UC-NRLF 
 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 ALUMNUS 
 BOOK FUND 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TKUE, 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY GEOKGIASTA FULLEKTOlSr, 
 
 ATTTHOBBBS OF "KLLBN MIDDLKTOH," "LADYBIBD," ETC. 
 
 THREE VOLUMES IN ONE. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, 
 
 448 A 445 BROADWAY. 
 1865. 
 
ni 
 
 IN the following tale, the scene of which is laid in coun- 
 tries, and amidst persons, whose language was not our own, 
 there has been no attempt to adopt the phraseology of the 
 epoch over which these events extend. There did not seem 
 any particular object in rendering the thoughts and conver- 
 sations 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 incidents have been drawn as also the narra- 
 tive which has furnished its ground-wort. Those who are 
 sometimes glad to turn away for a while from the beaten 
 roads of history, and to tread the bye-ways of romance 
 who love truth which resembles fiction, and fiction which 
 follows closely in the footsteps of truth may, 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. 
 
 020 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 PAKT I. 
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 The woods 1 solemn are the boundless woods 
 
 Of the great western world when day 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 mystery seems on every leaf to brood : 
 Awful it is for human heart to bear 
 
 The weight and burthen of the solitude. 
 
 Mrs. ZTemans. 
 
 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, 
 " O misery I O misery I " 
 
 IN the earlier part of the last cen- 
 tury, through one of the primeval for- 
 ests of the New World, northward of 
 the region which the French colonists 
 called the Eden of Louisiana, a man 
 was walking one evening with his gun 
 on his shoulder, followexi by two dogs 
 of European breed, a spaniel and a 
 bloodhound. The rays of the setting 
 sun were gilding the vast sea of flow- 
 ers lying to his right beyond the limits 
 of the wood through which he was mak- 
 ing his way, impeded every moment 
 by the cords of the slender liana 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, 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 and above all the steady perseverance 
 with which he pursued the path he 
 had chosen, and forced his way through 
 all obstacles, indicated a physical and 
 moral temperament well fitted to cope 
 with the many difficulties inherent to 
 the life of a settler in the Nouvelle 
 France. 
 
 Henri d'Auban had been a dweller 
 in many lands had lived in camps 
 and in courts, and held intercourse 
 with persons of every rank in moat of 
 the great cities of Europe. He was 
 thirty-five years of age at the time this 
 story opens, and had been in America 
 about four years. Brittany was his na- 
 tive country ; his parental home a small 
 castle on the edge of a cliff overlook- 
 
6 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 ing 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 bound- 
 less expanse of the ocean and its great 
 ceaseless voice, the endless theme of 
 his secret musings ; and the pious le- 
 gends of the Armorican race, the nur- 
 sery tales he had heard from his moth- 
 er's lips. Brittany, like Scotland, is 
 " a meet nurse for a poetic child," and 
 her bold peasantry have retained to 
 this day very much of the religious 
 spirit of their forefathers. Early in 
 life Henri d'Auban lost both his par- 
 ents the small-pox, the plague of that 
 epoch in France, having carried them 
 both off within a few days of each other. 
 He saw them buried in the little church- 
 yard of Keir Anna, and was placed 
 soon after by some of his relations at 
 the college of Vannes, where he re- 
 mained several years. 
 
 On leaving it he began life with 
 many friends, much youthful ambition, 
 and very little fortune. Through the 
 interest of a great-uncle, who had been 
 a distinguished officer in Marshal Tu- 
 renne's army, he was appointed mili- 
 tary attache" to the French Embassy 
 at Vienna, and served as volunteer in 
 some of the Austrian campaigns against 
 the Turks. He visited also in the Am- 
 bassador's service several of the smaller 
 courts of Germany, and was sent on 
 a secret mission to Italy. On his way 
 through Switzerland he accidentally 
 made acquaintance with General Le- 
 fort, the Czar of Muscovy's confidential 
 friend and admirer. That able man 
 was not long in discovering the more 
 than ordinary abilities of the young 
 Breton gentilhomme. By his advice, 
 and through his interest, Henry d'Au- 
 ban entered the Russian service, ad- 
 vanced rapidly from post to post, and 
 was often favourably noticed by Peter 
 the Great. He seemed as likely to at- 
 tain a high position at that monarch's 
 
 court as any foreigner in his service. 
 His knowledge of military science, and 
 particularly of engineering, having at- 
 tracted the sovereign's attention on 
 several occasions when he had accom- 
 panied General Lefort on visits of mili- 
 tary inspection, the command of a regi- 
 ment and the title of Colonel were 
 bestowed upon him. But just as his 
 prospects appeared most brilliant, and 
 his favour with the Emperor was visi- 
 bly increasing, he secretly left Rus- 
 sia and returned to France. Secrecy 
 was a necessary condition of depart- 
 ure in the case of foreigners in the 
 Czar's service. However high in his 
 favour, and indeed by reason of that 
 favour they were no longer free agents 
 his most valued servants being only 
 privileged, serfs, bound to his domin- 
 ions by laws which could only be evad- 
 ed 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 Russian service excited the surprise 
 of his friends. Some painful thoughts 
 seemed to be connected with the reso- 
 lution which had cut short his career. 
 He disliked to be questioned on the 
 subject, and evasive answers generally 
 put a stop to such inquiries. 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 
 life. After six or seven years' absence 
 from his country, he scarcely felt at 
 home in France. His acquaintances 
 thought him changed. The eager am- 
 bitious youth had become a quiet 
 thoughtful man. But if the enthusiasm 
 of his character was subdued, its en- 
 ergy was in no wise impaired. Youth- 
 ful enthusiasm, in some natures, simply 
 evaporates and leaves nothing behind 
 it but frivolity ; in others, it condenses 
 and becomes earnestness. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 At this turning moment one of the 
 insignificant circumstances which often 
 influence a person's whole destiny di- 
 rected Colonel d'Aubari's thoughts to 
 the New World. In Europe, and es- 
 pecially in France, a perfect fever of 
 excitement was raging on the subject 
 of colonization. The rich territories 
 on the banks of the Mississippi seemed 
 a promised land to speculators of all 
 classes and nations. The eagerness 
 with which Law's system was hailed in 
 Paris, and the avidity which sought to 
 secure a share in the fabulous prospects 
 of wealth held out to settlers in the 
 new France, had never known a paral- 
 lel. This fever was at its height when 
 one day the ex-favourite of the Czar 
 happened to meet in the Luxembourg 
 gardens an old school-fellow, who, the 
 instant he recognized his comrade at 
 Vannes, threw himself into his arms, 
 and poured forth a torrent of joyful 
 exclamations. This was the Vicomte 
 de Harlay, a wealthy, good-natured, 
 eccentric Parisian, who had employed 
 his time, his wit, and his means, since 
 he had come of age, in committing 
 follies, wasting money, and doing kind- 
 nesses. He had already managed to 
 get rid of one large fortune; but for- 
 tune seemed to have a fancy for this 
 spendthrift son of hers, and had re- 
 cent^ 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 I am delighted 
 to see you ! Are you come on a mis- 
 sion from the polar bears ? or has the 
 Czar named you his Ambassador in 
 Paris?" 
 
 " I have left the Russian service." 
 
 " You don't say so 1 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 for- 
 tune ? " 
 
 " I should have no objection." 
 
 " What are you doing, or wishing to 
 do?" 
 
 " I am looking out for some employ- 
 ment. A small diplomatic 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 any thing else in view at 
 present?" inquired 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 re- 
 trace 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'Ar- 
 tagnan is commandant of the troops 
 at New Orleans, and has unbounded 
 influence with the governor, M. Perrier, 
 and with the Company. I will intro- 
 duce you to him. I know he wants 
 men like you to come out and redeem 
 the character of the colony, which is 
 overrun with scamps of every descrip- 
 tion." 
 
 "Amongst whom one might easily 
 run the risk of being reckoned," said 
 d'Auban, laughing. 
 
 "Nonsense," cried his friend. "I 
 am turning emigrant myself, and have 
 just obtained a magnificent concession 
 in the neighbourhood of Fort St.. Louis, 
 and the village of St. Francois." 
 
 "You! And what on earth can 
 have put such a fancy in your head.? " 
 
 " My dear friend, I am weary of civ- 
 ilizationtired to death of Paris- 
 worn out with the importunities of my 
 relations, who want me to marry. I 
 
8 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 cannot picture to myself any thing 
 more delightful than to turn one's back, 
 for a few years, on the world, and one- 
 self into a hermit, especially with so 
 agreeable a companion as M. le Colonel 
 d'Auban. But really, I am quite in 
 earnest. Whair could you do better 
 than emigrate ? A man of your philo- 
 sophical turn of mind would be inter- 
 ested 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 Rue Quincampoix. I was invited 
 to little Mdlle. 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 con- 
 cession for a friend of mine. It would 
 be hard if I could not help a friend to 
 a fortune when Laplace, my valet you 
 remember him, don't you ? has made 
 such good use of our visits to the Paris 
 Eldorado that the rogue has set up his 
 carriage. He was good enough 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 
 down, 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 Harlay. But I have no wish to 
 speculate, or, I will own the truth, to 
 be considered as an adventurer. That 
 you, with your wealth, and in your po- 
 sition, should emigrate, can be consid- 
 ered 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. I see in your scruples, 
 my dear friend, vestiges of that imprac- 
 ticability for which you were noted at 
 College. But just think over the 
 
 question. Nobody asks you to specu- 
 late. 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 delicacy." 
 
 " Can you allow me time to reflect ? " 
 "Certainly. I do not sail for six 
 weeks. It is amusing in the mean time 
 to hear the ladies lamenting over my 
 departure, and shuddering at the dan- 
 gers I am to run 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 
 Ion Monsieur Law would let them into 
 the secret. Have you seen the line of 
 carriages up to his house ? It is the 
 very Court of Mammon. Duchesses 
 and marchionesses jostle each other 
 and quarrel on the staircase for shares, 
 that is when they are happy enough to 
 get in, which is not always the case. 
 Madame de la Fere ordered her coach- 
 man to drive her chariot into the gut- 
 ter and overturn it opposite to his 
 door.* Then she screamed with all her 
 might, hoping the divinity would ap- 
 pear. But the wily 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 Yicomte de Harlay walked 
 away, and d'Auban paced for a long 
 time the alleys of the Luxembourg, 
 revolving in his mind the ideas sug- 
 gested by this conversation. " After 
 so many doubts, so many projects 
 which have ended in nothing, how 
 
 * A fact. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 9 
 
 singular it would be," he said to him- 
 self, "if a casual meeting with this 
 scatter-brained friend of mine should 
 end in determining the future course 
 of my life." He had never thought of 
 emigrating to th New "World, but 
 when he came to consider it there was 
 much in the proposal which harmo- 
 nized with his inclinations. The scope 
 it afforded for enterprise and individ- 
 ual exertion was congenial to his 
 temper of mind. Above all, it was 
 something definite to look to, and only 
 those who have experienced it know 
 what a relief to some natures is the 
 substitution of a definite prospect for a 
 wearying uncertainty. In the evening 
 of that day he called at one of the few 
 houses at which he visited that of 
 M. d'Orgeville. He was distantly relat- 
 ed to this gentleman, who held a high 
 position amongst what was called the 
 parliamentary nobility. His wife re- 
 ceived 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 conversation, 
 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 celebrated circles of that day. 
 
 Does it not often happen, unaccount- 
 ably often, that when the mind is full 
 of a particular subject, what we read 
 or what we hear tallies so strangely 
 with what has occupied us, that it 
 seems as if a mysterious answer were 
 given to our secret thoughts ? When 
 d'Auban took his place that evening 
 in the circle which surrounded the 
 mistress of the house, he almost started 
 with surprise at hearing M. de Mesme, 
 a distinguished lawyer and scholar, 
 say: 
 
 " I maintain that only two sorts of 
 persons go to America, at least to 
 Louisiana adventurers and mission- 
 
 aries : you would not find in the whole 
 'colony a man who is not either an offi- 
 cial, a priest, a soldier, or a scamp." 
 
 " A sweeping assertion indeed," ob- 
 served Madame d'Orgeville. " Can no 
 one here bring forward an instance to 
 the contrary?" 
 
 " The Vicomte de Harlay has turned 
 concessionist, and is about to sail for 
 New 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 
 Harlay's eccentricities are so well 
 known that they baffle all calcula- 
 tion." 
 
 " For my part," said M. d'Orgeville, 
 "I cannot understand why men of 
 character and ability do not take more 
 interest in these new colonies, and that 
 the objects of a settler in that distant 
 part of the world should not be consid- 
 ered worthy the attention of persons 
 who have at heart not only the making 
 of money, but also the advancement of 
 civilization." 
 
 "Civilization!" ejaculated M. de 
 Mesme, with a sarcastic smile. " What 
 a glorious idea the natives must con- 
 ceive of our civilization from the speci- 
 mens we send them from France ! " 
 
 "Surely," exclaimed young Blane- 
 menil, d'Auban's neighbour, "M. Per- 
 rier, M. d'Artagnan, the Perd 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 
 concessionist a planter, an habitant who 
 is not a mere speculator or a needy ad- 
 venturer. I appeal to you, M. Maret. 
 Does not your brother write that the 
 conversion of the Indians would be 
 comparatively easy did not the colo- 
 nists, by their selfish grasping conduct 
 and the scandal of their immoral lives, 
 
10 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 throw the greatest obstacles in the way 
 of the missionaries ? Did he not add 
 that a few honest intelligent laymen 
 would prove most useful auxiliaries in 
 evangelizing 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 sweep- 
 ing condemnation of the French set- 
 tlers. 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'Orgeville. 
 
 " Yes, he is his brother, and the mis- 
 sionary priest at St. Francois des Illi- 
 nois. M. Maret is Monsigneur le Prince 
 de Condi'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 re- 
 ceived from my brother; it contains 
 no family secrets," M. Maret said with 
 a smile. 
 
 This letter was dated from the Illi- 
 nois. It did not give a very attractive 
 picture of the country where d'Auban 
 had already travelled in imagination 
 since the morning. It made it evident 
 that Europe sent out the scum 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 perseverance. 
 
 But what would have disheartened 
 some men proved to d'Auban a stimu- 
 lus. 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 naviga- 
 tion of the river, on the shore of which 
 our mission is situated, and which 
 flows a little below it into the Missis- 
 sippi, 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 peculiarly adapt- 
 ed for the purposes of French coloniza- 
 tion. But whether such establishments 
 would be an advantage to our mission, 
 is extremely doubtful. If these emi- 
 grants were like some few I have 
 known, men of religious principles and 
 moral lives, nothing could be better 
 for our Indians, or a greater consola- 
 tion to us, than that they should settle 
 in our neighbourhood ; but if they are 
 to resemble those who, unfortunately, 
 have of late years been pouring into 
 Louisiana adventurers, libertines, and 
 scoffers our peaceful and edifying 
 Indian community would be speedily 
 ruined. The Indians are very like 
 children. Their powers of reasoning 
 are not strong. What they see has an 
 unbounded influence over them. They 
 would quickly discover that men call- 
 ing themselves Christians, and whom 
 they would look upon as wiser than 
 themselves, set at nought the principles 
 of the Gospel, and, in spite of all the 
 missionaries might say or do, the effect 
 would be fatal. From such an evil 
 as that I -pray that we may be pre- 
 served." * 
 When the visitors had taken their 
 
 * From the Lettres edifiantes. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 11 
 
 leave that night, and d'Auban remained 
 alone with his friends, he opened his 
 mind to them and agjced their advice. 
 M. d'Orgeville hesitated. His wife, a 
 shrewd little woman, who understood 
 character more readily than her excel- 
 lent husband, fixed her dark penetrating 
 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 your interests by 
 means of her connections, it might 
 have been different ; but a man who at 
 thirty years of age refuses to marry an 
 heiress foolish enough to be in love with 
 him, because, forsooth, he is not in love 
 with 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 will not make himself 
 agreeable to the Regent's friends be- 
 cause he thinks them, and because they 
 are, a set of despicable scoundrels 
 my dear .Colonel, such a man has no 
 business here. He had better pack up 
 his trunks and go off to the New World, 
 or to any world but this. Tenderness 
 of heart, unswerving principles, the 
 temper of Lafontaine's oak, which 
 breaks and does not bend, do not an- 
 swer in a country where every one is 
 scrambling up the slippery ascent to 
 fortune, holding on by another's coat." 
 
 "And yet," answered d'Auban, " there 
 are men in France whose noble truth- 
 fulness 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 em- 
 broidered 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 the face. Here 
 
 you have some people say wantonly 
 I am persuaded for some good reason 
 but anyhow you have turned your back 
 upon fortune in a most affronting man- 
 ner, 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 prac- 
 tical 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. 
 What 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 
 stem self-reliance its element." 
 
 " I am afraid she is right," said M. 
 d'Orgeville, 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 
 important question, and if you do emi- 
 grate, all I can say is, that you will be 
 a glorious 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 
 Henri d'Auban were watching the re- 
 ceding coasts of France from the deck 
 of the Jean Bart, and four or five years 
 later the latter was crossing the forest, 
 on his way back to the Mission of St. 
 Francis, after a visit to an Indian vil- 
 lage, the chiefs of which had smoked 
 the pipe of peace with their French 
 neighbours. He had learnt the lan- 
 guage, and successfully cultivated the 
 acquaintance of many of the native 
 tribes, and was at the head of a flour- 
 ishing plantation. Madame d'Or-v 
 ville had proved right. The peculiari- 
 ties of character which had stood in 
 
12 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the way of a poor gentilhomme seeking 
 to better his fortunes in France, favoured 
 the successful issue of his transatlantic 
 undertakings. M. de Harlay had ful- 
 filled his promise by obtaining from 
 the Company a grant of land for his 
 friend adjacent to his own concession, 
 and he had worked it to good purpose. 
 His small fortune was employed in the 
 purchase of stock, of instruments of 
 labour, and, it must be owned, of negroes 
 at New Orleans. But it was a happy 
 day for the poor creatures in the slave- 
 market of that city, when they became 
 the property of a man whose principles 
 and disposition differed so widely from 
 those of the generality of colonists. He 
 engaged also as labourers Christian In- 
 dians of the Mission, and a few ruined 
 emigrants, too happy to find employ- 
 ment in a country where, from want of 
 capital or ability, their own speculations 
 had failed. It was no easy task to 
 govern a number of men of various 
 races and characters, to watch over 
 their health, to stimulate their activity, 
 to maintain peace amongst them, and, 
 above all, to improve their morals. 
 The Indians needed to be confirmed in 
 their recently acquired faith, the negroes 
 to be instructed, and the Europeans, 
 with some few exceptions, recalled to 
 the practice of it. He laboured inde- 
 fatigably, and on the whole success- 
 fully, for these ends. His courage in 
 enduring privations, 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- 
 ward person was in keeping with his 
 moral qualities. He hunted, fished, 
 and rode better than any other man in 
 the Mission or the tribe. In physical 
 strength and stature he surpassed them 
 all. This secured the respect of those 
 unable to appreciate mental superiority. 
 It was not extraordinary, under these 
 circumstances, that his concession 
 
 thrived, that fortune once more smiled 
 upon him. He was glad of it, not only 
 from a natural pjeasure in success, but 
 also from the consciousness that, as his 
 wealth increased, so would his means 
 of usefulness. He became deeply at- 
 tached to the land which was bounti- 
 fully bestowing its treasures upon him, 
 and displaying every day before his 
 eyes the grand spectacle of its incom- 
 parable natural beauties. His heart 
 warmed towards the children of the 
 soil, and he took a lively interest in the 
 evangelization of the Indian race, and 
 the labours of the missionaries,especially 
 those of his old friend Father Maret, 
 whose church and the village which 
 surrounded it stood on the opposite 
 bank of the stream, on the side of which 
 his own house was built. If his life 
 had not been one of incessant labour, 
 he must have suffered from its loneli- 
 ness. But he had scarcely had time 
 during those busy years to feel the want 
 of companionship. 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, totally out of keep- 
 ing with the habits and requirements 
 of the mode of life 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 expended 
 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 Or- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 13 
 
 leans. The temptation was irresistible, 
 and he made up his mind to return to 
 France, leaving behind him his land, 
 his plantations, his horses, and the 
 charming habitation, called the Pavil- 
 ion, or sometimes, "La Folie de Ear- 
 lay^ D'Auban, he said, might culti- 
 vate it himself, and pay him a nominal 
 rent, or sell it for whatever it would 
 fetch to some other planter. But in 
 America he would not remain a day 
 longer if he could help it ; and if Mon- 
 sieur Law had cheated all the world, 
 as the last letters from Paris had stated, 
 the worst punishment he wished him 
 was banishment to his German settle- 
 ment in the New World. And so he 
 stood, waving his handkerchief and 
 kissing his hand to his friend, as the 
 clumsy barge glided away down the 
 giant river ; and d'Auban sighed when 
 he lost sight of it, for he knew he 
 should miss his light-hearted country- 
 man, whose very follies 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 exception of 
 Father Maret, he had not associated 
 with any one 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 himself; 
 but when people have been educated 
 together, have mutual friends, acquaint- 
 ances, and recollections, there is a 
 common ground of thought and sym- 
 pathy, which in some measure supplies 
 the place of a more intimate congenial- 
 ity of feelings and opinions. 
 
