 G4 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 of a planter; but chassez le 7iaturel, il re- 
 vient au galop, and mine is cantering back 
 as fast as possible to its starting-point. There 
 are things a man can do, and others he can't. 
 I was not made for a colonist.' 
 
 D'Aiil)an was very near saying, 'What 
 were you made for ?' but he cliecked the 
 sneering thought. In the prime of life and 
 full enjoyment of a vigorous intellect, he had 
 been tempted to despise the feeble fidgetty 
 old man before him, forgetting that the race 
 is not always to the swift or the battle to the 
 strong. We sometimes wonder what part 
 some particular person is sent to fulfill on 
 earth. He or she seems to our short-sighted 
 view so insignificant, so incapable, so devoid 
 of the qualities we most admire, and all the 
 while, perhaps, what appears to us his or her 
 deficiencies, are quahfications for the task or 
 the position assigned to them by Providence. 
 There are uses for timid spirits, weak frames, 
 and broken hearts, little dreamed of by those 
 who, in the pride of health and mental vigour, 
 know little of their value. 
 
 Some further conversation took place be- 
 tween the neighbours, which ended by 
 d'Auban's promising to draw up an ngreement
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 65 
 
 based on M. de Cliambelle's proposal. It 
 was further decided that they would take 
 this paper to the Mission of St. Francis, and 
 request Father Maret and another French 
 habitant to "witness its signature. A day or 
 two afterwards this was accordingly done. 
 M. de Chambelle rubbed his hands in a trans- 
 port of delight, and compUmented Father 
 Maret on the beauty of his church, in which 
 he had never set his foot, The missionary 
 was amused at hearin2!; himself called M. 
 I'Abbe, and took an opportunity, whilst his 
 guest was fhttino; about his rose-bushes like 
 a superannuated butterfly, to ask d'Auban 
 for the history of his new partner. 
 
 ' I am almost ashamed to own how httle 
 I know of him,' was his answer. And then 
 lie gave a brief account of the arrival of 
 these strangers — of the purchase of St. 
 Agathe, and M. de ChambeUe's total inabihty 
 to manaije the concession. When Father 
 Maret had heard the particulars, he smiled 
 and said, ' This partnership is, then, an act 
 of charity. But take care, my dear friend, 
 how you involve yourself with these people. 
 I strongly advise you to be prudent. We 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 TOO STKANGE 
 
 have hitherto been rather out of the reach 
 of adventurers, but there seems to me some- 
 thing a Httle suspicious in the apparent 
 helplessness of this gentleman. Do not 
 let pity or kindness throw you off your 
 guard.' 
 
 'If he "were to turn out a roijue, which I 
 hardly can beheve possible, he could not do 
 me any harm. You see he leaves everything 
 in my hands. I might cheat him, but he 
 cannot injure me. I shall feel to understand 
 him better when I have seen his daughter. 
 Is it not strange her shutting herself up so 
 entirely ? ' 
 
 ' There seems to me something strange 
 about the whole affair. Have you sent his 
 cheque to New Orleans ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and took the opportunity of asking 
 M. Dumont what he knew about him ; but 
 months may elapse, as you know, before I 
 get an answer.' 
 
 ' The daughter is, to my mind, the most 
 doubtful feature in the case. It is not often 
 that European women of good character 
 come out to the colonies. Who knows what 
 this one may be ? It is not impossible that
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. G7 
 
 all this hiding is only a trick by which she 
 hopes to pique your curiosity, and interest 
 your feehngs. But here comes your friend. 
 Poor old man ! He certainly does not look 
 like an impostor.' 
 
 The partners took their leave. As they 
 walked away, it was impossible not to be 
 struck by the contrast presented by d'Auban's 
 tall figure and firm step, and his companion's 
 ungraceful form and shuffling gait, or to see 
 the latter's admiring confiding manner to- 
 wards his companion and doubt its sincerity. 
 The priest could not, however, divest him- 
 self of a vague apprehension as to the charac- 
 ter and designs of the strangers. Experience 
 had tauo;ht him sad lessons with re2:ard to 
 colonial speculators, and his fatherly affec- 
 tion for d' Auban made him suspicious of their 
 designs. It was in Eussia that the intimacy 
 between these two men had begun, and in 
 America it had deepened into friendship. 
 There was a difference of at least twenty 
 years between their ages. Father Maret was 
 bent with toil, and his countenance bore the 
 traces of a hfe of labour and privations. 
 When at rest, melancholy was its charac- 
 
 f2
 
 68 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 teristic expression, as if continual contact 
 with sin and sorrow had left its impress upon 
 it ; but Avhcn he conversed with others, it 
 was with a brio-ht and oTacious smile. His 
 step, tliough heavy, was rapid, as that of a 
 man who, weary and exhausted, yet hastens 
 on in the service of God. His head fell 
 sli<:fhtlv forward on lii? breast, and his hair 
 was thin and grey, but in his eye there was 
 a fire, and in his manner and lanixuaci;e an 
 energy which did not betoken decay of body 
 or mind. 
 
 The first years he had spent in America 
 had been very trying. Till d'Auban's arrival 
 he had seldom been cheered bv intercourse 
 ■\\'ith those who could share in his interests 
 or his anxieties, or afford him tlie mental 
 relief which every educated person finds in 
 the society of educated men. Some of the 
 Indian Christians were models of piety and 
 full of childlike faith and amiability ; but 
 there must always exist an intellectual gulph 
 between minds untrained and uncultivated 
 and those which liave been used from child- 
 hood upward to live almost as much in the 
 past as in the present ; and this is even the
 
 yOT TO BE TRUE. G9 
 
 case to a certain degree as regards religion. 
 The advantage in this respect may not always 
 be on tlie side of civihsation and of a high 
 amount of mental culture. There is often 
 in persons wise unto salvation and ignorant 
 of all else, a simplicity of faith, a clear real- 
 isation of its great truths and unhesitating 
 acceptance of its teachings, which may very 
 well excite admiration and somethinof like 
 envy in those whom an imperfect, and there- 
 fore deceptive, knowledge misleads, and who 
 are sometimes almost weary of the multiph- 
 city of their own thoughts. But it is never- 
 theless impossible that they should not miss, 
 in their intercourse with others, the power of 
 association wdiich links their religious belief 
 with a whole chain of reminiscences, and con- 
 nects it with a number of outlying regions 
 bordering on its domain. Viewed in the 
 hght of faith, art, science, literature, history, 
 pohtics, every achievement of genius, every 
 past and present event, every invention, every 
 discovery, has a pecuhar significancy. Names 
 become beacons in the stream of time — sio-nal 
 Hghts, bright or lurid as may be, which the 
 lapse of ages never extinguishes. This con-
 
 70 TOO STRANGE 
 
 tinued train of thoLmiit, this kino-dom of 
 association, this region of sympathy, is the 
 growth of centuries, and to forego famiharity 
 with it one of tlie greatest sacrifices which 
 a person of intellectual habits can make. 
 D'Auban's society and friendship had filled 
 up this void in Father Maret's existence, and 
 there was another far greater trial which his 
 residence in this settlement had tended to 
 miti2:ate. 
 
 In New France, as in all recently-disco- 
 vered countries, a missionary's chief difficulty 
 consisted not in converting the natives, or (a 
 greater one) in keeping them from relapsing 
 into witchcraft and idolatry — not in the 
 wearisome pursuit of his scattered sheep 
 over morasses, sluggish streams, and dreary 
 savannahs — but in the bad example set by 
 the European settlers. It was the hardened 
 irreligion, the scoffing spirit, the profligate 
 lives of the emigrants swarming on the 
 banks of the IMississippi, tainting and pol- 
 luting the forests and prairies of this new 
 Eden with their vile passions and remorse- 
 less thirst for gold, which wrung the heart of 
 the Christian priest, and brought a blush to
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 71 
 
 his cheek when tlie Indians asked — ' Are the 
 white men Cliristians ? Do they worship 
 Jesus?' 
 
 He felt sometimes indiued to answer, ' No ; 
 their god is mammon, a very hateful idol.' 
 To make his meaning clear, he used to show 
 them a piece of gold, and to say that for the 
 sake of that metal many a baptised European 
 imperilled his immortal soul. The Indians 
 of the Mission got into the habit of calling 
 gold the white man's manitou, that is, his 
 domestic idol. It became, therefore, an im- 
 mense consolation to Father Maret when a 
 Frenchman came into the neighbom^hood 
 Avhom he could point out to the native con- 
 verts as an example of the practical results 
 of true religion. He was wont to say that 
 d'Auban's goodness and Therese's virtues 
 made more converts than his sermons. His 
 own example he, of course, counted for 
 nothing. It was not, then, extraordinary that 
 lie should feel anxious about the character of 
 the new inhabitants of St. Agathe, and their 
 probable intimacy with his friend. He had 
 often regretted that one so well fitted for 
 domestic hfe and social enjoyments should
 
 72 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 be cut off by circumstances from congenial 
 society. The amount of friendly intercourse 
 which was amply sufficient for his own need 
 of relaxation could not be so for one whose 
 ■sohtary existence was an accident, not a 
 vocation. He might not be conscious of it 
 •as yet, but with advancing years the want of 
 a home and of friends was sure to be more 
 •keenly felt. Glad, indeed, would he have 
 been to think that this partnership, that these 
 •new acquaintances, were likely to fill up this 
 void, and to prove a blessing to his friend. 
 Never was a more fervent prayer breathed 
 for another's weal than that which rose from 
 Father Maret's heart that nif{ht for the com- 
 panion of his solitude. None feel more 
 solicitude for the happiness, or more sympathy 
 with the trials of others, than those who 
 have renounced earthly happiness themselves. 
 There is something in their sympathy akin 
 to a mother's love or a guardian angel's 
 pity. 
 
 Therese met the priest as he was turning 
 back towards the village. After saluting him 
 ill the Indian fashion, she said, ' The eagle 
 spreads his wings over the nest of the white
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 73 
 
 dove. The strong befriends the weak. It is 
 good, my flither.' 
 
 ' I hope so,' the black robe kindly an- 
 swered, as he led the way into the church, 
 where the people were assembling for evening 
 prayer.
 
 TOO STRANGE 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 The present hour repeats upon its strings 
 Echoes of some vague dream \vc have forgot ; 
 
 Dim voices whisper half-remembered things, 
 And when we pause to listens-answer not. 
 
 Forebodings come, we know not how or whence, 
 Shadowing a nameless fear upon the soul. 
 
 And stir within our hearts a subtler sense 
 Than light may read, or wisdom may control. 
 
 And who can tell what secret links of thought 
 
 Bind heart to heart ? Unspoken things are heard, 
 
 As if within our deepest selves was brought 
 The soul, perhaps, of some unuttered word. 
 
 Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 M. DE Chaj^ibelle, no longer the manager of 
 a concession, trod the earth with a hghter 
 step, and strolled through the plantations, 
 bowing affably to the negroes and chatting 
 with those of the labourers who spoke 
 French or German. As to d'Auban, he 
 applied himself to the business he had un- 
 dertaken with his usual energy and intelh- 
 oence — an additional amount of labour was
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 75 
 
 a boon to him. He had ' the frame of 
 adamant and soul of lire/ to winch work 
 is as necessary as food or air. He was 
 glad also to adopt, with regard to the slaves 
 on the St. Agathe estate, the measures he 
 had successfully carried out for the benefit 
 of his own labourers. Though he had not 
 yet seen Madame de Moldau, the very 
 thought of a European lady such as Therese 
 had described her living so near him, in the 
 house he used to call a folly, seemed to 
 make a difference in his life. At all hours 
 of the day he pictured her to himself, and 
 tried to unagine her existence within those 
 fom^ walls, with no other companion than 
 her garrulous old father, w^ho chattered 
 as if he could keep notliing to himself, 
 and yet never dropped a word that threw 
 light on her sorrow or her story, whatever 
 it was, or gave the least clue to their past 
 history. 
 
 One evening, as he was passing through 
 the shubbery, he caught sight of her on the 
 balcony of the pavilion. Her head was 
 thrown back as if to catch the breeze just 
 beginning to rise at the close of a sultry day.
 
 76 TOO STRANGE 
 
 He stood riveted to tlie spot. ' She is very 
 beautiful,' he said, half aloud, ' much more 
 beautiful than I expected.' She turned her 
 head and their eyes met, which made him 
 start and instantly draw back. He was 
 distressed at having been surprised gazing 
 at her, but he could not help feeling glad he 
 had seen her at last. Who was she like ? 
 Very like somebody he had seen before, but 
 he could not remember where. ' I am sure 
 her foce is not a new one to me,' he thought. 
 ' How intensely blue her eyes are ! What a 
 very peculiar-looking person she is ! Her 
 dress is difierent, too, from anything we see 
 here. What was it ? A black silk gown, I 
 think, opening in front, and a lace cap fastened 
 on each side with coral pins. What a start 
 she gave when she saw me ! I am so sorry I 
 took her by surprise. I ought of all things 
 to have avoided the appearance of a rude 
 vulgar curiosity.' That self-reproach occu- 
 pied him all the evening. He made it an 
 excuse to himself for thinking of nothing 
 but .Madame de Moldau. He was at once 
 excited and depressed. All sorts of fancies, 
 some sad and some pleasant, passed through
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 77 
 
 his mind. Europe witli all his associations 
 rose before hiin, conjured up by the sight of 
 that pale •woman dressed in black. 
 
 For the first time since leaving France a 
 vague yearning, half regret, half presentiment, 
 filled his heart. Can we doubt that there 
 are such things as presentiments ? True, we 
 are sometimes haunted by a besetting thought, 
 or we have an agitating dream, or we are 
 seized by an unaccountable depression which 
 we consider as a foreboding of coming evil, of 
 some event which, in the poet's words, casts 
 its shadows before it, and the thought passes 
 awav, the dream fades in the lij^ht of morn- 
 ing, a draught of spring's delicious air or a 
 ray of genial sunshine dispels the melancholy 
 which a moment before seemed incurable, 
 and the voice which rang in our ear like a 
 warning, subsides amidst the busy sounds of 
 life, leaving no echo behind it. True, this 
 frequently happens, and yet in spite of these 
 deceptions, we cannot altogether disbelieve in 
 the occasional occurrence of subtle and mys- 
 terious intimations which forebade future 
 events, and, like whispers from heaven, pre- 
 pare our souls for coming joys or sorrows.
 
 78 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 Was it an effect of memory, or a trick of tlie 
 imagination, or a simple delusion, which 
 played the fool that night with d'Anban's 
 *well-resiilated mind. suQreestino- to him a 
 fantastic resemblance between the face he had 
 seen that evening and a vision of his earlier 
 years ? Was it a presentiment of happiness 
 or a warning of evil which stirred the calm 
 depths of his tranquil soul, as he mused on 
 days gone by ? He did not know ; he did not 
 analyse his feelings, but gave himself up to a 
 lon£f reverie, in . which, hke in a dro^vnins 
 man's dream, the events of his life passed 
 successively before him with a strange dis- 
 tinctness. How the remembrance of our 
 childhood comes back to us as we advance in 
 life ! We lose sight of it amidst the noise 
 and excitement of youth and middle age ; but 
 when the shades of evening fall, and the busy 
 hum of voices subsides, and silence steals 
 on the soul as it spreads over a darkening 
 landscape, the thought returns of wliat we 
 were when we started on that long journey 
 now drawing to a close. And even in the 
 noon-tide of life there are seasons when we 
 pause and look back as d'Auban did tliat 
 night. When the future assumes a new
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 79 
 
 aspect, and we dimly foresee a change in our 
 destiny, without discerning its form, even 
 as a bhnd man is conscious of approach to 
 an object he does not yet touch or behold, a 
 feelino; of this sort sometimes drives us back 
 upon the past, as to a friend left behind, and 
 well-nigh lost .sight of 
 
 On the following evening to the one when 
 d'Auban had for the first time seen Madame de 
 Moldau, her father walked into his room and 
 in a tone of unusual importance and anima- 
 tion invited him to dinner for the next day. 
 The blood mounted into d'Auban's face. He 
 longed to accept, but pride disinclined him to 
 do so. After the great reluctance she had 
 evinced to see him, he did not hke to thrust 
 himself into her society by availing himself 
 of an invitation which only gratitude or 
 civihty had, in all probability, induced her 
 to send. He accordingly made some not very 
 intelliiiible excuse. 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear friend,' exclaimed M. de 
 Chambelle, ' you must not refuse ; it is impos- 
 sible you can refuse.' 
 
 It was with a pained expression of counte- 
 nance that this remonstrance was made. The 
 old man seemed shocked and hurt.
 
 80 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' Indeed, my dear sir,' said d'Auban kindly, 
 ' my only reason for refusing is, that I fear 
 my presence will not be acceptable to your 
 daughter, and perhaps compel her, as she 
 did before, to keep her own room.' 
 
 ' Ah ! tliat was because she had a head- 
 ache. Of course you would not wish her to 
 appear if she was ill.' 
 
 ' Of course not. I only wish you would not 
 consider yourself obliged to invite me ; I 
 assure you I do not expect it.' 
 
 ' But she wishes to see you, and thank you 
 for all your kindness and civility. Indeed, I 
 cannot tell her that you refuse to come.' 
 
 ' Well, if you make a point of it, I shall be 
 happy to accept your kind invitation. At 
 what o'clock do you dine ? ' 
 
 ' At one,' answered M. de Chambelle ; and 
 then recovering his spirits he added, ' Our 
 cuisine, I am sorry to say, is of the JSTew 
 World school, in spite of all my efforts to 
 instruct our Indian vatel in the mysteries of 
 French c(5oking ; but having witnessed the 
 hermit-like nature of your repasts, I am not 
 afraid of your despising the roasted kid and 
 wild ducks which the female savage has
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 81 
 
 provided for our entertaimneiit. We will add 
 to it a little glass of " essence of fire," as the 
 Indians call our good French cognac. Well, 
 I will not take up your time now. To-mor- 
 row at one o'clock ; you Avill not forget.' 
 
 When he had reached the door, M. de 
 Chambelle turned back again, and, laying his 
 hand on d'Auban's arm, he said in a tremu- 
 lous voice : 
 
 'You will not be angry if she should 
 change her mind and not appear to-morrow ? 
 Her spirits are very unequal ; you don't know 
 what she has gone through.' 
 
 He was a poor creature enough this old 
 M. de Chambelle, and d'Auban had difficulty 
 sometimes in not despising the Aveakness 
 and frivoHty he evinced in the midst of 
 troubles, into which he had so recklessly 
 plunged himself; but he never heard him 
 speak of his daughter without noticing a kind 
 of pathos in his voice and manner, which 
 redeemed m his eyes his childishness and 
 folly, and softened his feelings towards him. 
 He assured him that he would not take any- 
 thing amiss, and promised to be punctual at 
 the appointed time. And so he was ; and on 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 TOO STEAXGE 
 
 his way to St, Agathe he kept hiwardly re- 
 proaching and laugliing at himself for the 
 timidity lie felt at the thought of being 
 introduced to Madame de Moldau, and at 
 the fear he had that after all she v^rould not 
 appear. When he came in sight of the pretty 
 fanciful toy of a house, a specimen of Euro- 
 pean refmement in the midst of the oaks 
 and pines of an American forest, it no longer 
 struck him as so out of place as it was wont 
 to do when he ridiculed M. de Harlay's FoUy, 
 and blamed its erection as the idle whim of 
 a Parisian's fancy. The woman he had seen 
 surrounded by shining evergreens and roses 
 in full blossom, hke a lovely pictm^e framed 
 in flowerets, seemed a fittmg inhabitant for 
 tliis eartlily paradise. 
 
 It liad never showed to such advantage, in 
 his eyes at least, as on this day. The brilliant 
 fohao;e was shinin" in tlie full radiance of 
 noon. The avenue of maernolias leading to 
 the little rustic porch was fragrant with in- 
 cense-hke perfume. Not a breath stirred the 
 branches of the encirchns; cedars. Beautiful 
 birds, like winged jewels flying througli the 
 translucent air, gave life and animation to 
 the scene, and insects lazily hovered over
 
 IsOT TO BE TRUE. 83 
 
 masses of scented woodbine, tlieir win<2;s 
 weighed down with honey, and tlieir drowsy 
 hum luUing the ear. 
 
 M. de Chambelle was standing; at the door 
 looking out for his guest. He seemed more 
 fidgetty still tlian usual as he conducted him 
 to the room where his daughter usually sat, 
 and then went, as he said, to inform her of 
 his arrival. She came directly; and if d'Auban 
 had admired her from a distance, he now did 
 so a thousand times more. The sweetness of 
 her countenance, the exqiusite delicacy of 
 her complexion, the pathetic expression (no 
 other word would express it) of her large 
 and very blue eyes, surpassed in beauty any- 
 tliing he could call to mind ; and yet again 
 the feeling came over him that it was not 
 the first time he had seen that charming face, 
 or heard that sweet voice, he mentally added, 
 when she thanked him with a gentle dignity 
 of manner for all he had done to make her 
 comfortable at St. A^athe. 
 
 'It is one of the lovehest places I have 
 ever beheld,' she said. 
 
 What touched him most was that he 
 saw, from the quivering of her lip and the 
 
 G 2
 
 84 TOO STRANGE 
 
 fliictiiatino" colour of her cheek, that she 
 was making an effort over herself in order to 
 welcome him. NotwithstandinQ- this visible 
 emotion, her manner was quiet and self- 
 possessed. He felt, on the contrary, as awk- 
 ward and stupid as possible, and scarcely 
 knew what to say in return for her acknow- 
 ledgments. Man of the world as he once 
 had been, he was quite at a loss on this oc- 
 casion. She was such a different person from 
 what he might have expected to see. At 
 last he said, ' My friend, M. de Harlay, little 
 imagined when he built this pavilion, or 
 rather when he abandoned it two years ago, 
 Madame, that it would have the good fortune 
 to be so soon inhabited by a European lady. 
 What in my ignorance I deemed a folly has 
 turned out an inspiration. We emigrants are 
 apt to build lor ourselves barns or cabins 
 rather than houses.' 
 
 ' Is not your home behind those trees, M. 
 d'Auban ? ' 
 
 ' Madame, it is that plain square building 
 near the river.' 
 
 ' Oh, I see it ; near those trees with the 
 large white flowers.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 85 
 
 'Are you fond of flowers, Madame de 
 Moldau ? 
 
 ' Could one venture to say one did not care 
 about them ? ' She said this with one of 
 those smiles which hover on the hps without 
 in the least altering the melancholy expression 
 of the eyes. 
 
 'In this new world, Madame,' he answered, 
 ' may we not venture to say anything, even 
 the truth ? ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau blushed, and said 
 rather quickly, ' I find almost as much dif- 
 ference between one flower and another as 
 between diflerent persons. Some are beau- 
 tiful but uninteresting, others decidedly re- 
 pulsive, and some without any beauty at all 
 are nevertheless charming. Violets, for in- 
 stance, and mignonette. It has often struck 
 me that a pretty book might be written on 
 the characters of flowers.' 
 
 ' I quite agree with you, Madame, not only 
 about flowers, but as to all the objects which 
 surround us. It is often difficult to tell why 
 certain landscapes, certain animals — nay, 
 certain faces — have a charm quite independent 
 of beauty. It is, however, easier to discover
 
 86 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 what captivates us in a human countenance 
 than in a handscape or a flower.' 
 
 ' I suppose, sir, there are secret sympathies, 
 mysterious aflinities, between our great parent 
 nature and ourselves which are feh, but 
 cannot be explained ? ' 
 
 ' Nature is indeed a teacher, or rather a 
 book full of instruction, but it is not every- 
 one who has the key to its secrets.' 
 
 ' I should think that in this desert you 
 must have had many opportunities of gaining 
 possession of this important key.' 
 
 'No doubt there are lessons broad -scattered 
 on the surface of nature which he who runs 
 may read, but my hfe here has been too busy 
 a one for much study or thought.' 
 
 ' How long, sir, have you been in this 
 country ? ' 
 
 'Five years.' 
 
 ' Five years ! Almost a lifetime.' 
 
 D'Auban smiled. ' That lifetime has seemed 
 to me very short.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Have you become accustomed 
 to the monotony of this forest scenery ? ' 
 
 'Not merely accustomed, but attached to it.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 87 
 
 ' What ! do you not feel oppressed by its 
 death-like stilhiess ? It puts me in mind of 
 being becalmed at sea. 
 
 Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser, 
 Und beklimmert sieht der Fischer 
 Glatte Fliiche rings •umher. 
 Keine Luft von keiner Seite, 
 Todesstille furcliterlich ; 
 In die nngeheure Weite 
 Reget keine "Welle sich. 
 
 'Do you understand German, M. d'Auban r ' 
 
 ' Not enouijh. Madame, to seize the sense of 
 those lines. I have always heard that a calm 
 at sea is more awful than a storm. And you 
 have ""One throuo-h that trial ? ' 
 
 ' yes, it was horrible ; not a sound, not 
 a breeze, not a ripple, on that smooth leaden 
 sea for more than ten days ; and eight hun- 
 dred emigrants on board a crowded vessel ! ' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Madame, how you must 
 have sujBfered ! But does the sohtude of our 
 grand forests, teeming as they do with animal 
 hfe, and full of every variety of vegetable 
 production, affect you in the same manner?' 
 
 ' There is, I must confess, a similarity in 
 the effect both have upon me.'
 
 88 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 'We have sometimes winds here which 
 play rough games witli the topmost branches 
 of our evergreen oaks.' 
 
 ' Ah, well do I know it,' Madame de 
 Moldau answered, with one of her joyless 
 smiles. ' The very day we arrived a hurri- 
 cane almost destroyed our boat. Simon was 
 much alarmed. I suppose you know him, 
 M. d'Auban ? He says he has the honour of 
 being acquainted with )'0U.' 
 
 ' I have lone had the advantao-e or the 
 disadvantage, whichever it is, of his ac- 
 quaintance. He is quite a character. His 
 boats, such as they are, prove a great con- 
 venience to emigrants ; but how you, 
 Madame de Moldau, could endure the hard- 
 ships of such a voyage, I am at a loss to 
 conceive.' 
 
 'Is there anything one cannot endure?' 
 This was said with some bitterness. ' The 
 voyage was bad enough,' she continued, be- 
 fore he had time to answer, ' but not so bad 
 as the landing. Oh, that first night in an 
 Indian hut ! The smell, the heat, the 
 mosquitoes, that winged army of tormen- 
 tors ! Is it because we are farther removed
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 89 
 
 from tlie river that they do not assail us so 
 much here ? ' 
 
 ' Partly so, perhaps ; but they always at- 
 tack new-comers with extraordinary viru- 
 lence.' 
 
 ' Have you lived alone all this time, 
 M. d'Auban?' 
 
 ' M. de Harlay remained with me two 
 years; and I often see Father Maret, the 
 priest of the neigh]30uring Mission. During 
 the hunting season I accompany him in his 
 Avauderings.' 
 
 ' In search of game ? ' 
 
 ' I pursue the game. He follows about 
 his wandering flock in their encampments in 
 the forests and near the great lakes.' 
 
 At that moment M. de Chambelle an- 
 nounced that dinner was ready. Madame 
 de Moldan rose, and d'Auban offered to con- 
 duct her to the hall which served as a dining- 
 room. There was a slight hesitation in her 
 manner which caused him hastily to draw 
 back. The colour which only occasionally 
 visited her cheek rushed into it now. She 
 held out her hand and lightly laid it on his. 
 He felt it tremble, and became so confused
 
 90 TOO STRANGE 
 
 that he hardly knew Avliat he was doing. 
 He had been accustomed to the best, which 
 in those days meant the most aristocratic, 
 society in Europe, and had often dined wdth 
 princes. How was it, then, that m that log- 
 built house, sitting between the old man, 
 whose affairs he had consented to manage 
 out of sheer compassion, and his young and 
 gentle daughter, he should feel so embar- 
 rassed ? 
 
 As they sat down she pomted to a sprig 
 of jessamine in a nosegay on the table, and 
 said : ' There is a flower that has both beauty 
 and charm.' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, ' and purity and sweet- 
 ness also. One would not dare to deal 
 roufxhly with so delicate a flower.' 
 
 He thought there was a hkeness between 
 that white jessamine and the woman by his 
 side. 
 
 She was very silent during dinner. 
 
 M. de Chambelle's eyes were always glanc- 
 ing t(n\'ards her, and he seemed distressed at 
 her eating so httle. Once he got up to 
 change her plate and offer her some other 
 dish than the one she had been helped to.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 91 
 
 Before the meal was over she complained of 
 being tired, and withdrew to the sitting-room. 
 During the time which elapsed before she 
 joined them, d'Auban found it very difficult 
 to attend to his host's rambling discourse. 
 His mind was running on the peculiarity of 
 Madame de Moldau's manner. He could not 
 quite satisfy himself as to the nature of this 
 pecuharity. Nothing could be sweeter than 
 her countenance ; her voice was charming ; 
 her way of speaking courteous : but there was 
 at the same time something a little abrupt 
 and even slightly imperious in it, which 
 did not take away from her attractiveness^ 
 for it was neither amfeminine or uuijracious : 
 but he could quite believe what M. de 
 Chambelle had said, that when she was bent 
 on anything it was not easy to oppose her. 
 ' I suppose ' (he thought) ' that she has been 
 so idolised by her father that she takes his 
 devotion as a matter of course, and it would 
 indeed be extraordinary if he was not devoted 
 to such a dauditer. Had I forgotten ' he 
 asked himself, ' what refined, well-educated 
 women are like, or is this one very superior 
 to what they generally are?'
 
 92 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Wlien at last they left the dming-room and 
 joined Madame de Moldau she made a sign 
 to him to seat himself by her side, and, 
 pointing to the view, said with a smile, 
 ' Your beloved Avoods and prairies.' 
 
 ' Would,' he earnestly said, ' that I might 
 be so happy as to teach you to love them.' 
 
 She looked steadfastly before her with a 
 fixed gaze, but it did not seem to rest on 
 the river or on the waning fohage. Tears 
 gathered in lier eyes and rolled down her 
 cheeks. D'Auban saw lier father watchino; 
 her with painful solicitude, and, not knowing 
 how to break the silence which ensued, he 
 turned away and looked at the books which 
 were lying on the table. Wlaen we are for 
 any reason interested about anyone, how 
 eagerly we take notice of what they read, 
 and try in this way to form some idea of 
 their tastes and opinions ! Sometimes in a 
 railway carriage or on a bench in a pubhc 
 garden, we see a person absorbed in a book, 
 and if there is anything about them which 
 in the least excites our interest, we long to 
 know what sort of thoughts are awakened 
 by the volume in their hands — what feelings
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 93 
 
 it touches — what emotions it excites — what 
 amount of trutli or of falsehood, of evil or 
 good, of food or of poison, is conveyed in 
 the pages so eagerly perused ! Wliat a won- 
 derful tliinsf a book is when we come to 
 think of it ! how much more we know of 
 those we hold converse with by means of 
 their writings than of many with whose 
 faces we are familiar, whom we have listened 
 to and talked to perhaps for years, without 
 ever giving a real insight into their minds or 
 their characters ! What deep and vehement 
 feelings have been often stirred up by the 
 silent adversaries, the mute antagonists we 
 encounter in the solitude of our chambers ! 
 What earnest protests we have mentally 
 uttered when our faith has been outraged or 
 our consciences wounded ! What blessings 
 we have showered on the writer who elo- 
 quently expresses what we ourselves have 
 thought and felt — who defends with courao-e 
 what we deem sacred and true — gives a 
 tangible form to our vague imaginings, and 
 raises us in his powerful grasp to the level of 
 his own intellect ! What friends of this kind 
 we most of us have had, those at whose feet
 
 94 TOO STKANGE 
 
 we sat when the first dawiiinors of iiitelli«:ence 
 threw a doubtful ho:ht ou our miuds — those 
 to whom Ave paid au almost idolatrous wor- 
 ship in youth — those who have been to us 
 fathers though they knew us not, teachers 
 though they recked not of us, guides and 
 comforters as life advanced, ' companions on 
 its downward way ! ' 
 
 The books on Madame de Moldau's table 
 were the 'Maxims of La Eochefoucauld,' 'Plu- 
 tarch's Lives,' a volume of Corneille's Tra- 
 gedies, and a German translation of the 
 Psalms. 
 
 ' Is this your travelling library, Madame 
 de Moldau ? ' d'Auban asked, for the purpose 
 of breaking a silence which was becoming 
 awkward. 
 
 ' About the whole of it, I think,' was her 
 answer. 'It is impossible to travel with 
 many luxuries, not even intellectual ones.' 
 
 ' Would it be impertinent to ask if choice 
 or chance influenced their selection ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, chance decided it, like everything 
 else in one's fate.' 
 
 'Surely you do not think that the world 
 is governed by chance P ' d'Auban exclaimed.
 
 :;0T TO BE TItUE. 95 
 
 ' I suppose I ought to have used the Avord 
 providence,' Madame de Moldau answered 
 in a careless tone. 
 