 He sometimes asked himself if this 
 isolation 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 ad- 
 vantages ; but in the course of a long 
 solitary walk through the forest, such 
 as he had taken that day, or in the 
 
 evenings in his log-built home, when 
 the wind moaned through the pine 
 woods with a sound which reminded 
 him of the murmur of the sea on his 
 native coast, feelings would be awak- 
 ened 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 sigh, breathed 
 not seldom with a sense of escape 
 phases in their pilgrimage never to be 
 travelled over any more earthly spots 
 which they do not hope, nay, do not 
 desire to revisit but the remembrance 
 of which affects them just because it 
 belongs to the dim shadowy past, that 
 past which was once alive and now is 
 dead. This had been the case with d'Au- 
 ban as he passed that evening through 
 the little cemetery of the Christian Mis- 
 sion, where many a wanderer from the 
 Old World rested in a foreign soil by 
 the side of the children of another race, 
 aliens in blood but brethren in the 
 faith. A little farther on he met The- 
 rese, the catechist and schoolmistress 
 of the village. He stopped her in 
 order to inquire 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 Algon- 
 quin chief, who, after a battle with 
 another tribe, in which he had been 
 mortally wounded, had sent one of his 
 soldiers with his child to the black 
 robe of St. Francois des Illinois, with 
 the prayer that he would bring her up 
 as a Christian. He had been himself 
 baptized a short time before. The lit- 
 tle maiden had ever since been called 
 the Flower of the Mission. Its church 
 had been her home; its festivals her 
 pleasures ; its sacred enclosure her play- 
 ground. Before she could speak plain- 
 ly she gathered flowers and carried 
 them in her little brown arms into the 
 sanctuary. When older, she was wont 
 to assemble the children of her own 
 age, and to lead them into the prairies 
 
14 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 to make garlands of the purple amor- 
 pha, 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 catechist of the Indian 
 converts, and the teacher of their chil- 
 dren. The earnest piety and the poetic 
 genius of her race gave a peculiar orig- 
 inality and beauty to her figurative lan- 
 guage ; and d'Auban had sometimes 
 concealed himself behind the wall of 
 the school hut and listened to the 
 Algonquin maiden's simple instruc- 
 tions. 
 
 " 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. " He 
 wants nothing now, angels will soon 
 bear him away to the land of the here- 
 after. We should not grieve for him." 
 
 "But you look as if you had been 
 grieving. Therese, 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 I 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 magnolia 
 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 for- 
 est, 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 some way off, amongst the white 
 people, who speak a harsher language 
 than yours." 
 
 " The German colony, I suppose ? Is 
 this woman young ? " 
 
 " She must have seen from twenty to 
 twenty-five summers." 
 
 "When did they arrive?" 
 
 " On the day of the great tempest, 
 which blew down so many trees and 
 unroofed our cabins. A little boat at- 
 tached 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 hired 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 nights 
 ago 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 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 enclo- 
 sure and sits on the tombstones, and 
 sometimes she seems to listen to the 
 singing, but if she sees any one coming 
 she hurries off like a frightened fawn." 
 
 " And her father, what does he do ? " 
 
 " He never comes here at all, I be- 
 lieve?" 
 
 " And you think this young woman 
 is unhappy ? " 
 
 " Yes. I have seen her weep as if 
 her eyes were two fountains, and her 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 15 
 
 soul the spring from whence they 
 flowed. It is not with us as with the 
 white people. We do not shed tears 
 when 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 Chris- 
 tian, but that she hates the white peo- 
 ple. Many years ago she was stolen 
 from her own country and her little 
 children, and sold to a Frenchman. 
 There are times when she is almost 
 mad, and raves like 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 per- 
 suade her to forgive the white people 
 and not to curse them any more, and 
 then, I said, she would see her children 
 in a more beautiful 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 before 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 to the daughter of the white 
 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 like the west wind ; 
 from his lips consolations flow, and 
 blessings from his hand. And you, 
 the eagle of her tribe, will you not 
 stoop to shelter the white dove who 
 has flown across the Great Salt Lake 
 to the land of the red men ? " 
 
 D'Auban felt touched by the ear- 
 nestness of Th6rese's manner, and in- 
 terested 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 promised 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 com- 
 forted. 
 
16 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 He is a proper man's picture, but . . . how oddly he is suited. I think he bought his doublet in 
 Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere. 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 PEW days after his conversation 
 with Therese, d'Auban rode to a place 
 where some Saxon colonists were clear- 
 ing a part of the forest. He wished 
 to purchase some of the wood they 
 had been felling, and, dismounting, he 
 tied his horse to' a tree and walked to 
 the spot where the overseer was di- 
 recting the work. Whilst he was talk- 
 ing to him, he noticed an old man who 
 was standing a little way off, leaning 
 with both hands on a heavy gold- 
 headed cane. He wore the ordinary 
 European dress of the time, but there 
 was an elaborate neatness, a studied 
 refinement in his appearance singular 
 enough 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 have attracted 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 gray eyes, shaded with white eye- 
 brows, 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 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 ob- 
 servations 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 travelling through a civ- 
 ilized 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'Au- 
 ban answered with a smile, for the idea 
 of hiring a house in the backwoods 
 struck him in a ludicrous light. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 17 
 
 " 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 any thing we 
 see in this part of the world. Many 
 thousand francs have been spent on 
 this little pavilion, which is reckoned 
 quite a curiosity, and goes by the name 
 of the Vicomte de Harlay's Folly. The 
 purchaser of the concession would get 
 the house simply thrown 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 plantation, a few 
 leagues up the river. I should be 
 very happy to let you see it, and to 
 explain its advantages as an invest- 
 ment. 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 d'Auban, pour 
 voua servir, as the peasants say in 
 France." 
 
 "Then indeed, sir, I am inexpressi- 
 bly honoured and delighted 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 to dis- 
 cover. A merchant at New Orleans, to 
 whom I brought letters of introduction, 
 told me that if I was going to the Illi- 
 nois I should try to consult Colonel 
 d'Auban about the purchase of a planta- 
 tion, and not hesitate a moment about 
 following his advice. I therefore grate- 
 fully accept your obliging proposal, 
 but I must beg you to be BO good as to 
 allow me first to inform my daughter 
 of our intended excursion. I will be 
 
 with you again in a quarter of an hour, 
 my amiable friend, ready and happy 
 to surrender myself to your invaluable 
 guidance." 
 
 "Who is that gentleman?" asked 
 d'Auban of the German overseer, as 
 soon as the little 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 gardens, as if 
 he was living in France or in Saxony. 
 I wish him joy of the villas he will find 
 here. And then he speaks to the In- 
 dians and the negroes for all the world 
 as if they were Christians." 
 
 "Many of them are Christians, M. 
 Klein, and often better ones than our- 
 selves," observed d'Auban. 
 
 " Oh ! I did not mean Christians in 
 that sense. It is only a way of speak- 
 ing, 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 gentleman 
 bowing and speechifying to the Indian 
 women. He said the other day to a 
 hideous old squaw, " Madame la Sauva- 
 gesse, will you sell me some of the fruit 
 your fair hands have gathered ? " She 
 said she would give him some without 
 intention, which in their phraseology 
 means without expecting to be paid. 
 The next day, however, she came to 
 his hut, and inquired if he was not go- 
 ing to give Tier something without inten- 
 tion. The poor old man, who is dread- 
 fully afraid of the natives, was obliged 
 to part with some clothes Madame la 
 Sauvagesse had taken a fancy to." 
 
 " Has M. dc Chambelle a daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes, a pale handsome woman, much 
 too delicate and helpless, from what I 
 hear, for this sort of hand-to-mouth 
 
18 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 life. They say she is a widow. It is 
 somewhat funny that the French peo- 
 ple who come here almost always stick 
 a de before their names. The father is 
 called M. de Chambelle, and the daugh- 
 ter, Madame de Moldau." 
 
 " Do you know if they have brought 
 letters of introduction with them to 
 any one 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 advantage 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 felling and selling 
 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 main- 
 tain his slaves, and the plantation is 
 going to ruin. Ah! there is M. de 
 Chambelle coming back ; did you ever 
 see such a figure for an habitant f One 
 would fancy he carried a hair-dresser 
 about, his hair is always so neatly 
 powdered." 
 
 " Will a long walk tire 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 pawing in a manner he did not 
 quite fancy. " If you will 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 habita- 
 tion. Whenever they came to a rough 
 bit of ground he gave his arm to his 
 companion, who leant upon it lightly, 
 and chatted as he went along with a 
 sort of child-like confidence in his new 
 friend. D'Auban's concession, and the 
 neighbouring one of St. 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 outline of 
 the Rocky Mountains. The magnifi- 
 cent scenery which surrounded this 
 little oasis, the luxuriant vegetation, 
 the grandeur of the wide-spreading 
 trees, the domes of blossom which here 
 and there showed amidst masses of 
 verdure, the numberless islets scattered 
 over the surface of the broad-bosomed 
 river, the shady recesses and verdant 
 glades which formed natural alleys and 
 bowers in its encircling forest, com- 
 bined to make its position so beautiful, 
 that it almost accounted for M. de 
 Harlay's short-lived but violent fancy 
 for his 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 savan- 
 nahs, where herds of buffaloes reposed 
 in the long grass. Now and then a 
 slight tremulous motion, like a ripple 
 on the sea, stirred that boundless ex- 
 panse of green, but not a sound of 
 human or animal life rose from its 
 flowery depths. 
 
 Not so in the grove round the pavil- 
 ion. There the ear was almost deaf- 
 ened by the multifarious cries of beasts, 
 the chirpings of birds, the hum of myr- 
 iads of insects. The eye was dazzle 
 by the rapidity of their movements. 
 Hares and rabbits and squirrels dart- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 19 
 
 ed every instant out of the thickets, 
 and monkeys grinned and chattered 
 amongst the branches. Winged crea- 
 tures of every shape and hue were 
 springing out of the willow grass, hov- 
 ering over clusters of roses, swinging 
 on the cordages of the grape vine, 
 flying up into the sky, diving in 
 the streamlets, fluttering amongst the 
 leaves, and producing a confused mur- 
 mur very strange to an unaccustomed 
 ear. 
 
 Neither the magnificence of the sce- 
 nery nor the vivacity of the denizens 
 of the surrounding grove, attracted 
 much of M. de Chambelle's attention. 
 When he caught sight of the pavilion, 
 he burst forth in exclamations of de- 
 light. " Is it possible 1 " he exclaimed. 
 " Do I really see, not a cabin or a hut, 
 not one of those abominable wigwams, 
 but a house, a real house ! fit for civil- 
 ized people to live in 1 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 
 charming habitation f " 
 
 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 Chambelle took out 
 his pocket-book and made a brief cal- 
 culation. 
 
 " It will do perfectly well," he ex- 
 claimed. "The interest of this sum 
 will not exceed the rent we should 
 have had to pay for a house at New Or- 
 leans. It is exactly what we wanted." 
 
 "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 etallissemmt will suit 
 you, we better go over the house and 
 afterwards visit the plantations, in 
 
 order that you may judge of the present 
 condition and the prospects of the 
 concession." 
 
 " I do not much care about that, my 
 dear sir. My knowledge on agricul- 
 tural 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 distinguish be- 
 tween 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 skins 
 of various wild animals, and the horns 
 of antelopes ingeniously arranged in 
 the form of trophies. Bows and arrows, 
 hatchets, tomahawks, and clubs, all 
 instruments of Indian warfare, were 
 hanging against the walls. There was 
 a small room on one side of this hall 
 fitted up with exquisite specimens of 
 Canadian workmanship, and possessing 
 several articles of European furniture, 
 which had been conveyed at an im- 
 mense expense from New Orleans. There 
 was an appearance of civilization, if 
 not of what we should call comfort, in 
 this parlor, 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 believe 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 
 
20 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 travelled far and wide before you stum- 
 bled on such a house in the New World." 
 
 "Ah, the New World the New 
 World, my dear sir. Don't you find it 
 dreadfully uncivilized? I cannot ac- 
 custom myself to the manners of the 
 savages. Their countenances 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 home with them. By-the-bye, 
 there is only one thing I do not like in 
 this delightful habitation." 
 
 "What is it?" 
 
 "I am afraid it is a very solitary resi- 
 dence. You see the Indian servant, 
 our negro boy, Madame de Moldau, and 
 myself, we do not compose a very for- 
 midable 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 laborers are scattered 
 about at no great distance." 
 
 "Ah, your laborers live in wigwams ! 
 Horrible things, I think ; but I suppose 
 they are used to them. Have you many 
 savages, then, in your employment ? " 
 
 "I have some Indian laborers, but 
 they are Christians, and no longer de- 
 serve 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 right, all charm- 
 ing, all perfect. With a loud cry of 
 "A moi, mes amis, Messieurs les Sau- 
 vages are upon us ! " we could call you 
 to our assistance. Well, my dear sir, I 
 wish 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 
 possession 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 was never more ap- 
 plicable." 
 
 " 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 ? " 
 
 " Indispensable, I should say," d'Au- 
 ban answered, rather coldly. 
 
 " It would be quite impossible, I sup- 
 pose, to let us have the house without 
 the land ? You see it will suit us per- 
 fectly as a residence, but I do not see- 
 how I am to manage the business of 
 the concession. Is not that what you 
 call it?" 
 
 D'Auban, more puzzled than ever by 
 the simplicity of this avowal, exclaim- 
 ed, " But in the name of patience, sir, 
 what can you want a house for in this 
 country, unless you intend to work the 
 land ? You do not mean, I suppose, to 
 throw it out of cultivation and to sell 
 the slaves ? " 
 
 " O no ! I suppose that would not be 
 right. There are slaves, too. 'I had 
 not thought of that. Who has man- 
 aged it all since M. de Harlay went 
 away?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " Then you will help me with your 
 advice ? " This idea made M. de Cham- 
 belle brighten up like a person who 
 suddenly sees a ray of light in a dark 
 wood. " Oh yes, of course, every thing 
 must go on as usual, and you will put 
 me in the way of it all." 
 
 "I now propose," said d'Auban, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 21 
 
 "that we take some refreshment at 
 my house, where you can see the ac- 
 counts, 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 purchase, and the 
 amount of its value as an investment. 
 M. de Chambelle listened with great 
 attention, and assented to every thing. 
 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 Mad- 
 ame de Moldau. Do you think, my 
 dear sir, the slaves could drive them 
 away ? " 
 
 " I am afraid that would be a task 
 beyond their power," d'Auban said as 
 gravely as he could. " But depend upon 
 it, after the first few days your daugh- 
 ter will get so accustomed to the sound 
 as scarcely to hear it. I am afraid," he 
 added, " she must have suffered very 
 much during the voyage up the riv- 
 er?" 
 
 " Oh yes, she has suffered very much," 
 the old man answered ; and then he 
 hastened to change the subject by ask- 
 ing 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 agreed that in the after- 
 noon of the following day he should 
 remove with his daughter to St. Agathe. 
 D'Auban offered to fetch them himself 
 in his boat and to send a barge for their 
 
 luggage. M. de Chambelle thanked 
 him very much, hesitated a little, and 
 then said that, if he would 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 sight of strangers, 
 and in such delicate health, that the 
 very efforts she would make to express 
 her gratitude to Colonel d'Auban would 
 tax her strength too severely. He felt 
 a little disappointed, but of course as- 
 sented. The following morning he 
 went through the rooms of the pavil- 
 ion, arranging and re-arranging the 
 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 ornament- 
 ed the lady's bed-room, ^Jiilst a selec- 
 tion from his scanty library gave a 
 home-like appearance to the little par- 
 lour. A basket full of grapes was 
 placed on the table, and then Therese 
 came in with an immense nosegay in 
 her hand. 
 
 "Ah! that is just what I wanted," 
 d'Auban exclaimed. 
 
 "For the nest of the white dove, n 
 she answered, with the sudden lighting 
 up of the eye which supplies the place 
 of a smile in an Indian face. 
 
22 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " 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 admira- 
 tion amongst the Indians" you have 
 brought her pictures, which will not 
 fade like my poor flowers." 
 
 " But she may get tired of the pic- 
 tures, 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 stran- 
 gers and conduct them to the house, 
 and walked across the wooded lawn to 
 his own home. All the evening he 
 felt unsettled. In his monotonous life 
 an event of any sort was an unusual 
 excitement. He went in and out of 
 the house, paced restlessly up and 
 down the margin of the stream. His 
 eyes were continually turning towards 
 the pavilion, from the chimney of 
 which, for the first time for three 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 loneliness more 
 than he was quite aware of, and that 
 the thought of those helpless beings 
 close at hand, of whom he knew so 
 little, but who inspired him with a 
 vague intere^, was an unconscious re- 
 lief. He pictured them to himself 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 like. 
 Therese thought her beautiful, and the 
 German overseer said she was hand- 
 some. She was not, in that case, like 
 her father. "Would he feel disappoint- 
 ed when he saw her ? Would she turn 
 out to be a good-looking woman with 
 white cheeks and yellow hair, such as 
 
 an Indian and a German boor would 
 admire, one because it was the first of 
 the sort she had seen, and the other 
 because he had not known any others. 
 He missed his pictures a little. The 
 room, as Antoine had 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 
 thinking, but could not banish the sub- 
 ject 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, whence he could see 
 St. Agathe and the window of the 
 chamber which he supposed was Mad- 
 ame de Moldau's. There was a light 
 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 I am ! What are 
 these people to me, and why on earth 
 have they come here ? " 
 
 That last question he was destined 
 very often to put to himself with more 
 or less of curiosity, of anxiety, and it 
 might be, of pain, as time went on. 
 