 D'Auban could not repress a sigh. 'It 
 would be so dreadful,' he gently said, ' to 
 suffer, and think it was the result of acci- 
 dent.' He had taken up the volume of Ger- 
 "onan Psalms and w^as turning over its pages. 
 Madame de Moldau saw it in liis hands, 
 and gave a rapid anxious look at her father, 
 who jumped up, snatched the book from 
 him, and, rushing to the window, pretended 
 to kill an insect with it. ' These mosquitoes 
 are dreadfuUy troublesome,' he cried. 'I 
 really must get a net or something to hang 
 up against this A\dndow ; ' and he hurried 
 out of the room, with the volume in his 
 hand. 
 
 ' If any of my books could amuse you, 
 Madame de Moldau,' d'Auban said, ' I slioidd 
 be only too happy if you would make use of 
 my little library. I have thirty or forty 
 vohunes at my house. Ko thing very new, 
 but most of them worthy of more than one 
 perusal.' 
 
 'You are very kind. Perhaps you will
 
 96 TOO STRANGE 
 
 allow 1110, some day, to look at them ? 
 Have you seen this volume of Corneille's 
 Trao-edies ? I hke them much better than 
 Eacine's.' 
 
 ' I saw the Cid acted at St. Petersburs^- 
 some years ago. Tlie Czar preferred Cor- 
 neille to all other dramatic writers.' 
 
 ' BufToonery and low comedy are supposed 
 to be what he likes best, I believe.' 
 
 'I suppose that in tastes as well as in 
 other thing's extremes sometimes meet. And 
 how difficult it is to form a just estimate of 
 that extraordinary man's character ! ' 
 
 ' M. de Chambelle tells me you were at one 
 time in his service. You must liave admired 
 his genius, his great qualities ? ' 
 
 'I admired the sovereign w]io, almost 
 single-lianded, changed the face of an empire, 
 the man whose energy and perseverance ef- 
 fected in a few years tlie work of centuries ; 
 but a nearer acquaintance witli lliis great 
 barbarian completely changed the nature of 
 this admiration. Wonder remained, l3ut un- 
 accompanied witli respect. How can one 
 respect a man who is the sla\e of his own 
 passions, whose remorseless cruelty and coarse
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 97 
 
 brutality are a disgrace to human nature, and 
 who is wanting in some of its noblest attri- 
 butes ? The religious element does not seem 
 to exist in him. He respects neither God 
 nor man.' 
 
 ' I have heard that he can be very kind — 
 that he often shows good and generous feel- 
 ings. I believe there are people who have 
 reasons to be deeply grateful to him. It is 
 true that he has no religion, but there is, 
 perhaps, nothing very uncommon in that. 
 He goes through the forms of his Church. 
 This is all that is expected from persons m 
 his position.' 
 
 ' Had you been acquainted with the de- 
 tails of the Czar's life, Madame de Moldau, 
 with its degrading immoraUty and its brutal 
 coarseness, you would not be deluded into 
 admiration by the brilliant side of his 
 character.' 
 
 ' I did not speak of what was brilhant, but 
 of what I have heard of his kindness.' 
 
 ' He was kind to me,' d'Auban said, — ' very 
 kind to me once. I had hoped to devote 
 my hfe to his service. I tried to look on 
 the gTand side of his character, on the pro- 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 TOO STRANGE 
 
 digious results of his genius. I entered into 
 his views, felt proud of his notice.' 
 
 ' And what happened then ? You lost his 
 favour ? ' 
 
 ' No ; he did not change ; I did. Ah ! 
 Madame, there are moments in a man's hfe 
 he cannot speak of without emotion.' 
 
 ' Far be it from me to intrude on your 
 recollections,' said Madame de Moldau. ' In 
 this new world the past should not be re- 
 verted to.' 
 
 ' Why so, Madame de Moldau ? Because 
 we have left behind us country and friends, 
 because we are cut off from old associations, 
 and our lot is cast amidst new interests and 
 new scenes, why should we bury in silence 
 all past reminiscences, and make graves of 
 our memories ? ' 
 
 'That was not my meaning,' she said, 
 ' but only that I did not wish to ask indis- 
 creet questions.' 
 
 ' You need have no fears of that kind,' 
 d'Auban answered, with a frank smile. ' My 
 hfe has been full of vicissitudes, but there 
 have been no secrets in it.' 
 
 A burning blush overspread Madame de
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 99 
 
 Moldau's face ; she coloured to the very 
 loots of lier liair. M. de Chambelle, who 
 was slaughtering mosquitoes, turned round 
 and saw that she looked agitated. He said 
 a few words to her in German. She nodded 
 assent, and then apologised to d'Auban for 
 leaving Jiim. ' I am very tired,' she said ; 
 ' but it is not you who have tired me,' she 
 quickly added ; ' only I have been out of 
 the habit of talking lately. Are we not 
 very silent people, my dear old father ?' 
 
 M. de Chambelle, as he opened the door 
 for her, answered this question by a sad and 
 wistful look, and an inchnation of the head. 
 
 During the ensuing hour d'Auban thought 
 he did not deserve to be ' taxed for silence,' 
 but rather checked for speech. He chattered 
 with the happy talent some people possess of 
 talking immensely, without leaving on the 
 hstener's mind any definite idea as to what 
 they have been saying. Twice during that 
 time his daughter sent for him, and on both 
 occasions he instantly obeyed tlie summons. 
 
 As he accompanied his guest on his way 
 home he said to him : ' I wish we could find 
 a French or German servant to wait on 
 
 H 2
 
 100 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 Madame de Moldau. You do not, I suppose, 
 know of such a person ? ' 
 
 ' No, indeed, I do not. There are so few 
 respectable European women in these settle- 
 ments. I wonder if the bargeman Simon's 
 daughter coidd be induced to accept the 
 situation ? ' 
 
 ' What ! the black-eyed young lady Avho 
 acts as stewardess during the voyage ? My 
 dear sir, slie would indeed be a treasure. 
 Madame de Moldau took quite a fancy to her, 
 I remember. Pray open negotiations with 
 that young individual.' 
 
 'As soon as Maitre Simon returns from 
 the Arkansas, where he went with some 
 travellers a few days ago, I will see what can 
 be done.' 
 
 During the following week d'Auban sent 
 game and fish and fruit and flowers to St, 
 Agathe, and received in return courteous 
 messages, and at last a little note from 
 Madame de Moldau. 
 
 ' Sm, — I see you mean to compel me to 
 admire tlie forests, fields, and streams which 
 furnish the luxuries you send me. I am 
 obliged to admit that nature has lavished her
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 101 
 
 gifts on this favoured region, and that if its 
 aspect is moiuitainous its productions are full 
 of beauty and variety. Accept my best 
 thanks, and the assurance of my sincere 
 regard. ' C. de M.' 
 
 He sometnnes strolled by the river-side 
 and throuoh the neioflibourinii' thickets, in the 
 hope that the lady of St. Agathe would 
 resume her eveninix wall^;s in the direction of 
 the village, and that he might find an oppor- 
 tunity of introducing her to Father Maret and 
 Therese. But she seemed to have lost all 
 taste for walking, and he had not seen her 
 since the day he dined there, neither in the 
 garden or at the window. But one morning 
 M. de Cliambelle called and asked him to 
 pay his daughter a visit witliout lettmg her 
 know that he had begged him to do so. 
 
 'It would give me gi^eat pleasure,' he 
 answered ; ' but I am sure Madame de 
 Moldau, though she is very kind and civil to 
 me, much prefers my staying away.' 
 
 He would have been very sorry not to be 
 contradicted, for he longed to be sitting again 
 in the little drawinn:-room at St. Agathe, 
 watching the varying expression of the lady's
 
 102 TOO STRANGJ5 
 
 most expressive countenance, and, as it were, 
 feeling his way as lie approached any new 
 subject of conversation. A white jessamine 
 encircled by a fringe of sensitive leaves would 
 be a fittino- emblem, he tliouoht, of the mis- 
 tress of St. Agathe. He had once amused 
 himself in bv-sfone years in overcomino; the 
 shyness of a beautiful Italian greyhound, one 
 of those delicate creatures who are afraid of 
 the notice they court, and shrink from a 
 caress as from a blow. He remembered how 
 pleased he was the first time Flora conde- 
 scended to take a bit of biscuit from his hand, 
 and then laid on his arm her slender snow- 
 white paw, as a hint she wanted more. He 
 could not help smiling at the analog}^ between 
 those efforts to win the ejood orraces of the 
 four-footed beauty, and his present endea- 
 vours to induce Madame de Moldau to feel 
 at her ease with him. He was pleased when 
 M. de Chambelle said, ' If she once gets used 
 to your society, it ^\'ill become an enjoy- 
 ment to her, and perhaps you would be able 
 to persuade her not to sit all day at the win- 
 dow gazing on the vie^v, and never uttering 
 a word. Is there nothing we could do to 
 amuse her ? '
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 103 
 
 The notion of amusement in tlie kind of 
 life they were leading was a novel one to 
 d'Auban, and he was not prepared to answer 
 the question at once. But after thinking a 
 little he said : , 
 
 ' If she cared for fine sceneiy we might 
 row her in my boat to the Falls some way 
 up the river — to what the Indians call the 
 Minne Haha or Laughmg Water, or perhaps 
 it mioht interest her to form a collection of 
 birds at St. Agathe. You might have an aviary 
 here without much trouble. But as she 
 does not care for flowers, neither would birds 
 be any pleasure to her I am afi'aid, nor 
 scenery either.' 
 
 ' She used to like flowers. Never mind what 
 she says ; I see she is pleased when you send 
 her a nosegay. And the fish yesterday was 
 very good. She dined upon it, and thought 
 it the best thino; she had tasted since we came 
 here. I wish she would sometimes take a 
 walk. She walked too much when we were 
 at the German village, but now she says it 
 tires her.' 
 
 ' Would she ride ? ' 
 
 ' Ah ! she used to dehght in it ; but how 
 could we get a suitable horse for her ? '
 
 104 TOO STRANGE 
 
 'I think one of mine would carry her 
 very well if we could procure a side-saddle. 
 Tliere are beautiful glades in the forest. We 
 might accompany her on foot, or I would 
 lend you my pony.' 
 
 M. de Chambelle's face lenothened at this 
 suggestion. ' I am but a poor horseman,' he 
 said. ' Still, if she wished it. But do you 
 think we could catch a squirrel ? I saw her 
 watching one yesterday, when we were sit- 
 tino; at the window.' 
 
 ' Your young negro would be cliarmed, I 
 dare say, to attempt its capture.' 
 
 ' Ah, I dare say he would. And will you 
 come and see her to-day ? ' 
 
 'I am obhged to visit a distant part of your 
 plantation ; jou. have doubled my business, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' Oh dear, how tired you must be ! ' ex- 
 claimed M. de Chambelle in a compassionate 
 tone. 
 
 D'Auban laughed. 
 
 ' Not at all, I assure you. I only meant 
 that I was not mucli burthens I with leisure; 
 but if I am not too late, I will do myself the 
 honour of calling at St. Agatlie on my way 
 home.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 105 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
 A Toice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
 And full of death, as a hot wind's blight. 
 Doth the ire of a crushed affection light. 
 
 Mrs. Remans. 
 
 Oh! there never was yet so pretty a thing 
 
 By racing river or bubbling spring — 
 
 Nothing that ever so merrily grew 
 
 Up from the ground when the skies were blue — 
 
 Nothing so fresh, nothing so free. 
 
 As thou — my wild, wild cherry-tree. 
 
 Barry Cornwall. 
 
 The blessing fell upon her soul: 
 
 Her angel by her side 
 Knew that the hour of grace was come ; 
 
 Her soul was piu-ificd. Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 D'Auban's business was quickly despatched 
 that day. He galloped back across the prairie 
 faster than usual, and dismounting at the foot 
 of the hill of St. Agathe, he left his horse to 
 make his way home, and walls;ed to the 
 pavilion. The heat had been oppressive, 
 but a refreshing breeze was now beginning
 
 106 TOO STKANGE 
 
 to stir the leaves and to ripple the surface of 
 the river. The first thing he saw on approach- 
 ino" the house was M. de Chambelle and his 
 ally Sambo carrying a couch across the lawn. 
 They placed it in the shade of some wide- 
 spreading trees, and the former beckoned to 
 him to join them. 
 
 'Oh, what a beautiful nosegay!' he ex- 
 claimed. 'Eun, Sambo, run, and get a vase 
 filled Avith water and a Httle table from the 
 parlour. Your bouquet Avill give an air de 
 fete, dear M. d'Auban, to our salon d'ete. 
 Look what a magnificent dome of verdure 
 and what a soft mossy carpet we have got 
 here. She is coming in a moment to breathe 
 a Httle fresh air. It has been so hot to-day.' 
 
 He "'ave a dehghted look at his little 
 arrangements, and then said he would fetch 
 his daughter ; but when half-way to the 
 house he turned back to whisper to d'Auban. 
 ' She will not care about the birds, I think ; 
 but I sliould not be surprised If she was 
 to allow herself tu be rowed in the boat 
 some day. She said Laughing Water was a 
 pretty name for a waterfall.' Then he went 
 off again, and d'Auban sat down on the grass,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 107 
 
 musing over the lialf-provoking, half-amusing 
 manner in which M. de Chambelle presup- 
 posed his interest and enhsted his services in 
 his daughter's behalf. ' The poor old man,' 
 he thought, 'seems to take it for granted 
 everyone must share his infatuation.' But 
 when she appeared on the lawn, and he was 
 greeted by her beautiful smile and heard 
 again the sound of lier sweet voice, the un- 
 gracious feeling vanished. He no longer 
 wondered ; on the contrary, it seemed to him 
 quite natural that he and everyone else in the 
 world should be expected to pay her homage. 
 She sat down and said to her father, ' Will you 
 get a chair for M. d'Auban ? ' 
 
 ' Not for the world,' d'Auban cried ; ' the 
 grass is my favourite seat. But where will 
 you sit, M. de Chambelle ? ' he asked in rather 
 a pointed manner. 
 
 She blushed a little and made room for 
 her father by her side ; but he said he would 
 do like M; d'Auban and sit on the grass. 
 After a few minutes' conversation about the 
 plantation which they had just purchased, 
 Madame de Moldau asked him to fetch her 
 fan which she had left in the verandah.
 
 108 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' I am afraid, sir,' she then said, addressing 
 d'Auban, ' that you have undertaken for our 
 sakes a heavy amount of labour.' 
 
 ' Madame,' he answered, ' I am not afraid 
 of labour, and if I can succeed in furthering 
 yom- interests and relieving you from anxiety, 
 I shall be amply repaid for my exertions. 
 May I hope that you arc becoming reconciled 
 to this new world, which must have seemed 
 to you so desolate at first ? Are you be- 
 Q-innino; to take an interest in its natural 
 beauties, and to think you could find happi- 
 ness in tliis solitude ? ' 
 
 ' What pleases me most in it is its solitude, 
 and I do not think of the future at all. Is 
 not that what moralists sav is wisdom, M. 
 d'Auban ? ' 
 
 ' Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,' 
 he answered, with a smile. 'The Bible 
 teaches us that morality. But man cannot 
 live without hope, earthly or heavenly.' 
 
 ' I don't think so, or I should have died 
 long ago.' These last words were uttered 
 in so low a voice tliat he did not hear 
 them, and then, as if to change the subject, 
 she said : ' Nothing could have been so ad-
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 109 
 
 vantageous to my poor father as this partner- 
 ship witli you. lie has not, I suppose, the 
 least idea of business ? ' 
 
 ' Not much, Madame. But he furnishes 
 capital, an important item.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau coloured as if about to 
 say something which cost her an effort. ' Are 
 you sure, M. d'Auban, that you have not 
 done yourself an injustice — that your agree- 
 ment with him is quite a fair one ? I kno^v he 
 would not take advantage of your kindness, 
 but he might not know ' 
 
 'You need have no fears on this point, 
 Madame. The agreement is a perfectly rea- 
 sonable one. I assure you that we colonists 
 are very sharp-sighted about our interests.' 
 
 ' Then I am satisfied ; ' and she fell into one 
 of the dreamy reveries which seemed habitual 
 to her. 
 
 He interrupted it by saying, ' May I ven- 
 ture, Madame, to ask you the same question 
 you put to me just now ? Wliat have joii 
 been doing to-day ? ' 
 
 ' Only what Itahans say it is sweet to do — ■ 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' And do you find it sweet ? '
 
 110 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' Not in the German settlement, but here 
 I rather hke it.' 
 
 ' You must want rest after your dreadful 
 voyage. I wonder you had the courage to 
 undertake it.' 
 
 ' I am not much afraid of anytlung ; ' and 
 then, as if wishing once more to turn the con- 
 versation into another channel, slie said, ' I 
 interrupted you the other day when you were 
 about to tell me why you left Eussia. I 
 should very much like to hear what induced 
 you to do so.' 
 
 ' I have seldom spoken of the circumstances 
 which compelled me to it. Wlien first I 
 returned to France, my feehngs on the sub- 
 ject were too acute, and here you can already 
 perceive that there is scarcely anyone with 
 whom intimate conversation is possible. I 
 had almost forgotten, Madame de Moldau, 
 what it is to converse with a lady of cultivated 
 mind and refined manners, and you can 
 scarcely conceive what a new pleasure it is 
 to one who for five years has lived so much 
 alone, or with uncongenial companions.' 
 
 ' I can believe it,' she said in a low voice. 
 ' It is not the heart only which has need of
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. Ill 
 
 sympathy. The mind also sometimes craves 
 for it.' 
 
 Her father returned at that moment with 
 the fan. ' Shall I fan you ? ' he asked as she 
 held out her hand for it. 
 
 ' No, thank you. There is more air now. 
 But will you write that letter we w^ere talking 
 about just now ? M. d'Auban will call you 
 if I should want anything ; but as the barge 
 may go this evening, it ought to be ready.' 
 
 ' Of course it ought,' answered M. de 
 Chambelle, and again he shuffled away with 
 as much alacrity as before. 
 
 Madame de Moldau followed him with her 
 eyes and said, 'Wliat a weight you have taken 
 off his mind, M. d'Auban! He is quite another 
 man since you have undertaken our affairs.' 
 
 ' How devotedly he loves you,' d'Auban 
 said with much feeling. 
 
 ' He is indeed devotedly attached to me ; 
 no words can do justice to what his kindness 
 has been.' As she uttered these words, 
 Madame de Moldau leant back her head 
 against the cushion and closed her eyes. But 
 tears forced their way through the closed 
 eyehds.
 
 112 TOO STRANG E 
 
 D'Aiibaii gazed silently at those trickling 
 tears, and wondered Avlience they flowed. 
 Were they bitter as the waters of Marah, or 
 did they give evidence of a grief too sacred 
 to be invaded ? He ventured to say in a very 
 low voice, ' You have suflered a great deal,' 
 but she either did not or pretended not to 
 hear him. 
 
 ' You were going to tell me why you left 
 Eussia,' she observed, in a somewhat abrupt 
 tone. 
 
 He felt that the best way of winning her 
 confidence would be to be open himself with 
 her as to his own history and feelings. 
 
 ' My prospects at the court of Eussia,' he 
 began, ' were in every way promising ; I had 
 reason to believe tliat the Emperor was 
 favourably disposed towards me. General 
 Lefort was kindness itself I had latelj^ 
 been appointed to the command of a regi- 
 ment. I must tell you tliat some time after 
 my arrival at St. Petersburg, I had made an 
 acquaintance with a young Eussian lady whose 
 father had a place at Court. Her name was 
 Anna Vladislava. She was handsome — T 
 tliought so, at least — and at the same time was 
 full of genius, wit, and youthfid impetuosity.
 
 i\OT TO BE TKUE. 113 
 
 Hers was a fiery nature which had never 
 known mucli control. She was fanatically 
 attached to the customs and traditions of her 
 country. We disagreed about everything, 
 religion, politics, books. We never met but 
 we quarrelled. I was one of those foreigners 
 whom, as a class, she held in abhorrence, and 
 yet, strange to say, an attachment sprang uj) 
 between us. The fearless independence of 
 her character attracted me. It was a re- 
 freshmg contrast with the servile, cringing 
 spirit of the Czar's Court. She endeavoured 
 to convert me to the orthodox religion, as it is 
 called' (a faint scornful smile curled Madame 
 de Moldau's lip), 'and used to get exaspe- 
 rated at my obduracy. Still in the height 
 of our disputes we behaved to each other as 
 enemies, who were to be one day even more 
 than friends. There was a mutual understand- 
 ing between us, but no open engagement; 
 of marriage we did not venture to speak. 
 It would have endangered her father's posi- 
 tion and prospects, and my own also, to 
 have acknowledged such an intention. I had 
 been given to understand that my imperial 
 master had fixed upon a wife for me, and 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 TOO STRANGK 
 
 to have chosen one myself would have been 
 a mortal offence ; but we often met, and 
 though our opinions continued as dissimilar 
 as ever, there were [)oints of sympathy in 
 oiu" characters, and our nuitual attachment 
 mcreased. 
 
 ' I had sometimes been a little anxious 
 about Anna's freedom of speech. She allowed 
 herself openly to inveigli against the Czar's 
 conduct, and to express her dislike to his 
 innovations. It was with a kind of natural 
 eloquence pecuhar to lier that she was wont 
 to hold forth about the old Muscovite tra- 
 ditions and the deteriorating influence of 
 foreign manners and habits on the spirit of a 
 nation. Poor Anna ! poor bright and care- 
 less child ! I remember asking her if she 
 admired the national custom of husbands 
 beating their wives, typified by the whip, 
 which formed part of a bride's trousseau. I 
 see before me her flashing smile. I hear her 
 eager defence of that trait of patriarchal 
 simphcity. "A Eussian woman," she said, 
 " gloried in submission, and looked upon her 
 husband as her master and her lord." How" 
 little fitted she looked for bondage, and yet
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 115 
 
 I do believe she would have borne auytliing 
 from one she loved. But insult, shame, and 
 torture. . . .' — d'Auban paused an instant. 
 Madame de Moldau was listening to him, he 
 felt it, with intense interest. He went on : 
 ' I used to comfort myself by the thought that 
 the wild salUes of so young a girl could not 
 bring her into serious trouble, and I was not 
 aware of the extent to which her imprudence 
 was carried. When quite a little child she 
 had been taken notice of by the Princess 
 Sophia, the Czar's sister, and had retained a 
 grateful recollection of her kindness. She 
 considered this Princess as a martyr to the 
 cause of Holy Eussia, and always spoke in 
 indignant terms of her long imprisonment. 
 During a lengthened absence I made from 
 St. Petersburg she became intimate with 
 some of this ambitious woman's friends, and 
 was employed to convey letters to her agents. 
 The Czar's sister was continually intriguing 
 against her brother and striving to draw the 
 nobles into her schemes. My poor Anna 
 was made a tool of by this party ; a plot 
 was formed, and discovered by the Emperor. 
 He was once more seized by the mad fury 
 
 I 2
 
 116 TOO STRANGE 
 
 which possessed liim at the time of the Stre- 
 litz revolt, and which caused him to torture 
 his rcbelhous subjects witli his own hands, 
 to insult them in their agonies, and plunge 
 into excesses of barbarity surpassing every- 
 thing on record, even in the annals of heathen 
 barbarity. . . .' 
 
 Madame de Moldau raised herself from 
 her reclining posture, and exclaimed, with 
 burning cheeks and some emotion : 
 
 'Oh, M. d'Auban, what violent language 
 you use ! State necessity sometimes requires, 
 for the suppression of rebellion, measures 
 at which humanity shudders, but ' 
 
 ' Ah ! I had often said that to myself and 
 to others — often tried to palliate these atro- 
 cities by specious reasonings. I had made 
 light of the sufferinois of others. Time and 
 distance marvellously blunt the edge of 
 indignation. Sophistry hardens the heart 
 towards the victims, and we at last ex- 
 cuse what once we abhorred. But when 
 cruelty strikes home, when the blow falls on 
 our own heart, when the iron is driven into 
 our own soul, then we know, then we feel, 
 then comes the frightful temptation to curse
 
 jS'ot to be true. 117 
 
 and to kill. . . . Forgive me, I tire, I agitate 
 you — you look pale.' 
 
 ' Never mind me. What happened ? ' 
 'When I returned to St. Petersburg, this was 
 the news that met me. Tlie girl I loved, and 
 whom I had left gay as a bird and innocent 
 as a child — she who had never known shame 
 or suffering — she who had been led astray by 
 others — was dead : and oh, my God, Avhat a 
 death was hers ! ' 
 
 ' Was she put to death ? ' faintly asked 
 Madame de Moldau. 
 
 ' No, she Avas not condemned to death. 
 This would have been mercy to one hke her. 
 She Avas scourged by the executioner, and, 
 had she survived, was to be married to a 
 common soldier, and sent to Siberia. But 
 first reason and then hfe gave way under the 
 shame and horror of her doom. The proud 
 wild heart broke, and my poor Anna died 
 raving mad. Her father was banished, and 
 the house which had been a home to me I 
 found desolate as a grave.' 
 
 ' You returned immediately to France ? ' 
 ' My first impulse — a frantic one — was to 
 take the papers I had brought from the
 
 118 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Crimea to the Cziir, and to stab him to the 
 heart. Ma}'- God forgive me the thought, 
 soon disowned, soon repented of ! It was 
 a short madness, wrestled with and overcome 
 on my knees, but when it had passed away 
 nothing remained to me but to quit the 
 country as quicklj^ and as secretly as pos- 
 sible. I knew I could not endure to see the 
 Emperor ; to feel his liand laid famiharly as 
 it had often been on my shoulder, or to 
 witness his violence and coarse pleasantry, 
 would have been torture. I feigned illness, 
 disposed of my property, and effected my 
 escape.' 
 
 ' And how soon afterwards did you come 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' About a year.' 
 
 There was a pause. D'Auban felt a little 
 disappointed that Madame de Moklau made 
 no comment on his stor}^ The next time she 
 spoke, it was to say — ' I wonder if suffering 
 softens or hardens the heart ? ' 
 
 ' I su])pose that, like the heat of tlie sun 
 on different substances, it hardens some and 
 softens others. But tlie more I live, the 
 more clearly I see how difficult is it to talk
 
 NOT TO EC TRUE. 11 'J 
 
 of siifTering and happiness without sayin^r 
 wliat sounds like nonsense.' 
 
 ' I do not understand you.' 
 
 ' What I mean is this : that there is verv 
 Httle happiness or suffering irrespectively of 
 the temper of mind or the physical consti- 
 tution of individuals. I have seen so many 
 instances of persons miserable in the pos- 
 session of what would be generally considered 
 as happiness, and others so happy in the 
 midst of acknowledged evils, such as sick- 
 ness, want, and neglect, that my ideas have 
 quite changed since I thought prosperity and 
 happiness and adversity and unhappiness 
 were synonymous terms.' 
 
 ' Could you tell me of some of the in- 
 stances you mean ? ' 
 
 ' I could relate to you many instances of 
 the happy, amidst apparent — aye, and real 
 suffering too. It is not quite so easy to 
 penetrate into the hearts of the prosperous 
 and place a finger on the secret bruise. But 
 has not your observation, Madame de Moldau, 
 furnished you with such examples ?' 
 
 ' Perhaps so — are you happy ?' 
 
 Few but the young, whose lives have been
 
 120 TOO STRANGE 
 
 spent in perpetual sunsliine, know quite how 
 to answer this enquiry. With some the 
 fountain of sorrow has been sealed up, built 
 and bridged over by resignation, acquies- 
 cence, or simply by time. Its waters have 
 been liallowed or sweetened, or dried up as 
 may be, but it is like stirring the source 
 afresh to put that question to one who has 
 ever known deep suffering. D'Auban hesi- 
 tated a moment before he answered it. 
 
 ' I have been happier here,' he said at last, 
 'than I had ever been before. But it is 
 quite a different kind of happiness from that 
 which I had once looked forward to.' 
 
 'Your sufferings must have been terrible 
 at the time you were speaking of I felt it, 
 M. d'Auban, but I could not at the moment 
 utter a word of sympathy. It is always so 
 with me.' Her hp quivered, and he ex- 
 claimed — 
 
 *I know one heart ^vhich suffering has 
 not liardened.' 
 
 'Oh yes!' she answered, witli passionate 
 emotion, ' it has — hardened it into stone, and 
 closed it for ever.' 
 
 ' Well, my dear sir, have you spoken to her
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 121 
 
 about riding ? Have you succeeded in 
 amusing her?' whispered M. de Chambelle 
 to d'Aubnn. He had finished his letter and 
 hurried back witli it from the liouse. But 
 the conversation was so eager that his ap- 
 proach had not been noticed. 
 
 ' Tiring her, I am afraid,' said d'Auban ; 
 ' but if you will second my proposal I Avill 
 venture to plead for Bayard, Avho would 
 carry you, Madame de Moldau, like a 
 chevalier sans peur et sans reproche.' 
 
 ' I should not be myself sajis peur et sans 
 reproche if I accepted your kind offer. Not, 
 I am afraid, sans peur at mounting him, and 
 certainly not sans reproche for depriving you 
 of your horse. But I am grateful, very 
 grateful, for all your kindnesses.' Her eyes 
 were raised to his as she said this, with an 
 expression which thrilled through his heart. 
 
 When she had taken leave of him, and 
 was returning to the house, followed by M. 
 de Chambelle, the latter turned back acain 
 to say, ' You see she is pleased.' 
 
 That that fair creature should be pleased 
 seemed the only thing in the w^orld he cared 
 about. ' Let Belinda but smile, and all the
 
 122 TOO STRANGE 
 
 world was to be gay.' D'Aubau would have 
 liked to see in her more affectionate warmth 
 of manner towards her father ; but he sup- 
 posed she might be a httle spoilt by his over- 
 weening affection. 
 
 ' Above all things, you will not foi'get to 
 enquire about the black-eyed dame de com- 
 pagnie.' 
 
 M. de Chambelle said this when, for the 
 second time, he returned to d'Auban, after 
 having; escorted his dauofhter to the house. 
 He followed her like her shadow, and she was 
 apparently so used to this as not to notice it. 
 
 ' I will not fail to do so ; but Simonette is 
 a wayward being, and may very likely alto- 
 gether reject the proposal.' 
 
 ' Gold has, however, a wonderful power 
 over Simon, and if you offer high wages, he 
 may persuade his daughter to accept it. 
 What a beautiful night it is ! ' 
 
 This was said as they approached the river, 
 in which the starry sky was trembhngly re- 
 flected. The moon was .shedding her silvery 
 light on tlie foliage and the waving grasses 
 on its banks. 
 
 ' What a fine thing rest is after a day
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 12 
 
 9 
 
 of labour ! ' de Chambelle exclaimed as he 
 stretched and smiled with a weary but happy 
 look. 
 
 ' If you sleep more soundly, M. de Cham- 
 belle, for having committed to me the man- 
 agement of your estate, I do from the in- 
 crease of work it affords me. But we must 
 really try and make your slaves Christians. 
 Suppose we had a temporary chapel, and two 
 priests, if we could get them, to preach a mis- 
 sion on this side of the river; you would 
 not object to it?' 
 
 ' Not to anything you wish, my dear friend. 
 And it might, perhaps, amuse Madame de 
 Moldau.' 
 
 D'Auban could not repress a smile. It 
 seemed quite a new view of the question. 
 