 The purchaser of St. Agathe was en- 
 chanted 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 as- 
 tonishment that a man so unfitted for 
 business should ever have thought of 
 becoming a settler. Instruction and 
 advice were simply thrown away on 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 M. de Chambelle. He might as well 
 have talked to a child about the 
 management of a plantation, and he 
 plainly foresaw 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 advised him to engage 
 some other emigrant to act as his agent, 
 or to join him as a partner in the spec- 
 ulation. 
 
 M. de Chambelle eagerly caught at 
 the idea, and proposed to d'Auban 
 himself to enter into partnership with 
 him. 
 
 " 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 set- 
 tlers, 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 mean time ruin the plan- 
 tation and go out of my mind. M. 
 d'Auban, do consider my position." 
 
 There was an eager wistful expres- 
 sion 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?" was his inward 
 exclamation. He was not in a very 
 good humour that day. He could not 
 help feeling a little hurt at the man- 
 ner in which, whilst he was assisting 
 her father in every possible way, and 
 showering kindnesses upon them, Mad- 
 ame 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 sight of 
 strangers, she really did wish to make 
 his acquaintance. D'Auban said he 
 would go with him to the pavilion, 
 but begged him to wait a few minutes 
 
 till he had finished directing some let- 
 ters 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 
 directions. 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 in 
 Russia. 
 
 "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 Russian 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 his random 
 sort of way, passing from one subject 
 to another without allowing time for 
 any comments. When they arrived at 
 the pavilion, he begged d'Auban to 
 wait in the parlor, and went to look 
 for Madame de Moldau. In a few min- 
 utes he returned, and said she had a 
 bad headache, and begged M. d'Auban 
 to excuse her. Several days had elapsed 
 since then, and no message had been 
 sent to invite his- return. He felt a 
 little angry with the lady, and still 
 more with himself, for caring whether 
 she saw him or not. 
 
 Foolish as all this was, it did not 
 incline him to a favourable considera- 
 tion of M. de Chambelle's proposal. 
 
 " You are so clever," the latter plead- 
 ed. " You know all about this conces- 
 sion, and you manage your own so beau- 
 tifully, 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 
 
 
24 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 hurry about profits ; I do not mind let- 
 ting 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 Mes- 
 sieurs les Sauvages, and I need not have 
 any thing to say to them. 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 observed, still in a sarcastic 
 tone. " Suppose we had not met, what 
 would you 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 ? 
 
 " Ah ! ce que femme veut Dieu le 
 veut ! One cannot refuse her any thing." 
 
 "Perhaps she has had some great 
 sorrow. Has she lost her husband 
 lately?" 
 
 "I suppose she has suffered every 
 thing a woman can suffer," the old man 
 answered, in a tone of feeling which 
 touched d'Auban. 
 
 " She has one great blessing left," he 
 kindly said "an affectionate father. 
 O 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 will- 
 ing to believe it." 
 
 " But with regard to the partnership, 
 M. d'Auban." 
 
 " Well, I am sure you will excuse my 
 speaking plainly, M. de Chambelle. I 
 perfectly admit that you cannot manage 
 your property yourself, but at the same 
 time I would greatly prefer your apply- 
 ing to some other colonist to join you 
 in the undertaking." 
 
 " What is the use of talking to me 
 of some other colonist ? Is there a sin- 
 gle 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 galere ! " muttered d'Auban, and 
 then said out loud : " But it is impos- 
 sible 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 formalities are not easily 
 accomplished in a place like this." 
 
 " Then, for heaven's sake, let us dis- 
 pense with them! The case lies in a 
 nut-shell. I have purchased 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 Polichinelle, and was surprised 
 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 subject. I have tried to assume 
 the manners of a planter ; but chassez le 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE! 
 
 25 
 
 naturel, il revient 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'Auban was very near saying, 
 "What were you made for?" but he 
 checked 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 fulfil on earth. He or she seems 
 to our short-sighted view so insignifi- 
 cant, so incapable, so devoid of the 
 qualities we most admire, and all the 
 while, perhaps, what appears to us his 
 or her deficiencies, are qualifications 
 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 
 between the neighbours, which ended 
 by d'Auban's promising to draw up an 
 agreement based on M. de Chambelle's 
 proposal. It was further decided that 
 they would take this paper to the Mis- 
 sion 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 
 transport of delight, and complimented 
 Father Maret on the beauty of his 
 church, in which he had never set his 
 foot. The missionary was amused at 
 hearing himself called M. 1'Abbe, and 
 took an opportunity, whilst his guest 
 was flitting about his rose-bushes like 
 a superannuated butterfly, to ask d'Au- 
 ban for the history of his new partner. 
 
 " I am almost ashamed to own how 
 little I know of him," was his answer. 
 
 And then he gave a brief account of 
 the arrival of these strangers of the 
 purchase of St. Agathe, and M. de 
 Chambelle's total inability to manage 
 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 have hitherto 
 been rather out of the reach of adven- 
 turers, but there seems to me some- 
 thing a little suspicious in the ap- 
 parent helplessness of this gentleman. 
 Do not let pity or kindness throw you 
 off your guard." 
 
 " If he were to turn out a rogue, 
 which I hardly can believe possible, 
 he could not do mp any harm. You 
 see he leaves every thing in my hands. 
 I might cheat him, but he cannot in- 
 jure me. I shall feel to understand 
 him better when I have seen his 
 daughter. Is it not strange her shut- 
 ting 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 colo- 
 nies. Who knows what this one may 
 be ? It is not impossible that, all this 
 hiding is only a trick by which she 
 hopes to pique your curiosity, and in- 
 terest your feelings. But here comes 
 your friend. Poor old man ! He cer- 
 tainly 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 pre- 
 sented by d'Auban's tall figure and 
 firm step, and his companion's un- 
 
26 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 graceful form and shuffling gait, or to 
 see the latter's admiring confiding 
 manner towards his companion and 
 doubt its sincerity. The priest could 
 not, however, divest himself of a 
 vague apprehension as to the charac- 
 ter and designs of tne strangers. Ex- 
 perience had taught him sad lessons 
 with regard to colonial speculators, 
 and his fatherly affection for d'Auban 
 made him suspicious of their designs. 
 It was in Russia that the intimacy be- 
 tween these two men had begun, and 
 in America it had deepened into Mend- 
 ship. There was a difference of at 
 least twenty years between their ages. 
 Father Maret was bent with toil, and 
 his countenance bere the traces of a 
 life of labour and privations. When 
 at rest, melancholy was its character- 
 istic expression, as if continual con- 
 tact with sin and sorrow had left its 
 impress upon it; but when he con- 
 versed with others, it was with a 
 bright and gracious smile. His step, 
 though heavy, was rapid, as that of a 
 man who, weary and exhausted, yet 
 hastens on in the service of God. His 
 head fell slightly forward on his breast, 
 and his hair was thin and gray, but in 
 his eye there was a fire, and in his 
 manner and language 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 by intercourse with those who 
 could share in his interests or his anx- 
 ieties, or afford him the 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 ex- 
 ist an intellectual gulf between minds 
 untrained and uncultivated, and those 
 which have been used from childhood 
 upward to live almost as much in the 
 
 past as in the present ; and this is even 
 the case to a certain degree as regards 
 religion. The advantage in this re- 
 spect may not always be on the side 
 of civilization and of a high amount 
 of mental culture. There is often in 
 persons wise unto salvation and ig- 
 norant of all else, a simplicity of faith, 
 a clear realization of its great truths 
 and unhesitating acceptance of its 
 teachings, which may very well excite 
 admiration and something like envy in 
 those whom an imperfect, and there- 
 fore deceptive, knowledge misleads, 
 and who are sometimes almost weary 
 of the multiplicity of their own 
 thoughts. But it is nevertheless im- 
 possible that they should not miss, in 
 their intercourse with others, the power 
 of association which links their relig- 
 ious belief with a whole chain of remi- 
 niscences, and connects it with a num- 
 ber of outlying regions bordering on 
 its domain. Viewed in the light of 
 faith, art, science, literature, history, 
 politics, every achilvement of genius, 
 every past and present event, every in- 
 vention, every discovery, has a pecu- 
 liar significancy. Names become bea- 
 cons in the stream of time signal 
 lights, bright or lurid as may be, 
 which the lapse of ages never extin- 
 guishes. This continued train of 
 thought, this kingdom of association, 
 this region of sympathy, is the growth 
 of centuries, and to forego familiarity 
 with it one of the 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 mitigate. 
 
 In New France, as in all recently- 
 discovered countries, a missionary's 
 chief difficulty consisted not in con- 
 verting the natives, or (a greater one) 
 in keeping them from relapsing into 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 27 
 
 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 Mississippi, tainting and pol- 
 luting the forests and prairies of this 
 new Eden with their vile passions and 
 remorseless thirst for gold, which wrung 
 the heart of the Christian priest, and 
 brought a blush to his cheek when the 
 Indians asked "Are the white men 
 Christians ? Do they worship Jesus ? " 
 He felt sometimes inclined to an- 
 swer, " No ; their god is mammon, a 
 very hateful idol." To make his mean- 
 ing clear, he used to show them a piece 
 of gold, and to say that for the sake of 
 that metal many a baptized European 
 imperilled his immortal soul. The In- 
 dians of the Mission got into the habit 
 of calling gold the white man's mani- 
 tou, that is, his domestic idol. It be- 
 came, therefore, an immense consolation 
 to Father Maret when a Frenchman 
 came into the neighbourhood whom he 
 could point out to the native converts 
 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 he 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 life and social enjoy- 
 ments should be cut off by circumstan- 
 ces 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 solitary 
 existence was an accident, not a voca- 
 tion. 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 his 
 partnership, that these new acquaintan- 
 ces, 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 night 
 for the companion of his solitude. 
 None feel more solicitude for the hap- 
 piness, or more sympathy with the 
 trials of others, than those who have 
 renounced earthly happiness them- 
 selves. 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 in the Indian 
 fashion, she said, "The eagle spreads 
 his wings over the nest of the white 
 dove. The strong befriends the weak. 
 It is good, my father." 
 
 " I hope so," the black robe kindly 
 answered, as he led the way into the 
 church, where the people were 
 bling for evening prayer. 
 
28 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 The present hour repeats upon its strings 
 Echoes of some vague dream we have forgot ; 
 
 Dim voices whisper half-remembered things, 
 And when we pause to listen 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 CHAMBELLE, no longer the 
 manager of a concession, trod the earth 
 with a lighter step, and strolled through 
 the plantations, bowing affably to the 
 negroes and chatting with those of the 
 labourers who spoke French or Ger- 
 man. As to d'Auban, he applied him- 
 self to the business he had undertaken 
 with his usual energy and intelligence 
 an additional amount of labour was 
 a boon to him. He had " the frame of 
 adamant and soul of fire," to which 
 work is as necessary as food or air. 
 He was glad also to adopt, with re- 
 gard 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 
 Th6rese 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 
 imagine her existence within those four 
 walls, with no other companion than 
 her garrulous old father, who chattered 
 as if he could keep nothing 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 shrubbery, 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. He stood 
 riveted to the spot. " She is very beau- 
 tiful," 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 face is not a new one to me," 
 he thought. " How intensely blue her 
 eyes are ! What a very peculiar-look- 
 ing person she is ! Her dress is dif- 
 ferent, too, from any thing 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 sur- 
 prise. I ought of all things to have 
 avoided the appearance of a rude vul- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 29 
 
 gar curiosity." That self-reproach oc- 
 cupied 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 his mind. 
 Europe with all his associations rose 
 before him, 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 some- 
 times haunted by a besetting thought, 
 or we have an agitating dream, or we 
 are seized by an unaccountable depres- 
 sion which we consider as a forebod- 
 ing of coming evil, of some event which, 
 in the poet's words, casts its shadows 
 before it, and the thought passes away, 
 the dream fades in the light 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 frequent- 
 ly happens, and yet in spite of these 
 deceptions, we cannot altogether dis- 
 believe in the occasional occurrence 
 of subtle and mysterious intimations 
 which forbade future events, and, like 
 whispers from heaven, prepare our souls 
 for coming joys or sorrows. Was it an 
 effect of memory, or a trick of the 
 imagination, or a simple delusion, 
 which played the fool that night with 
 d'Auban's well-regulated mind, sug- 
 gesting to him a fantastic resemblance 
 between the face he had seen that even- 
 ing 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 analyze his feel- 
 
 ings, but gave himself up to a long 
 reverie, in which, like in a drowning 
 man's dream, the events of his life 
 passed successively before him with a 
 strange distinctness. How the remem- 
 brance of our childhood comes back to 
 us as we advance in life! We lose 
 sight of it amidst the noise and excite- 
 ment 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 what 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 that night. When the future as- 
 sumes a new aspect, and we dimly fore- 
 see a change in our destiny, without 
 discerning its form, even as a blind 
 man is conscious of approach to an ob- 
 ject he does not yet touch or behold, 
 a feeling 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 animation 
 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 like to thrust himself 
 into her society by availing himself of 
 an invitation which only gratitude or 
 civility had, in all probability, induced 
 her to send. He accordingly made 
 some not very intelligible excuse. 
 
 "Ah!. my dear friend," exclaimed 
 M. de Chambelle, "you must not re- 
 fuse ; it is impossible you can refuse." 
 
 It was with a pained expression of 
 countenance that this remonstance was 
 
30 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 made. The old man seemed shocked 
 and hurt. 
 
 " 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 per- 
 haps compel her, as she did before, to 
 keep her own room." 
 
 "Ah! that was because she had a 
 headache. 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 Cham- 
 belle; and then recovering his spirits 
 he added, " Our cuisine, I am sorry to 
 say, is of the New World school, in 
 spite of all my efforts to instruct our 
 Indian vatel in the mysteries of French 
 cooking; 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 provided for our 
 entertainment. 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-morrow at one o'clock ; you 
 will 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 tremulous 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 weakness and frivolity he evinced 
 in the midst of troubles, into which he 
 had so recklessly plunged himself; but 
 he never heard him speak of his daugh- 
 ter without noticing a kind of pathos 
 in his voice and manner, which re- 
 deemed in 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 appoint- 
 ed time. And so he was ; and on his 
 way to St. Agathe he kept inwardly re- 
 proaching and laughing at himself for 
 the timidity he felt at the thought of 
 being introduced to Madame de Mol- 
 dau, and at the fear he had that after 
 all she would not appear. When he 
 came in sight of the pretty fanciful toy 
 of a house, a specimen of European 
 refinement 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 Folly, and blamed its 
 erection as the idle whim of a Parisian's 
 fancy. The woman he had seen sur- 
 rounded by shining evergreens and 
 roses in full blossom, like a lovely pic- 
 ture framed in flowerets, seemed a fit- 
 ting inhabitant for this earthly paradise. 
 
 It had never showed to such advan- 
 tage, in his eyes at least, as on this day. 
 The brilliant foliage was shining in the 
 full radiance of noon. The avenue of 
 magnolias leading to the little rustic 
 porch was fragrant with incense-like 
 perfume. Not a breath stirred the 
 branches of the encircling cedars. 
 Beautiful birds, like winged jewels 
 flying through the translucent air, gave 
 life and animation to the scene, and 
 insects lazily hovered over masses of 
 scented woodbine, their wings weighed 
 down with honey, and their drowsy 
 hum lulling the ear. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 31 
 
 M. de Chambelle was standing at 
 the door looking out for his guest. He 
 seemed more fidgety still than 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 ex- 
 quisite delicacy of her complexion, the 
 pathetic expression (no other word 
 would express it) of her large and very 
 blue eyes, surpassed in beauty any thing 
 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. Agathe. 
 
 "It is one of the loveliest places I 
 have ever beheld," she said. 
 
 What touched him most was that he 
 saw, from the quivering of her lip and 
 the fluctuating colour of her cheek, that 
 she was making an effort over herself 
 in order to welcome him. Notwith- 
 standing this visible emotion, her man- 
 ner was quiet and self-possessed. He 
 felt, on the contrary, as awkward and 
 stupid as possible, and scarcely knew 
 what to say in return for her acknowl- 
 edgments. Man of the world as he 
 once had been, he was quite at a loss 
 on this occasion. She was such a dif- 
 ferent 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 hare the good 
 fortune to be so soon inhabited by a 
 European lady. What in my ignorance 
 I deemed a folly has turned out an in- 
 spiration. We emigrants are apt to 
 build for 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." 
 
 " Are you fond of flowers, Madame 
 deMoldau?" 
 
 " Could one venture to say one did 
 not care about them ? " She said this 
 with one of those smiles which hover 
 on the lips without in the least altering 
 the melancholy expression of the eyes. 
 
 "In this new world, Madame," he 
 answered, "may we not venture to say 
 any thing, even the truth ? " 
 
 Madame de Moldau blushed, and said 
 rather quickly, " I find almost as much 
 difference between one flower and anoth- 
 er as between different persons. Some 
 are beautiful but uninteresting, others 
 decidedly repulsive, and some without 
 any beauty at all are nevertheless charm- 
 ing. Violets, for instance, and mig- 
 nonette. 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 land- 
 scapes, certain animals nay, certain 
 faces have a charm quite independent 
 of beauty. It is, however, easier to dis- 
 cover what captivates us in a human 
 countenance than in a landscape or a 
 flower." 
 
 " I suppose, sir, there are secret sym- 
 pathies, mysterious affinities, between 
 our great parent nature and ourselves 
 which are felt, but cannot be explain- 
 ed?" 
 
 " 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." 
 
32 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " No doubt there are lessons broad- 
 scattered on the surface of nature which 
 he who runs may read, but my life 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 accus- 
 tomed to the monotony of this forest 
 scenery ? " 
 
 "Not merely accustomed, but at- 
 tached to it." 
 
 " What ! do you not feel oppressed 
 by its death-like stillness ? It puts me 
 in mind of being becalmed at sea. 
 
 Tiefe Stille herrscht im Wasser, 
 Und bekummert sieht der Fischer 
 Glatte Flache rings umher. 
 Keine Luft von keiner Seite, 
 Todesstille furchterlich ; 
 In die ungeheure Weite 
 Beget keine Welle sich. 
 
 Do you understand German, M. d'Au- 
 ban?" 
 
 " Not enough, 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 gone 
 through that trial ? " 
 
 " O 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 hundred emigrants on 
 board a crowded vessel ! " 
 
 " Good heavens, Madame, how you 
 must have suffered ! But does the 
 solitude of our grand forests, teeming 
 as they do with animal lif^ and full of 
 every variety of vegetable production, 
 affect you in the same manner ? " 
 
 " There is, I must confess, a similar- 
 ity in the effect both have upon me." 
 
 "We have sometimes winds here 
 which play rough games with 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 ar- 
 rived a hurricane 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 you." 
 
 " I have long had the advantage or 
 the disadvantage, whichever it is, of 
 his acquaintance. He is quite a char- 
 acter. His boats, such as they are, 
 prove a great convenience to emi- 
 grants ; but how you, Madame de 
 Moldau, could endure the hardships 
 of such a voyage, I am at a loss to con- 
 ceive." 
 
 " Is there any thing one cannot en- 
 dure ? " This was said with some bit- 
 terness. " The voyage was bad enough," 
 she continued, before he had time to 
 answer, "but not so bad as the land- 
 ing. Oh, that first night in an Indian 
 hut ! The smell, the heat, the mos- 
 quitoes, that winged army of torment- 
 ors ! Is it because we are farther re- 
 moved from the river that they do not 
 assail us so much here ? " 
 
 "Partly so, perhaps; but they al- 
 ways attack new-comers with extraor- 
 dinary virulence." 
 
 " 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 neighbouring 
 Mission. During the hunting season I 
 accompany him in his wanderings." 
 
 "In search of game?" 
 
 "I pursue the game. He follows 
 about his wandering flock in their en- 
 campments in the forests and near the 
 great lakes." 
 
 At that moment M. de Chambelle an- 
 nounced that dinner was ready. Mad- 
 ame de Moldau rose, and d'Auban 
 offered to- conduct her to the hall which 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 33 
 
 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 that he hardly knew what 
 he was doing. He had been accus- 
 tomed to the best, which in those days 
 meant the most aristocratic, society in 
 Europe, and had often dined with 
 princes. How was it, then, that in 
 that log-built house, sitting between 
 the old man, whose affairs he had con- 
 sented to manage out of sheer compas- 
 sion, and his young and gentle daugh- 
 ter, he should feel so embarrassed ? 
 
 As they sat down she pointed 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 
 sweetness also. One would not dare to 
 deal roughly with so delicate a flower." 
 
 He thought there was a likeness be- 
 tween that white jessamine and the 
 woman by his side. 
 
 She was very silent during dinner. 
 
 M. de Chambelle's eyes were always 
 glancing towards her, and he seemed 
 distressed at her eating so little. Once 
 he got up to change her plate and oifer 
 her some other dish than the one she 
 had been helped to. 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 pecu- 
 liarity. Nothing could be sweeter than 
 her countenance ; her voice was charm- 
 in LC ; her way of speaking courteous : 
 but there was at the same time some- 
 thing a little abrupt and even slightly 
 3 
 
 imperious in it, which did not take 
 away from her attractiveness, for it was 
 neither unfeminine nor ungracious : but 
 he could quite believe what M. de 
 Chambclle had said, that when she was 
 bent on any thing it was not easy to 
 oppose her. " I suppose " (he thought) 
 " that she has been so idolized 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 daughter. Had I forgotten," 
 he asked himself, " what refined, well- 
 educated women are like, or is this one 
 very superior to what they generally 
 are?" 
 
 When at last they left the dining- 
 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 
 woods 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 
 foliage. Tears gathered in her eyes 
 and rolled down her cheeks. D'Auban 
 saw her father watching her with pain- 
 ful 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. When 
 we are for any reason interested about 
 any one, how eagerly we take notice of 
 what they read, and try in this way to 
 form some idea of their tastes and opin- 
 ions 1 Sometimes in a railway carriage 
 or on a bench in a public garden, we 
 see a person absorbed in a book, and 
 if there is any thing 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 it touches what emo- 
 tions it excites what amount of truth 
 or of falsehood, of evil or good, of fopd 
 
34 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 or of poison, is conveyed in the pages 
 so eagerly perused ! What a wonder- 
 ful thing 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 per- 
 haps 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 antag- 
 onists we encounter in the solitude of 
 our chambers ! What earnest protests 
 we have mentally uttered when our 
 faith has been outraged or our con- 
 sciences wounded ! What blessings we 
 have showered on the writer who elo- 
 quently expresses what we ourselves 
 have thought and felt who defends 
 with courage 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 we sat when the first dawnings of 
 intelligence threw a doubtful light on 
 our minds those to whom we paid an 
 almost idolatrous worship 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, " com- 
 panions on its downward way ! " 
 
 The books on Madame de Moldau's 
 table were the " Maxims of La Roche- 
 foucauld," "Plutarch's Lives," a vol- 
 ume of Corneille's Tragedies, and a 
 German translation of the Psalms. 
 
 " Is this your travelling library, Mad- 
 ame 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 intellec- 
 tual ones." 
 
 " Would it be impertinent to ask if 
 choice or chance influenced their selec- 
 tion?" 
 
 " Oh, chance decided it, like every 
 thing else in one's fate." 
 
 " Surely you do not think that the 
 world is governed by chance ? " d'Au- 
 ban exclaimed. 
 
 " I suppose I ought to have used the 
 word 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 accident." He had taken up 
 the volume of German Psalms and was 
 turning over its pages. Madame de 
 Moldau saw it in his 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 dreadfully trou- 
 blesome," he cried. "I really must 
 get a net or something to hang up 
 against this window ; " 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 should be only too happy if 
 you would make use of my little library. 
 I have thirty or forty volumes at my 
 house. Nothing very new, but most 
 them worthy of more than one perusal." 
 
 "You are very kind. Perhaps you 
 will allow me some day to look at 
 them ? Have you seen this volume of 
 Corneille's Tragedies? I like them 
 much better than Racine's." 
 
 " I saw the Cid acted at St. Peters- 
 burg some years ago. The Czar pre- 
 ferred Corneille to all other dramatic 
 writers." 
 
 " Buffoonery and low comedy are 
 supposed to be what he likes best, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " I suppose that in tastes as well as in 
 other things extremes sometimes meet. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 35 
 
 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 
 have admired his genius, his great qual- 
 ities?" 
 
 "I admired the sovereign who, al- 
 most single-handed, changed the face 
 of an empire, the man whose energy 
 and perseverance effected in a few years 
 the work of centuries; but a nearer 
 acquaintance with this great barbarian 
 completely changed the nature of this 
 admiration. Wonder remained, but 
 unaccompanied with respect. How 
 can one respect a man who is the slave 
 of his own passions, whose remorseless 
 cruelty and coarse brutality are a dis- 
 grace 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 feelings. 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, noth- 
 ing very uncommon in that. He goes 
 through the forms of his Church. This 
 is all that is expected from persons in 
 his position." 
 
 " Had you been acquainted with the 
 details of the Czar's life, Madame de 
 Moldau, with its degrading immo- 
 rality and its brutal coarseness, you 
 would not be deluded into admira- 
 tion by the brilliant side of his charac- 
 ter." 
 
 " I did not speak of what was bril- 
 liant, 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 life to his service. I tried 
 to look on the grand side of his chardc- 
 ter, on the prodigious 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 life 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 reverted to." 
 
 " Why so, Madame de Moldau ? Be- 
 cause 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 indiscreet questions." 
 
 " You need have no fears of that 
 kind," d'Auban answered, with a frank 
 smile. " My life has been full of vicissi- 
 tudes, but there have been no secrets 
 in it." 
 
 A burning blush overspread Madame 
 de Moldau's face ; she coloured to the 
 very roots of her hair. M. de Cham- 
 belle, 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 apologized to d'Auban for leaving 
 him. " 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 
 inclination of the head. 
 
 During the ensuing hour d'Auban 
 thought he did not deserve to be 
 " taxed for silence," but rather checked 
 
36 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 for speech. He chattered with the 
 happy talent some people possess of 
 talking immensely, without leaving on 
 the listener'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 instant- 
 ly obeyed the 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 Madame de Moldau. You 
 do not, I suppose, know of such a per- 
 son?" 
 
 " No, indeed, I do not. There are so 
 few respectable European women in 
 these settlements. I wonder if the 
 bargeman Simon's daughter could be 
 induced to accept the situation ? " 
 
 " What ! the black-eyed young lady 
 who acts as stewardess during the 
 voyage ? My dear sir, she would in- 
 deed 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 flow- 
 ers to St. Agathe, and received in re- 
 turn courteous messages, and at last a 
 little note from Madame de Moldau. 
 
 " Sm : I see you mean to compel me 
 to admire the forests, fields, and streams 
 which furnish the luxuries you send 
 me. I am obliged to admit that na- 
 ture has lavished her gifts on this 
 favoured region, and that if its aspect 
 is mountainous its productions are full 
 of beauty and variety. Accept my 
 best thanks, and the assurance of my 
 sincere regard. C. DE M." 
 
 He sometimes strolled by the river- 
 side and through the neighbouring 
 
 thickets, in the hope that the lady of 
 St. Agathe would resume her evening 
 walks in the direction of the village, 
 and that he might find an opportunity 
 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 nor at the 
 window. But one morning M. de 
 Chambelle called and asked him to 
 pay his daughter a visit without letting 
 her know that he had begged him to 
 do so. 
 
 " It would give me great pleasure," 
 he answered ; " but I am sure Madame 
 de Moldau, though she is very kind 
 and civil to me, much prefers my stay- 
 ing away." 
 
 He would have been very sorry not 
 to be contradicted, for he longed to be 
 sitting again in the little drawing-room 
 at St. Agathe ; watching the varying 
 expression of the lady's most expres- 
 sive countenance, and, as it were, feel- 
 ing his way as he approached any new 
 subject of conversation. A white jessa- 
 mine encircled by a fringe of sensitive 
 leaves would be a fitting emblem, he 
 thought, of the mistress of St. Agathe. 
 He had once amused himself in by- 
 gone years in overcoming 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 condescended 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 analogy between those efforts to 
 win the good graces of the four-footed 
 beauty, and his present endeavours 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 will 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 37 
 
 become an enjoyment to her, and per- 
 haps you would be able to persuade her 
 not to sit all day at the window gaz- 
 ing on the view, and never uttering a 
 word. Is there nothing we could do 
 to amuse her ? " 
 
 The notion of amusement in the kind 
 of life they were leading was a novel 
 one to d'Auban, and he was not pre- 
 pared to answer the question at once. 
 But after thinking a little he said : 
 
 "If she cared for fine scenery we 
 might row her in my boat to the Falls 
 some way up the river to what the 
 Indians call the Minne Haha or Laugh- 
 ing Water, or perhaps it might 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 afraid, 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 
 thing 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 delight in it ; but 
 how could we get a suitable horse for 
 her?" 
 
 " I think one of mine would carry 
 her very well if we could procure a 
 side-saddle. There are beautiful glades 
 in the forest. We might accompany 
 her on foot, or I would lend you my 
 pony." 
 
 M. de Chambelle's face lengthened 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 sitting at 
 the window." 
 
 " Your young negro would be charm- 
 ed, I dare say, to attempt its cap- 
 ture." 
 
 "Ah! I dare say he would. And 
 will you come and see her to-day ? " 
 
 " I am obliged to visit a distant part 
 of your plantation ; you have doubled 
 my business, you know." 
 
 " Oh dear, how tired you must be ! " 
 exclaimed M. de Chambelle in a com- 
 passionate tone. 
 
 D'Auban laughed. 
 
 "Not at all, I assure you. I only 
 meant that I was not much burthened 
 with leisure ; but if I am not too late, 
 I will do myself the honour of calling 
 at St. Agathe on my way home." 
 
38 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 CHAP TEE IY. 
 
 Oh ! deep is a wounded heart, and strong 
 A voice that cries against mighty wrong ; 
 And full of death, as a hot wind's blight, 
 Doth the ire of a crusned affection light. 
 
 Mrs. Hemans. 
 
 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 purified. Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 business was quickly de- 
 spatched 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 walked to the pa- 
 vilion. The heat had been oppressive, 
 but a refreshing breeze was now begin- 
 ning to stir the leaves and to ripple 
 the surface of the river. The first thing 
 he saw on approaching 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 beck- 
 oned to him to join them. 
 
 " Oh, what a beautiful nosegay ! " he 
 exclaimed. "Run, Sambo, run, and 
 get a vase filled with water and a little 
 table from the parlour. Your bouquet 
 will give an air de fete, dear M. d'Au- 
 ban, to our salon cPete. 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 little fresh air. It has been so hot to- 
 day." 
 
 He gave a delighted 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 should not be 
 surprised if she was to allow herself to 
 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, musing over the half-provoking, 
 half-amusing manner in which M. de 
 Chambelle presupposed his interest and 
 enlisted his services in his daughter!s 
 behalf. "The poor old man," he 
 thought, " seems to take it for granted 
 every one 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 her 
 sweet voice, the ungracious feeling van- 
 ished. He no longer wondered; on 
 the contrary, it seemed to him quite 
 natural that he and every one 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?" 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 39 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "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 your interests and reliev- 
 ing you from anxiety, I shall be amply 
 repaid for my exertions. May I hope 
 that you are becoming reconciled to 
 this new world, which must have seem- 
 ed to you so desolate at first ? Are you 
 beginning to take an interest in its 
 natural beauties, and to think you could 
 find happiness in this solitude ? " 
 
 " What pleases me most in it is its 
 solitude, and I do not think of the fu- 
 ture at all. Is not that what moralists 
 say 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 that he did 
 not hear them, and then, as if to change 
 the subject, she said : " Nothing could 
 have been so advantageous to my poor 
 father as this partnership with you. 
 He has not, I suppose, the least idea of 
 business ? " 
 
 "Not much, Madame. But he fur- 
 nishes 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 agreement with 
 him is quite a fair one? I know he 
 would not take advantage of your kind- 
 ness, but he might not know " 
 
 "You need have no fears on this 
 point, Madame. The agreement is a 
 perfectly reasonable 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 
 venture, Madame, to ask you the same 
 question you put to me just now ? What 
 have you been doing to-day ? " 
 
 " Only what Italians say it is sweet 
 to do nothing." 
 
 " And do you find it sweet ? " 
 
 " Not in the German settlement, but 
 here I rather like it." 
 
 "You must want rest after your 
 dreadful voyage. I wonder you had 
 the courage to undertake it." 
 
 " I am not much afraid of any thing ; " 
 and then, as if wishing once more to 
 turn the conversation into another chan- 
 nel, she said, "I interrupted you the 
 other day when you were about to tell 
 me why you left Russia. I should very 
 much like to hear what induced you 
 to do so." 
 
 " I have seldom spoken of the cir- 
 cumstances which compelled me to it. 
 When first I returned to France, my 
 feelings on the subject were too acute, 
 and here you can already perceive that 
 there is scarcely any one with whom 
 intimate conversation is possible. I 
 had almost forgotten, Madame de Mol- 
 dau, 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 
 
40 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 voice. " It is not the heart only which 
 has need of 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 were talking about just now ? M. 
 d'Auban will call you if I should want 
 any thing ; 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, " What a weight 
 you have taken off his mind, M. d'Au- 
 ban ! 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 ut- 
 tered these words, Madame de Moldau 
 leant back her head against the cushion 
 and closed her eyes. But tears forced 
 their way through the closed eye- 
 lids. 
 
 D'Auban gazed silently at those 
 trickling tears, and wondered whence 
 they flowed. Were they bitter as the 
 waters of Marah, or did they give evi- 
 dence of a grief too sacred to be in- 
 vaded ? He ventured to say in a very 
 low voice, " You have suffered a great 
 deal," but she either did not or pre- 
 tended not to hear him. 
 
 " You were going to tell me why you 
 left Russia," she observed, in a some- 
 what abrupt tone. 
 
 He felt that the best way of winning 
 her confidence would be to be open him- 
 self with her as to his own history and 
 feelings. 
 
 " My prospects at the court of Rus- 
 sia," he began, "were in every way 
 
 promising ; I had reason to believe 
 that the emperor was favourably dis- 
 posed towards me. General Lefort was 
 kindness itself. I had lately been ap- 
 pointed to the command of a regiment. 
 I must tell you that some time after my 
 arrival at St. Petersburg, I had made 
 an acquaintance with a young Russian 
 lady whose father had a place at Court. 
 Her name was Anna Vladislava. She 
 was handsome I thought so, at least 
 and at the same time was full of 
 genius, wit, and youthful impetuosity. 
 Hers was a fiery nature which had 
 never known much control. She was 
 fanatically attached to the customs and 
 traditions of her country. We dis- 
 agreed about every thing, religion, pol- 
 itics, books. We never met but we 
 quarrelled. I was one of those foreign- 
 ers whom, as a class, she held in ab- 
 horrence, and yet, strange to say, an 
 attachment sprang up between us. 
 The fearless independence of her char- 
 acter attracted me. It was a refresh- 
 ing- contrast with the servile, cringing 
 spirit of the Czar's Court. She en- 
 deavoured to convert me to the ortho- 
 dox religion, as it is called" (a faint 
 scornful smile curled Madame de Mol- 
 dau's lip), " and used to get exasper- 
 ated 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 understanding between 
 us, but no open engagement ; of mar- 
 riage we did not venture to speak. 
 It would have endangered her father's 
 position and prospects, and my own 
 also, to have acknowledged such an 
 intention. I had been given to un- 
 derstand that my imperial master 
 had fixed upon a wife for me, and 
 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 points of sympathy in our char- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 41 
 
 acters, and our mutual attachment in- 
 creased. 
 
 " I had sometimes been a little anx- 
 ious about Anna's freedom of speech. 
 She allowed herself openly to inveigh 
 against the Czar's conduct, and to 
 express her dislike to his innovations. 
 It was with a kind of natural eloquence 
 peculiar to her 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 careless 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 sim- 
 plicity. * A Russian woman,' she said, 
 4 gloried in submission, and looked 
 upon her husband as her master and 
 her lord.' How little she looked for 
 bondage, and yet I do believe she 
 would have borne any tiling from one 
 she loved. But insult, shame, and tor- 
 ture. . . . " d'Auban paused an in- 
 stant. Madame de Moldau was listen- 
 ing to him, he felt it, with intense 
 interest. He want on: "I used to 
 comfort myself by the thought that 
 the wild sallies 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 grate- 
 ful recollection of her kindness. She 
 considered this Princess as a martyr to 
 the cause of Holy Russia, 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 continu- 
 
 ally 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 Em- 
 peror. He was once more seized by 
 the mad fury which possessed him at 
 the time of the Strelitz revolt, and 
 which caused him to torture his re- 
 bellious subjects with his own hands, 
 to insult them in their agonies, and 
 plunge into excesses of barbarity sur- 
 passing every thing on record, even in 
 the annals of heathen barbarity " 
 
 Madame de Moldau raised herself 
 from her reclining posture, and ex- 
 claimed, with burning cheeks and some 
 emotion : 
 
 " Oh, M. d'Auban, what violent lan- 
 guage you use ! State necessity some- 
 times requires, for the suppression of 
 rebellion, measures at which humanity 
 shudders, but " 
 
 " Ah ! I had often said that to my- 
 self and to others often tried to pal- 
 liate these atrocities by specious rea- 
 sonings. I had made light of the suf- 
 ferings of others. Time and distance 
 marvellously blunt the edge of indigna- 
 tion. Sophistry hardens the heart 
 towards the victims, and we at last 
 excuse 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 and to 
 kill. . . . Forgive me, I tire, I agitate 
 you you look pale." 
 
 " Never mind me. What hap- 
 pened ? " 
 
 " When I returned to St. Petersburg, 
 this was the news that met me. The 
 girl I loved, and whom I had left gay 
 as a bird and innocent as a child she 
 who had never known shame or suffer- 
 ing she who had been led astray by 
 others was dead: and oh, my God, 
 what a death was hers ! " 
 
42 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "Was she put to death?" faintly 
 asked Madame de Moldau. 
 