 After M. de Chambelle had left him, he 
 remained out late, attracted by the beauty of 
 the night. Though tired, he did not feel in- 
 clined to retire to rest. A musing fit was 
 upon him. He had become conscious that 
 evening that he was in danger of falling in 
 love with Madame de Moldau. He had 
 never yet been the better or the happier for 
 this sort of interest in a woman. After the
 
 124 TOO STRANGE 
 
 tragical end of the only person he had really 
 cared for, he had made up his mind never to 
 marry. But this resolution was not likely to 
 remain proof against the attractions of so 
 charming a person. It was the dread of suf- 
 fering as he had suffered before ; the fear of 
 disappointment which had led him to form it, 
 as well as the apparent hopelessness of meet- 
 ing in tlie new world in which his destiny 
 was cast witli any w^oman capable of inspiring 
 the sort of attachment without which, with 
 what his friends called his romantic ideas, he 
 could not understand happiness in marriage. 
 It seemed the most improbable thhig in the 
 world that a refined, well-educated, beautiful, 
 and gentle lady, should take up her residence 
 in a wild and remote settlement, and yet 
 such a one had unexpectedly come, almost 
 without any apparent reason, as a visitant 
 from another sphere. With her touching 
 beauty, her secret sorrows, her strange help- 
 lessness, and her impenetrable reserve, she 
 had, as it were, taken shelter by his side, and 
 was beginning to haunt his waking hours 
 and his nightly dreams with visions of a 
 possible liappiness, new and scarcely Avelcome
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE 125 
 
 to one who had attained peace and content- 
 ment in the solitary life he had so long led. 
 In the Christian temple reared in the wilder- 
 ness, in nature's forest sanctuaries, in the huts 
 of the poor, by the dying bed of tlie exile, 
 he had felt the peace he had sought to im- 
 part to others reflected in his own bosom. 
 He had been contented with his fate. He 
 had assented to the doom of loneliness, and 
 foresaw nothing; in the future between him 
 and the grave but a tranquil course of duties 
 fidfilled and privations acquiesced in. If he 
 sometimes yearned for closer ties than those 
 of friendship and charity — if recollections of 
 domestic life such as he remembered it in the 
 home of his cliildhood rose before him in 
 solitary evenings, when the wind made wild 
 music amidst the pine branches round 
 his log-built house, and the rolling sound 
 of the great river reminded him of the 
 waves breaking on a far-off coast, he would 
 forthwith plan some deed of mercy, some 
 act of kindness, the thought of Avhich gene- 
 rally succeeded in driving away these trouble- 
 some reminiscences. He felt almost inchned 
 to be angry with Madame de Moldau for
 
 1'26 TOO STRANGE 
 
 awakenintij in liiiii feelimzs he liad not in- 
 tended ever to indulge again, visions of a kind 
 of happiness he had tacitly renounced. Who 
 has not known some time or other in their 
 lives those sudden reappearances of long-for- 
 gotten thoughts — the return of those waves 
 which we fancied had ebbed and been for ever 
 swallowed up in the great deep, but which 
 heave up again, and bring back with them 
 relics of past joys or dreams of future bhss ! 
 
 Maitre Simon's barge was lying at anchor 
 near the village. It had just landed a party 
 of emigrants on their way back from the 
 Arkansas to New Orleans. He was storing 
 it with provisions for the rest of the voyage, 
 and was standing in the midst of cases and 
 barrels, busily engaged in this labour, when 
 Colonel d'Auban stepped into the boat, bade 
 him good morning, and enquired after his 
 daughter. On his first arrival in America he 
 had made the voyage up the J\Iississippi in 
 one of Simon's boats, and the bargeman's 
 little girl, then a child of twelve years of age, 
 was also on board. Simonette inherited from 
 her mother, an Illinois Inclian, the dark com- 
 plexion and peculiar-looking eyes of that race ;
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 127 
 
 otherwise she was thoroughly French and 
 hke her father, whose native land was Gas- 
 cony. From her infancy she had been the 
 plaything of the passengers on his boat, and 
 they were, mdeed, greatly in need of amuse- 
 ment during the wearisome weeks when, half 
 imbedded in the floating vegetation of the 
 wide river, they slowly made their way against 
 its mighty current. As she advanced in years, 
 the child became a sort of attendant on the 
 women on board, and rendered them many 
 httle services. She was an extraordinary 
 being. Quicksilver seemed to run in her 
 veins. She never remained two minutes to- 
 gether in the same spot or the same position. 
 She swam like a fish and ran like a lapwing. 
 Her favourite amusements were to leap in 
 and out of the boat, to catch hold of the 
 swinging branches of the wild vine, and run 
 up the trunks of trees with the agility of 
 a squuTel, or to sit laughing with her play- 
 fellows, the monkeys, gathering bunches 
 of grapes and handfuls of wild cherries for 
 the passengers. She had a wonderful handi- 
 ness, and a peculiar talent for contrivances. 
 There were very few things Simonette could
 
 128 TOO STRANGE 
 
 not do if slie once set about them. She 
 twisted ropes of tlic long grass which grows 
 on the floating islands of the Mississippi, and 
 could build a hut Avith old boards and pieces 
 of coarse canvass, or prepare a dinner with 
 hardly any materials at all — as far as anyone 
 could see. She mended dresses or made 
 them, kept her father's accounts, or, what 
 was more extraordinary still, proved a clever 
 and patient nurse to the passengers who fell 
 ill with the dreadful fever of the country. 
 Wild as an elf, and merry as a sprite at other 
 times, she would then sit quietly by the side 
 of the sufferers, bathing their foreheads or 
 chafing their hands as the hot or cold fit was 
 upon them, and rendering them every kind 
 of service. 
 
 Durino; the time that d'Auban was on board 
 her father's boat, it was the little stewardess 
 herself who fell ill. One day her laugh was 
 no longer heard — the plaything, the bird, the 
 elf, ceased to dart here and there as she was 
 wont to do in the exuberance of her youthful 
 spirits. JSTothing had ever before subdued 
 her. She did not know w]iat it was to fear 
 anything, except jierhaps a blow from her
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 129 
 
 fatlier, and, to do him justice, his blows were 
 not hard ones. A bit of European finery or 
 a handfid of sweetmeats were enough to 
 send her into an ecstasy. Sometimes she was 
 in a passion, but it did not last beyond a 
 minute or two. and she was laughing again 
 before there had been time to notice that she 
 was out of temper. But now sickness laid 
 its heavy hand on the poor child, her aching- 
 head drooped heavily on her breast. She did 
 not care for anything, and Avlien spoken to 
 scarcely answered. Simon sat by his little 
 daughter, driving away the insects from her 
 face, and trying in his rough way to cheer 
 her. D'Auban also came and sat by her 
 side, and whispered to him, ' Has she been 
 baptized ? ' 
 
 ' No, I have never had time to take her to 
 a priest.' 
 
 D'Auban sighed, and Simon looked at him 
 anxiously. Faith was not quite extinct in 
 him, and grief, as it often does, had revived 
 the dying spark. 
 
 ' May I briefly instruct, and then baptize 
 her ? ' d Auban added. 
 
 ' You ! but you are not a priest.' 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' No, but a layman may baptize a person 
 in danger of death.' 
 
 The little girl overheard the words, and 
 cried out, ' I will not die ; don't let me die.' 
 
 ' No, my bird, my little one, you shall not 
 die,' Simon answered, Aveeping and wringing 
 his hands. 
 
 ' Not unless the good God chooses to take 
 you to His beautiful home in heaven,' said 
 d'Auban, kneehng by the side of the child. 
 Then he talked to her in a low and soothing 
 voice, and taught her the few great truths 
 she could understand. Then, showino; her a 
 crucifix, he made her repeat a simple act of 
 contrition, and baptized her in the name of 
 the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. As 
 the water flowed on her brow she raised her 
 eyes no longer with a wild elfish smile, but a 
 calm contented look. He made her a Christian 
 that day, and on their arrival at the mission of 
 St. Francis he took her to Father Maret, who, 
 whilst her father's bark was repairing, placed 
 her under Therese's care. She was christened 
 in the churcli, and made her first communion 
 before his next voyage. Therese took great 
 pains with her charge, but she did not under-
 
 NOT TO BK TRUE. 131 
 
 stand her character. The Indian's grave and 
 earnest soul did not harmonise with the 
 volatile, impulsive, and wayward nature of 
 the Frenchman's child. Simonette heard 
 Mass on Sunday, and said short prayers 
 night and morning, but her piety was of the 
 active order. She studied her catechism up 
 in some tree, seated on a branch, or else 
 swino-ino; in one of the nets in which Indian 
 women rock their children. She could hardly 
 sit stiU durim? a sermon, and from sheer rest- 
 lessuess envied the birds as they flew past the 
 windows. But if Father Maret had a mes- 
 sage to send across the prairie, or if food and 
 medicine was to be carried to the sick, she 
 was his ready messenger — his carrier-pigeon, 
 as he called her. ThrouQ;li tangled tliickets 
 and marshy lands she made her way, 
 fording with her naked feet the tributary 
 streams of the great river, or swimming 
 across them if necessary; jumping over fallen 
 trunks, and singing as she went, the bird-like 
 creature made friends and played with everj;^ 
 animal she met, and fed on berries and wild 
 honey. 
 
 As she grew older, the life she led, her 
 
 K
 
 132 TOO STRANGE 
 
 voyages to and from Xew Orleans, and above 
 all, the acquaintances she made in that town, 
 were very undesirable for a young girl. She 
 learnt much of the evil of the world, Avas 
 often thrown into bad company, listened to 
 conversation and read books well adapted to 
 taint the mind and corrupt the heart. But 
 as yet she had passed through these scenes 
 and been exposed to those trials without 
 much apparent bad result. When she re- 
 turned to St. Francois du Sault, her manner 
 was for a while bold and somewhat wild ; 
 she said foolish and reckless things. But an 
 interview Avith Father Maret, a few days 
 spent amongst good people, or a word of 
 friendly advice from her godfather, would set 
 her right again, and cause her to resume her 
 good habits, to soften her voice, and sober 
 her exuberant spirits. She had found a 
 safejiuard aoiainst contaminating; influences 
 
 CO o . 
 
 in a feeling the nature of which she could 
 scarcely have defined, composed as it was 
 of gratitude, admiration, and a love which 
 had in it no admixture of ho])e or expectation 
 of return. Sometimes these extraneous helps 
 are permitted to do their work and to assist
 
 NOT TO BE TKUK. 133 
 
 liuman weakness to keep its footing amidst 
 life's shoals and quicksands — themselves at 
 best but sands ! But if a grain of sand has 
 ever stood between us and sin it is not to be 
 despised : nor will He des|)ise it who caused 
 the gourd to grow over the })ropliet's head, 
 and to wither away when its mission was 
 fulfilled. 
 
 ' Where is Simonette ? ' enquired d'Auban, 
 after the first words of civility had passed 
 between him and the barGreman. 
 
 'She was here a miimte ago,' answered 
 Simon with a grin, ' but that is rather a reason 
 she should not be here now. The girl is 
 never in the same place for two minutes 
 together.' 
 
 ' What ! have not advancing years at all 
 tamed her ? ' said d'Auban, laushinsj;. ' Is she 
 quite the same light-hearted creature who 
 enlivened for me the horrors of my first ac- 
 quaintance with your barges, Maitre Simon ? 
 Well, I am o-lad of it. In the midst of mourn- 
 fill-looking Indians and careworn settlers, it is 
 pleasant to have a laughing fairy like your 
 daughter to remind us that there still exists 
 such a thing as mirth. But I wish she was
 
 134 TOO STRANGE 
 
 here. I have something to propose to her. 
 However, I may as well, perhaps, broach the 
 subject to you.' 
 
 ' Is it something profitable ? ' asked Maitre 
 Simon, thrusting his hands in his pockets. 
 
 ' It is a situation with a lady. You will 
 admit that such an offer is not often to be met 
 with ill this country.' 
 
 ' What sort of situation ? ' 
 
 ' Partly as attendant, partly as companion.' 
 
 ' And is the lady a real one ? ' 
 
 ' I have no doubt she is.' 
 
 ' And a person of good character ? You 
 see, Colonel, I am an old sinner myself, but 
 I should not like my little girl to live with 
 some of the ladies Avhom we know come out 
 to the colony.' 
 
 D'Auban felt he had no proof to give of 
 Madame de Moldau's respectabihty beyond 
 his own entire behef in it. 
 
 He answered in a somewhat sneering 
 manner, ' I will engage to say that, as far 
 as morality goes, she is greatly superior to 
 the persons your daughter associates with on 
 board your boats.' 
 
 ' Ah ! but there I watch over her.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 135 
 
 Whatever d'Auban mia;}it think of the 
 amount of Simon's parental vigilance, he 
 felt that his own manner of speaking had 
 been wrono*. 
 
 ' All I can tell you is,' he said in a different 
 tone, ' that from what I have myself seen of 
 Madame de Moldau, I am jjersuaded that she 
 is a person of imexceptionable character. 
 Her father has more fortune than the G;ene- 
 rality of settlers, and has bought M. de 
 Harlay's pavilion. I did not know them 
 before they came here ; but my impressions 
 are so favourable that I do not hesitate to 
 advise you to accept the offer I speak of, if 
 Simonettc herself is inclined to do so.' 
 
 ' Here comes the monkey,' cried Simon, 
 pointing to the thicket from whence his 
 daughter was emerging. 'May I speak to 
 her first about it ? ' d'Auban asked. 
 
 ' Certainly ; only when you come to talk 
 of w^ages you better take me into council' 
 
 D'Auban went to meet the girl. In her half- 
 French, ]ialf-Indian costume, with her black 
 hair twisted in a picturesque manner round 
 her head, and her eyes darting quick glances, 
 more like those of a restless bird than of a
 
 136 TOO STEAXGE 
 
 woman, Simonette, as Maitrc Simon's daughter 
 had always been called, was rather pretty. 
 There was life, animation, and a kind of bril- 
 liancy about her, though there was no real 
 beauty in her featiu'es, and no repose in her 
 countenance ; she seemed always on the point 
 of starting off, and had a way of looldng out of 
 the corner of her eye as if slie caught at what 
 "was said to her rather than listened to it. 
 
 ' How do you do, Simonette ? It is a long 
 time since I have seen you.' 
 
 ' Sir, I thought you had forgotten me.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, I have not ; and the proof is 
 in my coming liere to-day to offer you a 
 situation.' 
 
 ' Sir, I don't want a situation.' 
 
 ' Hear what it is, Simonette, before you 
 decide. Madame de Moldau, the lady at St. 
 Agathe, would like to engage you as an 
 attendant ; but, in fact, what she really wants 
 is a companion.' 
 
 ' Sir, she had better not take me.' 
 
 'Why so, Simonette?' 
 
 ' Because, sir, I should not suit her.' 
 
 'But T think you would, Simonette, and I 
 really wish you would think about it.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 137 
 
 ' Well, wait a moment, and I will.' She 
 darted off, and in a moment was out of sight. 
 
 Maitre Simon came up to d'Auban and 
 asked what had become of her. 
 
 ' Slie says she must take time to consider, 
 and has rusJied into tlie thickets.' 
 
 ' I always maintain she is more like a 
 monkey tlian a Avoman,' Simon exclaimed, in 
 a tone of vexation. ' I dare say she is in 
 the hollow of a tree or at the top of a branch. 
 I wish she was married and off my hands. 
 What wages would the lady give ? ' 
 
 ' Well, forty fra.ncs a month, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Fifty would be more to the purpose. 
 You see, sir, if it is not often that ladies are 
 to be found in these parts, it is just as seldom 
 that ladies' maids are to be met with.' 
 
 ' Well, I admit there is something in that. 
 Let us then say fifty.' 
 
 'Ah! I know you are a reasonable man, 
 Colonel d'Auban. I wish the girl would 
 come back.' 
 
 In a few minutes she did return, holding a 
 small ape in her arms, and playing a thousand 
 tricks with it. 
 
 'Well, Simonette, your father is satisfied
 
 138 TOO STRANGE 
 
 about the wages. It remains for you to say 
 if you will accept the situation.' 
 
 ' No, sir, I will not,' answered Simouette, 
 looking hard into the monkey's face. 
 
 'But it is a very good offer,' urged her 
 father. ' T'ifty francs a month. What are 
 you thinking of, child ? ' 
 
 ' It would also be an act of charity to- 
 wards the lady,' d'Auban put in. ' She is iH 
 and sorrowful.' 
 
 ' And I am sure it would be a charity 
 to ourselves,' Simon said, in a whining 
 voice. 'Passengers are not so frequent as 
 they used to be, and it is like turning our 
 backs on Providence to refuse an honest em- 
 ployment.' 
 
 'It is the lady we brought some months ago, 
 father, from New Orleans,' said Simonette. 
 ' A pale, tall woman, with blue eyes.' 
 
 ' Of course, I remember her quite well. The 
 old gentleman paid my bill without saying a 
 word, which very few of my passengers have 
 the right feehng to do. T am sure they must 
 be excellent people.' 
 
 There was a shght sneer on his daughter's 
 lip.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 139 
 
 * Wliat does this lady expect of me, sir?' 
 she said, turning to d'Auban. 
 
 'To help her to govern her household, 
 and render all the little services you can. 
 She is much iucUned to hke you, and I think 
 you would be very happy at St. Agathe.' 
 
 Simonette laughed a short bitter laugh, 
 and, hugging the monkey, whispered in its 
 ear, ' Oh, my good little ape ! Are you 
 not glad to see how foolish men can be ? 
 Then, suddenly becoming grave, she looked 
 steadily at d'Auban and said, ' Then, sir, you 
 really wish me to accept the offer ? ' 
 
 * I really do. I think it will be a mutual 
 advantage to this lady and to you.' 
 
 ' Then, God forgive me, I will.' 
 
 ' God forgive you ! ' exclaimed d'Auban, 
 puzzled, and beginning to feel irritated 
 with the girl's manner. ' What can you 
 mean ? ' 
 
 ' She is in one of her moods ; it is the 
 Indian blood in her,' cried Maitre Simon. 
 ' But you know, Colonel, she soon gets out 
 of these queer tempers ; she is a good girl 
 on the whole. May we consider the affair 
 as settled ? '
 
 140 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 ' 1 suppose SO,' said d'Aiiban, speaking 
 rather coldly. ' If you will come to-morrow 
 at nine o'clock to St. Agathe, Simonette, 
 Madame de Moldau will see you.' 
 
 ' Very well, sir. Have you any other com- 
 mands for me ? ' 
 
 ' Xo, only to catch and tame for me just 
 such another ape as that.' 
 
 ' They are not easily tamed. They require 
 a irreat deal of affection.' 
 
 ' Oh ! that I cannot promise to give to a 
 monkey.' 
 
 ' The love of a little animal is not to be 
 always despised,' muttered Simonette, ' nor its 
 hatred ;' and then she went about the barge 
 ]mlling things about and exciting the ape to 
 grin and to chatter. When d'Auban and her 
 father had gone away, she sat down on one 
 of the benches and began to cry. ' Oh, bad 
 spirit ! ' she exclaimed — ' fierce spirit of my 
 mother's race, go out of my lieart. Let the 
 other spirit return — the dancing, laugliing, 
 singing spirit. Oh, that the Christian spirit 
 that took charge of me when I was baptized 
 would drive tliem both away — I am so tired 
 of their fiditinf? !'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUK. 141 
 
 Just then Therese came near the boat and 
 said, ' Simonette, all the girls of the mission 
 assemble to-day in tlie church to renew their 
 baptismal vows, and the chief of prayer w^ill 
 speak to them. The altar is lighted up, and 
 the children are bringing flowers. Will you 
 come ? ' 
 
 Simonette was soon with her companions 
 in the forest cliapel, and after the service was 
 over she played with them on the greensward 
 under the tulip trees. The maiden of seven- 
 teen summers was as wild with spirits, as 
 turbulent in her glee, as the youngest of the 
 party. She stopped once in the midst of a 
 dance to whisper to Therese — ' Tlie Indian 
 spirit is gone out of my heart for the pre- 
 sent, but as to the French one, if I drive it 
 out at the door it comes back by the window. 
 What is to be done?'
 
 142 TOO STRANG Ji 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Strive ; yet I do not promise 
 
 The prize you dream of to-day 
 Will not fade when you think to grasp it, 
 
 And melt in your hand a\v:iy. 
 Pray, though the gift you ask for 
 
 May never comfort your fears, 
 May never repay your pleading, 
 
 Yet pray, and with hopeful tears ; 
 And far through the misty future, 
 
 With a crown of starry light, 
 An hour of joy you know not 
 
 Is winging her silent flight. Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 Rumour is a pipe blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 On' the following morning Colonel d'Auban 
 met Simonette in the avenue of the pavilion. 
 M. de Chambelle was coming out of the 
 house with a very disconsolate countenance. 
 He brightened up a little when he saw 
 dAuban. 
 
 ' I do not know what is to become of us,' 
 he said. ' Madame de Moldau is quite ill, 
 and the Indian servant does not know how
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 143 
 
 to do anything. Men Dieu ! what a country 
 this is ! Why would she come here ? ' 
 
 ' I have brought Maitre Simon's daughter, 
 M. de Chaml^elle. She wislies to offer her 
 services to Madame de Moldau.' 
 
 ' Ah ! Mademoiselle Simonette, you are a 
 messenger from heaven ! ' 
 
 The celestial visitant was looking at poor 
 M. de Chambelle with an expression which 
 had in it a little too much malice to be quite 
 angelic. ' Let Mademoiselle,' he continued, 
 ' name her own terms.' It was fortunate 
 that Simon was not there to hear this, and 
 d'Auban mentioned the sum agreed upon 
 between them. M. de Chambelle gladly 
 assented, and said he would go and inform 
 his daughter of Mademoiselle's arrival. 'I 
 beg you will be seated,' he said, bowing to 
 the young quadroon with as much cere- 
 mony as if she had been a princess in 
 disguise. 
 
 With equal formahty he announced to his 
 daughter that he had found her an attendant 
 in the Httle stewardess on board the French- 
 man's barge. 
 
 ' Do you mean his daughter ? ' she asked —
 
 144 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' the girl witli eyes as black as the berries 
 she gathered for us?' 
 
 ' Yes, Madame, the young person avIio 
 sometimes used to make you laugh.' 
 
 ' You know, my dear father, we had re- 
 solved not to have European servants. I 
 feel as if it woidd l3e runnino; a risk.' 
 
 ' But this girl is a quadroon. She has never 
 been in Europe. She is really half a savage.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, my good father, she is a 
 very civilised little beino; — far too much so 
 for us. Indeed, I had rather not take her 
 into the house.' 
 
 ' But I cannot bear any longer, and that is 
 the real truth, to see you without any of the 
 comforts you ought to have . . . Oh yes, I 
 know the walls are thin. I will not speak 
 too loud. But did I not find you yesterday 
 kneeling on the floor, trying to make the fire 
 burn, and tliat horrible squaw standing 
 stupidly by ? ' 
 
 ' It is not the poor creature's fault ; she is 
 willin*]!: to learn.' 
 
 'And in tlie meantime you, you, my 
 own ' 
 
 The old man burst into tears, and leant
 
 NOT TO" BE TRUE. 145 
 
 against the foot of the bed overpowered with 
 grief ' If you knew what I siilll'i- when I 
 see you thus ! ' 
 
 ' Poor old father ! do not grieve. There 
 liave been times when I have suffered 
 mucli more than I do now. And let this 
 thought be a comfort to you. What should 
 I have done but for your care ? I sometimes, 
 however, ask myself if it was worth while to go 
 throuo'li so much in order to lead such a hfe 
 
 as this. If it would not have been better ' 
 
 She hid her face in her hands and shuddered. 
 ' No, no, I am not ungratefid. But do not 
 take it unkindly, dear good father, if I talk 
 to you so little. I often feel like a wounded 
 animal who cares for nothing but to lie down 
 exliausted. I remember — ah ! I had resolved 
 never to use that word again — but I do 
 remember seeing a stricken deer lying on the 
 grass, in a green valley near the tower where 
 the hounds used so often to meet. It was 
 panting and bleeding. I could not help weep- 
 ing, even as you are now weeping. Dear old 
 father ! try not to give way to grief. It only 
 makes me sad. Settle as you think best about 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 TOO STRANGE 
 
 this French or Indian girl. Does Colonel 
 d'Auban recommend us to take her ? ' 
 
 ' Most strongly. He is sure you will iind 
 her useful. He feels as I do ; he cannot bear 
 to see you without proper attendance.' 
 
 ' You have not told hun ! ' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! but anybody would bo 
 sorry to see you so ill and with no one to 
 nurse you.' 
 
 ' Well, let her come. I have not energy 
 enough to resist yours and his kind wishes. 
 The future must take its chance. But before 
 you go, lock up that book, if you please.' 
 
 This was the volume of German Psalms 
 which had been snatched out of d'Auban's 
 hand on the day of his first visit. 
 
 There was an undefinable expression in 
 Simonette's face when she came into Madame 
 deMoldau's room — an uneasy suspicious look. 
 She answered briefly the questions put to 
 her, and seemed relieved when her active 
 exertions were called into play. She had 
 not been many hours in the house before it 
 assumed a new aspect. Some people have a 
 natural talent for making others comfortable,
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 147 
 
 and relieving the many little sources of dis- 
 quietude which affect invalids. 
 
 Madame de Moldau's couch was soon fur- 
 nished with cushions made of the dried 
 willow grass, which the Indians collect for a 
 similar purpose. The want of blinds or shut- 
 ters was supplied by boughs, ingeniously 
 interwoven and fixed as-ainst the windows. 
 The sunbeams could not pierce tlirough the 
 soft green of these verdant curtains. The 
 kitchen was put on a new footin-i, and towards 
 eveniner a French consomme was brought to 
 Madame de Moldau, such as she had not 
 tasted since her arrival in America. 
 
 ' I could not have beheved a basin of broth 
 could ever have been so acceptable,' she 
 said with a Idnd smile when lier new at- 
 tendant came to fetch the cup away. 
 
 Simonette made no answer. Her manner to 
 her mistress was by no means agreeable ; she 
 laboured indefatigably for her, but the gaiety 
 which had been her principal attraction only 
 showed itself now by fits and starts. She soon 
 became the ruling power at St. Agathe ; took 
 all trouble off M. de Chambelle's hands, and 
 managed him as a cliild. The Indian servant,
 
 148 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 the negro boy, and even the slaves on the 
 plantation, owned her sway. After she had 
 been at the pavilion about three weeks, 
 D'Auban met her and said, ' Your employers 
 are deUghted with you, Simonette.' 
 
 ' They would do better to send me away, 
 sir,' she testily replied. 
 
 ' Why so ? ' he asked, feehng hurt and dis- 
 appointed. 
 
 ' Sir, I do not like people who have 
 secrets.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ? ' 
 
 Before she could answer M. de Chambelle 
 joined them, and she went away. The reck- 
 lessness of her childhood, and the exuberance 
 of her animal spirits, had now taken the form 
 of incessant activity. She never seemed hapj)y 
 except when hard at work. 
 
 D'Auban's visits to St. Agathe were becom- 
 ing more and more frequent. There were few 
 evenings he did not end his rounds by spending 
 a few moments under the verandah or in the 
 parlour of the pavilion. Most of his books, 
 and all his flowers gradually made their way 
 there. Antoine, thouLrh little <?iven to reading" 
 himself, bitterly complained that there was
 
 AOT TO BE TRUE. 149 
 
 V 
 
 scarcely a volume left on his master's shelves. 
 He began to feel at home in that little room, 
 to which Simonette had contrived to impart 
 an Old World look of comfort. Her ghmpses 
 of the colonists' houses at New Orleans had 
 given her an insight into European habits. 
 His chair was placed for him between Madame 
 de Moldau and her father, and, though she 
 was habitually silent, the hours glided by with 
 wonderful rapidit}' during the now lengthen- 
 ing evenings, as he recounted the little inci- 
 dents of the day, or described the scenery he 
 had rode through, or dwelt on the new" plans 
 he was forming. She always listened with 
 interest to evervthino- he said, but did not 
 seem to care much about the people amongst 
 wdiom their lot was cast. The mention of 
 any kind of suffering always made her shudder, 
 but that negroes, Indians, or poor people of 
 any sort were of the same nature as herself, 
 she did not seem exactly to realise. Practi- 
 cally, she did not care much more about them 
 than for the bii'ds and beasts, living and dying 
 around her in the sunshine and the shade. 
 But d'Auban, by teUing her facts which came 
 home to her woman's heart, gradually awoke
 
 150 TOO STRANGE 
 
 in her u new sense of sympathy. It was 
 dangerous ground, however, to venture on, 
 for if the "woes of others did not always 
 appear to toueh her deeply, yet sometimes the 
 mention of them provoked a burst of feeling 
 which shook lier dehcate frame almost to 
 pieces. M. de Cliambelle on these occasions 
 was wont to look at him reproachfidly, and 
 at her M'itli a distressed expression till she 
 had recovered her composure. D'Auban also 
 got into tlie habit of watching every turn 
 of her countenance, every tone of her voice. 
 She attracted and she puzzled him. Not only 
 did her father, and she herself, continue to 
 preserve a nearly total silence as to their past 
 history, but there were peculiarities in her 
 charactei' he did not understand. It was 
 impossible in many ways to be more amiable, 
 to show a sweeter disposition, or bear with 
 more courage the privations and discomforts 
 she was often subjected to. But he could not 
 help observing that, notwithstanding aU her 
 sweetness and amiability, she took it as a 
 matter of couise that her wishes should be 
 considered paramount to any other considera- 
 tion. She acknowledged Simonctte's services
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 151 
 
 with kindness, but made ample, and not 
 always very considerate, use of them. He 
 was often sent for himself at inconvenient 
 times, and for somewhat trifling reasons, and 
 she did not seem to understand that the re- 
 quirements of business were imperious, and 
 could not be postponed to suit her conveni- 
 ence. But he Avas so glad to see her shake off 
 the listless despondency which had w^eighed 
 upon her during the first period of her re- 
 sidence at St. Agathe, so delighted to hear 
 her express any wish and take pleasure in 
 anytliing ; the least word of thanks from her 
 had such a charm for him, and ministering to 
 her happiness was becoming so absorbing an 
 interest, that, even whilst wondering at M. 
 de Chambelle's paternal infatuation, he was 
 fast treading in his footsteps, and in danger of 
 being himself subjected to the same gentle 
 tyi'anny. Their conversations grew longer 
 <ind more intimate. He felt he w^as gaining 
 influence over her. Often when he was ex- 
 pressing his opinions on various subjects, she 
 would say : 
 
 ' I had never thouglit of that before ;' or, 
 ' it had never struck me in tliat light.' And
 
 152 TOO .STRANGE 
 
 he ■would notice the rcsuh of some observa- 
 tion he had made in .sh<2;ht clianofes in her 
 conduct. 
 
 There was one subject, lio^vever, she always 
 carefully avoided, and that was reliofion. 
 He w^as in total imiorance as to her feeling's 
 and opinions on that point. Except the 
 volume of German Psalms which had been 
 taken out of his hand, lie had seen nothino- 
 at St. Agathe which gave him any idea as to 
 the form of rehgion she professed, or whether 
 she held any religious belief at all. At last 
 he resolved to break silence on this subject 
 by putting a direct question to her. 
 
 This happened one evening when he had 
 been speaking of the slaves, and of the 
 measures he was taking for their instruction 
 in Christianity. He abruptly asked, ' Wliat 
 is your religion, Madame de Moldau ?' 
 
 The silence which ensued was painful to 
 both. His heart was beating very fast, and 
 an expression of annoyance almost amount- 
 ing to displeasure was visible in her face. 
 At last, as he seemed to ])ersist in expecting 
 an answer, she said, ' I think I should be 
 justified in icfusing to answer tliat question.
 
 NOT TO BE TKUI-:. 153 
 
 There are subjects on whicli, in such a 
 country as this at least, tliought may be free. 
 I would rather nut be questioned as to my 
 relisfious belief.' 
 
 ' Forgive me, Madame de Moldau, but is 
 this a friendly answer ? Do you think it is 
 curiosity leads me to ask ? Do you think, 
 as day after day we have sat talking of every- 
 thing except religion, that I have not longed 
 to know what you thought — Avhat you be- 
 lieved ? . . . No, I will not let you be silent. 
 I will not leave you till you have answered 
 my question.' 
 
 There was in d'Auban's character the 
 strength of Avill which gives some persons 
 a natural ascendancy over others. Other 
 qualities may contribute to it, but determina- 
 tion is the natural element of all such power. 
 It has also been said that in any friendship 
 or intimacy between two persons, there conies 
 a moment which establishes the ascendancy 
 of one of the parties over the other; and if 
 this be true, that moment was arrived foi- 
 those we are now speaking of. Madame de 
 Moldau had resolved not to open her lips on 
 the subject which he was equally determined
 
 154 TOO STRAIS^OE 
 
 she should speak upon. She wept and made 
 signs that he should leave her ; but he who 
 had been hitherto subservient to her slightest 
 wish, who had treated her with an almost 
 exaijo-erated deference, now stood firm to his 
 point. He sat resolutely on with his lips 
 compressed, his dark grey eyes fixed upon 
 her, and his whole soul bent on obtaining 
 the answer which he hoped would break 
 down the wall of silent misery rising between 
 her soul and the consolations she so much 
 needed. 
 
 ' Madame de Moldau, what religion do 
 you profess?' he again asked, laying a stress 
 on the last word. 
 
 ' I profess none,' she answered ni a voice 
 stifled with sobs. 
 
 ' Well, then, thank God that you have 
 said so — that you have had the courage to 
 avow the truth. If you would only open 
 your heart ' 
 
 ' Open my heart ! ' she repeated, with a me- 
 lancholy emphasis. ' You do not know what 
 you are saying ; I am not like other people.' 
 
 ' But will you not tell me, Madame, in 
 what religion you were educated ? '
 
 NOT TO BE TKUE. 155 
 
 A bitter expression passed over her face 
 as she answered — 
 
 ' Li no particular reHgion.' 
 
 ' Is this possible ? ' 
 
 ' I was always told it did not signify what 
 people believed, and, God Imows, 1 think so 
 now.' 
 
 ' Madame, is that your creed ?' 
 
 ' I detest all creeds.' 
 
 ' And have you never practised any re- 
 hfflon ?' 
 