 "No, she was not condemned to 
 death. This would have been mercy 
 to one like her. She was 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 life 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 Crimea to the Czar, and to 
 stab him to the heart. May God for- 
 give me the thought, soon disowned, 
 soon repented of! It was a short mad- 
 ness, wrestled with and overcome on 
 my knees, but when it had passed 
 away nothing remained to me but to 
 quit the country as quickly and as se- 
 cretly as possible. I knew I could not 
 endure to see the Emperor ; to feel his 
 hand laid familiarly as it had often been 
 on my shoulder, or to witness his vio- 
 lence and coarse pleasantry, would have 
 been torture. I feigned illness, dis- 
 posed 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 
 Moldau made no comment on his story. 
 The next time she spoke, it was to say 
 "I wonder if suffering softens or 
 hardens the heart ? " 
 
 " I suppose that, like the heat of the 
 sun on different substances, it hardens 
 some and softens others. But the more 
 I live, the more clearly I see how diffi- 
 cult it is to talk of suffering and happi- 
 
 ness without saying what sounds like 
 nonsense.'' 
 
 " I do not understand you." 
 
 " What I mean is this : that there is 
 very little happiness or suffering irre- 
 spectively of the temper of mind or the 
 physical constitution of individuals. I 
 have seen so many instances of persons 
 miserable in the possession of what 
 would be generally considered as 
 happiness, and others so happy in the 
 midst of acknowledged evils, such as 
 sickness, want, and neglect, that my 
 ideas have quite changed since I 
 thought prosperity and happiness and 
 adversity and unhappiness were sy- 
 nonymous terms." 
 
 " Could you tell me of some of the 
 instances you mean ? " 
 
 " I could relate to you many instan- 
 ces 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 ex- 
 amples ? " 
 
 " Perhaps so are you happy ? " 
 
 Few but the young, whose lives have 
 been spent in perpetual sunshine, know 
 quite how to answer this inquiry. With 
 some the fountain of sorrow has been 
 sealed up, built and bridged over by 
 resignation, acquiescence, or simply by 
 time. Its waters have been hallowed 
 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 
 hesitated 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 43 
 
 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 lip quivered, and he exclaim- 
 ed: 
 
 "I know one heart which suffering 
 has not hardened." 
 
 " Oh yes ! " she answered with pas- 
 sionate emotion, "it has hardened it 
 into stone, and closed it for ever." 
 
 " Well, my dear sir, have you spoken 
 to her about riding? Have you suc- 
 ceeded in amusing her ? " whispered 
 M. de Chambelle to d'Auban. He had 
 finished his letter and hurried back 
 with it from the house. But the con- 
 versation was so eager J:hat his ap- 
 proach had not been noticed. 
 
 "Tiring her, I am afraid," said 
 d'Auban ; " but if you will second my 
 proposal I will venture to plead for 
 Bayard, who would carry you, Madame 
 de Moldau, like a chevalier sans peur 
 et sans reproche." 
 
 "I should not be myself sans 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 grate- 
 ful, 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, follow- 
 ed by M. de Chambelle, the latter 
 turned back again to say, "You see 
 she is pleased." 
 
 That that fair creature should be 
 pleased seemed the only thing in the 
 world he cared about. " Let Belinda 
 but smile, and all the world was to be 
 gay." D'Auban would have liked to 
 see in her more affectionate warmth of 
 manner towards her father; but he 
 supposed she might be a little spoilt 
 by his overweening affection. 
 
 " Above all things, you will not for- 
 
 get to inquire about the black-eyed 
 dame de compagnie." 
 
 M. de Chambelle said this when, for 
 the second time, he returned to d'Au- 
 ban, after having escorted his daughter 
 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 Simoii- 
 ette is a wayward being, and may very 
 likely altogether 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 beauti- 
 ful night it is ! " 
 
 This was said as they approached 
 the river, in which the starry sky was 
 tremblingly reflected. The moon was 
 shedding her silvery light on the 
 foliage and the waving grasses on its 
 banks. 
 
 "What a fine thing rest is after a 
 day of labour ! " de Chambelle ex- 
 claimed as he stretched and smiled 
 with a weary but happy look. 
 
 " If you sleep more soundly, M. de 
 Chambelle, for having committed to 
 me the management of your estate, I 
 do from the increase 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 any thing 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 ques- 
 tion. 
 
 After M. de Chambelle had left him, 
 he remained out late, attracted by the 
 beauty of the night. Though tired, he 
 did not feel inclined 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 
 
44 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Madame de Moldau. He had never 
 yet been the better or the happier for 
 this sort of interest in a woman. After 
 the 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 suffering as he had suffered before ; 
 the fear of disappointment which had 
 led him to form it, as well as the appa- 
 rent hopelessness of meeting in the new 
 world in which his destiny was cast 
 with any woman capable of inspiring 
 the sort of attachment without which, 
 with what his friends called his roman- 
 tic ideas, he could not understand hap- 
 piness in marriage. It seemed the most 
 improbable thing in the world that a 
 refined, well-educated, beautiful, and 
 gentle lady, should take up her resi- 
 dence 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 helplessness, 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 happiness, new and scarcely 
 welcome to one who had attained peace 
 and contentment in the solitary life he 
 had so long led. In the Christian tem- 
 ple reared in the wilderness, in nature's 
 forest sanctuaries, in the huts of the 
 poor, by the dying bed of the 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 fulfilled 
 and privations acquiesced in. If he 
 sometimes yearned for closer ties than 
 those of friendship and charity if rec- 
 
 ollections of domestic life such as he 
 remembered it in the home of his child- 
 hood rose before him in solitary even- 
 ings, 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 which generally succeeded in driving 
 away these troublesome reminiscences. 
 He felt almost inclined to be angry 
 with Madame de Moldau for awakening 
 in him feelings he had not intended 
 ever to indulge again, visions of a kind 
 of happiness Jie had tacitly renounced. 
 Who has not known some time or other 
 in their lives those sudden reappear- 
 ances of long-forgotten 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 
 bliss ! 
 
 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 pro- 
 visions 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 
 inquired after his daughter. On his 
 first arrival in America he Jiad made 
 the voyage up the Mississippi in one of 
 Simon's boats, and the bargeman's little 
 girl, then a child of twelve years of 
 age, was also on board. Sinionette 
 inherited from her mother, an Illinois 
 Indian, the dark complexion and pe- 
 culiar-looking eyes of that race ; other- 
 wise she was thoroughly French and 
 like her father, whose native land was 
 Gascony. From her infancy she had 
 been the plaything of the passengers 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 45 
 
 on his boat, and they were, indeed, 
 greatly in need of amusement during 
 the wearisome weeks when, half im- 
 bedded 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 little 
 services. She was an extraordinary 
 being. Quicksilver seemed to run in 
 her veins. She never remained two 
 minutes together in the same spot or 
 the same position. She swam like a 
 fish and ran like a lapwing. Her fa- 
 vourite 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 squirrel, or to sit laugh- 
 ing with her playfellows, the monkeys, 
 gathering bunches of grapes and hand- 
 fuls of wild cherries for the passengers. 
 She had a wonderful handiness, and a 
 peculiar talent for contrivances. There 
 were very few things Simonette could 
 not do if she once set about them. She 
 twisted ropes of the long grass which 
 grows on the floating islands of the 
 Mississippi, and could build a hut with 
 old boards and pieces of coarse canvas, 
 or prepare a dinner with hardly any 
 materials at all as far as any one 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. 
 
 During 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. Nothing had ever before sub- 
 dued her. She did not know what it 
 was to fear any thing, except perhaps 
 a blow from her father, and, to do him 
 justice, his blows were not hard ones. 
 A bit of European finery or a handful 
 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 droop- 
 ed heavily on her breast. She did not 
 care for any thing, and when spoken to 
 scarcely answered. Simon sat by his 
 little daughter, driving away the in- 
 sects from her face, and trying in his 
 rough way to cheer her. D'Auban also 
 came and sat by her side, and whisper- 
 ed 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 1 but you are not a priest." 
 
 "No, but a layman may baptize a 
 personjin danger of death." 
 
 The little gjrl 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, weep- 
 ing and wringing his hands. 
 
 "Not unless the good God chooses 
 to take you to His beautiful home in 
 tieaven," said d'Auban, kneeling by the 
 side of the child. Then he talked to 
 tier in a low and soothing voice, and 
 taught her the few great truths she 
 could understand. Then, showing her 
 
46 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 a crucifix, lie 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 long- 
 er with a wild elfish smile, but a calm 
 contented look. He made her a Chris- 
 tian 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 christ- 
 ened in the church, and made her first 
 communion before his next voyage. 
 Therese took great pains with her 
 charge, but she did not understand her 
 character. The Indian's grave and 
 earnest soul did not harmonize with 
 the volatile, impulsive, and wayward 
 nature of the Frenchman's child. Si- 
 monette 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 swing- 
 ing in one of the nets in which Indian 
 women rock their children. She could 
 hardly sit still during a sermon, and 
 from sheer restlessness envied the birds 
 as they flew past the windows. But if 
 Father Maret had a message to send 
 across the prairie, or if food and medi- 
 cine was to be carried to the sick, she 
 was his ready messenger his carrier- 
 pigeon, as he called her. Through 
 tangled thickets 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 
 every animal she met, and fed on ber- 
 ries and wild honey. 
 
 As she grew older, the life she led, 
 her voyages to and from New Orleans, 
 and above all, the acquaintances she 
 made in that town, were very undesira- 
 ble for a young girl. She learnt much 
 
 of the evil of the world, was 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 returned to St. 
 Frangois du Sault, her manner was for 
 a while bold and somewhat wild ; she 
 said foolish and reckless things. But 
 an interview with Father Maret, a few 
 days spent amongst good people, or a 
 word of friendly advice from her god- 
 father, would set her right again, and 
 cause her to resume her good habits, to 
 soften her voice, and sober her exuber- 
 ant spirits. She had found a safe- 
 guard against contaminating influences 
 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 
 hope or expectation of return. Some- 
 times these extraneous helps are per- 
 mitted to do their work and to assist 
 human weakness fo 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 despise it who caused the gourd 
 to grow over the prophet's head, and 
 to wither away when its mission was 
 fulfilled. 
 
 " "Where is Simonette ? " inquired 
 d'Auban, after the first words of civil- 
 ity had paused between him and the 
 bargeman. 
 
 " She was here a minute ago," an- 
 swered 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, 
 laughing. "Is she quite the same 
 light-hearted creature who enlivened 
 for me the horrors of my first acquaint- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 ance with your barges, Maitre Simon ? 
 Well, I am glad of it. In the midst of 
 mournful-looking Indians and careworn 
 settlers, it is pleasant to have a laugh- 
 ing fairy like your daughter to remind 
 us that there still exists such a thing as 
 mirth. But I wish she was 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 in this country." 
 
 " What sort of a situation ? " 
 
 " Partly as attendant, partly as com- 
 panion." 
 
 " 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 my- 
 self, but I should not like my little girl 
 to live with some of the ladies whom 
 we know come out to the colony." 
 
 D'Auban felt he had no proof to 
 give of Madame de Moldau's respecta- 
 bility beyond his own entire belief 
 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 1 but there I watch over her." 
 
 Whatever d'Auban might think of 
 the amount of Simon's parental vigi- 
 lance, he felt that his own manner of 
 speaking had be^n wrong. 
 
 " 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 persuaded that she is a person of 
 unexceptionable character. Her father 
 has more fortune than the generality 
 of settlers, and has bought M. de Har- 
 lay's pavilion. I did not know them 
 before they came here- but my im- 
 
 pressions are so favourable that I do 
 not hesitate to advise you to accept the 
 offer I speak of, if Simonette 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 wages you better take me into 
 council." 
 
 D'Auban went to meet the girl. In 
 her half-French, half-Indian costume, 
 with her black hair twisted in a pic- 
 turesque manner round her head, and 
 her eyes darting quick glances, more 
 like those of a restless bird than of a 
 woman, Simonette, as Maitre Simon's 
 daughter had always been called, was 
 rather pretty. There was life, anima- 
 tion, and a kind of brilliancy about 
 her, though there was no real beauty 
 in her features, 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 she 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 here 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 en- 
 gage you as an attendant ; but, in fact, 
 what she really wants is a compan- 
 ion." 
 
 " Sir, she had better not take me." 
 
 "Why so, Simonette?" 
 
 " Because, sir, I should not suit her." 
 
 " But I think you would, Simonette, 
 and I really wish you would think 
 about it." 
 
48 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " "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. 
 
 "She says she must take time to 
 consider, and has rushed into the 
 thickets." 
 
 " I always maintain she is more like 
 a monkey than a woman," Simon ex- 
 claimed, 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 francs a month, I sup- 
 pose." 
 
 "Fifty would be more to the pur- 
 pose. 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 about the wages. It remains 
 for you to say if you will accept the 
 situation." 
 
 " No, sir, I will not," answered Si- 
 monette, looking hard into the mon- 
 key's face. 
 
 " But it is a very good offer," urged 
 her father. "Fifty francs a month. 
 What are you thinking of, child ? " 
 
 " It would also be an act of charity 
 towards the lady," d'Auban put in. 
 " She is ill and sorrowful." 
 
 " And I am sure it would be a chari- 
 ty to ourselves," Simon said, in a whin- 
 ing voice. "Passengers are not so 
 frequent as they used to be, and it is 
 like turning our backs on Providence 
 to refuse an honest employment." 
 
 "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 feeling 
 to do. I am sure they must be excel- 
 lent people." 
 
 There was a slight sneer on his 
 daughter's lip. 
 
 " What does this lady expect of me, 
 sir ? " she said, turning to d'Auban. 
 
 " To help her to govern her house- 
 hold, and render all the little services 
 you can. She is much inclined to 
 like you, and I think you would be 
 very happy at St. Agathe." 
 
 Simonette laughed a short bitter 
 laugh, and, hugging the monkey, whis- 
 pered 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 mu- 
 tual 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 affaif as settled ? " 
 
 " I suppose so," said d'Auban, speak- 
 ing 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 
 commands for me ? " 
 
 " No, only to catch and tame for me 
 just such another ape as that." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 49 
 
 " They are not easily tamed. They 
 require a great 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 Si- 
 monette, " nor its hatred ; " and then 
 she went about the barge pulling 
 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 ex- 
 claimed "fierce spirit of my mother's 
 race, go out of my heart. Let the other 
 spirit return the dancing, laughing, 
 singing spirit. Oh, that the Christian 
 spirit that took charge of me when I 
 was baptized would drive them both 
 away I am so tired of their fighting ! " 
 
 Just then Thermae came near the 
 
 boat and said, " Simonette, all the girls 
 of the mission assemble to-day in the 
 church to renew their baptismal vows, 
 and the chief of prayer will speak to 
 them. The altar is lighted up, and 
 the children are bringing flowers. Will 
 you come ? " 
 
 Simonette was soon with her com- 
 panions in the forest chapel, and after 
 the service was over she played with 
 them on the green sward under the 
 tulip trees. The maiden of seventeen 
 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 
 " The Indian spirit is gone out of my 
 heart for the present, 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 ? " 
 
 CHAPTEK Y. 
 
 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 away. 
 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. 
 
 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 bright- 
 nidi up a little when he saw d'Auban. 
 
 " I do not know what is to become 
 of us," he said. " Madame de Moldau 
 is quite ill, and the Indian servant does 
 4 
 
 not know how to do any thing. Mon 
 Dieul what a country this is! Why 
 would she come here ? " 
 
 "I have brought Maitre Simon's 
 daughter, M. de Chambelle. She wishes 
 to offer her services to Madame de 
 Moldau." 
 
 " Ah ! Mademoiselle Simonette, you 
 are a messenger from heaven 1 " 
 
50 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 The celestial visitant was looking at 
 poor M. de Chambelle with an expres- 
 sion which had in it a little too much 
 malice to be quite angelic. " Let Mad- 
 emoiselle," 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 Mademoi- 
 selle's arrival. "I beg you will be seat- 
 ed," he said, bowing to the young 
 quadroon with as much ceremony as 
 if she had been a princess in disguise. 
 
 With equal formality he announced 
 to his daughter that he had found her 
 an attendant in the little stewardess on 
 board the Frenchman's barge. 
 
 "Do you mean his daughter?" she 
 asked" the girl with eyes as black as 
 the berries she gathered for us ? " 
 
 " Yes, Madame, the young person 
 who sometimes used to make you 
 laugh." 
 
 " You know, my dear father, we had 
 resolved not to have European servants. 
 I feel as if it would be running a risk." 
 
 "But this girl is a quadroon. She 
 has never been in Europe. She is really 
 
 "On the contrary, my good father, 
 she is a very civilized little being 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 
 that horrible squaw standing stupidly 
 by?" 
 
 " It is not the poor creature's fault ; 
 she is willing to learn." 
 
 " And in the mean time you, you, my 
 own" 
 
 The old man burst into tears, and 
 
 leant against the foot of the bed over- 
 powered with grief. "If you knew 
 what I suffer when I see you thus ! " 
 
 " Poor old father ! do not grieve. 
 There have been times when I have 
 suffered much 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 
 through so much in order to lead such 
 a life as this. If it would not have 
 been better " She hid her face in 
 her hands and shuddered. " No, no, I 
 am not ungrateful. 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 exhausted. I remem- 
 ber 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 weeping, 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 
 this French or Indian girl. Does Col- 
 onel d'Auban recommend us to take 
 her?" 
 
 " Most strongly. He is sure you will 
 find her useful. He feels as I do ; he 
 cannot bear to see you without proper 
 attendance." 
 
 " You have not told him ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! but anybody would 
 be sorry to see you so ill and with no 
 one to nurse you." 
 
 " Well, let her come. I have not 
 
 nergy 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. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 51 
 
 There was an undefinable expression 
 in Siinonette's face when she came into 
 Madame de Moldau'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 as- 
 sumed a new aspect. Some people 
 have a natural talent for making others 
 comfortable, and relieving the many 
 little sources of disquietude which affect 
 invalids. 
 
 Madame de Moldau's couch was 
 soon furnished with cushions made 
 of the dried Willow grass, which the 
 Indians collect for a similar purpose. 
 The want of blinds or shutters was 
 supplied by boughs, ingeniously inter- 
 woven and fixed against the windows. 
 The sunbeams could not pierce through 
 the soft green of these verdant curtains. 
 The kitchen was put on a new footing, 
 and towards evening a French consomme 
 was brought to Madame de Moldau, 
 such as she had not tasted since her 
 arrival in America. 
 
 " I could not have believed a basin 
 of broth could ever have been so ac- 
 ceptable," she said with a kind smile 
 when her new attendant 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 child. 
 The Indian servant, the negro boy, and 
 even the slaves on the plantation, owned 
 her sway. After she had been at the 
 pavilion about three weeks, D'Aubau 
 met her and said, " Your employers are 
 delighted with you, Simonette." 
 
 " They would do better to send me 
 away, sir," she testily replied. 
 
 "Why so?" he asked, feeling hurt 
 and disappointed. 
 
 " Sir, I do not like people who have 
 secrets." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 Before she could answer M. de Cham- 
 belle joined them, and she went away. 
 The recklessness of her childhood, and 
 the exuberance of her animal spirits, 
 had now taken the form of incessant 
 activity. She never seemed happy ex- 
 cept when hard at work. 
 