 ' I have gone through certain forms.' 
 
 ' Those of the CathoHc reHgion.^' 
 
 Madame de Moldau was silent. 
 
 ' For heaven's sake, Madame, answer that 
 one question.' 
 
 ' No, I have never been a Cathohc' 
 
 ' Oh, I am so glad ! ' 
 
 'Why so?' 
 
 ' You will not understand it now, Madame, 
 but some day you mil. And now, before I 
 go, do tell me that I have not offended you.' 
 
 ' I ought, perhaps, to be offended, but in 
 truth I cannot say that I am. Perhaps it is 
 because I cannot afford to quarrel W'ith the 
 only friend I have in the world.' She held
 
 15G TOO STRANGE 
 
 out her hand, and for the first time he 
 pressed it to his hps. 
 
 ' And I suppose I am to read these books ? ' 
 slie sai(J, with a faint smile, pointing to the 
 kist vohmies he had sent. ' I doubt not they 
 are carefully chosen.' 
 
 ' There was not much to choose from m 
 my hbrary, and no art in the selection. I 
 have sent you the friends which have 
 strengthened me in temptation, consoled me 
 in sorrow, and guided me through life.' 
 
 As he was leaving Madame de Moldau's 
 room, D'Auban perceived through the green 
 leaves two eyes fixed upon them. He won- 
 dered wdio it was was watchino; them, and 
 darted out to see. Simonette was sitting at 
 work in the verandah, humminof the old 
 French song : 
 
 Au clair de la luno, 
 Mon ami Pierrot, 
 Prete-moi tu pliuiic, 
 Pour ecrire un mot. 
 
 ' WJio was looking into that room ? ' he 
 said, going up to her in an angry manner. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders without an- 
 swering: He lelt convinced it must have
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 157 
 
 been her eyes he had seen tln^oiigh the 
 
 green boughs, but thought it better not to 
 
 say so. 
 
 ' Do you hke your situation, Simonette ?' 
 
 he asked. 
 
 ' No, sir, I do not.' 
 
 ' Are you not well treated ? ' 
 
 ' I have nothing to complain of.' 
 
 ' What makes you cUslike it, then ? ' 
 
 ' Nothing that anybody can help.' 
 
 ' Come, Simonette, I am an old friend of 
 
 yours. You ought to speak to me with 
 
 more coniidence.' 
 
 ' A friend to me ! yes, you have indeed 
 
 been the best of friends to a friendless girl ; 
 
 but, sir, it was not a friendly act to bring me 
 
 here.' 
 
 ' I wish you would speak plainly.' 
 
 ' That is just what I cannot do.' 
 
 ' You are not used to service, and find it 
 
 irksome, I suppose ? ' 
 
 ' No, I have always served some one or 
 
 other since I can recollect.' 
 
 ' Your mistress seems particularly kind to 
 
 you, and I know both she and her father are 
 
 greatly pleased with your services.'
 
 158 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 ' And it gives you pleasure that I should 
 stay here ? ' 
 
 This was said in a gentler tone of voice. 
 
 'Well, I should be glad that you re- 
 mained, and I cannot see any reason 
 asrainst it.' 
 
 ' Then, sir, I will try to do so,' she an- 
 swered, in a humble, submissive manner. 
 ' Good-bye, M. d'Auban.' 
 
 Wlien he w^as gone, the young girl sank 
 down agam on the seat, and for a moment 
 covered her face with her hands. A^Hien she 
 took up her work again, and as. her eyes 
 wandered over the lawn, they caught sight 
 of something yellow and glittering lying on 
 the grass, at a short distance fi^om the 
 house. She went to pick it up, and found 
 a magnificent gold locket, which contained 
 a miniature set in diamonds. She held it 
 open on the palm of her hand, and gazed 
 alternately at the picture and on the words 
 inscribed at the back. An expression of 
 surprise, a sort of suppressed exclamation, 
 rose from her compressed hps ; then putting 
 it in her pocket, she walked back to the 
 house — not in her usual darting bird-hke
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 159 
 
 t 
 
 fashion, but slowly, like a person whose 
 mind is wholly absorbed. Madame de Mol- 
 dau had been asking for her, and when she 
 came in complained a little of her absence ; 
 but, observing that she looked ill, kindly en- 
 quired if she was ailing. 
 
 ' You work too hard, perhaps. I really do 
 not think you ever take a moment's rest. I 
 reproach myself for not having noticed it 
 before.' 
 
 ' Indeed, you need not do so, lady, for it 
 is not for your sake that I came here, and if 
 I do spend my strength hi working for you, 
 neither is it for your sake that I do so.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau coloured a httle, for 
 there was something offensive in the tone with 
 which this was said. 
 
 ' Do you mean,' she asked with a sUght 
 amount of irony, ' that it is all for the love 
 of God, as pious people say ? ' 
 
 ' No, Madame ; Therese works in that way, 
 and I ^vish with all my heart I did so too. 
 She has no master but the good God.' 
 
 ' And for whom do you work, then ? Who 
 do you call your master ? Is it the priest, or 
 your own father ? '
 
 160 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' I am not speaking of tliem, Madame.' 
 ' Then of whom are you speaking ? ' 
 ' May not I have my secrets, Madame, as 
 you liave yours ? ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau coloured deeply, and 
 put her hand to her heart as if to still its 
 throbbings. 
 
 ' Call M. de Chambelle,' she faintly said. 
 'He is gone out, Madame, with M. 
 d'Auban. I saw them crossing the stream 
 a moment aofo.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau sighed deeply, and 
 joined her hands together in an attitude of 
 forced endiu'ance. Simonette was lookino; 
 at her with a searchino- o-lance. One of 
 her hands was in her pocket tightly grasp- 
 imj the locket :<he had found. At last she 
 said : 
 
 ' Lady, have you lost anything ? ' 
 Madame de Moldau hurriedly felt for 
 the black ribbon round her neck, and not 
 finding it there, turned pale. 
 
 'What have you found ? ' she asked. 
 'A very beautiful trinket,' Simonette an- 
 swered, and pulled tlie locket out of lier 
 pocket. ' Of course it belongs to yon.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 161 
 
 Madame ? Those are larger diamonds tlian 
 any I have 3'et seen, but I learnt at New 
 Orleans tlie value of those kind of thmgs.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau held out her hand for 
 the locket. ' Thank you,' she quickly said. 
 ' It is my property.' Then she took off a small 
 rmg and offered it to her attendant. ' This 
 is not a reward for your honesty, for I am 
 sure you do not wish for one, but rather a 
 token of the pleasure it gives me to recover 
 this locket.' 
 
 Simonette hesitated. On the one hand the 
 tliought crossed her mind, that the offer of 
 the ring was a bribe. She thought she 
 had grounds for thinking this possible. The 
 conflict which had been soino; on in her mind 
 since her coming to St. Agathe seemed to 
 have reached a crisis. ' I am much obliged 
 to you, Madame,' she said at last, ' but I would 
 rather not accept this ring.' 
 
 A long silence ensued. Both took up some 
 needlework. The hands of the mistress 
 trembled, whilst her attendant's fincrers moved 
 with nervous rapidity. After a long silence 
 the former said, ' You have been a kind and 
 a useful attendant, Simonette, and I do not 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 TOO STRANGE 
 
 know what I should have done without you 
 during my illness ; but I am now quite 
 recovered. You do not seem to be happy 
 here, and I ought to learn to wait on myself. 
 Is it not better that we should part ? ' 
 
 Again good and bad thoughts of that gentle 
 lady passed like lightning through the girl's 
 mind. ' She wishes to get rid of me. She 
 knows I suspect her. Perhaps I am an 
 obstacle to some of her wicked plans.' The 
 indignant inward voice was answered by 
 another. ' It is cruel to suspect her. Cruel 
 to leave her. She will be iU again if I go. At 
 the bottom of my heart I beheve I love her.' 
 
 She raised her eyes, which she had hitherto 
 kept fixed on her work. Madame de Moldau 
 was weeping ; she looked the very picture of 
 youthful and touching sorrow — so innocent, 
 so gentle, so helpless. Their eyes met, and 
 Simonette's were also full of tears. ' Would 
 you be sorry to leave me, Simonette ? ' 
 
 ' M. d'Auban wiU be very angry with me 
 if I do.' 
 
 ' Not if I chose to part with you ? ' 
 
 This was said with gentleness but firm- 
 ness.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 1G3 
 
 Simonette felt hev conduct was imfyenerous, 
 and she exclaimed, ' I have been wronf : do 
 let me stay, Madame. I cannot bear that 
 M. d'Auban should think me unorrateful.' 
 
 ' Wliat has he done to inspire you with so 
 much gratitude ? ' 
 
 ' Wliat has he jiot done for me ? ' Simonette 
 replied, with deep emotion. ' I was an out- 
 cast and he reclaimed me — a savajre and he 
 instructed me — I was dying, and he bap- 
 tized me ! ' 
 
 ' Indeed ! When ? — where ? ' 
 
 ' Five years ago in my father's boat. I 
 had the fever. I shall never forget the 
 words he said to me then, or what I felt 
 when he poured the water on my head.' 
 
 'And he has been kind to you ever 
 since ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, very kind ; he is always kind.' 
 
 ' He has, indeed, been so to us.' 
 
 'May I stay?' 
 
 ' I don't know, Simonette ; M. de Cham- 
 belle will decide.' 
 
 ' Then I am sure I shall stay.' 
 
 This was said in a tone which, in the midst 
 
 m2
 
 164 TOO STKAXdE 
 
 of her emotion, which had not yet subsided, 
 made Madame de Moldaii laugh. That 
 laugh settled the question. But, although 
 Simonette's heart had been touched, lier 
 mind was not satisfied. The sight of the 
 locket and of the picture it contained 
 stood between her and her peace. She took 
 advice of Father Maret. He, probably, was 
 of opinion that she should stay at St. Agathe, 
 for she said nothing more about leaving; ; but 
 though she grew eveiy day fonder of her 
 mistress, it was clear that some secret anxiety 
 was preying on her mind. 
 
 After this day nothing occurred for some 
 time to disturb the even course of the settlers' 
 lives. D'Auban now spent all his spare time 
 at St. A2:athe, and Madame de Moldau irradu- 
 ally. began to take an interest in his pursuits 
 and occupations. Tlie miited concessions were 
 flourishing under his management, and the 
 condition of the labourers rapidly improving. 
 At last she was induced to visit some of the 
 huts on the plantation, and as soon as tlie 
 effort was made, she found pleasure in doing 
 good to her poor neighbours and in studying 
 how to help them — first, by furnishing them
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 1G5 
 
 with little comforts sucli as they could appre- 
 ciate, and then by nursing them in sickness. 
 But when it came to this she felt her own 
 helplessness in cases where persons were 
 troubled in mind, or leading bad lives, or 
 plungetl in ignorance. Her own ideas were 
 too vague, her own belief too uncertain, to 
 enable her to give advice or consolation to 
 (Others. One day she found Therese in a 
 cabin where a Frenchman was lying at the 
 point of death. She had spoken to her two 
 or three times before, and d'Auban had been 
 anxious to make them better acquainted, but 
 they were both very reserved, and no advance 
 had been made towards intimacy. Wishing 
 not to disturb her she remained near the door, 
 and did not make her presence known. 
 Therese was speaking earnestly to the sick 
 man and preparing him for the last sacra- 
 ment, which Father Maret was soon to bring 
 him. What she said, simple as it was, indeed, 
 because of its simphcity, made a great impres- 
 sion on Madame de Moldau. It gave her 
 different ideas about religion than she had 
 hitherto had. She remained in that poor hut 
 watching, for the first time in her life, the
 
 166 TOO STRANGE 
 
 approach of death, aud with all sorts of new 
 thoughts crowding into her mind. She placed 
 on the floor the provisions she had brought 
 with her, and slipped away unperceived; but 
 the next day Therese was surprised by a visit 
 from the lady of St. Agathe, and still more 
 so by her saying, ' Therese, you must instruct 
 me in your religion.' 
 
 A thrill of joy ran through the Indian's 
 heart, but she answered, ' Not so, daughter of 
 the white man. Let me take you to the 
 black robe.' 
 
 ' Xot yet, Therese, not yet. You must 
 teach me yourself, and then perhaps I will go 
 to the black robe.' 
 
 ' But the eagle of your tribe — he can tell 
 you more than a poor Indian about the Great 
 Spirit and the Christian's prayer.' 
 
 'Are you speaking of Colonel d'Auban, 
 Therese ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, of the great and good chief of the 
 white men. Tliey call him amongst us the 
 great hunter and the strong arm, but it is his 
 goodness makes him a son of the Great 
 Spirit, and the hope of all who suffer.' 
 
 ' It is liis goodness whicJi began to make
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 167 
 
 me think of learning your religion, Therese ; 
 but it is you who must teach me.' 
 
 She would take no denial. Day after day 
 the European lady sat by the side of the 
 daughter of an Algonquin chief in her poor 
 hut, and learnt from her lips the lessons taught 
 from the time of the Apostles by simple 
 and learned men, by poor monks and great 
 divines, in universities and village schools, 
 in the cathedrals of Old Europe and the 
 forest chapels of the New World. She drank 
 in the spirit of child-hke piety which breathed 
 in all that Therese did and said, and never felt 
 so peaceful as in her cottage. There no ques- 
 tions were raised which could agitate her, no 
 allusions were made to the past, no anxious 
 looks were bent upon her. D'Auban's affec- 
 tion, as well as Simonette's curiosity, were 
 ever on the watch. They were all more or 
 less watching one another. She was not im- 
 grateful for his solicitude, but it sometimes 
 seemed to weary her. There was a struggle 
 going on between them, and also, perhaps, in 
 her own heart. He was always trying to 
 break through the barrier which, with all her 
 feeble womanly strength, she was resolutely 
 keeping closed.
 
 1G8 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Tlierese, on the contrary, cared nothing 
 for her past history, had no wisli to know 
 who she was and whence she came. Her 
 only object was to make her love the Chris- 
 tian prayer and serve the Great Spirit with 
 as much zeal as herself. This simple and 
 ardent faith, joined to the daily example of 
 her holy life, had more effect on her disciple 
 than able arguments or deep reasonings. 
 The books she had lately read at d'Auban's 
 request had doubtless removed some preju- 
 dices from her mind and prepared the way 
 for the reception of dogmatic truth ; but it 
 was not Bossuet's writings, nor St. Fran9ois 
 de Sale's, the most persuasive of Cliristian 
 writers, that iinally overcame her scepticism 
 and converted her to Catholicism. Wlien 
 she heard the young Indian girl speaking of 
 the honour and joy of dying for one's faith, 
 and envying the terrible sufferings which 
 some of her countrymen liad not long ago 
 endured for the sake of tlieir religion, it 
 served to convince her fai" more than ab- 
 stract reasonings that a creed is not a mere 
 symbol or religion a set of particular cere- 
 monies. She saw in Therese how a young
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 169 
 
 person can sacrifice for the love of God 
 everything that is commonly called happi- 
 ness and pleasure ; and that, amidst the un- 
 tutored savages of the New World, as well as 
 formerly amongst the proud and luxurious 
 Eoman nobles, Christians lav down their 
 lives gladly for the sake of tlieir faith ; and 
 this more than anything else showed her the 
 difference between an opinion and a creed, a 
 sentiment and a rehgion. Though she did 
 not converse with freedom on these subjects 
 with d'Auban, she hked to hear from Therese 
 of his love of the poor, of his tenderness to- 
 wards the sick and aged. She knew that 
 priests and sisters of charity cared for the 
 poor, but that a man in the prime of hfe, 
 full of ability and talent, should cherish the 
 outcasts of the human race — savages and 
 slaves — was first a wonder and then a new 
 hght to her. Therese's imagination, fraught 
 with imagery and tinged witli enthusiasm, 
 drew pictures of his goodness which had in 
 them truth as well as beauty. She described 
 how the white man, who could hunt and swim 
 and slay the leopard and the wolf, and con- 
 quer in battle the greatest warriors of the
 
 170 TOO STRANGE 
 
 four nations, loved little children and carried 
 them in his arms. She said he was Hke the 
 west wind walking lightly over the prairies, 
 wliispering to the hlies, 
 
 ]\Iadame de Moldau listened, and her blue 
 eyes, which seemed often fixed in mournful 
 contemplation on invisible scenes of sorrow, 
 would suddenly light up as if a brighter 
 vision rose before them. She w^as at last 
 persuaded one evening to attend a service 
 in the church of the j\iission. It was one of 
 those at which the negroes from the neigh- 
 bouring plantations usually flocked. Hidden 
 in a recess, she heard the black robe preach 
 to the poor slaves. He spoke of the weary 
 and heavy laden, of a bondage sadder than 
 theirs ; and it seemed as if he was addressing 
 her. Perhaps he was, for often God's servants 
 unconsciously utter words which are a direct 
 message from Him to some particular soul. 
 The next day she came to see him, and after 
 that they often met in the huts of the poor, 
 and he sometimes came to St. Agathe. He, 
 too, watched her with interest. How could 
 it be otherwise ? D'Auban's affection for the 
 beautiful stranger was no secret to him, and
 
 NOT TO BE TEUE. 171 
 
 for his sake lie tried to become better ac- 
 quainted witli her, to find out something of 
 her past life, of her former associates, of her 
 former place of residence. It was of no use. 
 He was not more successful than D'Auban 
 himself, or than Simonette. He did not ex- 
 press any suspicions, and yet he did not 
 seem perfectly satisfied. He still advised 
 him to be cautious. 
 
 ' She looks so good ! she is so good ! ' 
 d'Auban would say. 
 
 ' WeU, so she does,' he would answer with 
 a smile, ' and I hope she is so ; but I wish 
 she would tell us where she was born, and 
 where and when M. de Moldau died. I have 
 a fancy for facts and dates, baptismal and 
 marriage certificates.' 
 
 Some months elapsed, and brought with 
 them httle outward chauQ-e in the hves of 
 the httle band of emi2;rants. It was a 
 monotonous existence, as far as the surface 
 of tilings went ; but it had its under-current 
 of cares and interests, of hopes and fears. 
 
 ' Men must work and women must weep ' — 
 such is the burthen of a popular song which 
 has often been sung in luxurious drawing-
 
 172 TOO STEiL\GE 
 
 rooms by men wlio do not work and women 
 who seldom weep. But it was true of those 
 dwellers in the wilderness whom chance had 
 brought together, and Avho were beginning 
 to care more for one another than those 
 sliould do Avho are not looking forward to a 
 time when, before God and men, they may 
 be all in all to each other. She often wept ; 
 sometimes with passionaate grief, or, if others 
 showed her affection, w^ith a Idnd of child- 
 Kke sorrow which shows a latent disposition 
 to be comforted. 
 
 He worked very hard for her and for 
 others also, for his was not a narrow 
 selfish lo^•e. It widened his heart to all 
 human sympathies. Perhaps tliere was a 
 little self-interest in it too. To every person 
 whose passage to the grave he smoothed, and 
 who whispered ^vitli their last breath, 'I will 
 pray for you in lieaven,' he said, ' Pray for 
 her.' To those who blest him for his kind- 
 ness or his charity, he again said, ' Ask God 
 to bless her.' And the blessing he desired 
 for that beloved one was the gift of Faith. 
 lie thought he saw its dawning, and watched 
 its progress with anxious hope. The winter
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 173 
 
 came, and stillness was on the prairie — the 
 stillness which is like that of a mist lying on 
 a waveless sea. The snow^ was on the ground, 
 the last brown nnd ycIIoav^ leaves falhng from 
 the seared branches, and the mighty rushing 
 of the neighbouring river, the only sound 
 heard in the depths of the windless forest. 
 
 It was a picturesque group which sat 
 
 round the blazing pine logs in the hall 
 
 of the pavilion. Madame de Moldau was 
 
 tlie centre of it. What a clever Frencli 
 
 girl said of a princess of our day might 
 
 have applied to the lady of St. Agathe — 
 
 ' C'est la realite de VideaV Simonette's 
 
 dark arch countenance, d'Auban's handsome 
 
 sunburnt face, and M. de Chambelle's grey 
 
 hairs, contrasted with her fair and radiant 
 
 beauty. As a background to the principal 
 
 figures of this picture sat Indian women 
 
 nursing; their children — men mendino; nets 
 
 or feathering arrows. Negroes and whites 
 
 and red men mixed together, crouching by 
 
 the fire and enjoying the warmth. They 
 
 were all devoted to Madame de Moldau since 
 
 she had begun to take notice of them, and 
 
 she hked them to come in and to surround
 
 174 TOO STRANGE 
 
 licr. As her spirits improved, she lost her 
 love of sohtude, and the homage of her 
 dependants was evidently agreeable to her. 
 She now seldom saw D'Anban in the 
 morning, but was evidently not well pleased 
 if he omitted to come in the evening. She 
 avoided long or intimate conversations with 
 him, but always hstened with the greatest 
 attention to what he said to others or in ge- 
 neral conversation. None could see them 
 together without percei\dng that he was be- 
 coming devotedly attached to her — no one, 
 at least, who felt any interest in watching the 
 progress of this attachment. M. de Cham- 
 belle evidently rejoiced that he had found in 
 him a fellow-worshipper, and the dark-eyed 
 girl sitting at her feet knew perfectly well 
 that every word Madame de Moldau uttered 
 thrilled through Colonel d'Auban's heart. 
 She knew also that her mistress watched for 
 the sound of his footfall on the grass just as 
 she did herself, and that when he was in the 
 room there was a brightness in her face 
 which passed away when he left it. 
 
 It was a singular bond of union between 
 persons so different from each other, and in 
 such diiTerent positions ; that they should be
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 175 
 
 interested in the same person, though in a 
 very dissimilar way. This sympathy was 
 felt, though not acknowledged. If d'Auban 
 wished something done, both were eager to 
 carry out his plans. If he stayed away longer 
 than usual from St. Agathe, both were de- 
 pressed, and each knew what the other 
 was thinking of The grateful enthusiastic 
 girl's affection was a kind of worship. The 
 reserved and sensitive woman's regard — the 
 highly-educated lady's feelings — were of a 
 different nature. This was often evinced in 
 the httle daily occurrences of hfe. Once, 
 when he was ill, Madame de Moldau would 
 not beheve that he was too ill to come to 
 St. Agathe. Simonette turned pale at the 
 thought of his domg so, for Father Maret 
 had said it would be imprudent. Yet on 
 another occasion, when a man was drowning, 
 she was glad he plunged into the river to save 
 him at the risk of his hfe, whilst Madame de 
 Moldau entreated and commanded him to de- 
 sist from the attempt. To see him honoured, 
 admired, and beloved, was the passion of the 
 young quadroon — to be cherished and 
 cared for and petted by him, Madame de 
 Moldau's principal object.
 
 17G TOO STRANGE 
 
 There was- as much variety in the subjects 
 talked of in those evcnii js at St. Agathe as 
 in the a})pearance of tlie pei'sons gathered 
 together in tliat remote spot from the most 
 opposite parts of the world. Tales were told 
 and songs were sung which had called forth 
 tears and smiles under other skies and amidst 
 other scenes. Stories of the black forest and 
 the Hartz mountains ; legends of Brittany and 
 of the bocage ; traditions of the salt lakes 
 and the fen-lands — of African tribes and 
 slavery in Brazil — were told in prose and 
 verse, wild and rude at times, but now and 
 then full of the poetry Vvdiich belongs to 
 the infancy of nations. Pather Maret was 
 one day relating that a Frenchman had 
 escaped death by promising the savages, if 
 they would spare his life, that he would prove 
 to them that he held tliem all in his heart — 
 a pledge lie redeemed by discovering a look- 
 ing glass which lie wore on his breast. There 
 was a general laugh, and from Madame de 
 Moldau's lips it came sweetly ringing like the 
 chirping of a bird in a hedgerow. d'Auban 
 had never heard her laufjh ; M. de Chambello 
 not for a very long time. Their eyes met,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 177 
 
 and there was a silent conirratulation in that 
 glance. The laugh wliicli had gladdened 
 their hearts was like the first note of the 
 cuckoo on a spring-day, telling of green shoots 
 and budding blossoms at hand. 
 
 On the same evening, when Father Maret 
 was going away, Madame de Moldau followed 
 him to the door, and said a few words to 
 him. When she returned there was a very 
 pensive expression in her countenance, Simo- 
 nette was distributing some maple sugar to 
 the labourers about to depart. They were as 
 fond of it as children, M, de Chambelle was 
 dozing. There was still some heat in the red 
 embers, though the fire had nearly burnt out. 
 Madame de Moldau stood by the chimney 
 gazing on tlie fantastic shapes of the gleaming 
 ashes. D'Auban said to her : 
 
 ' I am so glad, madame, that you like- 
 Father Maret and see him often.' 
 
 She sighed deeply. ' How could one know 
 and not hke him, and not admire him? 
 But . . . .' 
 
 'But what?' 
 
 ' He is very severe.' 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' 111 what way ? ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau coloured, and did not 
 answer. 
 
 ' Oh, that silence ! that perpetual silence. 
 Will you never have the least confidence in 
 me. Do not you see, do you not feel how 
 devotedly . . . . ? ' he was going to say, ' I 
 love you,' but he was checked by a look, in 
 which there was perhaps a httle haughtiness. 
 At least he fancied he saw something like 
 pride in the sudden drawing up of her swan- 
 hke neck, and the troubled expression of her 
 eyes ; but if so, it lasted but an instant. In 
 an earnest feeUng manner she said, ' If we 
 are to be friends, dear M. d'Auban, and we 
 certainly must be friends, and continue so, 
 abstain, I beseech you, from appeals and re- 
 proaches, which give me more pain than you 
 can imagine. I know how trying my silence 
 must often be to you ; liow often I must 
 appear cold and ungrateful . . . . ' 
 
 ' No, no, indeed it is not that. On the 
 contrary, it is your kindness which embold- 
 ened me to speak as I did just now.' 
 
 ' One thing I will tell you whicli you "will 
 be glad to hear. I am tliinking of becoming 
 a Cathohc'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 179 
 
 ' Thank God for it,' he exclaimed. 
 ' Madame, I have prayed and hoped for this 
 ever since I have known you.' 
 
 * Have you indeed prayed for it ? You do 
 not know what it may involve ; ' her voice 
 faltered a little. 
 
 ' Sacrifices, perhaps ? ' he gently said, and 
 paused, hoping -she would say more. But 
 just then M. de Chambelle woke up and 
 made a thousand apologies for his drowsiness. 
 She seemed glad of the interruption, and 
 d'Auban went away. 
 
 As he walked home, he turned over in 
 his mind everything that had passed during 
 the last eiuiiteen months since Madame de 
 Moldau's arrival. That lapse of time had 
 not thrown any Hght on the points which 
 from the first had puzzled him. A mystery 
 is never a pleasant thing — seldom a blessed 
 one. The trackless wilds of the New World 
 had already been polluted by many a foot 
 which had set its impress on the worn-out 
 surface of the Old World in characters of 
 blood. Many had brought with them ill- 
 gotten gains wherewith to trafiic amidst new 
 scenes and new dupes. How many, also, to 
 
 N 2
 
 180 TOO STRANGE 
 
 hide a name once held up to pubUc disgrace, 
 and begin a new life, not of penitence and 
 atonement, but of ai'tilice and sin. He had 
 never for a single moment supposed it possible 
 that Madame de Moldau belonged to any of 
 these classes of emio-rants. She was one of 
 those beings, so he fancied at least, with 
 whom it is impossible to couple a thought of 
 suspicion. He would sooner have doubted 
 the evidence of his senses than have deemed 
 her guilty and deceitful. But it did not 
 seem equally out of the question that she 
 might be the involuntary accomplice, or 
 rather the victim of the sins of others. 
 Nothing could exceed the precautions taken 
 by her and her father to conceal even the 
 outside of the letters thev received. M. de 
 Chambelle always watched for the arrival of 
 the boat, and fetched away himself the parcels 
 and letters directed to them. He had also 
 noticed that she always looked • nervous 
 when he brought a newspaper with him. 
 The arrival of one was rather an event in the 
 settlement, and he sometimes offered to read 
 the contents aloud. On one occasion, when 
 he was doing so, he happened to look up
 
 NOT TO BE TllUE. 181 
 
 and i)erceived that Madame de Moldau 
 seemed very much moved, and caught sight 
 of Simonette's eyes fixed upon her witii a 
 scrutinising expression. He made some shght 
 comments on the various topics alluded to in 
 the number of the Mercure de France, which 
 he had just read ; but his observations eh- 
 cited no answers. Mention had been made in 
 it of the Avar in Germany ; of Madame 
 de Maintenon's death ; of the illness of 
 Louis XV. ; of a fresh conspu'acy against 
 Peter the Great, and his son's flight from 
 Eussia ; of the coronation of George I. ; a 
 great conflagration at Brussels, and a murder 
 at Prague. He took the paper home with 
 him. Simonette called early the next morn- 
 nin<T and befjcred the loan of it for her 
 mistress. 
 
 ' I was sure,' she said, ' that madame would 
 ask to see it again ; there is something in 
 it which I know would particularly interest 
 her.' 
 
 D'Auban felt greatly tempted to ask what 
 it was she alluded to. Simonette had often 
 of late showed a desire to talk to him of her 
 mistress, especially in reference to the mystery
 
 182 TOO STRAlfGE 
 
 in which her past Hfe was shrouded ; but he 
 had always checked her. He had been the 
 means of placing this girl with Madame de 
 Moldau, and he would not on any account 
 have availed himself of any information she 
 might have acquired in order to discover her 
 mistress's secrets. Seeing he made no reply 
 to her observation, Simonette took the paper 
 and went away. 
 
 All these circumstances made him anxious 
 and thouglitful ; one thing, however, gave 
 him comfort. She who had been apparently 
 drifting on life's sea like a rudderless bark, 
 was now about to enter the haven. A prudent 
 and tender hand would soon probe the wound 
 so long and sedulously concealed. Hope and 
 blessings were in that thought.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 183 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 I tliouglit to pass away before, 
 
 And j^et alive I am . . . 
 
 A still small voice spake unto me 
 
 Thou art so full of misery : 
 
 Were it not better not to be ? 
 
 A second voice was at my ear, 
 
 A little whisper silver clear, 
 
 A munner ' be of better cheer.' 
 
 So heavenly toned that in that hour 
 
 From out my sullen heart a power. 
 
 Broke like the rainbow from the shower. 
 
 Tenn?/son. 
 
 But a more celestial brightness, a more ethereal beauty 
 Shone on her face and encircled her form when, after confession. 
 Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction upon her. 
 When she had passed it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 A FEW days later d'Aiiban met Madame de 
 Moldau coming out of the church of the 
 mission. He saw her before she could see 
 him. She seemed to be gazing with ad- 
 miration on the scene before her. It was an 
 afternoon of wintry but exquisite beauty. 
 No transparent vapour, no mist laden with 
 dew obscured the grand outlines or dimmed
 
 184 TOO STRANGE 
 
 the delicate features of nature. The distant 
 hills and the smallest blade of grass stood out 
 in beautiful distinctness in the brilliancy of 
 the sunshine. But as he drew near, and she 
 still remained motionless and absorbed m 
 contemplation, he felt that it was not the 
 beauty of earth and sky that was filling her 
 soul with extasy — not the brilliancy of the 
 cloudless heavens which rivetted her upward 
 ixaze. lie guessed, and riditly Ruessed, that 
 she had that day laid at the foot of the cross 
 the burthen so long borne in silence ; that 
 the poisoned arrow had been drawn from her 
 breast. He was deeply moved ; for he loved 
 the woman who midway in his life had come 
 to sadden by her silent sorrow, and yet to 
 cheer by her gentle companionship, the lone- 
 liness of his exile. He longed to hear her 
 say that slie was one with liini in faith, that 
 henceforward they would worsliip at the 
 same altar, that one great barrier between 
 them was for ever removed. He spoke to 
 her in a loud voice ; she turned round and 
 held out her liand to him. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, in answer to his question, 
 ' it is as you suppose. I am a Catholic'
 
 ^"0T TO BE Tlib'E. 185 
 
 For the first time since his mother had 
 been laid in her quiet grave in the httle 
 churchyard of St. Anne, d'Auray, tears rose 
 in his eyes. 
 
 ' Blessed be ihis hour and this day,' lie 
 murniured, with uncontronable emotion. ' It 
 has made us one in faith. May not our 
 hearts and our lives be also for ever united! 
 Madame de Moldau, will you be my ^^dfe?' 
 
 The moment he had uttered the words he 
 would have wished to recall them ; for she 
 looked beyond measure grieved and dis- 
 tressed. It had been an iiTCsistible impulse. 
 He did not feel sure that she was not angry. 
 There was such a burning blush on her 
 cheek, and such a smgular expression in her 
 countenance ; but the blush passed away, and 
 a look of great sweetness took the place 
 of that strange expression. 
 
 'M. d'Auban,' she said, earnestly and 
 steadily, ' it is better at once, this very day, 
 under the shadow of the cross beneath wliicli 
 we stand, to tell you the truth.' 
 
 • Oh, yes ! ' he exclaimed ; ' the truth — the 
 whole trutli.' 
 
 ' The truth which what you said just now
 
 186 TOO STRANGE 
 
 compels me to speak. For every possible 
 reason we can never be more than friends ; 
 and if you would not drive me away from 
 the home, where after much suffering I have 
 found peace, and if you would still help me 
 to be good and happy, you will never allude 
 to this subject again.' 
 
 ' Is this an irrevocable decision ? ' 
 
 ' It is not a decision I have had to make ; 
 it is, I repeat it, a truth I am telling you.' 
 
 ' You are not free, then ? ' 
 
 ' No, I am not free.' She paused and he- 
 sitated a httle. ' If I was so there would still 
 be reasons why I could not be your mfe.' 
 
 He remained silent. The disappointment 
 was severe. She saw it was. Her voice 
 trembled as she said — 
 
 ' You have been all kindness to me, and 
 the truest friend a woman ever had. I owe 
 you more than I can ever repay. But do 
 not ask me to explain ; if you can, banish 
 the "wish to know more about me than that 
 I was once miserable and am now contented ; 
 — that I had neither faith or hope when I 
 came here, and that now, thanks to you, I 
 have both.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 187 
 
 ' That is enougli for me !' he eagerly cried 
 — ' quite, quite enough. I will seek to banish 
 all other thoughts. The hope I had dared to 
 indulge was not altogether a selfish one.' 
 
 ' I know it well. You wanted to help, to 
 comfort me. Now your friend knows all.' 
 She said this, pointing to Father Maret's 
 house. ' He has given me the consolation, 
 the advice I so much needed. He is teach- 
 ing me where to find strength ; he will 
 direct my future course. But this I wish to 
 say before I leave you to-day. Whether we 
 are to continue to dwell in the same place, 
 or should we part not to meet again, there is 
 a thouoht that will never leave me as loner 
 as I live. I may forget many things — many 
 there are I would fain forget but what you 
 have done for me. . . .' She stopped, almost 
 unable to speak for tears, and pointed to the 
 part of the church where the altar stood, 
 then almost immediately added, ' I never can 
 forget that you brought me here ; that yOu 
 brought me to Him ! ' 
 
 It was not all at once that d'Auban could 
 collect his thoughts sufficiently to realise fully 
 what had passed that day, and how different
 
 188 TOO STRANGE 
 
 had been the result from what he had ex- 
 pected. The event lie had so ardently desh^ed 
 had indeed come to pass, and ardent also was 
 the gratitude he felt for this great blessing ; 
 but the earthly hopes connected w^ith it had 
 suddenly vanished. What he had felt to be 
 the great barrier between him and Madame de 
 Moldau was removed, and yet was he to give 
 up all idea of marrying her. 'ISTot free ! ' He 
 repeated those words over and over again. 
 'Not free, and even if free, never to be his wife.' 
 He pondered over the meaning of these 
 words, and formed a thousand different suppo- 
 sitions in connexion with them. The mystery 
 was to remain as deep as ever, he had all but 
 promised not to try to discover it. A hard 
 struggle it w^as, from that day forward, to 
 conceal feelings which were stronger than he 
 was aware of During the whole of the past 
 year he had looked forward to a time when 
 he might avow them. He had formed projects 
 and l^uilt up schemes connected with a 
 vision of domestic liappiness. When he used 
 to read aloud to the assembled party at 
 St. Agathe, or when he drove Madame de 
 Moldau in his sledge over the noiseless frozen
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 189 
 
 prairies, or wlieii bringing liome the game 
 after a hunting expedition, he was always 
 dreaming of the time when she would be his 
 wife ; and as the hue of health returned to 
 lier cheek, and elasticity to her step, as her 
 laudi was now and then heard about the 
 house and in the garden ; and above all, w^hen 
 she began to attend the Church of the Mission, 
 and to join in all its services, the dream 
 turned into a real hope, the sudden overthrow 
 of which was a bitter trial. Had she given 
 him reason to hope ? Had she encouraged 
 him to love her ? This is often a difficult 
 question to answer, especially when people 
 have been thrown too;ether under extraordi- 
 nary circumstances, or when affection may 
 exist to a certain degree unconsciously. He 
 dwelt on that last tliought. He could not 
 but think she cared for him, but then, if 
 she was not free, their relative position was 
 not only a difficult, but also a dangerous 
 one, and perhaps she would be advised to 
 leave St. Agathe, or perhaps he ought to go 
 away himself This would be scarcely pos- 
 sible, considering how his own and M. de 
 Chambelle's fortunes were embarked in his
 
 190 TOO STRANGE 
 
 present undertakings. He felt himself bound, 
 and this was the practical resolution he 
 formed, not to complicate the difficulties 
 which might arise on this point by giving 
 way henceforward to the expression of feel- 
 ings not warranted by simple friendship. 
 He would not, by word or look, recall to her 
 mind the words he had hastily spoken, or 
 give her reason to think that he cherished 
 them in his breast — nay, he would try to 
 subdue them. He would work, not seven 
 years only, as the patriarch for his bride, 
 but, if needs be, all his life, without hope or 
 reward. It was a difficult resolution to act 
 up to, but his sense of honour, his feelings of 
 generosity as well as the dictates of conscience, 
 the dread of driving her away from St. 
 Agathe, enabled him to keep it. His strength 
 of character and habits of self-control stood 
 him in good stead. She did not guess how 
 much he was suffi^ring, whilst everything went 
 on as usual in the course of their daily hfe. 
 
 Meanwhile, another conversion had taken 
 place at St. Agathe. M. de Chambelle, a 
 philosopher of the new school of French 
 infidehty, a despiser of creeds, a free thinker,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 191 
 
 who had taken mibehef on trust as some do 
 their belief; but who, if ho worshipped 
 nothing else, worshipped Madame de Moldau 
 
 began to feel leanings towards a rehgion 
 
 which made her look so much happier. He 
 borrowed a prayer book, went to church and 
 tried to say his prayers ; and when he caught 
 the fever, and shivering, weak, and miserable, 
 was laid up for several weeks. Father Maret, 
 hke a Jesuit that he was, sat up with him 
 night after night and robbed him of his scep- 
 ticism. It oozed from him in the silence of 
 those watches whilst he lay suffering in his 
 uneasy bed, and Christian love and fatherly 
 kindness came near for the first time to his 
 aged heart. There was one green spot in 
 that poor withered heart, but it had never 
 been watered by the dew of heaven. Life 
 had never been much more than a ceremony 
 to him till it had become a suffering. He 
 had bowed and smiled and fidgetted through 
 its long course, and was puzzled at jSnding 
 what a weary thing it had become. But 
 when he recovered from this illness, the feeble 
 wistful face wore a happier look. The timid 
 heart and narrow mind expanded in the sun- 
 shine of faith.
 
 102 TOO STRANGE 
 
 A festival day was at hand at the Mission. It 
 was to take place on the 8th of September, and 
 great preparations were making for it botli 
 at St. Airathe and at the Concession dAuban. 
 Wreaths of flowers, large nosegays of roses 
 and magnolias, and heaps of candles made of 
 the pure green wax of the couiitr}^ jiad been 
 conveyed across the river on the preceding 
 evening ; and early in the morning, Madame 
 de Moldan, Simonette, and Antoine joined 
 Therese and her friends, and helped them to 
 decorate the church. Beautiful were the 
 bunches of feathers brouo;ht by the Christian 
 Indians, and the skins of leopards and bisons 
 which carpeted the floor of the sanctuary. 
 Garlands of Spanish moss, intermixed with 
 white and purple blossoms, hung from one 
 pilaster to another on both sides of the church. 
 
 In the afternoon there was to be a feast 
 for the children, and Simonette had prepared 
 large bowls of sagamity sweetened with maple 
 syrup, and baked cakes of Indian corn. 
 
 Great was the excitement of the youthful 
 assembly, gay the scene, and luippy the faces 
 of the congregation, when, after mass, they 
 spread themselves over the greensward and
 
 XOT'TO BE TRUE. 193 
 
 began to play and eat under the tulip trees. 
 A French fiddler struck up the 'Carillon de 
 Dunquerque,' which set his country people, 
 old and young, dancing away with all their 
 hearts. The negroes' banjoes marked the ca- 
 dence of their characteristic melodies ; whilst 
 the Indians accompanied with yells and 
 shrieks their pantomimic and, for the most 
 part, figurative performances. 
 
 Madame de Moldau had never witnessed 
 anything like this before. She was much 
 amused with the animated scene, and, throw- 
 ing down her straw hat on the grass, entered 
 into its spirit with the glee of a child. As 
 she was playing with a little negro boy, who 
 had jumped into her arms, her hair got un- 
 fastened and rolled down her back. 
 
 'Do call Simonette to put up my hair,' 
 she said, with a bright smile, to d'Auban, 
 who was standing a Uttle way off. 
 
 He went to look for her. Therese said 
 she was gone to St. Agathe to get some pro- 
 visions which had been left behind. He 
 walked towards the river and saw her com- 
 ing. He saw, the minute he caught sight of 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 TOO STRANGE 
 
 lier face, that she was hi one of her troubled 
 moods. 
 
 ' Madame de Moldaii wants you,' he said. 
 
 ' There are people at your house who want 
 you, sir,' she answered. 
 
 ' Have you been there ? ' 
 
 ' No, but I saw their servant Hans at the 
 pavihon. He says they have brought you 
 letters.' 
 
 ' Are they French ? ' 
 
 ' They speak French, but I think they are 
 Germans or Eussians.' 
 
 ' I must go and see about them. Will you 
 tell Madame de Moldau that perhaps I may 
 bring them to the village this afternoon ? It 
 will be an amusing sight for European travel- 
 lers.' 
 
 ' She must come home, sir. M. de Cham- 
 belle is worse again. He is gone to bed with 
 the fever.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry to hear it ; and what a 
 pity that it should be to-day. She seemed so 
 happy — so amused ! ' 
 
 Simonette made one of her usual shrugs, 
 and said, ' Slie had better make the best of 
 her time, then.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 195 
 
 D'Aiiban thought her manner very dis- 
 agreeable, but he knew it always was so 
 when she was out of temper, and supposed 
 this was just now the case. Simonette went 
 on to the village, whilst he crossed the river, 
 and hastened first to St. Agathe, where he 
 found M. de Chambelle ill in bed, as Simo- 
 nette had said, and somewhat light-headed 
 — and then to his own house, where he 
 found the three gentlemen she had men- 
 tioned. 
 
 He had never seen any of them before. 
 General Brockdorf was a stiff, military-looking 
 man, a Hanoverian by birth, but an officer in 
 the Eussian army; M. Eeinhart was also a 
 German, and Count Levacheff was a Eussian. 
 He was by far the most pleasing of the 
 three. They had brought him letters of in- 
 troduction from the Vicomte de Harlay, and 
 also from M. Perrier, at whose house they 
 had been staying during the days they had 
 spent at New Orleans. They were now 
 travelling to Canada through the Illinois and 
 the Arkansas. 
 
 After half an hour's conversation, he set 
 before them some refreshments, and, begging 
 
 o2
 
 196 TOO STRANGE 
 
 them to excuse liiin for a short time, he hur- 
 ried back to St. Agatlie, to see if Madame 
 de Moldau had returned. She was so shy of 
 strangers, that he did not venture to bring 
 these travellers to her house without her 
 permission. She had just arrived with Si- 
 monette, who had rowed her across the river. 
 He saw at once that she was very nervous. 
 
 ' Some travellers are just arrived,' he said, 
 as he joined them. 
 
 ' So I hear,' she answered. ' Do they stay 
 long ? ' 
 
 ' No, only a few hours. Two of them are 
 friends of De Ilarlay's. They would like 
 very much to see his folly. Would you 
 have any objection to my bringing them 
 here ? ' 
 
 ' Wlio and what are they ? ' 
 
 D'Auban mentioned their names, and 
 added, ' I have heard of the two first, but I 
 know nothing of M. Eeinhart.' 
 
 ' He Avas on board the boat which brought 
 us up tlie river. I would rather not have 
 seen him again. Have they told you any 
 news ? ' 
 
 ' Not much — nothing of importance ; but
 
 NOT TO BE TKUE, 197 
 
 everything about the Old World is more or 
 less interesting here.' 
 
 ' Where do they come from ? ' 
 
 ' From Paris, in the last instance.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau bit her hp, and pressed 
 her hand on her forehead. She stood the 
 picture of irresolution. 
 
 ' It is very provoking that M. de Cliam- 
 belle should be ill,' she said, ' and too ill even 
 to advise me.' 
 
 The tone in which this was said would 
 have pained d'Auban, if he had not at the 
 same time observed that her eyes were filled 
 with tears. 
 
 ' There is really no necessity for your see- 
 ing these gentlemen,' he gently said. ' They 
 need not come at all if it distresses you ; or, 
 if you hke to stay upstairs, I could show 
 them the hall and the verandah.' 
 
 ' Oh ! of course I know I can do as I 
 hke.' 
 
 This was said with a slight irritation of 
 manner, which did not escape him. She 
 seemed to have the greatest difficulty in 
 making up her mind. 
 
 'You can bring them here,' she said at
 
 198 TOO STR.\]N'GE 
 
 last, but did not mention whether it was her 
 intention to see them or not. 
 
 He supposed she meant to keep in her 
 o^vn apartment. 
 
 When he left the house she went up to her 
 father's room. He was dozing, and talked in 
 his sleep of missing volumes, and the binding 
 of a book which had been sent by the King 
 of Poland. She sighed deeply, gave some 
 directions to his Indian nurse, and went to 
 change her dress. 
 
 When she came down to the parlour she 
 had put on a large lace veil, which nearly 
 covered her face as well as her head. She 
 called Simonette. 
 
 ' Get the shawl,' she said, ' which we used 
 to hang against the window. My eyes are 
 weak ; I should like the room darkened.' 
 
 This was done, and she sat down with her 
 back to the light. Simonette was looking 
 almost as nervous as her mistress. ' Here 
 are the gentlemen,' she said, when the hall- 
 door opened. 
 
 D'Auban almost started with surprise at 
 fmding her in the parlour, and at the dark-
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 199 
 
 ness of the room. He introduced the 
 strangers. 
 
 She greeted them with her usual graceful 
 dignity of manner, and then said in a low 
 muffled voice which did not sound like her 
 own : ' I hope, gentlemen, you will excuse 
 my receiving you in so dark a room. My 
 health is not strong, and the light hurts my 
 eyes.' 
 
 D'Auban thought of the way he had seen 
 her a few hours before playing with the 
 children in the broad sunshine, and a chilling 
 sensation crept to his heart. 
 
 General Brockdorf made some complimen- 
 tary remarks on the beauty of St. Agathe, 
 and mentioned his acquaintance with M. de 
 Harlay. 
 
 Count Levacheff, who had also seen him in 
 Paris, playfully described the Frenchman's 
 ecstasy at finding himself again in the capital 
 of the civilised world. ' For my part,' he 
 added, ' I find it very interesting to travel 
 through a country so unlike what one has 
 seen elsewhere. The grandeur of the scenery 
 is sublime, and makes one forget the vulgar
 
 200 TOO STRANGE 
 
 evils of insufficient provisions, tormenting 
 insects, and rapacious boatmen. I suppose 
 that the beauty of the country has lost its 
 novelty, and perhaps its charm, for you, 
 madame ? ' 
 
 ' The views are beautiful and the climate 
 also,' Madame de Moldau answered, in the 
 same unnatural voice. TurninG; to General 
 Brockdorf, she said : ' Is it for the sole 
 pleasure of travelling that you visit this 
 country ? ' 
 
 ' Not altogether, madame. The Emperor 
 of Eussia has commissioned me to draw up a 
 report of the natural features and peculiar 
 productions of this newly discovered con- 
 tinent. Eveiything which tends to progress, 
 to enlightenment, and to civilisation attracts 
 the attention of his imperial majesty.' 
 
 ' Is the Czar as active as ever,' asked 
 d'Auban, ' in carrying out his vast designs ? ' 
 
 ' He has achieved wonders,' the General 
 replied, ' and only hves to plan yet greater 
 marvels.' 
 
 ' But are there not men of eminence and 
 worth in Paissia who, whilst they allow the 
 merits of some of the Czar's innovations, do
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 201 
 
 not approve of liis mode of government, and 
 wlio, whilst they admire the genius exhibited 
 in the sudden creation of a new capital, have 
 not transferred to it their attachment to 
 the old Eussian metropolis — time-honoured 
 Moscow ? ' 
 
 ' You are right,' exclaimed Count Levacheflf, 
 ' the heart of Eussia is in Moscow.' 
 
 ' Not its brains,' said the General. 
 
 ' That last-mentioned article,' observed 
 Eeinhart, who had not yet spoken, and who 
 kept his eyes fixed on Madame de Moldau with 
 marked pertinacity, ' the Czar chiefly imports 
 from foreign countries. St. Petersburg is a 
 haven of refuge for needy Frenchmen and 
 German adventurers. The Czarovitch has 
 announced liis intention of sweeping away, 
 when he comes to the throne, the invading 
 hordes, as he calls them. He is a genuine 
 Moscovite.' 
 
 ' He is as great a brute as ever lived,' said 
 Levacheff. 
 
 ' With the exception of his father,' observed 
 d'Auban, who even at that distance of time 
 could not quite endure to hear the Emperor 
 mentioned with praise.
 
 202 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' All ! but tliere is this difference between 
 tliem,' said the Count : ' genius and strength 
 adorn tlie character of the father with a kind 
 of wild grandeur. The weakness of the son 
 makes his brutality as despicable as it is 
 hateful.' 
 
 ' Is it true that he has lately returned to 
 Eussia upon Count Mentzchikoff's assurance 
 that he would receive a full pardon ? ' 
 
 ' He has certainly returned, but has been 
 thrown into prison. His friends say he was 
 cruelly deceived. Others, that some fresh 
 plots were discovered since that promise was 
 given. What gave much surprise in Eussia 
 was his taking refuge at the Emperor of 
 Austria's court, seeing the reports which 
 were circulated at the time of his wife's 
 death.' 
 
 ' Was he supposed to have had a share in 
 her death ? ' 
 
 ' So it was said. People beheve she died 
 in consequence of a violent blow he had 
 given her. Others said her attendants 
 poisoned her at his instigation.' 
 
 ' Aye,' put in Eeinhart, ' and ran away 
 with her jewels.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 203 
 
 ' The matter was hushed up. It was 
 thought the Prince would have been impH- 
 cated. in the matter, and the Czar did not at 
 that time wish to come to extremities with 
 him. Now it is thought he would be glad 
 to crush him. The late princess was a great 
 favourite of his, and he was very angry with 
 his son for the horrible way in which he 
 treated her, as well as for his intrigues with the 
 reactionary party. The Czarovitch is devoted 
 to the old Moscovite cause, and fanatically 
 attached to the orthodox rehgion. But the 
 politics of Eussia are not, I shoidd imagine, 
 the most interesting subject of conversation 
 to a French lady, who would no doubt prefer 
 to hear of the gaieties of Paris, never more 
 brilliant than last winter.' 
 
 M. Eeinhart moved his chair nearer to 
 Madame de Moldau's, and, interrupting 
 Count LevachefF, said, ' I fancy that madame 
 is better acquainted with St. Petersbiu-g than 
 with Paris. If I am not mistaken, she has 
 resided there some years ? ' 
 
 Simonette turned crimson. Her hand 
 was restino; on the back of her mistress's 
 chair, and she felt her trembhng violently.
 
 204 TOO STRANGE 
 
 She answered, however, with tolerable com- 
 posure : ' I have been both at Paris and at 
 St. Petersburg.' 
 
 D'Auban's heart beat fast when she said 
 this. He had never heard her say as much 
 as that before about her past life. 
 
 ' Did not madame occupy a position in the 
 household of the late princess ? ' 
 
 ' ^o, sir,' answered Madame de Moldau in 
 a louder and more distinct tone of voice than 
 before ; then slightly changing her position, 
 she turned to Count Levacheff and said, 
 ' How was the Empress Catherine when you 
 left St. Petersburg.^' 
 
 ' In good health, I believe,' he answered. 
 
 ' You said, I tliink, the Czarovitch was re- 
 turned ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, and he was imprisoned in his 
 palace.' 
 
 ' Did you hear anything of his son ? ' 
 
 ' He lives in the Emperor's palace.' 
 
 ' Is he like his grandfather ? ' 
 
 ' More like his late mother, I believe.' 
 
 ' I saw the young prince two or three 
 times whilst I was at St. Petersburg ; but I 
 am not apt to take much notice of children,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 205 
 
 even when they are imperial liighnesses. 
 He seemed a rosy little boy ; with fair curling 
 
 hair.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau sank back in her 
 chair, apparently exhausted with the attempt 
 she had made at conversation. D'Auban 
 proposed to conduct the visitors over the 
 plantation. But she made an effort to sit 
 up, and again addressed Count Levacheff. 
 
 ' Was the Comtesse de Konigsmark at St. 
 Petersburg ? ' she asked. 
 
 Before he had time to reply, M. Eeuihart 
 said in a half-whisper, ' Would not you like 
 to obtain some information, madame, about 
 a casket whicli was once in the countess's 
 care ? ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau fainted away. Simon- 
 ette received her into her arms, but there 
 was no tenderness in the expression of her 
 face as she bent over her drooping form; 
 she looked on her colourless face with more 
 scorn than pity. D'Auban felt angry and 
 miserable. He led the strangers out of the 
 house into the garden, and murmured some- 
 thin2j to the effect that Madame de Moldau 
 was a great invalid.
 
 206 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 ' If you take my advice,' said Eeinhart, 
 ' you will have as little as possible to do with 
 that lady. I feel certain now of what I 
 suspected at New Orleans.' 
 
 ' What do you mean?' exclaimed d'Auban 
 fiercely. 
 
 He would willingly have thrown into the 
 river or trampled under foot the being who 
 dared to speak of Madame de Moldau in that 
 insulting manner ; but, at the same time, a 
 sickening doubt stole into his heart. 
 
 Eeuihart was so struck by his agitation, 
 that it suddenly occurred to him that dis- 
 cretion is the best part of valoiu". He 
 had not the slightest wish to entangle him- 
 self in a quarrel with Madame de Moldau's 
 friend, who might be, for aught he knew, 
 a lover, or even an accomphce. He there- 
 fore said, with a forced smile, ' The expla- 
 nation is a very simple one : from what 
 I have heard of this lady's beauty and 
 charm, and what I have seen myself to-day, 
 I should tliink there would be great danger 
 of a man's losing his heart to her.' 
 
 It was impossible not to accept this ex- 
 planation, and equally so to beheve in its
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 207 
 
 veracity. The conversation dropped. Mean- 
 while Alexander LevachelT had disappeared. 
 As lie was leaving tlie house, he had turned 
 back, as if by an irresistible impulse, and re- 
 turned to the parlour. The door was open, 
 the window also. Madame de Moldau's veil 
 had fallen off her face. The hght was shin- 
 ing on her pale, lovely features. Simonette 
 hastened to the door, and closed it almost 
 in his face. He stood in the hall apparently 
 transfixed — motionless with astonishment. 
 Then, sinking down on a bench, hid his face 
 in his hands, and remained buried in thought. 
 D'Auban, engrossed and agitated by Eein- 
 hart's remarks, had not at first noticed liis 
 absence. When he did so, and proposed to 
 return for him, General Brockdorf objected 
 that they had no time to spare ; that Leva- 
 cheff did not know a turnip from a potato, or 
 a sugar-cane from a coffee-plant, and woidd 
 be only too thankful to have been left be- 
 hind. 
 
 When Madame de Moldau had recovered 
 a little, she w^ent upstairs to M. de Cham- 
 belle's room. Levachefl^ saw her go by, but 
 she did not notice him. After she had
 
 208 TOO STRANGE 
 
 passed, he pressed his hands on his eyes, hke 
 a man who tries to rouse himself from a 
 dream. 
 
 Slie had seated herself by her father's bed 
 and dismissed his attendant. He was asleep. 
 His aged features looked thin and sharp, and 
 his scanty grey hairs were matted with per- 
 spiration. She rested her head against the 
 bed-post, and faintly ejaculated, ' Faithful 
 unto death ! Faithful throuQ;h a strange, 
 loner trial ; and now at last 2;oino; to leave 
 me. Oh patient and devoted heart! am I 
 indeed about to lose you ? Ah ! if you had 
 not been lying here helpless and uncon- 
 scious, I should not have seen those men! 
 Why did I see them ? It was rash — it was 
 imprudent. I do not know how to take 
 care of myself. It would have been better 
 to have died. Oli no ! God forgive me ! 
 what am I saying ? I know — I know, my 
 God, wliat mercies you had in store for me. 
 You are G;ood — goodness itself; but I am 
 very weak.' She heard voices in the garden, 
 and went to close the Avindow that the sick 
 man might not be disturbed. It was d'Auban 
 and his companions going away. Gradually
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 209 
 
 the sound of footsteps receded. Simoiiette 
 knocked at the door and gave her a sHp 
 of paper, on which some German words 
 were written. White as a marble statue, 
 trembhng and irresolute, she stood with it in 
 her hand, gazing on the writing as if to gain 
 time before she answered. 
 
 ' Where is the gentleman who gave you 
 this paper ? ' 
 
 ' In the entrance-hall.' 
 
 ' Wliere are the others ? ' 
 
 ' They have walked out with M. d'Auban.' 
 
 ' Show him into my sitting-room ; I will 
 see him there.' 
 
 In about an hour d'Auban and his two 
 companions returned. As he entered the 
 house he said to Simonette, who was stand- 
 ing in the porch talking to Eeinhart's ser- 
 vant : 
 
 ' How is your mistress ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, pretty well, sir ! ' she answered in a 
 careless tone. 
 
 ' Is she upstairs ? ' 
 
 'She went upstairs, sir, when you went 
 out.' 
 
 ' Do you know where Count Levacheff is ? ' 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 TOO STEANGE 
 
 She turned away without answering. 
 
 Provoked at her uncivil manner, he sternly 
 repeated his question. 
 
 She seemed to hesitate a httle, and then 
 said: 
 
 ' I am not sure, sir, if madame wishes it 
 known that he is with her in her private 
 room.' 
 
 At that moment, through the tliin par- 
 tition-wall which divided the hall from the 
 httle sitting-room, d'Auban heard Madame 
 de Moldau speaking in her natural voice, and 
 in a loud and eager manner. These words 
 reached his ears : 
 
 ' You promise, Count Levacheff, that you 
 vvill not tell any person on earth that you 
 have seen me ? ' 
 
 ' Madame, if you insist upon it, I must ; 
 but do tliink better of it. Let me stay, or 
 return, or at least write— — ' 
 
 D'Auban tore himself away, and ordered 
 Simonette to go away also. She obeyed, but 
 shrugged her shoulders, and said : 
 
 ' It does not matter now whether I listen 
 or not, M. d'Auban ; I know all about her.' 
 
 It was in an almost meclianical manner
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 211 
 
 that d'Auban performed the remaining duties 
 of hospitahty towards the travellers. When 
 Levacheff joined them in the verandah it 
 would have been difficult to say which of the 
 two seemed most disinclined to conversation, 
 most absorbed in his own thoughts. General 
 Bi'ockdorfs unceasing flow of smaU talk 
 proved a great resource during the last half 
 hour of their stay. At last it was time for 
 them to go. D'Auban could not bring him- 
 self so much as to mention Madame de 
 Moldau's name in their presence ; yet, when 
 they got into their boat and moved away 
 from the shore, he sighed, as if feeling that 
 he had lost the last chance of clearing away 
 his doubts. Levacheff and Eeinhart evidently 
 knew much more about her than he did. 
 Eor two days he stayed away from St. 
 Agathe ; on the third he was sent for. M. 
 de ChambeUe was much worse, and wished 
 to see him. Father Maret had also been 
 summoned, but had not yet arrived. He 
 hastened to the pavilion. The sick man's 
 couch had been carried into the parlour, 
 where there was more air than upstairs. 
 Madame de Moldau was sitting by his side, 
 
 p2
 
 212 TOO STRANGE 
 
 He was in a liigli fever, talldng a great deal, 
 and niiicli excited. When d'Auban came in 
 he cried out : 
 
 * Ah ! M. d'Auban, I was afraid I should 
 die Avithout seeing you. Why have you 
 stayed so long away ? ' 
 
 ' I have been very busy about the planta- 
 tions,' he evasively answered. 
 
 Madame de Moldau tried to move away, 
 but she could not disengage her hand from 
 her father's dying grasp. 
 
 ' M. d'Auban,' cried the sick man in a 
 feeble querulous voice, ' you must make me 
 a promise before I die. Without it I cannot 
 die in peace ; all that Father Maret can say 
 is of no use. You know I am a young 
 Christian though an old man. Will you 
 promise to do what I ask you ? ' 
 
 ' Anything in my ]:)Ower I will do, my 
 dear friend, to meet your wishes,' d'Auban 
 kindly answered. 
 
 ' Will you, then, promise me never to leave 
 her — to take care of her as I have done ? ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau hastily bent over the 
 old man, and said, ' Dear good father, you 
 are asking what cannot be.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 213 
 
 ' Wliy not ? wliy not ? ' exclaimed M. de 
 Chambelle, raising himself in the bed ; ' it is 
 mj only hope, my only comfort. I tell you, 
 I cannot, and I will not die, and I will not 
 listen to what Father Maret says about sub- 
 mitting to God's will, if he does not promise 
 me this. You will be alone in the Avorld ; 
 not one friend left ; more lonely than a 
 besff^ar in the streets. That cannot be God's 
 will. Some days ago I dreamed that he 
 whom we never speak of had sent a man to 
 kill you. I don't think it was a dream. I 
 heard straniye voices in the house — I am sure 
 I did. If he sends him again, who will take 
 care of you if M. d'Auban does not ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! for heaven's sake, dear f^ither, be 
 quiet, do not talk.' 
 
 'No, I will not be quiet — I will not be 
 silent — I must say what is in my heart. 
 When I went to confession I told Father 
 Maret I hated somebody ; I did not say who 
 it was. Do not try to stop me. I have 
 always obeyed you ' 
 
 ' Oh, do not say that ! ' exclaimed Madame 
 de Moldau, wringing her hands. 
 
 ' But I must speak now ; I must plead
 
 214 TOO STRANGE 
 
 your cause before I die. Oh, Colonel d' Auban ! 
 will you forsake her ? ' He grasped her hand 
 so tightly that she could not extricate it, and 
 fixed his eyes with a wild expression on 
 d'Auban's face. ' Look at her,' he cried ; 
 ' look at her well. She ought to have sat 
 upon a thione, and men bowed down before 
 her ; and now for so long she has only had 
 me to wait upon her ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau sank down on her 
 knees by the bedside, pressed to her hps the 
 hand which clasped her o\\ti, and exclaimed, 
 ' Oh, more than father ! patient, kind, and 
 loving friend ! be silent now. Grieve not 
 the heart you have so often comforted, 
 listen to your daughter, who would have 
 died had it not been for you. Had God 
 taken you from me Avhen first we landed on 
 these shores, I must have perished. Then, 
 indeed, you would have had reason to fear 
 for me. It is different now. Let this 
 thought comfort you. Carry it Ayth you 
 to a better world. I have a friend who mil 
 never forsake me.' 
 
 M. de Chambelle turned liis dying eyes on 
 d' Auban, who stooped and whispered, ' She
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 215 
 
 is not speaking of me. God is her friend 
 now.' 
 
 'Yes, dear father, T have a home in His 
 church, a father in His priest, friends and 
 brethren in the household of the Mth. The 
 words of the Bible, " Thou shalt no longer 
 be called the forsaken one," apply to me, once 
 an outcast and a wanderer on the face of 
 the earth.' 
 
 ' Thou shalt no longer be called the for- 
 saken one ! ' ejaculated the old man, gazing 
 upon her with an enquiring look, as if trying 
 to realise the meardng of the sentence. Still 
 he turned to d'Auban, and, drawing him 
 nearer to liimself, whispered m his ear : 
 
 ' Wni you not stay with her ? ' 
 
 ' If she will let me, I will,' he answered in 
 the same low voice. 
 
 ' Oh, thank God for that ! ' 
 
 ' And wherever she goes, please God, I will 
 watch over her.' 
 
 ' Oh ! now I feel the good God has heard 
 the prayer of a poor old sinner, who never did 
 any good in his hfe. Where is Monsieur 
 I'Abbe ? The last time he came I would not 
 say I was ready to die if it was God's will.
 
 216 TOO STRANGE 
 
 You see, I was in waiting ; there was nobody 
 to take my place ; tlie second librarian used to 
 do so sometimes long ago. I wonder if he is 
 dead ; I am sure he has not forgotten her ' 
 
 Madame de Moldau hid her face in her 
 hands ; there was no checking the old man's 
 rambhng, and he detained d'Auban in the 
 same way as he detained her. He was silent 
 for two or three minutes, then, starting up, 
 he turned towards him in an excited manner. 
 