 D'Auban's visits to St. Agathe were 
 becoming more and more frequent. 
 There were few evenings he did not 
 end his rounds by spending a few mo- 
 ments under the verandah or in the 
 parlour of the pavilion. Most of his 
 books, and all his flowers, gradually 
 made their way there. Antoine, though 
 little given to reading himself, bitterly 
 complained that there was scarcely a 
 volume left on his master's shelves. 
 He began to feel at home in that little 
 room, to which Simonette had con- 
 trived to impart an Old World look of 
 comfort. Her glimpses of the colo- 
 nists' houses at New Orleans had given 
 her an insight into Europe'an 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 
 rapidity during the now lengthening 
 evenings, as he recounted the little 
 incidents 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 every 
 thing he said, but did not seem to care 
 much about the people amongst whom 
 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 realize. Practically, 
 she did not care much more about 
 them than for the birds and beasts, 
 
52 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 living and dying around her in the 
 sunshine and the shade. But d'Auban, 
 by telling her facts which came home 
 to her woman's heart, gradually awoke 
 in her a new sense of sympathy. It 
 was dangerous ground, however, to 
 venture on, for if the woes of others 
 did not always appear to touch her 
 deeply, yet sometimes the mention of 
 them provoked a burst of feeling which 
 shook her delicate frame almost to 
 pieces. M. de Chambelle on these oc- 
 casions was wont to look at him re- 
 proachfully, and at her with a dis- 
 tressed expression till she had recovered 
 her composure. D'Auban also got into 
 the 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 her- 
 self, continue to preserve a nearly total 
 silence as to their past history, but 
 there were peculiarities in her char- 
 acter 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 priva- 
 tions and discomforts she was often 
 subjected to. But he could not help 
 observing that, notwithstanding all her 
 sweetness and amiability, she took it 
 as a matter of course that her wishes 
 should be considered paramount to any 
 other consideration. She acknowl- 
 edged Simonette's services with kind- 
 ness, but made ample, and not always 
 very considerate, use of them. He was 
 often sent for himself at inconvenient 
 times, and for somewhat trifling rea- 
 sons, and she did not seem to under- 
 stand that the requirements of business 
 were imperious, and could not be post- 
 poned to suit her convenience. But he 
 was so glad to see her shake off the 
 listless despondency which had weighed 
 upon her during the first period of her 
 residence at St. Agathe, so delighted 
 to hear her express any wish and take 
 pleasure in any thing ; the least word 
 
 of thanks from her had such a charm 
 for him, and ministering to her happi- 
 ness was becoming so absorbing an 
 interest, that, even whilst wondering 
 at M. de Chambelle's paternal infatua- 
 tion, he was fast treading in his foot- 
 steps, and in danger of being himself 
 subjected to the same gentle tyranny. 
 Their conversations grew longer and 
 more intimate. He felt he was gaining 
 influence over her. Often when he was 
 expressing his opinions on various sub- 
 jects, she would say : 
 
 "I had never thought of that be- 
 fore ; " or, "it had never struck me in 
 that light." And he would notice the 
 result of some observation he had made 
 in slight changes in her conduct. 
 
 There was one subject, however, she 
 always carefully avoided, and that was 
 religion. He was in total ignorance as 
 to her feelings and opinions on that 
 point. Except the volume of German 
 Psalms which had been taken out of 
 his hand, he had seen nothing at St. 
 Agathe which gave him any idea as to 
 the form of religion 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 ab- 
 ruptly asked, "What is your religion, 
 Madame de Moldau ? " 
 
 The silence which ensued was pain- 
 ful to both. His heart was beating very 
 fast, and an expression of annoyance 
 almost amounting to displeasure was vis- 
 ible in her face. At last, as he seemed 
 to persist in expecting an answer, she 
 said, "I think I should be justified in 
 refusing to answer that question. There 
 are subjects on which, in such a coun- 
 try as this at least, thought may be 
 free. I would rather not be questioned 
 as to my religious belief." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 53 
 
 "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 relig- 
 ion, that I have not longed to know 
 what you thought what 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 will which gives some per- 
 sons a natural ascendency over others. 
 Other qualities may contribute to it, 
 but determination is the natural ele- 
 ment of all such power. It has also 
 been said that in any friendship or 
 intimacy between two persons, there 
 comes a moment which establishes the 
 ascendency of one of the parties over 
 the other; and if this be true, that 
 moment was arrived for those we are 
 now speaking of. Madame de Moldau 
 had resolved not to open her lips on 
 the subject which he was equally de- 
 termined she should speak upon. She 
 wept and made signs that he should 
 leave her ; but he who had been hither- 
 to subservient to her slightest wish, 
 who had treated her with an almost ex- 
 aggerated deference, now stood firm 
 to his point. He sat resolutely on with 
 his lips compressed, his dark gray 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 f " he again asked, lay- 
 ing a stress on the last word. 
 
 " I profess none," she answered in 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 melancholy 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 ? " 
 
 A bitter expression passed over her 
 face as she answered : 
 
 " In no particular religion." 
 
 " Is this possible ? " 
 
 " I was always told it did not signify 
 whaj people believed, and, God knows, 
 I think so now." 
 
 " Madame, is that your creed ? " 
 
 "I detest all creeds." 
 
 " And have you never practised any 
 religion ? " 
 
 " I have gone through certain forms." 
 
 " Those of the Catholic religion ? " 
 
 Madame de Moldau was silent. 
 
 "For heaven's sake, Madame, an- 
 swer that one question." 
 
 "No, I have never been a Catholic." 
 
 "Oh, I am so glad!" 
 
 "Why so?" 
 
 "You will not understand it now, 
 Madame, but some day you will. And 
 now, before I go, do tell me that I have 
 not oifended 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 with the only friend I have in 
 the world." She held out her hand, 
 and for the first time he pressed it to 
 his lips. 
 
 " And I suppose I am to read these 
 books ? " she said, with a faint smile, 
 pointing to the lst volumes he had 
 sent. " I doubt not they are carefully 
 chosen." 
 
 " There was not much to choose from 
 in my library, and no art in the selec- 
 tion. I have sent you the friends 
 which have strengthened me in tempta- 
 tion, consoled me in sorrow, and guid- 
 ed me through life." 
 
 As he was leaving Madame de Mol- 
 dau's room, d'Auban perceived through 
 the* green leaves two eyes fixed upon 
 
54 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 them. He wondered who it was watch 
 ing them, and darted out to see. Si- 
 monette was sitting at work in the 
 verandah, humming the old French 
 song: 
 
 Au clair de la lune, 
 Mon ami Pierrot, 
 Prete-moi ta plume, 
 Pour ecrire un mot. 
 
 " Who was looking into tha 
 he said, going up to her in an angry 
 manner. 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders without 
 answering. He felt convinced it must 
 have been her eyes he had seen through 
 the green boughs, but thought it better 
 not to say so. 
 
 " Do you like your situation, Simon- 
 ette?" he asked. 
 "No, sir, I do not." 
 " Are you not well treated ? " 
 " I have nothing to complain of." 
 " What makes you dislike it, then ? " 
 " Nothing that anybody can help." 
 " Come, Simonette, I am an old friend 
 of yours. You ought to speak to me 
 with more confidence." 
 
 " A friend to me ! yes, you have in- 
 deed 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." 
 
 "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 
 against it." 
 
 "Then, sir, I will try to do so/ she 
 
 answered, in a humble, submissive 
 manner. " Good-bye, M. d'Auban." 
 
 When he was gone, the young girl 
 sank down again on the seat, and for a 
 moment covered her face with her 
 hands. When she took up her work 
 again, and as her eyes wandered over 
 the lawn, they caught sight of some- 
 thing yellow and glittering lying on 
 the grass, at a short distance from 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 pic- 
 ture and on the words inscribed at the 
 back. An expression of surprise, a 
 sort of suppressed exclamation, rose 
 from her compressed lips; then put- 
 ting it in her pocket, she walked back 
 to the house not in her usual darting 
 bird-like fashion, but slowly, like a 
 person whose mind is wholly absorbed. 
 Madame de Moldau had been asking 
 for her, and when she came in com- 
 plained a little of her absence; but, 
 observing that she looked ill, kindly 
 inquired 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 in 
 working for you, neither is it for your 
 sake that I do so." 
 
 Madame de Moldau coloured a little, 
 for there was something offensive in 
 the tone with which this was said. 
 
 "Do you mean," she asked with a 
 slight amount of irony, " that it is all 
 for the love of God, as pious people 
 say?" 
 
 "No, Madame; Therese works in 
 ;hat way, and I wish with all my heart 
 [ did so too. She has no master but 
 the good God." 
 
 "And for whom do you work, then ? 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 55 
 
 Who do you call your master ? Is it 
 the priest, or your own father ? " 
 
 " I am not speaking of them, Mad- 
 ame." 
 
 " Then of whom are you speaking ? " 
 
 "May not I have my secrets, Mad- 
 ame, as you have 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 ago." 
 
 Madame de Moldau sighed deeply, 
 and joined her hands together in an 
 attitude of forced endurance. Simon- 
 ette was Ipoking at her with a search- 
 ing glance. One of her hands was in 
 her pocket tightly grasping the locket 
 she had found. At last she said : 
 
 " Lady, have you lost any thing ? " 
 
 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," Simon- 
 ette answered, and pulled the locket 
 out of her pocket. " Of course it be- 
 longs to you, Madame? Those are 
 larger diamonds than any I have yet 
 seen, but I learnt at New Orleans the 
 value of those kind of things." 
 
 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 ring 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 thought crossed her mind, 
 that the offer of the ring was a bribe. 
 She thought she had grounds for think- 
 ing this poasible. The conflict which 
 had been going 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 at- 
 tendant's fingers moved with nervous 
 rapidity. After a long silence the for- 
 mer said, " You have been a kind and 
 a useful attendant, Simonette, and I do 
 not 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 bet- 
 ter 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 ill again if I go. 
 At the bottom of my heart I believe I 
 love her." 
 
 She raised her eyes, which she had 
 hitherto kept fixed on her work. Mad- 
 ame de Moldau was weeping; she 
 looked the very picture of youthful 
 and torching 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 will be very angry with 
 me if I do." 
 
 " Not if I chose to part with 
 you?" 
 
 This was said with gentleness but 
 firmness. 
 
 Simonette felt her conduct was un- 
 generous, and she exclaimed, "I have 
 been wrong ; do let me stay, Madame. 
 I cannot bear that M. d'Auban should 
 think me ungrateful." 
 
56 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "What has he done to inspire you 
 with so much gratitude ? " 
 
 "What has he not done for me?" 
 Simonette replied, with deep emotion. 
 " I was an outcast and he reclaimed 
 me a savage and he instructed me I 
 was dying, and he baptized me ! " 
 
 * ' Indeed ! When ? where ? " 
 
 " Five years ago in my father's boat. 
 I had the fever. I shall never Jforget 
 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 
 Chambelle will decide." 
 
 " Then I am sure I shall stay." 
 
 This was said in a tone which, in 
 the midst of her emotion, which had 
 not yet subsided, made Madame de 
 Moldau laugh. That laugh settled 
 the question. But although Simon- 
 ette's heart had been touched, her 
 mind was not satisfied. The sight of 
 the locket and of the picture it con- 
 tained 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 every 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. Agathe, 
 and Madame de Moldau gradually be- 
 gan to take an . interest in his pur- 
 suits and occupations. The united 
 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 
 the effort was made, she found pleasure 
 in doing good to her poor neighbours 
 and in studying how to help them 
 first, by furnishing them with little 
 comforts such as they could appreciate, 
 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 plunged in ignorance. Her 
 own ideas were too vague, her own be- 
 lief 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 ac- 
 quainted, but they were both very re- 
 served, 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 sacrament, which Father Maret 
 was soon to bring him. What she 
 said, simple as it was, indeed, because 
 of its simplicity, 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 approach of death, 
 and 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 In- 
 dian's heart, but she answered, " Not 
 so, daughter of the white man. Let 
 me take you to the black robe." 
 
 "Not yet, Therese, not yet. You 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 must teach me yourself, and then per- 
 haps 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'Au- 
 ban, Th6rse ? " 
 
 " Yes, of the great and good chief of 
 the white men. They 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 his goodness which began to 
 make me think of learning your reli- 
 gion, Th6rese ; 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-like 
 piety which breathed in all that Therese 
 did and said, and never felt so peaceful 
 as in her cottage. There no questions 
 were raised which could agitate her, 
 no allusions were made to the past, no 
 anxious looks were bent upon her. 
 D'Auban's affection, as well as Simon- 
 ette's curiosity, were ever on the watch. 
 They were all more or less watching 
 one another. She was not ungrateful 
 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. 
 
 Th6rese, on the contrary, cared noth- 
 ing for her past history, had no wish 
 
 to know who she was and whence she 
 came. Her only object was to make 
 her love the Christian 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'Au- 
 ban's request had doubtless removed 
 some prejudices from her mind and 
 prepared the way for the reception of 
 dogmatic truth ; but it was not Bos- 
 suet's writings, nor St. Francois de 
 Sale's, the most persuasive of Christian 
 writers, that finally overcame her scep- 
 ticism and converted her to Catholicism. 
 When 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 country- 
 men had not long ago endured for the 
 sake of their religion, it served to con- 
 vince her far more than abstract rea- 
 sonings that a creed is not a mere sym- 
 bol or religion a set of particular cere- 
 monies. She saw in Therese how a 
 young person can sacrifice for the love 
 of God every thing that is commonly 
 called happiness and pleasure; and 
 that, amidst the untutored savages of 
 the New World, as well as formerly 
 amongst the proud and luxurious Ro- 
 man nobles, Christians lay down their 
 lives gladly for the sake of their faith ; 
 and this more than any thing else show- 
 ed her the difference between an opinion 
 and a creed, a sentiment and a religion. 
 Though she did not converse with 
 freedom on these subjects with d'Auban, 
 she liked to hear from Therese of his 
 love of the poor, of his tenderness tow- 
 ards the sick and aged. She knew 
 that priests and sisters of charity cared 
 for the poor, but that a man in the 
 prime of life, full of ability and talent, 
 should cherish the outcasts of the human 
 race savages and slaves was first a 
 wonder and then a new light to her. 
 
58 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Therese's imagination, fraught with 
 imagery and tinged with 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 conquer in 
 battle the greatest warriors of the four 
 nations, loved little children and carried 
 them in his arms. She said he was 
 like the west wind w r alking lightly 
 over the prairies, whispering to the 
 lilies. 
 
 Madame 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 was at last persuaded one 
 evening to attend a service in the church 
 of the Mission. It was one of those at 
 which the negroes from the neighbour- 
 ing plantations usually flocked. Hid- 
 den 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 par- 
 ticular 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 af- 
 fection for the beautiful stranger was 
 no secret to him, and for his sake he 
 tried to become better acquainted with 
 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 Simon- 
 ette. He did not express any suspi- 
 cions, 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. 
 
 " Well, 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 cer- 
 tificates." 
 
 Some months elapsed, and brought 
 with them little outward change in the 
 lives of the little band of emigrants. 
 It was a monotonous existence, as far 
 as the surface of things went ; but it 
 had its under-current of cares and in- 
 terests, of hopes and fears. 
 
 " Men must work and women must 
 weep " such is the burthen of a pop- 
 ular song which has often been sung 
 in luxurious drawing-rooms by men 
 who do not work and women who 
 seldom weep. But it was true of those 
 dwellers in the wilderness whom chance 
 had brought together, and who were 
 beginning to care more for one another 
 than those should do who are not look- 
 ing forward to a time when, before God 
 and men, they may be all in all to each 
 other. She often wept ; sometimes 
 with passionate grief, or, if others show- 
 ed her affection, with a kind of child- 
 like sorrow which shows a latent dis- 
 position to be comforted. 
 
 He worked very hard for her and for 
 others also, for his was not a narrow 
 selfish love. It widened his heart to 
 all human sympathies. Perhaps there 
 was a little self-interest in it too. To 
 every person whose passage to the grave 
 he smoothed, and who whispered with 
 their last breath, " I will pray for you 
 in heaven," 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. He thought he saw 
 its dawning, and watched its progress 
 with anxious hope. The winter came, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 59 
 
 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 and yel- 
 low leaves falling 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 Mol- 
 dau was the centre of it. What a 
 clever French girl said of a princess 
 of our day might have applied to the 
 lady of St. Agathe " Vest la realite 
 de Videal." Simonette's dark arch 
 countenance, d'Auban's handsome sun- 
 burnt face, and M. de Chambelle's gray 
 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 mending nets or feathering ar- 
 rows. 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 liked them to come in 
 and to surround her. As her spirits 
 improved, she lost her love of solitude, 
 and the homage of her dependants was 
 evidently agreeable to her. She now 
 seldom saw d'Auban in the morning, 
 but was evidently not well pleased if 
 he omitted to come in the evening. 
 She avoided .long or intimate conversa- 
 tions with him, but always listened 
 with the greatest attention to what he 
 said to others or in general conversa- 
 tion. None could see them together 
 without perceiving that he was becom- 
 ing devotedly attached to her no one, 
 at least, who felt any interest in watch- 
 ing the progress of this attachment. 
 M. de Chambelle 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'Au- 
 ban'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 be- 
 tween persons so different from each 
 other, and in such different positions ; 
 that they should be interested in the 
 same person, though in a very dissimi- 
 lar 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 depressed, and 
 each knew what the other was think- 
 ing 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 little daily occur- 
 rences of life. Once, when he was ill, 
 Madame de Moldau would not believe 
 that he was too ill to come to St. Aga- 
 the. Simonette turned pale at the 
 thought of his doing 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 life, 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. 
 
 There was as much variety in the 
 subjects talked of in those evenings at 
 St. Agathe as in the appearance of the 
 persons gathered together in that re- 
 mote spot from the most opposite parts 
 
60 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 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 moun- 
 tains ; legends of Brittany and of the 
 bocage; traditions of the salt lakes 
 and the fenlands of Africa tribes and 
 slavery in Brazil were told in prose 
 and verse, wild and rude at times, but 
 now and then full of the poetry which 
 belongs to the infancy of nations. 
 Father 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 them all in his heart 
 a pledge he redeemed by discovering 
 a looking glass which he 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 laugh; M. de 
 Chambelle not for a very long time. 
 Their eyes met, and there was a silent 
 congratulation in that glance. The 
 laugh which 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 ex- 
 pression in her countenance. Simon- 
 ette 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 chim- 
 ney gazing on the 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 like him, and not 
 admire him ? But . . . ." 
 
 "But what?" 
 
 " He is very severe." 
 
 " In 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, da 
 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 little haughtiness. 
 At least he fancied he saw something 
 like pride in the sudden drawing up of 
 her swan-like neck, and the troubled ex- 
 pression of her eyes ; but if so, it lasted 
 but an instant. In an earnest feeling 
 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 reproach- 
 es, which give me more pain than you 
 can imagine. I know how trying my 
 silence must often be to you ; how often 
 I must appear cold and ungrateful . . ." 
 
 " No, no, indeed it is not that. On 
 the contrary, it is your kindness which 
 emboldened me to speak as I did just 
 now." 
 