 ' You know I never said you were to marry 
 her. That would be a mesalliance. What 
 would they say at the palace ? ' 
 
 The blood rushed into d'Auban's face ; 
 but he said in a calm and steady voice, with- 
 out looking at Madame de Moldau, ' His 
 mind is beginning to wander. He does not 
 know what he says.' 
 
 After awhile M. de Chambelle fell asleep. 
 By the time he woke again Father Maret had 
 arrived. He remained with him awhile alone, 
 and then administered to him the last Sacra- 
 ments. Extreme unction was followed, as it 
 so often is, not only by increased peace and 
 tranquillity of soul, but by some bodily im- 
 provement. In the afternoon he appeared
 
 NOT TO BE TEUE. 217 
 
 to rally considerably ; still d'Auban did not 
 venture to leave the pavilion, for he was 
 continually asking for him. When the sun 
 was setting and a deep tranquilUty reigned in 
 the house, in which everybody moved with a 
 light step and spoke under their breath, he 
 sat in the porch with Madame de Moldau, con- 
 versing on the interests of the Mission and the 
 condition of the poorer emigrants, and care- 
 fully avoiding any allusion to the past or 
 the future, or the recent visit of the European 
 travellers. The soft westerly wind, laden 
 with perfumed emanations — the rustle of the 
 leaves, and the murmuring voice of the 
 streamlet hurrying towards the river, like 
 one feeble soul into eternity — the singing in 
 parts of some German labourers at work in 
 the neighbouring forest — the beauty of the 
 smiset sky, of the green turf and the distant 
 view — breathed peace and tranquilHty. These 
 soothing sights and sounds were hardly in 
 accordance with the sorrowful and anxious 
 thoughts which filled their minds. Father 
 Maret was walking up and down the glade 
 saying his office. When he closed his book 
 his kind and pensive glance rested on those
 
 218 TOO STKANGE 
 
 two dwellers in the wilderness, the secrets of 
 whose hearts he was acquainted with, whose 
 future strufTG-les and sufierin2;s he foresaw. 
 The hours went by on their noiseless wings, 
 and death hovered over that pretty fanciful 
 St. Agathc, which seemed more fitting to 
 harbour a tribe of fairies than the sorrowing 
 and the dying. As the light waned, M. de 
 Chambelle grew weaker. The prayers for a 
 departing soul were read over the expiring 
 form of one who at the eleventh hour had 
 been received into the fold. The priest 
 held the crucifix before his dimmed and 
 faihng eyes. He gazed upon it earnestly, 
 and then on Madame de Moldau. It was 
 no longer to human friendship he was 
 committing her. He made a sign that he 
 wished to speak to her once more. She 
 bent over him, and he found strength to 
 whisper, ' I have at last forgiven him.' One 
 more look at her, and one at the crucifix, 
 and then the old man died ; and she whom 
 he had loved so long and well lifted up her 
 voice and wept, at first almost inaudibly, 
 then, as the full sense of her loss, the terror 
 of her desolate fate, broke upon her, a loud
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 219 
 
 and bitter cry burst from her lips. My child ! 
 my sister! When the heart is wrung by 
 some great grief, when a blow falls on a 
 closed but not seared wound, there is always 
 a cry of this sort. The old man weeping by 
 the grave of his child remembers the wife of 
 his youth. The bereaved mother in her 
 hour of anguish calls on her own departed 
 mother. The condemned criminal thinks of 
 the priest who taught him his catechism. 
 The past comes back upon us in those first 
 hours of overwhelming sorrow and self-pity 
 as if the grave gave up its dead to haunt or 
 to console us. 
 
 The two kind friends by her side did not 
 try to check the mourner's tears. One of 
 them looked gently upon her, like a com- 
 passionate angel to whom God reveals the 
 secret ways by which He trains a soul for 
 heaven. The other gazed on her bowed- 
 down form "with the yearning wish to take 
 her to his heart and cherish her as his own ; 
 but he scarcely dared to utter the words of 
 sympathy which rose to his lips, lest they 
 should be misunderstood. His mind was in 
 a dark and confused state. New thoughts
 
 220 TOO STR.VXGE 
 
 were working in it. Therese came to pray 
 for the dead aud to comfort the Hving. 
 Simonette was, as usual, active in doing 
 everything needful, but there was more dis- 
 pleasure than sorrow in her face ; and once, 
 when she saw d'Auban looking at Madame 
 de Moldau vdih an expression of anxious 
 tenderness, her brow darkened and an im- 
 patient exclamation escaped her lips. 
 
 The funeral was simply performed, and 
 the European stranger biu:ied in the little 
 cemetery, where many a wanderer from the 
 Old World rested by the side of his Indian 
 brethren in the faith. Many an offering of 
 fresh-gathered flowers was laid on his grave, 
 for both settlers and natives had become 
 attached to the kind childlike old man, and 
 pitied his daughter's bereavement.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 221 
 
 CHAPTEE YLl. 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 See what a ready tongue suspicion hath. Shal-espeare. 
 
 Moreover something is or seems 
 
 That touches me with mystic gleams, 
 
 Like glimpses of forgotten dreams. Tennyson. 
 
 By Father Maret's advice Madame de Moldau 
 came to spend a few days with Tlierese. Her 
 hut was clean though a very poor abode, and 
 the change of air and scene proved beneficial 
 to her health. The near neighbourhood of 
 the church was a great comfort also, and to 
 get away fi'om Simonette a rehef. Her 
 temper had grown almost unbearable, and 
 her manner to her mistress very offensive. 
 She governed her household and directed all 
 her afiiiirs, however, with so much zeal and 
 intelligence that she could ill have spared 
 her ; but the momentary separation seemed 
 at this time acceptable to both.
 
 222 TOO STRANGE 
 
 D'Aiiban came sometimes to the village 
 to see Madame de Moldau ; but since the 
 stranger's visit, and especially since what had 
 passed when they both watched by M. de 
 Chambelle's death-bed, they had not felt at 
 their ease together. He especially felt ex- 
 ceedingly embarrassed in his intercourse with 
 her. It now seemed to him evident that she 
 must have occupied some position which she 
 was intensely anxious to conceal. The pro- 
 mise he had heard her exact from Count 
 Levacheff and poor M. de Chambelle's ram- 
 bling expressions about a mesalliance and a 
 palace pointed to this conclusion. He racked 
 his brains to form some guess, some supposi- 
 tion as to the possible cause of her retire- 
 ment from the world and the mystery in 
 which it was enveloped. Once it occurred 
 to him that, with the romantic sentimentahty 
 ascribed to some of her country^vomen, she 
 had, perhaps, sacrificed herself, and aban- 
 doned a lover or even a husband for the 
 sake of some other person, and resolved 
 never to make her existence known. It 
 was just possible that a highly - wrought 
 sensibility, a false generosity unchecked by
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 223 
 
 fixed religious principles, might have led her 
 into some such course, and involved her in 
 endless difficulties. It was not difficult to 
 believe she was of noble bktli. Nobility 
 was stamped on her features, her figure, and 
 every one of her movements. It struck even 
 the Indians. They said she ought to be a 
 Woman-Sun — the title given to the female 
 sovereio-ns of some of their tribes. Durini:^ 
 her stay with Therese, Madame de Moldau 
 improved her knowledge of the language of 
 the country, and under her guidance occu- 
 pied herself "with works of charity. At the 
 end of a fortnight she returned to St. Agathe. 
 D'Auban was waiting for her mth his boat 
 at the spot they called the ferry. He saw 
 she had been weeping, and his heart ached 
 for her. It was a desolate tliins; to come 
 back to a home where neither relative or 
 friend, only servants, awaited her return. 
 He made some remark of this Idnd as they 
 approached the house. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, sinking down on the bench 
 in tlie porch with a look of deep despondency 
 — ' yes, the return is sad. What will the de- 
 partm-e be ? '
 
 224 TOO STRANGE 
 
 D'Auban started as if he had been shot. 
 ' Wliat do you mean ? You are not gohig 
 away ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I must go, and you must not ask me 
 to stay.' 
 
 He did not utter a word, but remained 
 with his eyes fixed on the ground, and his 
 hps tightly compressed. She was distressed 
 at his silence, and at last said : 
 
 ' You are not angry with me, M. d'Auban, 
 for resolvino; to do what is rii^ht ? ' 
 
 ' Eight ! ' he bitterly exclaimed. ' Alas ! 
 madame, can I know what is right ? I know 
 not who you are, where you come from, 
 where you are going. What I do know is, 
 that from the first day I saw you my only 
 thouglit has been to shield you from suffering, 
 to guard you from danger, to watcli over 
 you as a fatlier or as a brother. Wlien you 
 told me to give up otlier hopes, I shut up 
 my grief in my heart. I never allowed a 
 word to escape from my hps which could 
 offend or displease you. What more could a 
 man do P Have I ever given you reason to 
 distrust me 't Have I obliged you to go 
 away ? But I am a fool ; what poor M. de
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 225 
 
 Chambelle said lias misled me. You have 
 other friends, I suppose, otlier prospects ' 
 
 ' None.' 
 
 ' Then wliy — why must you go ? AVhat 
 has been my fault ? Cannot you forget my 
 rash words ? Cannot you rely on my promise 
 
 never asraui- 
 
 ' Oh, M. d'Auban ! it is not your fault that 
 I must go. It was not your fault that I heard 
 you say what I can never forget. Mine has 
 been the fault. Would that the sufferino- 
 might be mine alone ; because your sympathy 
 at first, and then as time went on your friend- 
 ship, was precious to me ; because I thought 
 only of myself, and of the consolation I found 
 in your society, sorrow has come upon us 
 both. JS'ay, I will add one word more. 
 Before I became a Cathohc it did not seem 
 to me quite impossible .... my ideas were 
 different from what they now are. ... I did 
 not consider myself absolutely bound. . . , 
 Now, you see, there remains nothing for us 
 but to part.' 
 
 ' Why should you think so ? Why not let 
 me work for you — watch over you? . . . You 
 can trust me.' 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 TOO STRANGE 
 
 A deep blush rose in her cheek, as she 
 quickly answered, 'But I cannot — I ought 
 not to trust myself.' 
 
 A strange feeling of mingled pain and joy 
 thrilled through his heart, for he now felt 
 that his affection was returned ; but he also 
 saw that what she had said was true — that 
 they must part. Another silence ensued ; 
 then, with a despairing resignation, he asked, 
 ' And where can you go ? ' 
 
 ' To Canada,' she answered. ' Father Maret 
 will recommend me to the Bishop of Montreal 
 and to some French ladies there.' 
 
 ' Will you sell this property ? ' 
 
 ' JSTo ; not if you mil manage it for me.' 
 
 ' Yes, I will ; and the day may come when 
 you will revisit it.' 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' she said, Avith a mournful 
 smile — 'when w^e are botli very old.' 
 
 ' And how will you travel?' 
 
 ' There is a party of missionaries expected 
 here, and a French gentleman and his wife. 
 They are on their way to Canada. Father 
 Maret is going to arrange about my joining 
 them. lie liopes we may reach Montreal 
 before the wet season sets in.'
 
 NOT TO BE TEUE. 227 
 
 ' So be it,' murmured d'Aubau ; and from 
 that moment they both sought to cheer and en- 
 courage each other, to bear with courage the 
 approachuig separation. With true dehcacy 
 of feehng she showed him how entirely she 
 confided all her interests to his care — ^how 
 she reposed on the thought of his disinte- 
 rested and active friendship. He planned 
 for the comfort of her journey, and resolved 
 to spare her as much as possible the know- 
 ledge of what he suffered. In spite of the 
 reserve she observed as to the past and the 
 sad uncertainty of the future, they under- 
 stood each other better than they had done 
 yet, and there was some consolation in that 
 feeling. 
 
 But when he had taken leave of her that 
 day, and he thought that he should soon see 
 her go forth with strangers from that house 
 where he had so carefully watched over her, 
 his courage almost failed. The sight of the 
 blooming garden, the brightness of the sun- 
 shine, oppressed his soul; and when the 
 sound of a light French carol struck on his 
 ear he turned round and angrily addressed 
 Simonette, who was watering the flowers 
 
 q2
 
 228 TOO STRANGE 
 
 in the verandah and singms: at tlie same 
 time. 
 
 ' I am surprised to see you in such good 
 spurts so soon after your kind old master's 
 death, and at the very moment of his daugh- 
 ter's return to her desolate home. I thought 
 there was more gratitude in your character.' 
 
 The expression of her face changed at 
 once. ' Do you call me ungrateful, M. 
 d'Auban ? ' she said, with a sigh. ' Well, be 
 it so. Even that I will put up with from 
 you. But what gratitude do I owe to these 
 people ? ' 
 
 ' They are your benefactors.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! Is that the meaning of the word 
 in Europe ? Is the person who devotes her 
 time, her labour, and her wits to the service 
 of poor helpless beings, who can do nothing 
 for themselves, and receives a little money 
 and perhaps a few kind words in return, the 
 obliged party, and they the benefactors ? In 
 this country, I tliink, the terms might be 
 reversed.' 
 
 D'Auban felt even more provoked with her 
 manner than her words, and answered with a 
 frown —
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 229 
 
 ' I wonder that you can speak of your 
 mistress in this manner.' 
 
 ' My mistress ! I have never considered her 
 as such. I undertook this hateful service, 
 M. d'Auban, solely at your request and for 
 your sake, and you call me ungrateful. You 
 speak unkindly to me, who have worked hard 
 for these people because you wished it, and 
 that your will has always been a law to me. 
 For your sake, and in a way you do not 
 know and do not understand, I have suffered 
 the most cruel anxiety. Because I have been 
 afraid of your displeasure I have been silent 
 when perhaps I ought to have spoken ; and 
 yet for your sake I ought to speak, and, at 
 the risk of making you angry, I will. Yes, 
 at all risks, I must say it. You are bhnd — you 
 are infatuated about that woman ' 
 
 ' Hush ! I will not hear such language as 
 this.' 
 
 ' But you must hear it, or I will expose her 
 to those who will hsten to the truth. Others 
 shall hear me if you will not.' 
 
 ' Speak then,' said d'Auban sternly. The 
 time had arrived when he felt himself justified 
 in Hstening to Simonette's disclosures. Matters
 
 230 TOO STRANGE 
 
 liad come to a crisis, and on Madame de 
 Moldau's own account it was necessary he 
 elioidd hear what Simonette had to say. He 
 made a sign to her to sit down, and stood 
 before her with his arms folded and looking 
 so stern that she began to tremble. ' Speak,' 
 he again said, Avith more vehemence than 
 before, for he saw she hesitated. 
 
 At last she steadied her voice and spoke as 
 follows : ' Sir, it was at New Orleans that I first 
 saw Madame de Moldau. I heard at that 
 time that there was something mysterious 
 about her. People said she was not called 
 by her real name, and a servant, who arrived 
 there with her, and soon after returned to 
 Europe, let fall some hints that she had 
 reasons for conceahng her own. She and 
 her father came on board our boat at 
 night ; M. Eeinhart, and his servant Hans, 
 were amongst the passengers. He said he 
 had seen her before, and that there were 
 strange stories about them — that they were 
 supposed to be adventurers, or even swindlers. 
 Nobody could understand why an old man 
 and a handsome dehcate woman, not appar- 
 ently in any want of money, should come to
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 231 
 
 this country with tlie intention of taking up 
 their abode in a remote settlement. At Fort 
 St. Louis M. Eeinhart and Hans left us, and 
 I did not see them again till they came here 
 with those other gentlemen. When you pro- 
 posed to me to enter Madame de Moldau's 
 service you must, I am sure, remember that 
 I declined to do so. I only wish I had per- 
 severed in my refusal. But you seemed very 
 anxious I should accept your offer. You said 
 it woidd be an act of charity. You did not 
 speak of benefactors then. My father urged 
 me also. But what really decided me was 
 tliis : It was said you admked her, and that 
 you would soon marry the lady at St. Agathe. 
 I thought if I hved mth her I shoidd be 
 sure to find out whether the stories about 
 her were truie or false, and that I might be 
 the means of saving you from marrying an 
 impostor ' 
 
 ' You have no right to speak in that way,' 
 interrupted d'Auban, tried beyond endurance 
 by the girl's language and manner. ' It is a 
 vile calumny.' 
 
 ' It is no such thing, M. d'Auban ; you 
 desired me to speak and you must hear me to
 
 232 TOO STRANGE 
 
 the end. I know she does not seem an 
 impostor — I can hardly beheve her to be 
 one ; but you shall judge yourself. Well 
 might people wonder where their money 
 came from ! I soon found out that she had 
 many rich jewels in her possession. One of 
 the things Hans had told me was, that her 
 father had sold some valuable diamonds at 
 New Orleans, and lodged the money in a 
 banker's hand. It was reported at the same 
 time that, in a palace in Europe, a casket was 
 stolen which contained the jewels of a princess 
 lately dead. It must have been the princess 
 mentioned in the newspaper you were reading 
 out loud one night some days ago, and which 
 madame sent me to borrow fi'om you the 
 next morning. Well, the report was that her 
 servants had stolen this casket and fled the 
 country.' 
 
 ' St. Petersburg was the town you mean, 
 and the princess, the wife of the Czarovitch 
 of Eussia.' 
 
 ' Yes, the Princess Charlotte, I think they 
 called her. Hans says his master is persuaded 
 that these people are those very servants.' 
 
 ' I don't beheve a word of it.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 233 
 
 ' He says that M. de Cliambelle's real name 
 is Sasse, and that he hved at tlie court of the 
 princess's father ; that he saw him there a 
 great many years ago. And now I must tell 
 you what I myself discovered. I picked up 
 on the grass near the house a casket with a 
 pictiu^e inside it set in diamonds, and on the 
 back of the casket, in small pearls, was 
 written the name of Peter the First, Emperor 
 of all the Eussias. I saw it with my own 
 eyes, and the diamonds were very large, and 
 the gold beautifully worked. I have seen 
 things of this sort at New Orleans, but 
 nothing half so handsome.' 
 
 ' You saw this with your own eyes ! ' re- 
 j)eated d'Auban, turning very 'pale. ' But 
 are you certain it belonged to Madame de 
 Moldau?' he quickly added. 'What did 
 you do with it?' 
 
 ' I was almost inchned to take it to you, 
 sii', or to Father Maret; but on the whole 
 thought it best to return it to her.' 
 
 ' And when you did so ? ' 
 
 ' She seemed embarrassed, but said it was 
 her property. And I made some observa- 
 tions which were painful to her, about people
 
 234 TOO STRANGE 
 
 having secrets ; aud she spoke of parting with 
 me. But it did not come to that. She did 
 not really wish me to go, nor did I really 
 wish to leave her. I have never been happy 
 since that tune. Sometimes I cannot help 
 feehng sorry for her; but when I think she 
 is deceiving you, I should like to drag her 
 before the governor and accuse her to her 
 face. Wlien those o-entlemen came here, 
 Hans told me that the story of the stolen 
 jewels was talked of more than ever at New 
 Orleans, and people now say that the princess 
 was murdered, that her husband was con- 
 cerned in it, and had himself helped the 
 servants to escape. Did you not notice that 
 M. Eeinhart asked her that day if she had 
 been in the princess's household? She 
 answered, " No ;" but I could feel, as I held 
 the back of her chair, that she trembled, and 
 when he spoke of the casket, then she fainted 
 right away. Good heavens ! how ill you 
 look, M. d'Auban ! Alas ! alas ! what can I 
 do ? I am only spealdng the truth. I wish 
 with all my heart it was otherwise. Hate 
 me if you will — despise, disbeheve me, but 
 do not be rash. Do not marry this deceitfid
 
 NOT TO BE TEUE. 235 
 
 woman. You suspect me, perhaps. You 
 tliink that I hope or expect ... Oh never, 
 never in my wildest dreams has such a 
 thought crossed my mind ! If she was as 
 good as she looks, if she would make you 
 happy, wilhngly would I be her slave and 
 yours all my life. K you knew how wretched 
 it makes me to see you look so miserable ! 
 But, oh ! if you marry her and she is 
 guHty ! ' 
 
 ' My dear Simonette,' said d'Auban, inter- 
 rupting her, but speaking much more gently 
 than he had yet done, ' I am sure you mean 
 kindly by me, I should be indeed ungrate- 
 ful did I not beheve in your sincerity. The 
 circumstances you have related are most 
 extraordinary ; I certainly cannot at this 
 moment account for them. But still, I woidd 
 entreat you to suspend your judgment. Do 
 not decide against her till you know 
 more.' 
 
 ' Ah ! that is what Father Maret always 
 says ; but I am afraid she deceives you both.' 
 
 D'Auban eagerly caught at those words. 
 ' Is that what he says ? Then he does not 
 think her guilty?'
 
 236 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' He does not say one thing or the other.' 
 
 'Well, Simonette, I again thank you for 
 your kindness to myself, and I entreat you, 
 for the present, at least, not to speak on this 
 subject to anyone else. I feel bound to tell 
 you that, in spite of the apparent evidence 
 to the contrar}^ I still firmly believe in 
 Madame de Moldau's innocence.' 
 
 ' And you will marry her ? ' exclaimed 
 Simonette, wringing her liands. 
 
 D'Auban tried to speak calmly, but he felt 
 as if the secret recesses of his heart were 
 being probed by the poor girl's pertinacious 
 solicitude. 
 
 ' There is not the least prospect of my 
 marrying Madame de Moldau. Do not dis- 
 tress yourself on that point ; and for my sake 
 be kind and attentive to her during the time 
 she wall yet remain here.' 
 
 ' Is she going away, sir ? ' 
 
 D'Auban covered his face with his hands. 
 She looked at him with anguish. ' How you 
 must hate me ! ' she murmured. 
 
 'No,' he said, recovering his composure. 
 ' No, Simonette, much as I suffer, I do not 
 blame you, my poor girl. It is natural you
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 237 
 
 should have had suspicions — it could iKjt 
 have been otherwise. But I cannot talk to 
 you any more now ; I must be ulone and 
 think over what you have told me. May we 
 all do what is right. If you are going to the 
 villace this evenino;, tell Father Maret I will 
 call on him early to-morrow, and ask him 
 and Therese to pray for us.' 
 
 That evening he sat in his study gazing 
 on the glowing embers and absorbed in 
 thought. Sometimes he started up and 
 walked up and down the room, making a 
 full stop now and then, or, going up to the 
 chimney, rested his head on his hands. ' It 
 would be too strange — too incredible,' he 
 ejaculated ; ' and yet the more I think of it, 
 the more does the idea gain upon me. No, 
 no ; it is a trick of the imagination. If it was 
 so, how did I never come to tliink of it be- 
 fore? Yet it tallies with all the rest. It 
 would explain everything. But I thhik I 
 am going out of my mind to suppose such a 
 thing.' 
 
 There was a knock at the door, and when 
 he said ' Come in,' Simon appeared. 
 
 He had returned, he said, ft^om the north
 
 238 TOO STKANGE 
 
 lakes, whither he had accompanied the 
 travellers who had lately been d'Auban's 
 guests. He thought he would like to hear 
 of their having journeyed so far in safety. 
 Hans had come back with him ; he had had 
 a dispute 'vvith his master about wages, and 
 they had parted company. ' He is gone to 
 St. Agathe this evening ; I fancy he admires 
 my girl. They have always plenty to say to 
 each other. He is a sharp fellow, Hans, and 
 does not let the grass grow under his feet.' 
 
 D'Auban felt a vague uneasiness at hearing 
 of this man's return. It was from him 
 Simonette had heard all the stories against 
 Madame de Moldau. 'I should not tliink,' 
 he said, ' that this man can be a desirable 
 acquaintance for your daughter.' 
 
 ' He seems a good fellow enough, and says 
 that if she will take his advice he can show 
 her how to better herself.' 
 
 ' In what way ? ' 
 
 ' He does not exactly say, but I don't see 
 why she should leave her present situation. 
 Her wages are good, and I do not find she has 
 anything to complain of; but she has always 
 had a queer sort of temper. For my part,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 239 
 
 I think slie might go farther and fare worse. 
 "Well, M. d'Auban, I only just looked in to 
 let you know about your friends ; I am off 
 ao^ain to-morroAv to the Arkansas. Have 
 you any commands ? ' 
 
 ' No, thank you, nothing this time. But 
 just stop a minute ; you have not had a glass 
 of my French brandy. What do you know 
 of this Hans's former history ? ' 
 
 ' Not much. He has been in Spam, and 
 Italy, and Eussia. "We never do know much 
 of the people who come out here.' 
 
 ' I think' you had better warn Simonette 
 not to act on his advice as regards a change 
 of situation. He cannot be a safe adviser or 
 companion for her.' 
 
 ' She does not like him a bit. The girl's 
 as proud as a peacock; I wish she was 
 married and off my hands. Well, this is 
 good cognac, M. d'Auban. It does a man's 
 heart good, and puts him in mind of la 
 belle France. I was thinking, as I walked 
 here, how good your brandy always is.' 
 
 ' It was fortunate, then, I did not forget to 
 offer you a glass of it,' d'Auban said with a 
 smile.
 
 240 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Wlien the bargeman was gone he began 
 again to turn over in his mind the new stran<?e 
 thought which had occupied him for the last 
 two or three hours. From the first day he 
 had made Madame deMoldau's acquaintance 
 he had been liaunted by a fancy that he had 
 seen her before, that her face was not new to 
 him. But that afternoon, whilst Simonette 
 was talking to him, when she mentioned the 
 wife of the Czarovitch (the Princess Charlotte 
 of Brunswick), the thought darted through 
 his mind that the person she reminded him of 
 was this very princess. This idea brought 
 with it a whole train of recollections. Some 
 seven or eight years ago he was traveUing 
 with General Lefort, and they had stopped 
 for two days at Wolfenbuttel, and been invited 
 to a dinner and a ball at the ducal palace. Xow 
 that he came to tliink of it, what an asto- 
 nishing hkeness there was between the lady 
 at St. Agathe and tlie Czarovitch's affianced 
 bride as he remembered her in her edrlhood, 
 — a fair creature, delicate as a harebell, and 
 white as a snowdrop. But it was impossible. 
 He laughed at himself for giving a serious 
 thouglit to so preposterous a conjecture, for
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 241 
 
 was it not well known that that princess was 
 dead ? Had she not been carried in state to 
 her escutcheoned tomb, 
 
 With knightly plumes and banners all waving in the 
 wind, 
 
 and her broken heart laid to rest under a 
 monumental stone as hard as her fate and as 
 silent as her misery ? Can the grave give 
 up its dead ? Had she returned • from the 
 threshold of another world ? Such things 
 have been heard of. Truth is sometimes more 
 extraordinary than fiction. He thought of the 
 stor)" of Eomeo and Juhet, and of the young 
 Ginevra rescued from the charnel-house by 
 her Florentine lover. It is impossible to 
 describe the state of excitement in which he 
 spent that night — now convinced that his 
 conjecture was a reahty, now scouting it as 
 an absurdity — sometimes wishing it might 
 prove true, sometimes hoping it might turn 
 out false ; for if the chivalry and romance of 
 his nature made him long to see the woman 
 he loved af once cleared from the least sus- 
 picion, and to pay that homage to her as a 
 princess which he had instinctively rendered 
 to the daughter of an obscure emigrant ; on 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 TOO STEANGE 
 
 the otlier hand, if she was the Princess 
 Cliarlotte of Brunswick, she was also the 
 wedded mfe of the Czarovitch, and he saw 
 the full meaning of the words she had said on 
 the day she had been received into a Church 
 in which the holy band of marriage is never 
 unloosed, where neither ill-usage, nor deser- 
 tion, nor crime, nor separation, anniliilates the 
 vow once uttered before the altar. Thousfh 
 an ocean may roll its ceaseless tides and a 
 lifetime its revolving years between those it 
 has united, the Catholic Church never 
 sanctions the severance of that tie, but still 
 reiterates the warning of John the Baptist 
 to a guilty king, and that of Pope Clement 
 VII., fifteen hundred years later, to a licen- 
 tious monarch, ' It is not la"\\^ul ; it may 
 not be.' 
 
 Of one thing he felt certain. If Madame 
 de Moldau was the Princess Charlotte, it was 
 impossible to conceive a more extraordinary 
 or more interesting position than hers, or one 
 more fitted to command a disinterested alle- 
 giance and unselfish devotion from the man 
 she had honoured with her friendship. If 
 something so incredible could be true, every
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 243 
 
 mystery would be explained — every doubt 
 would be solved. The blood rushed to his 
 face as he thought of the proposal of marriage 
 he had made to one of so exalted a rank, 
 and of the feeUngs which it must have 
 awakened in her breast. 'Perhaps,' he 
 thought to himself, ' though too generous to 
 resent it, she may have found in those words 
 spoken in ignorance one of the bitterest and 
 most humiliatinof evidences of her fallen 
 position ; ' but then he remembered the tacit 
 avowal Madame de Moldau had made of 
 feelings which did not imply that she was in- 
 different to his attachment. ' Ah ! ' he aQ;ain 
 thought, ' she may wish to withdraw not 
 only from the man she may not wed, but from 
 him whose presumptuous attachment was 
 an miconscious insult ! But I am mad, quite 
 mad,' he would exclaim, ' to be reasoning on 
 so absurd an hypothesis, to be building a 
 whole tissue of conjectures on an utter im- 
 possibility ; but then M. de Chambelle's dying 
 words recurred to him — those strange inco- 
 herent expressions about a mesalliance and a 
 palace, and their relations together, so unlike 
 those of a father and a child, and yet so full 
 
 E 2
 
 244 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 of devotion on his side and of gratitude 
 on hers. 
 
 One by one he went over all the circum- 
 stances Simonette had related. The reports 
 at New Orleans, the sale of the jewels, the 
 Czar's picture in her possession, the stranger's 
 visit, her agitation when the casket was 
 mentioned — everything tallied with his wild 
 guess. It would have been evident had it 
 not been incredible. As it was, he felt 
 utterly bewildered. 
 
 As soon as light dawned he rode to the 
 \dllage. There he heard that Hans had gone 
 away in the night with a party of coureurs 
 des hois. He breakfasted with Father Maret, 
 and aU the time was wondering if, supposing 
 Madame de Moldau was the princess, he was 
 aware of it. She said she had told him 
 everything about herself, so he supposed he 
 did. This thought inspired him witli a sort 
 of embarrassment, and, though longing to 
 speak of what his mind was full of, he did 
 not mention her name. As soon as the meal 
 was over he returned to St. Agatlie, where 
 he had lousiness to transact witli Madame de 
 Moldau. He fomid her sitting at a table in
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 245 
 
 the veraiidali looking over the map of the con- 
 cession. She raised her eyes, so full in their 
 blue depths of a soft and dreamy beauty, to 
 greet him as he approached, and he felt sure 
 at that moment that they were the eyes of 
 the royal maiden of seventeen years of age 
 with whom he had danced one night in her 
 father's palace. He sat down by her as usual, 
 and they began talking of business ; but he 
 was, for the first time perhaps in his life, 
 absent and inattentive to the subject before 
 him. He was reverting to one of those 
 trifling circumstances which remain impressed 
 on a person's memory, and which just then 
 came back into his mind. When the young 
 princess was dancing Avith him she had 
 mentioned that the lady opposite to them had 
 undergone a painful operation to improve the 
 beauty of her features. ' I do not think it 
 was worth while,' she said ; and then, point- 
 ing to a mole on her own arm, had added — 
 * I have been sometimes advised to have this 
 mole burnt off, but I never would.' 
 
 He remembered as well as possible where 
 that mole was — a little higher than the wrist, 
 between the hand and the elbow of the left
 
 246 TOO STEAJSTGE 
 
 arm. Could he but see the arm, which was 
 restmg near him on the table covered by a 
 lace sleeve, all doubt would be at an end. 
 He could not take his eyes off it, and 
 watched her hand which was taldug pencil 
 notes of what he was saying. At that mo- 
 ment a small spider crept out of a bunch of 
 flowers on to the table, and then toAvards the 
 sleeve so anxiously watched. D'Auban no- 
 ticed its progress with the same anxiety 
 with which Eobert Bruce must have 
 observed that of the insect whose persever- 
 ance decided his own. The creature passed 
 from the lace edging to the white arm. 
 Madame de Moldau gave a httle scream and 
 pulled up the sleeve. D'Auban removed the 
 insect, and saw the mole in the very spot 
 where he remembered it. He carried away 
 the spider and laid it on the grass. His 
 heart was beating like the pendulum of a 
 clock ; he did not understand a word she 
 was saying. He could only look at her with 
 speechless emotion. 
 