 " One thing I will tell you which 
 you will be glad to hear. I am think- 
 ing of becoming a Catholic." 
 
 " 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 in- 
 volve ; " her voice faltered a little. 
 
 " Sacrifices, perhaps ? " he gently 
 said, and paused, hoping she would 
 say more. But just then M. de Cham- 
 belle 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 61 
 
 in his mind every thing that had passed 
 during the last eighteen months since 
 Madame de Moldau's arrival. That 
 lapse of time had not thrown any light 
 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 traffic amidst new scenes and new 
 dupes. How many, also, to hide a 
 name once held up to public disgrace, 
 and begin a new life, not of penitence 
 and atonement, but of artifice and sin. 
 He had never for a single moment 
 supposed it possible that Madame de 
 Moldau belonged to any of these classes 
 of emigrants. 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 let- 
 ters they 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 settle- 
 ment, and he sometimes offered to read 
 the contents aloud. On one occasion, 
 when he was doing so, he happened to 
 look up and perceived that Madame 
 de Moldau seemed very much moved, 
 
 and caught sight of Simonette's eyes 
 fixed upon her with a scrutinizing ex- 
 pression. He made some slight com- 
 ments on the various topics alluded to 
 in the number of the Mercure de France, 
 which he had just read; but his ob- 
 servations elicited no answers. Men- 
 tion had been made in it of the war in 
 Germany ; of Madame de Maintenon's 
 death ; of the illness of Louis XV. ; of 
 a fresh conspiracy against Peter the 
 Great, and his son's flight from Russia ; 
 of the coronation of George I. ; a great 
 conflagration at Brussels, and a murder 
 at Prague. He took the paper home 
 with him. Sirnonette called early the 
 next morning and begged the loan of 
 it for her mistress. 
 
 " I was sure," she said, " that mad- 
 ame 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 in which 
 her past life 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 se- 
 crets. Seeing he made no reply to her 
 observation, Simonette took the paper 
 and went away. 
 
 All these circumstances made Mm 
 anxious and thoughtful; 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 conceal- 
 ed. Hope and blessings were in that 
 thought. 
 
 
62 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 I thought to pass away before, 
 
 And yet 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 tho shower. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 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'Auban met Mad- 
 ame de Moldau coming out of the 
 church of the mission. He saw her be- 
 fore she could see him. She seemed to 
 be gazing with admiration 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 the delicate features of nature. 
 The distant hills and the smallest blade 
 of grass stood out in beautiful distinct- 
 ness in the brilliancy of the sunshine. 
 But as he drew near, and she still re- 
 mained motionless and absorbed in 
 contemplation, he felt that it was not 
 the beauty of earth and sky that was 
 filling her soul with ecstasy not the 
 brilliancy of the cloudless heavens 
 which riveted her upward gaze. He 
 guessed, and rightly guessed, 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 
 loneliness of his exile. He longed to 
 hear her say that she was one with 
 him in faith, that henceforward they 
 would worship 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 hand to him. 
 
 "Yes," she said, in answer to his 
 question, " it is as you suppose. I am 
 at Catholic." 
 
 For the first time since his mother 
 had been laid in her quiet grave in the 
 little churchyard of St. Anne, d'Auray, 
 tears rose in his eyes. 
 
 " Blessed be this hour and this day," 
 he murmured, with uncontrollable emo- 
 tion. "It has made us one in faith. 
 May not our hearts and our lives be 
 also for ever united ! Madame de Mol- 
 dau, will you be my wife ? " 
 
 The moment he had uttered the 
 words he would have wished to recall 
 them ; for she looked beyond measure 
 grieved and distressed. It had been 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 63 
 
 an irresistible impulse. He did not 
 feel sure that she was not angry. 
 There was such a burning blush on 
 her cheek, and such a singular expres- 
 sion in her countenance ; but the blush 
 passed away, and a look of great sweet- 
 ness took the place of that strange ex- 
 pression. 
 
 "M. d'Auban," she said, earnestly 
 and steadily, " it is better at once, this 
 very day, under the shadow of the cross 
 beneath which we stand, to tell you the 
 truth." 
 
 "Oh, yes!" he exclaimed; "the 
 truth the whole truth." 
 
 "The truth which what you said 
 just now 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 hesitated a little. "If I was so 
 there would still be reasons why I 
 could not be your wife." 
 
 He remained silent. The disappoint- 
 ment 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 nor hope when 
 I came here, and that now, thanks to 
 you, I have both." 
 
 " That is enough 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 teaching 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 thought that will 
 never leave me as long as I live. I may 
 forget many things many there are I 
 would fain forget but what you have 
 done for me. . . ." She stopped, al- 
 most unable to speak for tears, and 
 pointed to the part of the church 
 where the altar stood, then almost im- 
 mediately added, " I never can forget 
 that you brought me here; that you 
 brqught me to Sim ! " 
 
 It was not all at once that d'Auban 
 could collect his thoughts sufficiently 
 to realize fully what had passed that 
 day, and how different had been the 
 result from what he had expected. 
 The event he had so ardently desired 
 had indeed come to pass, and ardent 
 also was the gratitude he felt for this 
 great blessing ; but the earthly hopes 
 connected with it had suddenly van- 
 ished. 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. 
 " Not free 1 " 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 dif- 
 ferent suppositions 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 strug- 
 gle it was, from that day forward, to 
 conceal feelings which were stronger 
 
64 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 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 
 built up schemes connected with a 
 vision of domestic happiness. 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 prairies, or when 
 bringing home the game after a hunt- 
 ing expedition, he was always dream- 
 ing of the time when she would be his 
 wife ; and as the hue of health returned 
 to her cheek, and elasticity to her step, 
 as her laugh was now and then heard 
 about the house and in the garden; 
 and above all, when she began to at- 
 tend 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 together under extraordinary 
 circumstances, or when affection may 
 exist to a certain degree unconsciously. 
 He dwelt on that last thought. 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 him- 
 self. This would be scarcely possible, 
 considering how his own and M. de 
 Chambelle's fortunes were embarked in 
 his present undertakings. He felt him- 
 self bound, and this was the practical 
 resolution he formed, not to compli- 
 cate the difficulties which might arise 
 on this point by giving way hencefor- 
 ward to the expression of feelings not 
 warranted by simple iriendship. 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 dic- 
 tates of conscience, the dread of driv- 
 ing her away from St. Agathe, enabled 
 him to keep it. His strength of char- 
 acter and habits of self-control stood 
 him in good stead. She did not guess 
 how much he was suffering, whilst every 
 thing went on as usual in the course of 
 their daily life. 
 
 Meanwhile, another conversion had 
 taken place at St. Agathe. M. de 
 Chambelle, a philosopher of the new 
 school of French infidelity, a despiser 
 of creeds, a free thinker, who had taken 
 unbelief on trust as some do their be- 
 lief; but who, if he worshipped noth- 
 ing else, worshipped Madame de Mol- 
 dau began to feel leanings towards a 
 religion 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 mis- 
 erable, was laid up for several weeks, 
 Father Maret, like a Jesuit that he 
 was, sat up with him night after night 
 and robbed him of his scepticism. 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 with- 
 ered 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 fidgeted through its long course, 
 and was puzzled at finding what a 
 weary thing it had become. But 
 when he recovered from this illness, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 65 
 
 the feeble wistful face wore a happier 
 look. The timid heart and narrow 
 mind expanded in the sunshine of 
 faith. 
 
 A festival day was at hand at the 
 Mission. It was to take place on the 
 8th of September, and great prepara- 
 tions were making for it both at St. 
 Agathe and at the Concession d'Auban. 
 Wreaths of flowers, large nosegays of 
 roses and magnolias, and heaps of can- 
 dles made of the pure green wax of the 
 country, had been conveyed across the 
 river on the preceding evening; and 
 early in the morning, Madame de Mol- 
 dau, Simonette, and Antoine joined 
 Therese and her friends, and helped 
 them to decorate the church. Beautiful 
 were the bunches of feathers brought 
 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 si4es 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 
 happy the faces of the congregation, 
 when, after mass, they spread themselves 
 over the greensward and began to play 
 and eat under the tulip trees. A French 
 fiddler struck up the " Carillon de Dun- 
 querque," which set his country people, 
 old and young, dancing away with all 
 their hearts. The negroes' banjoes 
 marked the cadence of their charac- 
 teristic melodies; whilst the Indians 
 accompanied with yells and shrieks 
 their pantomimic and, for the most 
 part, figurative performances. 
 
 Madame de Moldau had never wit- 
 nessed any thing like this before. She 
 was much amused with the animated 
 5 
 
 scene, and, throwing 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 
 unfastened 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 little way 
 off. 
 
 He went to look for her. Thrse 
 said she was gone to St. Agathe to get 
 some provisions which had been left 
 behind. He walked towards the river 
 and saw her coming. He saw, the 
 minute he caught sight of her face, that 
 she was in one of her troubled moods. 
 
 " Madame de Moldau 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 pavilion. He says they have 
 brought you letters." 
 
 "Are they French?" 
 
 "They speak French, but I think 
 they are Germans or Russians." 
 
 "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 travellers." 
 
 " She must come home, sir. M. de 
 Chambelle 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, " She had better make 
 the best of her time, then." 
 
 D'Auban thought her manner very 
 disagreeable, 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 
 
66 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Chambelle ill in bed, as Simonette had 
 said, and somewhat light-headed and 
 then to his own house, where he found 
 the three gentlemen she had mentioned. 
 
 He had never seen any of them be- 
 fore. General Brockdorf was a stiff, 
 military-looking man, a Hanoverian by 
 birth, but an officer in the Russian 
 army ; M. Reinhart was also a German, 
 and Count Levacheff was a Russian. 
 He was by far the most pleasing of the 
 three. They had brought him letters 
 of introduction 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 them to excuse him for a short 
 time, he hurried back to St. Agathe, 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 Simonette, who 
 had rowed her across the river. He 
 saw at once that she was very ner- 
 vous. 
 
 " 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 Harlay's. They would 
 like very much to see \usfolly. Would 
 you have any objection to my bringing 
 them here ? " 
 
 " Who and what are they ? " 
 
 D'Auban mentioned their names, and 
 added, " I have heard of the two first, 
 but I know nothing of M. Reinhart." 
 
 " He was on board the boat which 
 brought us up the river. I would rather 
 not have seen him again. Have they 
 told you any news ? " 
 
 " Not much nothing of importance ; 
 
 but every thing 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 lip, and 
 pressed her hand on her forehead. She 
 stood the picture of irresolution. 
 
 "It is very provoking that M. de 
 Chambelle 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 
 seeing these gentlemen," he gently said. 
 " They need not come at all if it dis- 
 tresses you ; or, if you like to stay up 
 stairs, I could show them the hall and 
 the verandah." 
 
 " Oh ! of course I know I can do as 
 I like." 
 
 This was said with a slight irritation 
 of manner, which did not escape him. 
 She seemed to have the greatest diffi- 
 culty in making up her mind. 
 
 " You can bring them here," she said 
 at last, but did not mention whether it 
 was her intention to see them or not. 
 
 He supposed she meant to keep in 
 her own apartment. 
 
 When he left the house she went up 
 to her father's room. He was dozing, 
 and talked in his sleep of missing vol- 
 umes, 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 clown 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 67 
 
 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 finding her in the parlour, and at 
 the darkness of the room. He intro- 
 duced 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 com- 
 plimentary remarks on the beauty of 
 St. Agathe, and mentioned his acquaint- 
 ance 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 civilized 
 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 evils of insufficient provisions, 
 tormenting insects, and rapacious boat- 
 men. 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 an- 
 swered, 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 Em- 
 peror of Russia has commissioned me 
 to draw up a report of the natural 
 features and peculiar productions of 
 this newly-discovered continent. Every 
 
 thing which tends to progress, to en- 
 lightenment, and to civilization attracts 
 the attention of his imperial majesty." 
 
 " Is the Czar as active as ever," asked 
 d'Auban, " in carrying out his vast de- 
 signs ? " 
 
 " He has achieved wonders," the Gen- 
 eral replied, "and only lives to plan 
 yet greater marvels." 
 
 " But are there not men of eminence 
 and worth in Russia who, whilst they 
 allow the merits of some of the Czar's 
 innovations, do not approve of his mode 
 of government, and who, whilst they 
 admire the genius exhibited in the 
 sudden creation of a new capital, have 
 not transferred to it their attachment 
 to the old Russian metropolis time- 
 honoured Moscow ? " 
 
 "You are right," exclaimed Count 
 Levacheff, "the heart of Russia is in 
 Moscow." 
 
 " Not its brains," said the General. 
 
 "That last-mentioned article," ob- 
 served Reinhart, who had not yet 
 spoken, and who kept his eyes fixed on 
 Madame de Moldau with marked per- 
 tinacity, " the Czar chiefly imports from 
 foreign countries. St. Petersburg is a 
 haven of refuge for needy Frenchmen 
 and German adventurers. The Czaro- 
 vitch has announced his intention of 
 sweeping away, when he comes to the 
 throne, the invading hordes, as he calls 
 them. He is a genuine Muscovite." 
 
 " 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. 
 
 "Ah! but there is this difference 
 between them," said the Count: "gen- 
 ius and strength adorn the character 
 of the father with a kind of wild gran- 
 deur. The weakness of the son makes 
 his brutality as despicable as it is hate- 
 ful." 
 
68 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " Is it true that he has lately returned 
 to Russia 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 Russia was his 
 taking refuge at the Emperor of Aus- 
 tria'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 believe she 
 died in consequence of a violent blow 
 he had given her. Others said her attend- 
 ants poisoned her at his instigation." 
 
 "Aye," put in Reinhart, "and ran 
 away with her jewels." 
 
 "The matter was hushed up. It 
 was thought the Prince would have 
 been implicated 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 Czarevitch is devoted to the old 
 Moscovite cause, and fanatically attach- 
 ed to the orthodox religion. But the 
 politics of Russia are not, I should 
 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. Reinhart moved his chair nearer 
 to Madame de Moldau's, and, interrupt- 
 ing Count Levacheflf, said, "I fancy 
 that madame is better acquainted with 
 St. Petersburg than with Paris. If I 
 am not mistaken, she has resided there 
 some years ? " 
 
 Simonette turned crimson. Her hand 
 was resting on the back of her mis- 
 tress's chair, and she felt her trembling 
 violently. She answered, however, 
 with tolerable composure : " I have 
 been both at Paris and at St. Peters- 
 burg." 
 
 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 ? " 
 
 "No, 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 an- 
 swered. 
 
 " You said, I think, the Czarovitch 
 was returned ? " 
 
 " Yes, and he was imprisoned in his 
 palace." 
 
 "Did you hear any thing of his 
 son?" 
 
 " He lives in the Emperor's palace." 
 
 " Is he like his grandfather ? " 
 
 "More like his late mother, I be- 
 lieve." 
 
 " 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, even when they are impe- 
 rial highnesses. 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 visit- 
 ors over the plantation. But she made 
 an effort tq sit up, and again addressed 
 Count Levacheff. 
 
 " Was the Comtesse de Konigsmark 
 at St. Petersburg ? " she asked. 
 
 Before he had time to reply, M. Rein- 
 hart said in a half-whisper, "Would 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 69 
 
 not you like to obtain some informa- 
 tion, madame, about a casket which was 
 once in the countess's care ? " 
 
 Madame de Moldau fainted away. 
 Simonette received her into her arms, 
 but there was no tenderness in the ex- 
 pression 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 miser- 
 able. He led the strangers out of the 
 house into the garden, and murmured 
 something to the effect that Madame 
 de Moldau was a great invalid. 
 
 " If you take my advice," said Rein- 
 hart, " you will have as little as possi- 
 ble to do with that lady. I feel cer- 
 tain 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. 
 
 Reinhart was so struck by his agita- 
 tion, that it suddenly occurred to him 
 that discretion is the best part of 
 valour. He had not the slightest wish 
 to entangle himself in a quarrel with 
 Madame de Moldau's friend, who 
 might be, for aught he knew, a lover, 
 or even an accomplice. He therefore 
 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 think there would be 
 great danger of a man's losing his heart 
 to her." 
 
 It was impossible not to accept this 
 explanation, and equally so to believe 
 in its veracity. The conversation drop- 
 ped. Meanwhile Alexander Levacheff 
 had^disappeared", As he was leaving 
 the house, he had turned back, as if by 
 an irresistible impulse, and returned to 
 
 the parlour. The door was open, the 
 window also. Madame de Moldau's 
 veil had fallen off her face. The light 
 was shining 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 Reinhart's remarks, had 
 not at first noticed his 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 would be only too thankful 
 to have been left behind. 
 
 When Madame de Moldau had re- 
 covered a little, she went upstairs to 
 M. de Chambelle's room. Levacheff 
 saw her go by, but she did not notice 
 him. After she had passed, he pressed 
 his hands on his eyes, like a man who 
 tries to rouse himself from a dream. 
 
 She 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 gray 
 hairs were matted with perspiration. 
 She rested her bead against the bed- 
 post, and faintly ejaculated. "Faith- 
 ful unto death! Faithful through a 
 strange, long trial; and now at last 
 going to leave me. Oh patient and 
 devoted heart I am I indeed about to 
 lose you ? Ah ! if you had not been 
 lying here helpless and unconscious, 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. Oh no 1 God for- 
 give me 1 what am I saying ? I know 
 I know, my God, what mercies you 
 had in store for me. You are good 
 goodness itself; but I am very weak." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 She heard voices in the garden, and 
 went to close the window that the sick 
 man might not be disturbed. It was 
 d'Auban and his companions going 
 away. Gradually the sound of foot- 
 steps receded. Simonette knocked at 
 the door and gave her a slip of paper, 
 on which some German words were 
 written. "White as a marble statue, 
 trembling 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." 
 
 " Where 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 en- 
 tered the house he said to Simonette, 
 who was standing in the porch talking 
 to Reinhart's servant : 
 
 " 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 whfere Count Leva- 
 cheffis?" 
 
 She turned away without answering. 
 
 Provoked at her uncivil manner, he 
 sternly repeated his question. 
 
 She seemed to hesitate a little, and 
 then said : 
 
 " I am not sure, sir, if madame wishes 
 it known that he is with her in her pri- 
 vate room." 
 
 At that moment, through the thin 
 partition-wall which divided the hall 
 from the little 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 will not tell any person on earth 
 that you have seen me ? " 
 
 "Madame, if you insist upon it, I 
 must ; but do think better of it. Let 
 me stay, or return, or at least 
 write" 
 
 D'Auban tore himself away, and or- 
 dered 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 mechanical man- 
 ner that d'Auban performed the re- 
 maining duties of hospitality towards 
 the travellers. When Levacheff joined 
 them in tne verandah it would have 
 been difficult to say which of the two 
 seemed most disinclined to conversa- 
 tion, most absorbed in his own thoughts. 
 General Brockdorf 's unceasing flow of 
 small talk proved a great resource dur- 
 ing the last half hour of their stay. 
 At last it was time for them to go. 
 D'Auban could not bring himself so 
 much as to mention Madame de Mol- 
 dau'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 Reinhart evidently knew 
 much more about her than he did. 
 For two days he stayed away from St. 
 Agathe ; on the third he was sent for. 
 M. de Chambelle 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. He was in a 
 high fever, talking a great deal, and 
 much excited. When d'Auban came in 
 he cried out : 
 
 "Ah! M. d'Auban, I was afraid I 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 should die without seeing you. Why 
 have you stayed so long away ? " 
 
 "I have been very busy about the 
 plantations," 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. With- 
 out 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 ? " 
 
 " Any thing in my power 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." 
 