 ' Sit doAvn again, M. d'Auban,' she said, 
 ' and explain to me where you want to build 
 those huts.'
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 247 
 
 He hesitated, made as if he was going to 
 do as she desired, but, suddenly sinking 
 down on one knee by her side, he took her 
 hand and raised it with the deepest respect 
 to his hps. She turned round, surprised at 
 this action, and she saw that his eyes were 
 full of tears. 
 
 ' What has happened ? — what is the mat- 
 ter ? ' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' Nothing, Princess, only I know every- 
 thing now. Forgive, forget the past, and 
 allow me henceforward to be your servant.' 
 
 ' You ! my servant ! God forbid ! But, 
 good heavens ! who has told you ? M. 
 d'Auban, I had promised never to reveal 
 this secret.' 
 
 ' You have kept yom^ promise, Princess ; 
 notliing but accidental circumstances have 
 made it known to me. Do not look so 
 scared. What have you to fear ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! if you knew what a strange feehng 
 it is to be known, to be addressed in that old 
 way again. It agitates me, and yet — there is 
 a sweetness in it. But how did you discover 
 this incredible fact ? ' 
 
 'It is a long story. Princess. I saw you
 
 248 TOO STRANGE 
 
 some years ago at Wolfenbuttel ; but it is 
 only since yesterday that I have connected 
 that recollection with the impression I have 
 had all along that we were not meeting for 
 the first time here.' 
 
 ' Have you indeed had that feeling, M. 
 d'Auban ? So have I ; but I thought it must 
 be fancy. Did we meet in Eussia ? ' 
 
 ' No ; I left St. Petersburg before your 
 Imperial Highness arrived there. It was at 
 the Palace of Wolfenbuttel that I saw you, a 
 few months before your marriage. I was 
 there with General Lefort.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ! I feel as if I was dream- 
 ing. Is it really I who am talking of my 
 own self and of my former name, and as 
 quietly as if it was a matter of course ? But 
 how extraordinary it is that you should have 
 suddenly recollected where you had seen me ! 
 Wliat led to it ?' 
 
 ' Simonette's suspicions about some jewels, 
 and a picture in your possession.' 
 
 ' Oh yes. I believe the poor girl thinks I 
 have stolen tliem. I perceived that some 
 time ago. I have been very careless in 
 leaving such things about. I do not see any
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 249 
 
 way of explaining to lier how I came by them ; 
 but as I am going soon, it does not signify 
 so much.' 
 
 ' Do you still think you nmst go, Prin- 
 cess ? Does not my knowledge of what you 
 are alter our relative positions. If, implor- 
 ing at your feet forgiveness for the past, I 
 promise ' 
 
 ' Oh, kindest and best of friends, believe 
 me when I say, that it is the wedded wife, 
 not the Imperial Highness who feels herself 
 obliired to foreg;o what has been a blessing, 
 but what might become a temptation. In 
 your conduct there has been nothing but 
 goodness and generosity. Would I could 
 say the same of mine. My only excuse is 
 that my destiny was so unexampled that I 
 deemed myself bound by no ordinary rules. 
 I fancied neither God nor man would call 
 me to account for its driftless com'se. I 
 should have let you know at once that 
 there were reasons of every sort why we 
 could never be anything more than friends to 
 each other. In those days I never looked 
 into my own heart, or into the future at all. 
 Bewildered by the pecuharity of my fate, I
 
 250 TOO STRANGE 
 
 felt as if every tie was broken, every link 
 with the past at an end, save the only one 
 which can never be dissolved — a mother's 
 love for her child. I apphed to myself the 
 words of the Bible, " Free amongst the 
 dead ; " for I had passed through the portals 
 of the grave. It seemed to me as if I had 
 survived my former self, and that ties and 
 duties were buried in the grave on which my 
 name is inscribed. I hved in a state that 
 can hardly be conceived. It was hke grop- 
 ing amongst shadows. Nothing seemed real 
 in or around me. You raised me from that 
 death-like despondency, that cold and silent 
 despair. You made me understand that it 
 was worth while to hve and to struggle.' 
 
 She paused as if to collect her thoughts, 
 and then said with a melancholy smile : 
 
 ' Then you know who I am ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, Princess ; and m that knowledge 
 there is both sadness and joy.' 
 
 ' I ought to have told you long ago that I 
 was married.' 
 
 " Forgive me, Princess, for having 
 dared ' 
 
 ' I have nothing to forgive. On the con-
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 251 
 
 trary, my gratitude for Avliat you have done 
 for me is too deep, too vast, for words. I 
 do not know how to express it. You showed 
 me there could be happiness in the world, 
 even for me. And then you taught me 
 by your example, still more than by your 
 Avords, that there is something better and 
 higlier than earthly happiness. You made 
 me beHeve in the rehgion which bids me part 
 from you, and wliich gives me the strength 
 to do so.' 
 
 ' Thank God that we have met and not 
 met in vain,' d'Auban answered, with the 
 deepest feehng. ' Thank God for the suffer- 
 ings of a separation more bitter than death, 
 if we do but meet at last where the wicked 
 cease from troubhno- ' 
 
 o 
 
 ' Ay, and where the weary are at rest. 
 But now, even now, I am at rest,' she added 
 with an expression of wonderfid sweetness, 
 ' almost for the first time of my life ; and 
 though when I go from hence and leave you 
 and Father Maret behind, I shall be the most 
 lonely, perliaps, of all God's creatm'es, the 
 most sohtary being that ever wandered on 
 the face of the earth seeking a spot wherein
 
 252 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 to liide and die, I feel happy Can you 
 
 miderstand this, M. d'Auban ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ; for it is the Christian's secret.' 
 
 ' But you have always had faith — ^you can- 
 not perhaps quite conceive the feehngs of 
 those who once w^ere bhnd and now see. 
 You don't know what it is to have hved half 
 a hfetime in darkness, and then to feel the 
 glorious hglit breaking in upon your soul 
 and floodin<y it with sunshine ! ' 
 
 D'Auban was too much moved to speak 
 for awhile, and then said, ' Would it agitate 
 or pain you, Princess, to relate to me the 
 particulars of ' 
 
 ' Of my extraordinary history — my un- 
 paralleled escape ? No, I think I can go 
 through it, and I should like to do so. I 
 wish you to know all that has happened to 
 me. It will be a comfort to us hereafter to 
 have spoken quite openly to each other be- 
 fore we parted.' 
 
 It was in the following words that Madame 
 de Moldau told her story.
 
 NOT TO BE TKUE. 253 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 MADAME DE MOLDAU'S STOEY. 
 
 I will relate all my years in the bitterness of my soul. 
 
 Ezekiah's Song. 
 
 And shf* hath -n-anderecl long and far 
 
 Beneath the light of sun and star, 
 
 Hath roamed in trouble and in grief, 
 
 Driven for^-ard like a withered leaf, 
 
 Yea, like a ship at random blown 
 
 To distant places and imknown. Wordsworth. 
 
 'My cliildliood went by like a pleasant 
 (li-eam. The ducal palace in wliicli I was 
 born, with its gay parterres, its green bowers, 
 and the undulating hills which surround it, 
 often rises before me like a vision of fairy- 
 land. My sister and myself were brought 
 up like birds in a gilded cage, and with about 
 as much knowledge of the external world as 
 the doves we kept to play with or the gold- 
 fish in our mimic lakes. Our governess was 
 an elderly lady of rank, who had all the
 
 254 TOO STRANGE 
 
 kindness, the placidity, and the romantic 
 sentimentahty of the Northern German 
 character. We were, I suppose, sweet-tem- 
 pered children, and scarcely a ripple marred 
 the smooth surface of our even days. No- 
 thing but gentleness was shown to us. Study 
 was made interesting. We led a charmed 
 existence, such as is depicted in fairy tales, 
 and seeing nothing as it really is. We 
 thought peasants were hke the shepherds 
 and shepherdesses made of Dresden China, 
 and that the poor were people who hved in 
 small houses covered with roses and called 
 cottages. As to the world of politics and 
 fashion, we formed our ideas of it from 
 Mdlle. de Scudery's novels. Nothing vicious 
 or unrefined was sufiered to approach us. 
 We were taught music and morality, lan- 
 guages and universal benevolence. Eeligion 
 was exhiljited to us as a sentiment w^ell 
 fitted to impart elevation to the mind, and 
 to give a relish for the beauties of nature. 
 Virtue, we were assured, was its own reward. 
 Oh ! M. d'Auban, how well all this sounded 
 in the morning of life, in an atmosphere of 
 unrufiled tranquillity and youthful enjoyment,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 255 
 
 in tliose secluded bowers wliere my young 
 sister and myself wandered hand in hand, 
 playing in the sunshine, slumbering in the 
 shade, and resting our heads at night on the 
 same pillow. The happiness of tliose early 
 years looked and felt so hke virtue. And as 
 we grew older, the love of poetry and art, 
 and our intense affection for each other, and 
 our enthusiasm for the Fatherland and its 
 legends and traditions, filled up a space left 
 purposely vacant in our hearts and minds. 
 No definite faith was instilled into our souls. 
 We were instructed in the philosophy which 
 looks on all dogmas with indifference. It 
 was only on the map that we were permitted 
 to distinguish between the creeds which men 
 profess. We were to be educated to respect 
 them all, and to beheve in none till the day 
 when diplomacy decided our fate, and our 
 consequent adherence to one religion or 
 another. Trained in indifference, doomed to 
 hypocrisy ! None of those who surrounded 
 us held nobler views or a higher languaee 
 than this. That dear kind old friend, who died 
 the other day, you must have noticed yourself 
 the tone of his mind when first you knew
 
 256 TOO STRANGE 
 
 him. He was our chamberlain from the 
 time we were old enough to have a house- 
 hold appointed for us. Even in those days 
 we pla}^ully called him father, as I have 
 done in sad and sober earnest and Avith good 
 reason since. But I will not linger any 
 longer over the remembrance of those scenes 
 and of that time. I will not describe to 
 you Wolfenbuttel, the miniature valley, the 
 smooth green hills, the silveiy river, the old 
 palace, the library where we used to see 
 learned men assembhng from all parts of the 
 world ' 
 
 ' I have seen it,' said d'Auban. ' I have 
 seen those hills, that palace. I saw you and 
 and your fair sister, the very day (so I was 
 told at the time) that you were about to part 
 with her.' 
 
 ' Did you ? It was the day after a ball.' 
 
 ' Yes, that very ball where I was permitted 
 to dance \\dth you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! is it not strange that those who are 
 destined to play so great a part in one 
 another's life can be so unconsciously breath- 
 ing the same air, gazing on the same scenes, 
 speaking careless words to each other !
 
 NOT TO BK TRUK. 257 
 
 But tell inc, did you feel sorry for me tlien ? 
 Did you foresee what I should suffer ? ' 
 
 ' I remember musing on the fate wliich 
 awaited you, but with more of wonder than 
 pity. It seemed to me as if the most savage 
 of men must soften towards you, and I felt 
 more inchned to compassionate those you 
 were about to leave than to foresee suffering 
 in a destiny which promised to be brilliant.' 
 
 ' Well, I parted witli my sister, took a last 
 farewell of the happy scenes of my cliildhood, 
 received a wTcath of flowers at the hands of 
 the maidens of Wolfenbuttel, and many a 
 splendid gift from kings and from princes. 
 I left the ducal palace and the fair valley in 
 Avhich it stands with a sorroAvful but not 
 a desponding heart, for I was fulfilling a 
 woman's and a princess's part. Forgetting 
 my father's house, I said to myself, going 
 forth like Eebekah to meet an unknown 
 husband in a strange land. My sister, so 
 said the poets of the ducal court, was to Aved 
 the Austrian eagle ; I was to be the mate of 
 the Imperial bird of the north. " Joy to the 
 Czarovitch's bride ! " the sound rang in my 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ears, and my lieart beat with more of hope 
 than of fear. Tlie title of tlie son of the 
 Czar pleased my girlish fency, and I had a 
 romantic admiration for the great Emperor 
 whom the philosophers and the men of letters 
 of my country extolled as the greatest hero 
 of the age. It was to Torgau that my father 
 took me to meet Peter the Great and his son. 
 I have often wondered if he had a presenti- 
 ment that day of the doom of his child. I 
 stood by his side in the chamber which had 
 been fitted up for the first interview. The door 
 was thrown open, and the Czar came in. I 
 knelt at his feet and besouo;ht him to be a 
 father to me. He spoke kindly to me. I 
 raised my eyes to his face. It is a handsome 
 one, as you know, but I was struck with the 
 dead coldness of his eye, and the fearful 
 tAvdtch whicli sometimes convulsed his fea- 
 tures. And then he presented the prince to 
 me.' 
 
 Madame de Moldau paused, hid her face in 
 her hands, whilst tears fell like rain through 
 her slender fingers. 
 
 ' It is too much for you,' exclaimed d'Auban, 
 ' too painful, too agitating to go through
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 259 
 
 such a narrative — to sjieak of tliat man who 
 
 was ' 
 
 ' Wlio is my husband — the father of my 
 child — my persecutor, my enemy, and yet 
 
 Oil ! sometimes, since I have had time to 
 
 look back upon the past, since in profound 
 self-abasement I have sunk at our Lord's feet 
 and felt my own need of mercy, I have 
 pitied hhn^ and felt that others will have to 
 answer for much of his guilt. Yes, that great 
 man, his father, has dealt cruelly with a 
 nature that was not altogether bad. He cut 
 down the wheat with the tares in a heart as 
 full of wild passions and as fierce as his own, 
 but of a far different stamp. It is impossible 
 to imagine two beings brought up in a more 
 different manner than the Czarovitch and 
 myself. Darkness and gloom had over- 
 shadowed his cradle ; the rancour which was 
 fostered in his soul from the earliest dawn of 
 reason was johied to a passionate attachment 
 to the customs, manners, rehgion, and lan- 
 guage of the Muscovite nation. Early in life 
 he had felt a burning resentment at the 
 banishment and disgrace of his unhappy 
 mother, the Empress Eudoxia. In the visits 
 
 s 2
 
 260 TOO STKANGE 
 
 he obliaed me to pay to " Sister Helen," the 
 pale ^vil(] -looking recluse of the monastic 
 prison of Isdal, I saw that the same passions 
 "whicli influenced him were eating her heart 
 away in that horrible solitude ; and what a 
 fiital effect they had upon his character ! Yet 
 I was glad ; yes, it was a rehef to see that 
 he loved her, that he loved anyone. His 
 detestation of the Empress Catherine was as 
 vehement as his sense of his mother's wrono-s.' 
 
 ' There is something very fearful,' d'Auban 
 said, ' in a child's hatred. It is almost always 
 founded on a secret or acknowledged con- 
 sciousness of injustice, on the feeling that 
 some great injury has been done to itself or 
 to another. Nothing destroys so effectually 
 youthfulness of heart.' 
 
 ' And the prince's hatred extended also hi 
 some measure to his father : he looked upon 
 him as an oppressor whose will it was all but 
 hopeless to Avithstand, but a sort of infatua- 
 tion urged him on to the luiequal struggle. 
 There was not one subject on which the son 
 did not abhor his father's policy. He detested 
 foreign manners and foreign langur.ges, and, 
 above all, foreiijn innovations. He loathed
 
 XOT TO r>F. TRUE. 2G1 
 
 tlic sight of tlic new cu[)it;il, wliicli luid risen 
 up ill a (lay, and taken tlie place of the 
 beautiful city of his birth — the Queen of tlie 
 old Muscovite empire. The Emperor's as- 
 sumption of supremacy in ecclesiastical mat- 
 ters, and the suppression of the ])atri[irchate, 
 were in his eyes acts of audacious impiety. 
 His attachment to thcoloirical studies in liis 
 youth was a singular trait in his character. 
 He had twice written out the whole of the 
 Bible in his own hand, and was by no means 
 an unlearned man. But at the time of our 
 marriage he was surrounded alternately by 
 his drunken companions and by the clergy 
 of the Eussian Church. From a child he 
 was taught to conspire, and urged to carry 
 on a fruitless contest with a master mind and 
 a despotic will which crushed him and raised 
 liim up again with contemptuous ease. He 
 was always lifting up his arm against the 
 giant who despised him. Defeated, but not 
 subdued, he maddened in the conflict, and 
 vented his rage on those within his reach. 
 M. d'Auban, do you remember the Indian 
 legend that Therese repeated to us on the 
 eve of New Year's Day.?'
 
 262 TOO STRANGE 
 
 'Th(j story of Hiawatha? I noticed at 
 the time that some parts of it seemed to 
 strike you very mucli.' 
 
 ' It made me think of the struggle I am 
 spealving of. Those stanzas particularly which 
 describe how Hiawatha fought with his father, 
 the ruler of the west wind, to avenge the 
 wrongs of his mother, the lily of the prairie, 
 the beautiful Wenonah. How he hurled at 
 the giant the fragments of jutting I'ocks : 
 
 For Ins heart was hot within him, 
 Like a living coal his heart was ; 
 But the ruler of the west wind 
 Blew the fragments backward from him 
 With the breathing of his nostrils, 
 With the tempest of his anger. 
 
 Yes, those words made me think of the 
 Czarovitch's struggle against his iron-hearted 
 father, who never loved him, but bore with 
 him ; and with a great patience, in which there 
 was not one atom of feeling or of kindness, 
 sought to make him a fit successor to his 
 throne. 
 
 ' Xow, M. d'Auljan, you can imagine with 
 Avhat feehngs that rebellious spirit, tliat re- 
 sentful son, that wild and weak young man,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 263 
 
 must have looked upon the bride which liis 
 father had chosen for him — the German 
 bride, who conld not speak one word of the 
 Eussian language, and who, with childlike 
 imprudence, showed her aversion to many of 
 the customs of Eussia, some of them the very 
 ones which Alexis would almost have died to 
 uphold ; who spoke witli enthusiasm of the 
 Czar ; who babbled, God forgive her ! of 
 philosophy and free thinking, but loathed the 
 sight of his vices and excesses. In those first 
 days of marriage, of complete ignorance of 
 all that surrounded me, how I rushed, like a 
 fool, where angels, as the English poet said, 
 would have feared to tread ! How I uncon- 
 sciously sported with the elements of future 
 misery, and thought I could tame, by playful 
 looks and words, the fierce natin^e of my 
 husband ! 
 
 ' It was a few days after we had arrived at 
 the palace at St. Petersburg, that I received 
 my first lesson in the Greek rehgion ; and in 
 the evening, whilst conversing with General 
 Apraxin, I laughed at the pains which my 
 instructor had taken to explain to me that 
 the Czar could not be Antichrist, as the
 
 2G4 TOO STRANGE 
 
 number 666 was not to be found in bis name. 
 I saw my luisbancVs eyes fixed upon me with 
 a look of hatred wliich curdled the blood in 
 my veins. Another time I was listening 
 with a smile to the ridiculous account which 
 one of the Czar's favourite French olficers 
 was givmg of the discipline to wliich the 
 Eussian peasants subjected their wives, and 
 of the pride which a true Muscovite woman 
 took in the chastisements inflicted by her 
 lord and master. The word " Barbarians " 
 escaped my lips. The Czarovitch started up 
 in a fury, and dealing me a heavy blow, ex- 
 claimed — " This will teach you, madame, to 
 turn into ridicule the ancient customs of this 
 nation." 
 
 ' I turned away fi'om him with a cry of 
 terror, and from that day I never was free 
 from fear in his presence. When the Czar 
 was within reach I felt sure of his protection, 
 but he was seldom at St. Petersburf^ or at 
 Moscow for any length of time, and I was 
 left to the tender mercies of my husband. 
 
 ' Oh what that life was ; what that hfe be- 
 came — every part of it, every moment of it ! 
 I had not one hmnan being about mc whom
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 265 
 
 I could truiit, except my faitliful M. de t5asse 
 — M. de Chambelle, as we called him here — 
 Avlio alone had been suffered to accompany 
 me to Eiissia. He was of Eussian parentage 
 himself, and obtained permission to enter my 
 household. The Countess of Konigsmark was 
 very kind to me, and there was one other 
 person in that great empire who also felt for 
 the Czarovitch's wife ; one whom many speak 
 against ; one whose life has been as extra- 
 ordinary, though a very different one from 
 mine ; one who may have been guilty to- 
 wards others, God only knows, bui to me a 
 friend to more than royal friendship true. 
 Never, as long as hfe and memory last, can I 
 forget the kindness of the Empress Catherine. 
 ' The first day I saw her — it was just after 
 the Czar had recognised her as his wife — my 
 heart was very sore. Disenchantment, that 
 sickness of the soul — a still more hopeless 
 one than that of hope deferred — had come 
 over me. Xo one had said a word of tender- 
 ness to me since I had left my home. The 
 Countess of Konigsmark was not yet in 
 Eussia. I had no feehng for or against the 
 new empress. My husband detested her ;
 
 266 TOO STRANGE 
 
 but I had espoused none of his hatreds, and 
 was more indined towards those whom his 
 friends opposed than those whom they fa- 
 voured. When I saw her handsome face 
 beaming upon me with the sunshiny look 
 Avhich, it is said, made her fortune, it seemed 
 as if a ray of real sunshine had, for a moment, 
 shone upon me. I suppose I must have 
 looked \erj miserable. She had not yet 
 learnt the cold reserve which royalty en- 
 forces. The womanly heart of the Lithuanian 
 peasant warmed towards the desolate prin- 
 cess ; she clasped me to her breast, and I 
 felt hot tears faUing on my brow. She doubt- 
 less guessed wdiat I had already suffered, and 
 the doom that was reserved to me; for she 
 knew what it was to be wedded to a Eomanoff 
 — to live in fear and trembling with a hand 
 on the lion's mane. She knew how fierce a 
 thino; was even the love of one of that race : 
 well might she divine what their hatred must 
 be. Our meetings were not frequent — om* 
 interviews short. The Czar, as you know% 
 was ever travelling in and beyond his vast 
 empire, and she was ever by his side. It 
 was his desire, at that time, that the
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 267 
 
 Czarovitcli shoLilcl try his liuiid at governing 
 diirino- those absences. He took care, how- 
 ever, to restrain his power, and to have a close 
 watch kept over his actions. He compelled 
 me, in spite of the ever-increasing bad treat- 
 ment of the prince, to remain with him ; for 
 he knew that all my ideas coincided with his 
 own, and were opposed to tliose of my hus- 
 band. He hoped I should gain an influence 
 over him. It was a vain hope. 
 
 ' I will not dwell on one circumstance of 
 my history — which, as you have resided 
 in Eussia, you probably are acquainted with. 
 You doubtless heard it said, that Charlotte of 
 Brunswick had a rival in the person of a 
 Eussian slave.' 
 
 ' I knew it,' said d'Auban, with emotion. 
 
 'It was no secret,' Madame de Moldau 
 went on to say. 'The prince used, in my 
 presence, to complain that the Czar had mar- 
 ried a peasant, and that he had been com- 
 pelled to wed a princess. 
 
 'Now you can understand what a fatal 
 effect my position had upon me, as regarded 
 rehgion. How I hated the creed which it 
 had been agreed upon as a condition of my
 
 268 TOO STRANGE 
 
 marriage that I sliould profess ; wliicli they 
 wisliecl to teacli me, as if it had been a lan- 
 ijuaae and a science. A Protestant may be 
 a sceptic, and yet scarcely conscious of hypo- 
 crisy in calhng liimself a Christian ; but the 
 Greek rehgion enforces observances wliich 
 are a mockeiy if practised without faith in 
 them. I would not receive the sacraments 
 of the Greek Church. The Czar did not com- 
 pel me to it ; but many a fearful scene I had 
 with my husband on that account. When, 
 on state occasions, I went to church with him, 
 my presence only irritated his fanaticism. 
 His religion consisted in a kind of gloomy, 
 intense devotion to a national form of 
 worship, identified with liis prejudices, but 
 without any influence on his heart or life. 
 My own early imj)ressions were too vague, 
 too indefinite, to offer anv standimx-oround 
 between tlie tenets which Avere forced upon 
 me and the scepticism in which I took re- 
 fuge. Can you wonder that I l^ecame almost 
 an infidel ? ' 
 
 It would have been stranse had it been 
 
 otherwise,' d'Auban answered. ' It is a great 
 mercy that the principle of faith was not
 
 NOT TO BK TRUE. 200 
 
 utterly destroyed in your soul. But it is, 
 tliank God, only wilful resistance to trutli 
 which hopelessly hardens the heart. You 
 were guiltless of that.' 
 
 ' Ever)^thing that now appears to me in 
 another hght, under another aspect, was then 
 distorted, as if to delude me. The prince 
 used to take me in secret to tlie monastery of 
 Isdal to see his mother and his aunt, the 
 Princess Sophia — the so-called nuns, the un- 
 ha})py recluses whose bodies were confined 
 ui this cloistered prison, whose hearts and 
 minds were incessantly bent on aml3itious 
 projects, on intrigue and on revenge. Sister 
 Helen's fierce denunciations of the Czar and 
 the Empress Catherine still ring in my ears. 
 When I am ill and Aveak, her face, as I used 
 to see it, half concealed by a dark cowl, 
 haunts me like a spectre. And the Czar"s 
 sister — her haughty silence — her command- 
 ing fonn — her eye bright and cold as a 
 turquoise, watching the foreigner with a 
 keenness which froze the blood in my veins ; 
 how I trembled when I encountered its gaze ! 
 how I shuddered when Sister Helen called 
 me, daughter !
 
 270 TOO STKANGE 
 
 ' I am afi-aid of weaiying you, M. d'Auban, 
 ^vith the detail of my sufferings, but I want 
 you to know what my life has been^ — ' 
 
 ' I would not lose one word, one single 
 word, of this mournful story. It tells upon 
 me more deeply than j^ou think. Go on. 
 It vdW be better for you to have told, and 
 for me to have heard, that such things have 
 happened in God's world. May He forgive 
 those who have thus wi^ought with you, 
 my ' 
 
 He stopped. The Avords ' beloved one,' 
 were on his hps, but were checked m time. 
 It was a hard task for tliat man to hear her 
 tale of sorrow, and not pour forth in biu-ning 
 words the feeUnsfs of his heart. 
 
 She continued : ' Everything was a trial 
 to me during those dreadful years. The 
 barbarous magnificence of the court, which 
 always in the absence, and sometimes in the 
 presence, of the Czar was mixed up with 
 drunken orgies and savage revelries, which 
 sometimes, out of caprice, the prince forced 
 me to witness. At other times I was left in 
 absolute neglect, and even penuiy. 
 
 ' You have sometimes wondered at my
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 271 
 
 patient endurance for a few weeks of tlie 
 horrors, as you termed tliera, of Simon's 
 barge, and tlie hut wliere we were first 
 sheltered under these sunny skies. You did 
 not know that I had once almost starved 
 in a cold northern palace, well-nigh perished 
 from nes^lect. 
 
 ' At a moment's notice, a summons would 
 come to accompany the prince to meet his 
 father at some distant part of the empire ; 
 five or six hundred leagues were to be tra- 
 versed, day and night, with scarcely any 
 interval of repose. He detested those forced 
 marches, and used sometimes to feio-n illness 
 in order to avoid them. Wlien we joined 
 the court I was secure for awhile from ill- 
 treatment, for the Czar was always kind, tlie 
 Empress affectionate to me ; but then I used 
 to suffer in another way. You will under- 
 stand it : something ^^ou said to me about 
 the Czar makes me sure you -will. Since my 
 girhsh days I had looked upon him with 
 adnmation — his prowess, his intellect, his 
 energy, the immense works he had achieved, 
 his gigantic creations, had stimulated all the 
 enthusiasm of my nature. Perhaps my hus-
 
 272 TOO STRAXGE 
 
 band -svoulcl not have hated me so bitterly if I 
 had not exalted Jiis fother's name, his schemes, 
 and his innovations with an enthusiasm, and 
 in a wav, which was sail and wormwood 
 to him. When I was suffering the deepest 
 liumiHations, when insulted and ill-used by 
 the Czarovitch, I used to gloiy that I was 
 the Czar's daughter — that my child would be 
 his grandson. But shadows gradually dark- 
 ened these visions. A cold chill was thrown 
 over my youthful anticipations. This did 
 not arise from the stories my husband and 
 his friends related against the Emperor. I 
 disbeheved them. The slaughter of thou- 
 sands of men — the extermination of the 
 Strehtz — I recked not of. The majesty of 
 the crown had to be vindicated. The young 
 Czar, in the hour of his might and of his 
 triumph, bore the aspect of an avenging 
 divinity m my blinded vision, and the glories 
 of a nation rose out of the stern retributive 
 justice of these acts. 
 
 ' But when in liis palace, for the first time, 
 I saw him give way to passion, not as a 
 sovereign, but as a savage (you used that 
 Avord once; I fear- it is the true one);
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 2 / O 
 
 when I saw him, witli my own eyes, strike 
 his courtiers; wlien witli trembling horror I 
 heard of his cutting off the liead of a criminal 
 with his own hand, and another time of his 
 administering the knout himself to a slave — 
 then the veil fell from my eyes — then the 
 dream was over. The dis2;ustin2; buffooneries 
 he delighted in were also a torment to me. 
 The cynical derisive pantomimes enacted in 
 his presence, in which even the sacred 
 ceremony of marriage Avas profaned and 
 ridiculed ; the priesthood, degraded though 
 they might be, turned into ridicule — it was 
 all so revolting;, so debasina". Xo doubt he 
 was great in what he conceived and in 
 what he executed. No doubt he created an 
 empire in a few years, and raised up cities 
 and fleets even as other men put up a tent 
 or launch a ship. But, M. d'Auban, do you 
 believe that he has founded that empire on a 
 lasting foundation — do you think that the 
 examples he gave will bequeath to the 
 Eussian nation those principles of morality 
 which are the strength of a people ? ' 
 
 ' I place no reliance,' answered d'Auban, 
 'in reforms brought about by despotic 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 TOO STRANGE 
 
 power, or in a civilisation which improves 
 the intellect and softens the manners ^\dthout 
 amending the heart and converting the soul. 
 Did you ever venture to express these ideas 
 to the Czar ? ' 
 
 'Sometimes, in a general Avay, but you 
 must remember, that whatever may have 
 been right in my impressions at that time, 
 was the result of a conscientious instinct, 
 not of any definite principles. I was afraid 
 of showing him how much I dishked the 
 bad taste of his favourite amusements. 
 Once when the Czar had given way before 
 me to a degrading transport of passion, he 
 said to me afterwards, " Ah, it is easier to 
 reform an empire than to reform oneself." 
 There was something grand in this acknow- 
 ledsment from one with whom no one on 
 earth would have dared to find fault.' 
 
 'Amendment would liave been grander. 
 But the fact is, he liad no wish to amend. 
 He has no faith, no principles. Ambition is 
 his ruling passion, and what in him looks 
 like virtue is the far-sighted policy of a wise 
 legislator. Wliat unmitigated suffering the 
 atmosphere of that coin^t must have been to a
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 275 
 
 nature like yours ! The natural goodness of 
 your heart, as well as your refined tastes 
 incessantly offended by the iniquities which 
 compassed you about on every side, and at 
 that time, no firm footinrj on which to take 
 your own stand in the midst of all that 
 corruption.' 
 
 ' Yes, even those whom I had a better 
 opinion of, and who took an mterest in me, 
 men embued with the philosophical ideas 
 which are gaining ground so fast in 
 France and in Germany, but who scorned 
 the grosser vices and coarse manners of my 
 husband's companions, had nothing better to 
 recommend to me, m order to strengthen my 
 mind and guard me against temptation, than 
 reading Plutarch's Lives and Montesquieu's 
 works. General Apraxin, Count Gagarin, and 
 Mentzchikoff, the Emperor's favourite, were 
 of the number of these friends who ridiculed 
 the longbeards, as they called the clergy, and 
 applauded my aversion to the ceremonies of 
 the national rehgion. They opened my eyes 
 to the dangers which surrounded me. One 
 of them informed me that every lady in my 
 household was a spy — some in the Emperor's 
 
 m •/
 
 27G TOO STRANGE 
 
 and some in my liusband's interest. Another 
 warned me never to speak in a low voice to 
 any of my attendants, as I should be suspected 
 of conspiring. And one day the Countess of 
 Konigsmark (this was about two years after 
 my marriage) brouglit me secretly a box 
 containing a powerful antidote against poison, 
 with the assurance that I might have occasion 
 to use it ; that there was no longer any doubt 
 that the Czaro\"itch intended to make away 
 Avith me, in order to marry tlie slave Afrosina. 
 Then fear of another sort became my daily 
 lot ; imeasiness by day and terror by night. 
 If ever tlie story of Damocles was realised in 
 a living being's existence, it was in mine. 
 The torment of that continual fear became 
 almost unbearable, and the home-sickness 
 preyed upon my spirits Avith unremitting 
 intensity. It was at once the prisoner's and 
 the exile's yearning — the l^urtlien of royalty 
 and that of poverty also. I Avas penniless 
 amidst splendour ; in debt, and deprived, at 
 times, of the most common comforts of life. 
 On state occasions decked out Avith eastern 
 magnificence, at home in miserable pemiry. 
 Often I Avas obliL^'d to submit to arranG:e-
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 277 
 
 meiits wliich were intoleruble to a person of 
 even ordinary refinement. In the temporary- 
 residences which we occupied during the 
 progresses of the court, my apartment was 
 crowded with female slaves, both by day and 
 by night; and tliere was more vermin in 
 some of the Muscovite palaces than in the 
 wigwams of our poor Indians. 
 
 ' One of the pecuharities of my fate in those 
 days was tliat of being, in one sense, never 
 alone, and continually so in another. If 
 amongst my attendants I seemed to dis- 
 tinguish one from the rest — if any affection 
 seemed to spring up between one of my 
 ladies and myself, she was at once dismissed 
 from my sight, exiled to Siberia, or compelled, 
 perhaps, to marry some person of obscure 
 station.' 
 
 'An equally dreadful fate in your eyes, 
 princess,' said d'Auban, in a voice in wdiich 
 there was a slight shade of wounded feehng. 
 Madame de Moldau did not seem to notice it. 
 
 ' Tlie loss was the same to me in Ijoth 
 cases,' she said. ' The severity of the trial to 
 them must have depended on the pecuharities 
 of their own character, or the disposition of
 
 278 TOO STRANGE 
 
 the porson they were forced to wed. I 
 envied them all, I beheve — the exiles to 
 Siberia most. I would have gone anywhere, 
 done anything to fly away and be at rest ; 
 and there was no rest — think of that ! no 
 rest to body, heart, or mind ! One while, the 
 Czarovitch would bring his friends into my 
 room, and hold his drunken revels there, 
 playing at a game where the penalty con- 
 sisted in swallowing large bowls of brandy at 
 one draught. He used roughly to compel 
 me to join in these sports, and brutally re- 
 sented my ill-concealed disgust. Another 
 while he assembled some of the Greek priests 
 of the old school, and held "with them long 
 theological discussions in my presence. If I 
 looked weaiy and distracted he called me a 
 Gennan infidel, and cursed the day he had 
 married me. Now you see why I shuddered 
 when you first spoke to me of religion. It 
 Avas as if the spectre of past suffering had 
 suddenly risen up before me, and touched me 
 with its cold hand. One more word before 
 I arrive at the closinG; scene of these lono; 
 years of anguish. I have been a mother, Ijut 
 I have not known a mother's joy. I went
 
 NOT TO BK TRUE. 279 
 
 through the trying hour of a woman's hfe, 
 without one word of affection or of tender- 
 ness to soothe or to support me. In a cold 
 desolate apartment in the winter palace, more 
 hke a hall than a chamber, my son was born. 
 The Czar and the Empress were hundreds of 
 leagues away. There was a ceremonial to be 
 observed which was as the laws of the Medes 
 and Persians. No ])article of it was to be 
 infringed, but the actors in it forgot or 
 refused to come and perform their parts ; 
 and no peasant, no slave, no criminal, was 
 ever left in such helpless abandonment as the 
 Czarovitch's wife. They carried away my 
 mfant. They kept him out of my sight. 
 They left me alone shivering, shuddering, 
 pining in solitude, conjuring up visions of 
 terror dming the long interminable nights, and 
 nervous fancies without end. Hating to live, 
 fearing to die, trembling at every sound, weary, 
 weary unto death, I lay there thinking of my 
 cliild in the hands of strano-ers, deeminer that 
 the poison I had been threatened with might 
 be even then destined for him, and the while 
 cannons were firino- and bells rino-ino;, and 
 men carousing for joy that an heir was born
 
 280 TOO STKANGE 
 
 to tlie house of Eomnnoff. Forty days 
 elapsed and I was at last permitted to see 
 my son. The Czai- had returned, and the 
 Empress Catherine brought him in her arms 
 to my bed-side. ... I looked at the 
 little face a long time. She was very patient 
 with me (the Empress), she did not tiy to 
 stop my weeping. She laid the baby one 
 moment on my bosom, but it was not to stay 
 with its mother. The Czar would not allow 
 his son the possession of the heir to the 
 throne. I was allowed to see him sometimes, 
 not often. That same day I was churched 
 in my bed-chamber, in the presence of the 
 Emperor and the Empress. The Patriarch 
 performed the ceremony. I went through it 
 with a heart of stone. There was no thanks- 
 giving on my lips, and no gratitude in my 
 heart. I felt as if I was an atheist, and 
 wished myself dead.' 
 
 ' Are you very tired ? ' anxiously asked 
 d'Auban, frightened at Madame de Moldau's 
 paleness, as she leant back in her chair, and 
 closed her eyes for a moment. 
 
 ' No ; I was tliinking of the visits I used 
 to pay to my child at stated times only.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 281 
 
 How I used to stand by the cradle, covered 
 with ermine, gazing on my sleeping baby, 
 and how when he awoke he turned away 
 crying at the sight of a stranger — of his 
 mother. And on my retm-n to my detested 
 home, what wild dreams I had of escape, of 
 freedom ! What vain schemes would flit at 
 those times across my fevered brain of a 
 flight to my own land with my infant in my 
 arms, of hiding in some lone wood, amidst 
 the green hills of my native land, where for 
 one hour I might sit with my child upon my 
 knees, gazing into his eyes. I have heard 
 you pity the slave whose child is sold from 
 her bosom. Alas ! I was almost as much 
 deprived of mine as the poor negress in 
 the slave market of New Orleans. And I 
 dream sometimes even now of soft lips 
 against my cheek, and little hands about my 
 neck, which I never felt, which I shall never 
 
 feel Not even as a stranger shall I ever 
 
 look again on ' 
 
 ' The Czarovitch's son,' said d'Auban, with 
 a strong rising in his heart. It was almost 
 more than he could endure to hearken to 
 this story in silence. He was more deeply
 
 282 TOO STRANGE 
 
 moved than she could know. What it was a 
 rehef to lier to tell, it was agony to him to 
 hear. There are records of human iniquity 
 and human suffering which fill the soul with 
 a burning indignation, which wring it with 
 an intolerable pity, which makes us bless 
 God that we have never been tempted 
 beyond what we could beai' ; that we have 
 never been, hke poor Charlotte Corday, for 
 instance, maddened into one of those crimes 
 which almost look like virtue. 
 
 D'Auban was thankful that day that the 
 wide Atlantic rolled between liim and the 
 royal miscreant who had done such deeds of 
 shame. 
 
 'A few more words, and then you will 
 have heard all,' Madame de Moldau said, 
 'all that I can tell of the closing scene of 
 that long agony of fear and suffering. I was 
 continually Avarned of my danger : con- 
 tinually received messages to put me on my 
 guard against eating certain food, or speak- 
 ing alone to some particular person. The 
 Czarovitch himself had often uttered dark 
 threats, in which I clearly perceived the 
 doom I had to expect at his hands. His
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 283 
 
 hatred of me seemed to grow every day 
 more intense. At last I discovered that a 
 conspiracy against his father was on foot. 
 Evidence of it fell in my hands. His mother, 
 his sister, and his friends, as well as a large 
 number of the Greek clergy, were engaged 
 in it. I was thrown mto strange perplexities. 
 Whatever Idndness I had received in Eussia 
 was from the Czar and his consort, and my 
 soul revolted at the idea of being imphcated 
 in my husband's unnatural conduct. 
 
 ' One day I took courage. We were alone 
 to2;ether, which was not often the case. I 
 told him of my suspicions, my more than 
 suspicious of the plot he was engaged in. 
 Oh ! the look of his face at that moment ! I 
 dare not fix my thoughts on it. I remember 
 every word he said, " that I had been his evil 
 genius ; that instead of marrying a woman 
 he loved, he had been made to wed a pale 
 spectre who had haunted him as the White 
 Lady who foreshadows death in royal houses. 
 That I hated his mother, and despised his 
 church, but now the crisis was come. The 
 day of doom at hand. The destinies of 
 Eussia were at stake. Swear," he said.
 
 284 TOO STKAXGE 
 
 "Swear by God, tliat is, if indeed you believe 
 there is a God — swear tliat you will be silent 
 as the grave regarding the glorious deliveiy 
 which is at hand. Do you value your life?" 
 he said savagely, as I turned away from him 
 Avithout replying. " Do you value your life ? " 
 he lepeated, his eyes glowing with an ex- 
 pression of mingled hatred and fear. 
 
 ' " What has my life been that I should 
 value it?" I cried, the strong sense of accu- 
 mulated wrongs finding vent at last. " What 
 has my hfe been but a hving death since I 
 set foot in this detested land, since I became 
 the bride of a savage. Give me back my 
 own countr}', give me back my youth " 
 
 ' " Your youth," he cried, " your country. 
 Cursed be the day when you came from it, 
 and stood between me and the true wife of 
 my heart, and threw the cold shade of your 
 sneers and your unbelief over the faitli of 
 holy Eussia. But by that foith I swear you 
 shall come this very day to my motlier's cell 
 and hear from her lips the duty of a wife." 
 God forgive me ! I was stung to the heart ; 
 I thought of what that woman had been, and 
 of my patience and truth, and I nnumured,
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 285 
 
 "Will6'A(^ teach it mc." My eyes (lou1)t]ess 
 spoke the sarcasm my hps dared not utter. 
 He felled me to the ground. I remember 
 the agony of the blow, I remember the look 
 of his face, I remember my own Avild cry, 
 and then nothing more ; nothing for many 
 nights and many days. 
 
 ' When I recovered my senses I was, or 
 fancied I Avas, alone. Lying on a small bed 
 in a dark, low room, I saw nothing but 
 stained whitewashed walls, and a small table 
 on which were some bottles, and two or 
 three common chairs. Gradually I called to 
 mind, with that feeble groping sense of 
 awakening memory, icho I was, and then with 
 a sort of bewildered astonishment wondered 
 where I was. I had spent days of misery 
 amidst splendour and discomfort, but so poor 
 a chamber as this I had never even looked 
 upon. With difficulty, and feehng faint and 
 gidd}', I raised my heavy head from the 
 pillow, and saw M. de Sasse sitting near the 
 stove warming his hands, and looking very 
 ill. " M. de "Sasse," I whispered. He started, 
 and hurried to my side. " Where am I ? 
 What has happened to me ? " '
 
 286 TOO STRANCxE 
 
 ' " You are dead,'' he emphaticall}^ whis- 
 pered ; " that is, everj^body, and the monster 
 who killed you, thinks you are dead." Who 
 killed mc ? What monster ? Ah ! it all came 
 back upon me, and I gave a fearful scream. 
 " Hush, hush ! for heaven's sake ! " implored 
 M. de Sasse. " Nobody must know you are 
 alive." 
 
 ' I pressed my hand on my forehead, for 
 my thoughts were beginning again to wander. 
 " Is there anybody near me but you ? " I said, 
 faintly. 
 
 ' " The Countess of Konigsmark will be 
 here presently. She will tell you all that 
 has happened. Try to sleep a little again," 
 I closed my eyes, but I could not rest. " Is 
 this the world to come ? " I said. " It is like 
 a horrid dream without a beginning or an 
 end. It is very d[uk. Is it night or day ? 
 Is this hfe or death ? " Then a nervous 
 agitation seized me, I began to tremble and 
 to weep. The poor old man bent over me 
 imploring me to be silent. My sobs became 
 loud and convulsive, and his face grew wild 
 with apprehension. He laid a pillow on my 
 face, and I cried out, " Will you, too, murder
 
 XOT TO BE TRUE. 287 
 
 me ? " I shall never forget his groan as he 
 clashed the pillow to the ground, and tore 
 his grey hair. Poor, faithful old man, it was 
 the sight of his grief which quieted me. I 
 gave him my hand and fell asleep, I beheve. 
 The next time I woke, the Countess de 
 Konigsmark was kneeling by the bed-side ; 
 when I opened my eyes they met hers. I 
 had known her from my earliest childhood. 
 Her son, Comte Maurice de Saxe, had been 
 my playfellow in former days. She was one 
 of my few friends since my marriage. Wlien- 
 ever she came to the court of Eussia, her 
 society was a consolation to me. During 
 those years of misery she was the only person 
 to whom I opened my heart. What a rehef 
 it was to see her that day! I stretched 
 out my arms, and she folded me to her 
 breast. 
 
 ' " I like this little dark room, now that 
 you are here," I whispered. " I do not want 
 to go away, if you will stay a little with me. 
 And you, too," I added, turning to the old 
 man, who was gazing wistfully at me from 
 his seat near the stove. "Nobody cares for 
 me in the whole world, but you two."
 
 288 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' " My darling princess," said the countess, 
 " do }■ oil care to live ? " 
 
 * I started up in wild affright, a dreadful 
 idea had passed through my mind. I was 
 perhaps a prisoner condemned to death. 
 " What have I done ? Am I to die ? " I cried, 
 "Is the Czar dead?" 
 
 ' The tears fell fast from the countess's 
 eyes. She shook her head ; " Xo, but he is 
 far away, my princess, and the wretcli who 
 all but killed you, and believes that he did 
 so, would not have suffered you to live if he 
 had known that you had escaped from the 
 effects of his ferocity. I had tlie absolute 
 certainty of this. His measures were taken, 
 and I saw but one way of saving you. We 
 sent him word that vou were dead, and 
 spread abroad the news of your decease. A 
 mock funeral took place, and tlie court fol- 
 lowed to the grave what they su])])osed to be 
 your mortal remains." 
 
 ' " It is very dreadful," I said, sluiddering. 
 
 ' " If it had not been for this stratagem 
 your faithful servants could not have saved 
 you. The Czarovitch has determined you 
 shall die."
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 289 
 
 ' "And he thinks that I am dead ?" I asked, 
 with a strange fluttering at my heart, such as 
 I had never known before. " But wlien he 
 hears that I am ahve ! Ah, I am ai'raid ! I 
 am horribly afraid! Hide me from him. 
 Save me from him." I cluno- to the countess 
 with a desperate terror. 
 
 ' " We have concealed you," she said, " in 
 this remote corner of the palace. M. de 
 Sasse and two more of your attendants are 
 alone in the secret." 
 
 ' " I am still in the palace, then ? " 
 
 ' " Yes ; but as soon as you have recovered 
 a little strength you must fly from tliis coun- 
 try. We have all incurred a terrific respon- 
 sibility who have been concerned in this 
 transaction, for we have deceived not only 
 the Czarovitch, but the Czar himself. The 
 court, the nation, your own family, all Europe, 
 have put on mourning for you. The funeral 
 service has been performed over a figure 
 which represented you, sweet princess ; the 
 bells have tolled in every church of the em- 
 pire for the fiower of Brunswick's line, for 
 the murdered wife of the Czarovitch — for 
 your supposed death is laid at his door." 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 TOO STKANGE 
 
 ' " I am dead, then," I exclaimed, looking 
 straight at the countess with such a wild ex- 
 pression that she seemed terrified. " I am 
 dead, then," I repeated again, sitting bolt 
 upright in my bed, and feeling as if I was 
 the ghost of my former self. "Am I to re- 
 main always here ? " I asked, glancing with 
 a shudder at the dismantled walls and narrow 
 windows. 
 
 ' " No," she softly answered. " Like a bird 
 let loose, Uke a prisoner set free, you Avill fly 
 away and be at rest." "Yes, yes," I cried, 
 laying my head on her shoulder. " Eest — 
 that is what I want." And my tears flowed 
 without restraint. 
 
 ' " Under a brighter sky," she continued, 
 " amidst fairer scenes, you \Anll await the time 
 when a change of circumstances may open 
 the way for your return." 
 
 ' " Cannot I go to Vienna, to my sister, or 
 to my own native Wolfenbuttel ? " 
 
 ' I immediately saw in the countess's face 
 how much this question distressed her. 
 "Princess," she said, "this is not possible. 
 Not only the Czarovitch, but the Czar him- 
 self, beheves you are no more. If you
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 291 
 
 revealed your existence, you would expose 
 to certain death those who, at the risk of 
 their Hves, saved yours. Besides, the Prince 
 will never suffer you to live. His emissaries 
 would compass your death wherever you 
 went. I have evidence that you were taking 
 poison in your food, and that it was only 
 the antidotes I persuaded you to use which 
 enabled you to struggle against its effects." 
 
 ' " Then I have no hope left," I cried, '• no 
 possible refuge. It would have been better 
 to let me die. Would that my husband's 
 hand had dealt a heavier blow, and that the 
 grave had really closed upon me !" 
 
 ' " What ! is there no charm in existence .^" 
 Madame de Konigsmark exclaimed. " Have 
 you drained the cup of happmess dm'ing the 
 twenty-thi'ee years you have lived ? Cannot 
 enjoyment be fomid ia a life of retirement ?" 
 
 ' " Drained the cup of happiness ! " I bit- 
 terly cried. " Why mock my despair ? Have 
 I known a single day of peace since I married 
 the Czarovitch ? Let me die of hunger, or 
 call my husband's hirelings to despatch me at 
 once, but do not diive me mad by talking to 
 me of happiness.' 
 
 u2
 
 202 TOO STRANGE 
 
 ' I mved on for some time in this state, 
 luilf conscious, half dehrious, I beheve, fear- 
 ing to fix my thoughts on anything, and 
 doubting whether those who had saved my 
 life were my friends or my enemies. Madame 
 de Konigsmark sat patiently by my side for 
 hours together, watching, as I have since 
 thought, every turn of my mind. She be- 
 came more and more alarmed at the bold 
 measures she had adopted, and seemed ter- 
 rified lest I should refuse to disappear 
 altoa'ether from the woi'ld where I was 
 known. Nothing could be more skilful or 
 better [)lanned than the way in which she 
 brought me to the point. She did not say 
 anything more on the subject that day, but 
 on the following morning she induced me to 
 rise from my bed, and led me to an open 
 window lookino; on a garden at the back of 
 the palace. The sudden burst of a Eussian 
 spring — the most beautiful though the most 
 sliort-lived of seasons — was imparting a won- 
 derful beauty and sweetness to the shrubs and 
 (lowers. The sky was of the softest blue, and 
 a southern wind fanned my cheek, reminding 
 me of my fatherland. It awoke the wish to
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 29.-J 
 
 live. 1 coidd not now bear tlie idea of dyino-, 
 either by violence or by poison, the effects of 
 which liad already, in sjiite of antidotes, begun 
 to tell upon niy liealth. I felt incapable of 
 forming plans, but to get away — to escape — 
 became now my most intense desire. At 
 nig] its I was afraid of assassins. Every 
 sound — every step — made me tremble. 
 
 ' A day or two later, Madame de Konigs- 
 mark came to me in great alarm. One of 
 the prince's favourites had been seen in the 
 palace, conversing with the servants and 
 making enquiries, which M. de Sasse had 
 overheard. Eumours were afloat, she told 
 me, that I had been killed by ray liusband, 
 and my attendants, it was supposed, would 
 undergo an examination. 
 
 ' " Princess, you must go this very night," 
 slie said. " I will accompany you to the 
 coast. M. de Sasse and one of your women 
 will go with you to France. You can easily 
 travel thence to America, where you will 
 be perfectly safe from discovery. I have 
 secm^ed for you a sum of 50,000 roubles, 
 which is by this time in Messrs. Frere's hands 
 in Paris ; and all the jewels which are your
 
 294 TOO STKANGE 
 
 own property you must take with you. M. 
 de Sasse will pass for your father; and if 
 Mademoiselle Eosenkrantz should decline to 
 leave Europe, you can easily procure in France 
 another attendant. There is not a moment 
 to lose. Your own Hfe, and the hves of all 
 concerned, are at stake." 
 
 ' The suddenness of the proposal took me 
 by surprise. I seized her hands and cried : 
 " I cannot forsake my son." 
 
 ' " Alas ! " she answered, "have you enjoyed 
 a parent's rights, or a parent's happiness ? 
 Have you been suffered to be a mother to 
 your child? He is safe in the Czar's keeping. 
 He can protect him better than you could. 
 Believe me, princess, if the Czarovitch dis- 
 covers you are alive, I cannot answer for 
 your life or for mine. Do you think I should 
 urge you to forego your position if there were 
 any other way of saving you ? " 
 
 ' It was not difficult to persuade me ; I 
 had not strength to resist. In the middle of 
 the nio-ht we descended the narrow staircase, 
 and found a carriage waiting for us. I 
 moved like a person in a dream. Madame de 
 Konigsmark was by my side. I do not re-
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. ' 295 
 
 member having any distinct thoughts during 
 that journey, or any feehng but that of a 
 hunted animal pining to escape. When we 
 came near to the coast, and I felt on my 
 cheek the pecuhar freshness of the sea air, 
 it revived me a little ; but when, by the 
 hght of the moon, I caught sight of the 
 merchant vessel which I was to embark in, 
 a sense of desolation came over me. My 
 friend wept bitterly as she gave me a part- 
 ing embrace. I did not shed a tear. It 
 seemed as if everything within me was turned 
 to stone. I sat down on my wretched cabin- 
 bed ; the anchor was raised and we began to 
 move. For a long time I neither spoke nor 
 stirred. The poor old man — once my ser- 
 vant, then my only protector — watched me 
 all that day and the following night. I be- 
 lieve the first words I uttered were some 
 that have often been on my lips since that 
 time : " Free amongst the dead ! " ' 
 
 ' Free with the freedom of God's children ! ' 
 d'Auban exclaimed. ' Oh, Princess ! what a 
 miracle of mercy has your hfe been ! ' 
 
 ' I can see it now ; but at the time all was 
 darkness. From Hamburgh, where we landed,
 
 200 TOO STRANGE 
 
 we went to Pariss, and soon afterwards to 
 Havre de Grace, where we embarked, as I 
 liave told you before, in a vessel with eight 
 liinidred German emigrants on board. I 
 was impatient to get away from France, 
 always fancying myself pursued by the 
 Prince's emissaries. Even at New Orleans 
 I was in constant fear of being recognised 
 and insisted on leaving it as soon as possible. 
 We only stayed till M. de Sasse could dispose 
 of ray diamonds and had placed the money at 
 a banker's. Here I thought I should be out 
 of the reach of travellers. You can imagine 
 what I suffered the day tliose strangers 
 came. I could not resist the wish to hear 
 something about Russia and my poor httle 
 son. Alexander Levacheff recocrnised me. 
 I saw him in private, and exacted from him 
 an oath of se(irecy. And now I have only a 
 very few more words to say. Some persons 
 in our position, M. d'Auban, might feel when 
 about to part, " It would be better that they 
 liad never met." But I can, and from the 
 depths of my heart I do say : " It has been 
 well for me that I have met you, known you, 
 trusted you " '
 
 NOT TO BE TRUK. 297 
 
 She broke down, and coidd not linisli the 
 sentence. 
 
 He was going to answer, but she stop|)ed 
 him and said, with some excitement : 
 
 ' But yoLL — what good have I done 
 you? I have saddened your hfe by the 
 sight of my grief, long wounded you by my 
 silence, and now I leave you, less able per- 
 haps to bear your solitary existence than 
 heretofore.' 
 
 He could scarcely speak. Men do not 
 find words as easily as women, when they 
 are deeply affected. 
 
 ' It is true,' he said, in an almost inaudible 
 voice. ' But, nevertheless, I am glad you 
 came ; I can say it with truth. Whatever I 
 may have to suffer, I shall always thank God 
 for having known you.' 
 
 ' Well, it may be one day, on your death- 
 bed, perhaps, a consolation for you to think 
 that you have acted very justly and kindly 
 towards one who, when she came in your 
 way, was drifting like a rudderless bark on a 
 dark sea. The Bible says, tliat man is blest 
 who could have done evil and did not do 
 it. I might well apply to you those other
 
 298 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Avords of Scripture : '• Thou art that man." 
 May He who knows all reward you ! ' 
 
 No other words passed between them. 
 He took her hand, silently kissed it, and 
 withdrew. The shades of evening had gra- 
 dually fallen, and the moon was shining on 
 the long thick grass of the lawn. As he 
 looked upon the beautifid glade and the sil- 
 vered landscape, he thought of the night 
 when Therese had for the first time spoken 
 to him of the white man's daughter. As 
 long as he was listening to her he had hardly 
 realised what it would be to live and to 
 work on alone in that spot where for two 
 years she had been his constant companion 
 and the principal object of his hfe. Now it 
 seemed suddenly to come upon him. He 
 not only knew it must, but also felt it ought 
 to be. There was no prospect of escape 
 from this dreaded separation. It might take 
 place at any moment. Overpowered by his 
 grief, he sank on a bench in the garden, and 
 was only roused from his sad musings by 
 Simonette's voice. 
 
 ' Monsieur d'Auban ! ' she said, in a loud 
 whisper.
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 299 
 
 ' What do you want ? ' he exclaimed, start- 
 ing to his feet. 
 
 ' I have something to say to you. I Avant 
 you to promise not to let my mistress ' (it was 
 the first time she had called her so) ' leave 
 this place before I come back. And whilst 
 I am away, please both of you not to grieve 
 too much.' 
 
 ' What — what are you talking about ? 
 What is it to me whether you go or stay ? ' 
 
 ' JSTothing, I know,' answered the girl, in a 
 voice the pathos of which might have struck 
 him had he been less absorbed by his own 
 grief. ' But I am going away. Do not be 
 harsh to me. Perhaps you may never see 
 me again.' 
 
 ' I do not know why you go. I cannot talk 
 to you to-night. Leave me alone.' 
 
 ' Will you not say a kind word to me ? ' 
 
 ' For heaven's sake, go away ! ' cried 
 d'Auban, scarcely able to command himself. 
 
 ' Do not be cruel to me. I want all my 
 strength for what I am about to do. I was 
 within hearing just now, when madame was 
 speaking to you. I heard what she said.' 
 
 ' Good heavens I and do you dare to tell
 
 300 TOO STRANGE 
 
 me so ? ' exclaimed d'Aubaii, pale with anger. 
 'I have had patience witli you long. I 
 have shown great forbearance, but I shall 
 not suffer you to remain here any longer as 
 a spy on your mistress. She shall know of 
 your base conduct.' He walked away, greatly 
 aaitated. 
 
 ' Wait— wait I ' cried Simonette, in a tone 
 of anguisli, and clasping her hands together. 
 He did not turn back. She gazed after him 
 for a moment. ' Xot one look ! not one 
 word ! ' she murmured. ' Well, be it so. 
 In the land of the hereafter there will be no 
 scorn, no unkindness. Oh for strength of 
 limb, and skill, and courage ! Now for the 
 spirit of my childhood — the fearless spirit and 
 the brave heart ! God and my good angel 
 befriend me! The travellers to Canada 
 cannot be here before the end of next month. 
 My father says so.' 
 
 D'Auban passed a wretched night. He 
 reproached himself bitterly for not having 
 examined if it was indeed true that the 
 French girl had overheard the Princess's 
 storv, and not taken measures to secure her 
 secrecy. He felt his anger had made him
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 301 
 
 imprudent. He resolved to see her the very- 
 first thing in the morning. But when, as 
 early as was possible, he went to St. Agathe, 
 Simonette was not to be found. Madame de 
 Moldau and tlie servants supposed she had 
 oone to the villa o'e. He went there at once, 
 but she had not been seen. He told Theresa 
 she had spoken wildly the night before of 
 going away, and observed that she did not 
 seem surprised at her disappearance. Father 
 Maret, to whom he communicated all that 
 had passed the day before between him and 
 Madame de Moldau, and also during his brief 
 interview with Simonette, expressed his fears 
 that she had 2;one to New Orleans to de- 
 nounce her mistress as the possessor of stolen 
 jewels. 
 
 ' She has often spoken to me of her scru- 
 ples on that subject, and, not being able,' he 
 said, ' to reveal to her the explanation of the 
 mystery, she never seemed satisfied with my 
 advice to let tlie matter rest. If, however, 
 she did overhear the truth last night, it is 
 scarcely credible that she can have carried 
 out her intention. She may, however, have 
 heard the Princess speak of her flight from
 
 302 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Eussia, and not the preceding facts — enough 
 to confirm her suspicions, not enough to 
 enhgliten her. Would I had stopped and 
 questioned her ! The doubt is most harassing. 
 But she camiot have started alone on a 
 journey to New Orleans!' 
 
 ' She is quite capable of doing so.' 
 
 ' Would it be of any use to try and over- 
 take her ? ' 
 
 ' If even we knew for sure which way she 
 has gone, we have no clue as to the road she 
 has taken, whether by the river or through 
 the thickets. The wild attempt may be fatal 
 to her.' 
 
 ' Full of risks, no doubt. But she is used to 
 these wild journeys. I would give a great deal 
 she had not gone, for more reasons than one.' 
 
 D'Auban's heart sank within him. Letters 
 lately received from New Orleans mentioned 
 that orders had been sent out by the French 
 Government to make enquiries in the colony 
 as to the sale of jewels supposed to belong 
 to the Imperial family of Eussia, and to 
 arrest any persons supposed to be in posses- 
 sion of them. If suspicions previously ex- 
 isting were to be renewed by Simonette's
 
 NOT TO BE TRUE. 303 
 
 depositions, the Princess might be placed in 
 a most embarrassing position ; it might lead 
 to inextricable difficulties; and yet there 
 was nothing to be done but to wait — the 
 greatest of trials under such circumstances. 
 Father Maret hoped the travellers to Canada 
 would soon arrive. D'Aul^an was compelled 
 to wish for it also. In the mean time he tried 
 to reassure Madame de Moldau about Simo- 
 nette's disappearance by stating she had 
 hinted to him the day before that she had 
 some such intention. Though with little hope 
 of success, he despatched men in various di- 
 rections, and one in a boat for some miles 
 down the river, to search lor her. At night- 
 fall they returned, without having discovered 
 the least clue to the road she had taken. 
 The next day an Indian said that a canoe, 
 belonging to her father, which was moored a 
 few days before in a creek some leagues 
 below the village of St. Francis, had disap- 
 peared, which seemed to confirm the suppo- 
 sition that she had gone to New Orleans. 
 D'Auban sufiered intensely, from a two- 
 fold anxiety. He reproached himself for 
 the harsh way in Vvrhich he had spoken to
 
 304 TOO STRANGE 
 
 Simonette, and soinetimes a terrrible fear sliot 
 across liis iiiiiid. Was it possible that she 
 had destroyed herself! He could not but 
 call to mind the wildness of her look and 
 manner. He knew how ungovernable Avere 
 her feehngs, and how she brooded on an 
 unkind word from any one she loved. The 
 blood ran coldly in his veins as he remem- 
 bered in what imploring accents she had 
 called on him to stop on the night he had 
 left her in anger, and how she had said that 
 the task slie had to perform would require 
 tdl lier strength. Had she gone out into 
 the dark night driven away by his unkind- 
 ness, and ruslied into eternity with a mortal 
 sin on her soul — the cliild whom he had in- 
 structed and baptized, and Avho had loved 
 liim so much and been so patient with 
 ]iim,thoug]i witli others so fiery! The bare 
 surmise of such a possibility made him 
 sluidder, especially if at night he caught sight 
 of sometliing white lloating on the river — a 
 cluster of lotus flowers, or a branch of cherry 
 blossoms, whicli at a distance looked like a 
 woman's dress. But by far the most probable 
 supposition was, that she had gone to de-
 
 >'0T TO BE TEUE. 305 
 
 noiince lier mistress; and this caused liiiu 
 not only uneasiness as to the consequences, 
 but the greatest pain in the thought that her 
 affection for him had prompted this act, and 
 that if he liad had more patience and more 
 indulgence it might have been prevented. 
 Day after day went by and brought no 
 tidings of the missing girl, nor of the ex- 
 pected travellers. Heavy rains set in, and 
 even letters and newspapers did not reach St. 
 Agathe and its neighbourhood. This forced 
 inactivity was especially trjdng at a time when 
 their minds were on the full stretch, and news 
 — even bad news — would almost have seemed 
 a relief Since their last conversation there 
 was much less freedom in the intercourse 
 between d'Auban and Madame de Moldau. 
 They were less at their ease with each other. 
 Both were afraid of giving way to the pleasure 
 of being together, and of sapng what was pass- 
 ing in their minds. She was quite a prisoner 
 in the pavilion. During those long weeks of 
 incessant down-pouring rain, Simonette's ab- 
 sence obliged her to wait on herself, and she 
 set herself with more resolution than hereto- 
 fore to attend to household affairs, and to 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 make herself independent of the services of 
 others. She read a great deal, too, and 
 almost exhausted d'Auban's small collection 
 of books. He no longer spent the evenings 
 at St. Agathe, but came there once a day to 
 see if she had any commands. He did not 
 venture, however, to absent himself for many 
 hours together, for the fear never left him of 
 Simonette's disclosiu^es bringing about some 
 untoward event. Week followed week, and 
 nothing interrupted the dull, heavy monotony 
 of the long days of rain, or brought with it 
 any change to cheer the spirits of the 
 dwellers in the wilderness. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 PXIMTED liY SPOTTISWOODE AKD CO. 
 
 JfEW-STBEILT SQUAEE
 
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