 " Why not ? why not ? " exclaimed 
 M. de Chambelle, raising himself in the 
 bed ; " it is my only hope, my only com- 
 fort. I tell you, I cannot, and I will not 
 die, and I will not listen to what Father 
 Maret says about submitting to God's 
 will, if he does not promise me this. 
 You will be alone in the world ; not one 
 friend left ; more lonely than a beggar 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 strange 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 father, 
 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 your cause before I die. Oh, 
 Colonel d'Auban ! will you forsake 
 her ? " He grasped her hand so tight- 
 ly that she could not extricate it, 
 and fixed his eyes with a wild expres- 
 sion on d'Auban's face. "Look at 
 her," he cried; "look at her well. 
 She ought to have sat upon a throne, 
 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 lips the hand which clasped her 
 own, 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 when first we 
 landed on these shores, I must have 
 perished. Then, indeed, you would 
 have hafi reason to fear for me. It is 
 different now. Let this thought com- 
 fort you. Carry it with you to a bet- 
 ter world. I have a friend who will 
 never forsake me." 
 
 M. de Chambelle turned his dying 
 eyes on d'Auban, who stooped and 
 whispered, " She is not speaking of me. 
 God is her friend now." 
 
 " Yes, dear father, I have a home in 
 His church, a father in His priest, friends 
 and brethren in the household of the 
 faith. 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 
 forsaken one ! " ejaculated the old man, 
 gazing upon her with an inquiring look, 
 as if trying to realize the meaning of 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the sentence. Still he turned to d'Au- 
 ban, and, drawing him nearer to him- 
 self, whispered in his ear : 
 
 " Will you not stay with her ? " 
 
 "If she will let me, I will," he an- 
 swered 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 life. 
 Where is Monsieur 1'Abbe ? The last 
 time he came I would not say I was 
 ready to die if it was God's will. You 
 see, I was in waiting ; there was nobody 
 to take my place ; the 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 rambling, 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 mesal- 
 liance. What would they say at the 
 palace?" 
 
 The blood rushed into d'Auban's face ; 
 but he said in a calm and steady voice, 
 without looking at Madame de Moldau, 
 " His mind is- beginning to wander. 
 He does not know what he says." 
 
 After a while M. de Chambelle fell 
 asleep. By the time he woke again 
 Father Maret had arrived. He remain- 
 ed with him awhile alone, and then 
 administered to him the last Sacraments. 
 Extreme unction was followed, as it so 
 often is, not only by increased peace 
 and tranquillity of soul, but by some 
 bodily improvement. In the afternoon 
 he appeared 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 tranquillity reigned in the 
 house, in which everybody moved with 
 a light step and spoke under their 
 breath, he sat in the porch with Mad- 
 ame de Moldau, conversing on the in- 
 terests of the Mission and the condition 
 of the poorer emigrants, and carefully 
 avoiding any allusion to the past or the 
 future, or the recent visit of the Euro- 
 pean 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 eter- 
 nity the singing in parts of some 
 German labourers at work in the neigh- 
 bouring forest the beauty of the sun- 
 set sky, of the green turf and the distant 
 view breathed peace and tranquillity. 
 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 two 
 dwellers in the wilderness, the secrets 
 of whose hearts he was acquainted with, 
 whose future struggles and sufferings 
 he foresaw. The hours went by on their 
 noiseless wings, and death hovered over 
 that pretty fanciful Stl Agathe, which 
 seemed more fitting to harbour a tribe 
 of fairies than the sorrowing and the 
 dying. As the light waned, M. de Cham- 
 belle grew weaker. The prayers for a 
 departing soul were read over the ex- 
 piring form of one who at the eleventh 
 hour had been received into the fold. 
 The priest held the crucifix before his 
 dimmed and failing 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 73 
 
 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 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 re- 
 members 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 compassionate 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 were working in it. 
 The"rese came to pray for the dead and 
 to comfort the living. Simonette was, 
 as usual, active in doing every thing 
 needful, but there was more displeasure 
 than sorrow in her face ; and once, 
 when she saw d'Auban looking at Mad- 
 ame de Moldau with an expression of 
 anxious tenderness, her brow darkened 
 and an impatient exclamation escaped 
 her lips. 
 
 The funeral was simply performed, 
 and the European stranger buried in 
 the little cemetery, where many a wan- 
 derer from the Old World rested by 
 the side of his Indian brethren in the 
 faith. Many an offering of fresh-gath- 
 ered 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 bereave- 
 ment. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 See what a ready tongue suspicion hath. 
 
 Moreover something is or seems 
 That touches me with mystic gleams, 
 Like glimpses of forgotten dreams. 
 
 Shakespeare. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 BY Father Maret's advice Madame 
 de Moldau came to spend a few days 
 with The"rese. Her hut was clean 
 though a very poor abode, and the 
 change of air and scene proved benefi- 
 cial to her health. The near neigh- 
 bourhood of the church was a great 
 comfort also, and to get away from 
 Simonette a relief. Her temper had 
 
 grown almost unbearable, and her 
 manner to her mistress very offensive. 
 She governed her household and direct- 
 ed all her affairs, however, with so 
 much zeal and intelligence that sho 
 could ill have spared her; but the 
 momentary separation seemed at this 
 time acceptable to both. 
 
 D'Auban came sometimes to the vil- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 lage to see Madame de Moldau: but 
 since the strangers' visit, and especially 
 since what had passed when they both 
 watched M. de Chambelle's death-bed, 
 they had not felt at their ease together. 
 He especially felt exceedingly embar- 
 rassed 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. Th e promise he had heard her 
 exact from Count Levacheflf and poor 
 M. de Chambelle's rambling expressions 
 about a mesalliance and a palace point- 
 ed to this conclusion. He racked his 
 brains to .form some guess, some sup- 
 position as to the possible cause of her 
 retirement from the world and the mys- 
 tery in which it was enveloped. Once 
 it occurred to him that, with the ro- 
 mantic sentimentality ascribed to some 
 of her countrywomen, she had, per- 
 haps, sacrificed herself, and abandoned 
 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 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 birth. 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 sovereigns of some of their 
 tribes. During 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 with his boat at the spot they called 
 the ferry. He saw she had been weep- 
 ing, and his heart ached for her. It 
 was a desolate thing to come back to a 
 
 home where neither relative nor friend, 
 only servants, awaited her return. He 
 made some remark of this kind as 
 they approached the house. 
 
 "Yes," she said, sinking down on 
 the bench in the porch with a look of 
 deep despondency " yes, the return is 
 sad. "What will the departure be ? " 
 
 D'Auban started as if he had been 
 shot. " What do you mean ? You are 
 not going away ? " 
 
 " Yes, I must go, and you must not 
 ask me to stay." 
 
 He did not utter a word, but remain- 
 ed with his eyes fixed on the ground, 
 and his lips tightly compressed. She 
 was distressed at his silence, and at 
 last said: 
 
 " You are not angry with me, M. d'Au- 
 ban, for resolving to doswhat is right ? " 
 
 "Right!" 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 thought has 
 been to shield you from suffering, to 
 guard you from danger, to watch over 
 you as a father or as a brother. When 
 you told me to give up other hopes, I 
 shut up my grief in my heart. I never 
 allowed a word to escape from my lips 
 which could offend or displease you. 
 What more could a man do ? Have I 
 ever given you reason to distrust me ? 
 Have I obliged you to go away ? But I 
 am a fool ; what poor M. de Chambelle 
 said has misled me. You have other 
 friends, I suppose, other prospects " 
 
 " None." 
 
 " Then why why must you go ? 
 What has been my fault ? Cannot you 
 forget my rash words? Cannot you 
 rely on my promise never again " 
 
 "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 suffering might be 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 mine alone ; because your sympathy at 
 first, and then as time went on your 
 friendship, was precious to me; be- 
 cause I thought only of myself, and of 
 the consolation I found in your society, 
 sorrow has come upon us both. Nay, 
 I will add one word more. Before I 
 became a Catholic 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." 
 
 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 re- 
 turned ; 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. "Fa- 
 ther Maret will recommend me to the 
 Bishop of Montreal and to some French 
 ladies there." 
 
 " Will you sell this property ? " 
 
 " No ; not if you will manage it for 
 me." 
 
 " Yes, I will ; and the day may come 
 when you will revisit it." 
 
 "Perhaps so," she said, with a 
 mournful smile " when we are both 
 very old." 
 
 " And how will you travel ? " 
 
 " There is a party of missionaries ex- 
 pected 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. He 
 hopes we may reach Montreal before 
 the wet season sets in." 
 
 " So be it," murmured d'Auban; and 
 
 from that moment they both sought to 
 cheer and encourage each other, to 
 bear with courage the approaching 
 separation. With true delicacy of 
 feeling she showed him how entirely 
 she confided all her interests to his 
 care how she reposed on the thought 
 of his disinterested and active friend- 
 ship. He planned for the comfort of 
 her journey, and resolved to spare her 
 as much as possible the knowledge of 
 what he suffered. In spite of the re- 
 serve she observed as to the past and 
 the sad uncertainty of the future, they 
 understood each other better than they 
 had done yet, and there was some con- 
 solation 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 sunshine, 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 in the veran- 
 dah and singing at the same time. 
 
 " I am surprised to see you in such 
 good spirits so soon after your kind 
 old master's death, and at the very 
 moment of his daughter'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 grati- 
 tude do I owe to these people ? " 
 
 " They are your benefactors." 
 
 " Indeed 1 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 them- 
 selves, and receives a little money and 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 perhaps a few kind words in return, 
 the obliged party, and they the bene- 
 factors ? In this country, I think, the 
 terms might be reversed." 
 
 D'Auban felt even more provoked 
 with her manner than her words, and 
 answered with a frown 
 
 "I wonder that you can speak of 
 your mistress in this manner." 
 
 "My mistress ! I have never consid- 
 ered 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 blind you are infatuated about 
 that woman " 
 
 " Hush ! I will not hear such lan- 
 guage as this." 
 
 "But you must hear it, or I will 
 expose her to those who will listen to 
 the truth. Others shall hear me if you 
 will not." 
 
 " Speak then," said d'Auban sternly. 
 The time had arrived when he felt him- 
 self justified in listening to Simonette's 
 disclosures. Matters had come to a 
 crisis, and on Madame de Moldau's 
 own account it was necessary he should 
 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, with 
 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 
 concealing her own. She and her 
 father came on board our boat at 
 night; M. Reinhart, 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. No- 
 body could understand why an old 
 man and a handsome delicate woman, 
 not apparently in any want of money, 
 should come to this country with the 
 intention of taking up their abode in 
 a remote settlement. At Fort St. Louis 
 M. Reinhart and Hans left us, and I 
 did not see them again till they came 
 here with those other gentlemen. 
 "When you proposed 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 persevered 
 in my refusal. But you seemed very 
 anxious I should accept your offer. 
 You said it would be an act of char- 
 ity. You did not speak of benefactors 
 then. My father urged me also. But 
 what really decided me was this : It 
 was said you admired her, and that 
 you would soon marry the lady at 
 St. Agathe. I thought if I lived with 
 her I should be sure to find out whether 
 the stories about her were true or false, 
 and that I might be the means of sav- 
 ing you from marrying an impostor " 
 
 " You have no right to speak in that 
 way," interrupted d'Auban, tried be- 
 yond 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 77 
 
 hear me to the end. I know she does 
 not seem an impostor I can hardly 
 believe 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 dia- 
 monds 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 prin- 
 cess lately dead. It must have been 
 the princess mentioned in the news- 
 paper you were reading out loud one 
 night some days ago, and which mad- 
 ame sent me to borrow from you the 
 next morning. Well, the report was 
 that her servants had stolen this casket 
 and fled the country." 
 
 "St. Petersbarg was the town you 
 mean, and the princess, the wife of the 
 Czarovitch of Russia." 
 
 " 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 believe a word of it." 
 
 "He says that M. de Chambelle's 
 real name is Sasse, and that he lived 
 at the 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 picture 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 Russias. 
 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 ! " 
 repeated d'Auban, turning very pale. 
 "But are you certain it belonged to 
 
 Madame de Moldau ? " he quickly add- 
 ed. " What did you do with it ? " 
 
 " T was almost inclined to take it to 
 you, sir, 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 
 observations which were painful to her, 
 about people having secrets; and 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 time. Sometimes I cannot 
 help feeling 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. When 
 those gentlemen 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 concerned in it, and had himself 
 helped the servants to escape. Did 
 you not notice that M. Reinhart 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 speak- 
 ing the truth. I wish with all my heart 
 it was otherwise. Hate me if you will, 
 despise, disbelieve me, but do not be 
 rash. Do not marry this deceitful wo- 
 man. You suspect me, perhaps. You 
 think 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, willingly would 
 I be her slave and yours all my life. 
 If you knew how wretched it makes 
 me to see you look so miserable 1 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 But, oh I if you marry her and she is 
 guilty!-' 
 
 " My dear Simonette," said d'Auban, 
 interrupting her, but speaking much 
 more gently than he had yet done, " I 
 am sure you mean kindly by me. I 
 should be indeed ungrateful did I not 
 believe in your sincerity. The circum- 
 stances you have related are most ex- 
 traordinary ; I certainly cannot at this 
 moment account for them. But still, I 
 would entreat you to suspend your judg- 
 ment. Do not decide against her till 
 you know more." 
 
 "Ah! that is what Father Maret 
 always says; but I am afraid she de- 
 ceives you both." 
 
 D'Auban eagerly caught at those 
 words. " Is that what he says ? Then 
 Tie does not think her guilty ? " 
 
 " He does not say one thing or the 
 other." 
 
 " Well, Simonette, I again thank you 
 for your kindness to myself, and I en- 
 treat you, for the present, at least, not 
 to speak on this subject to any one else. 
 I feel bound to tell you that, in spite 
 of the apparent evidence to the contrary, 
 I still firmly believe in Madame de 
 Moldau's innocence." 
 
 " And you will marry her ? " exclaim- 
 ed Simonette, wringing her hands. 
 
 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 distress yourself on that point ; and 
 for my sake be kind and attentive to 
 her during the time she will yet remain 
 here." 
 
 " Is she going away, sir ? " 
 
 D'Auban covered his face with his 
 hands. She looked at him with an- 
 guish. "How you must hate me!" 
 she murmured. 
 
 "No," he said, recovering his com- 
 posure. "No, Simonette, much as I 
 
 suffer, I do not blame you, my poor 
 girl. It is natural you should have had 
 suspicions it could not have been 
 otherwise. But I cannot- talk to you 
 any more now; I must be alone and 
 think over what you have told me. 
 May we all do what is right. If you 
 are going to the village this evening, 
 tell Father Maret I will call on him 
 early to-morrow, and ask him and The- 
 rese 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 doe's the idea gain 
 upon me. No, no ; it is a trick of the 
 imagination. If it was so, how did I 
 never come to think of it before ? Yet 
 it tallies with all the rest. It would 
 explain every thing. But I think 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 ap- 
 peared. 
 
 He had returned, he said, from the 
 north lakes, whither he had accompa- 
 nied 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 with 
 his master about wages, and they had 
 parted company. " He is gone to St. 
 Agathe this evening; I fancy he ad- 
 mires 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 should not think," 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 any thing to com- 
 plain of; but she has always had a 
 queer sort of temper. For my part, 
 I think she might go farther and fare 
 worse. Well, M. d'Auban, I only just 
 looked in to let you know about your 
 friends ; I am oif again to-morrow to 
 the Arkansas. Have you any com- 
 mands ? " 
 
 " 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 for- 
 mer history ? " 
 
 " Not much. He has been in Spain, 
 and Italy, and Russia. We never do 
 know much of the people who come 
 out here." 
 
 " I think you had better warn Simon - 
 ette 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'Au- 
 ban said with a smile. 
 
 When the bargeman was gone he 
 began again to turn over in his mind 
 the new strange thought which had 
 occupied him for the last two or three 
 hours. From the first day he had made 
 Madame de Moldau's acquaintance he 
 
 had been haunted 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 travelling with Gen- 
 eral Lefort, and they had stopped for 
 two days at Wolfenbuttel, and been 
 invited to a dinner and a ball at the 
 ducal palace. Now that he came to 
 think of it, what an astonishing like- 
 ness there was between the lady at St. 
 Agathe and the Czarevitch's affianced 
 bride as he remembered her in her girl- 
 hood, a fair creature, delicate as a 
 harebell, and white as a snowdrop. But 
 it was impossible. He laughed at him- 
 self for giving a serious thought to so 
 preposterous a conjecture, for 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 wav- 
 ing 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 re- 
 turned from the threshold of another 
 world ? Such things have been heard 
 of. Truth is sometimes more extra- 
 ordinary than fiction. He thought of 
 the story of Romeo and Juliet, 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 con- 
 jecture was a reality, now scouting it 
 as an absurdity sometimes wishing it 
 might prove true, sometimes hoping it 
 migfct turn out false ; for if the chivalry 
 
80 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 and romance of his nature made him 
 long to see the woman he loved at 
 once cleared from the least suspicion, 
 and to pay that homage to her as a 
 princess which he had instinctively 
 rendered to the daughter of an obscure 
 emigrant; on the other hand, if she 
 was the Princess Charlotte of Bruns- 
 wick, she was also the wedded wife 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 desertion, nor 
 crime, nor separation, annihilates the 
 vow once uttered before the altar. 
 Though an ocean may roll its ceaseless 
 tides and a lifetime its revolving years 
 between those it has united, the Catho- 
 lic Church never sanctions the sever- 
 ance 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 lawful; it 
 may not be." 
 
 Of one thing he felt certain. If Mad- 
 ame de Moldau was the Princess Char- 
 lotte, it was impossible to conceive a 
 more extraordinary or more interesting 
 position than hers, or one more fitted 
 to command a disinterested allegiance 
 and unselfish devotion from the man 
 she had honoured with her friendship. 
 If something so incredible could be 
 true, every 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 feelings which it must have awak- 
 ened in her breast. "Perhaps," he 
 thought to himself, " though too gen- 
 erous to resent it, she may have found 
 in those words spoken in ignorance 
 one of the bitterest and most humiliat- 
 ing 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 indifferent to his attachment. 
 " Ah ! " he again thought, " she may 
 wish to withdraw not only from the 
 man she may not wed, but from him 
 whose presumptuous attachment was 
 an unconscious 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 conjec- 
 tures on an utter impossibility; 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 togeth- 
 er, so unlike those of a father and a 
 child, and yet so full of devotion on 
 his side and of gratitude on hers. 
 
 One by one he went over all the cir- 
 cumstances 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 men- 
 tioned every thing tallied with his 
 wild guess. It would have been evi- 
 dent had it not been incredible. As it 
 was, he felt utterly bewildered. 
 
 As soon as light dawned he rode to 
 the village. There he heard that Han3 
 had gone away in the night with a party 
 of coureurs des lois. He breakfasted 
 with Father Maret, and all the time 
 was wondering if, supposing Madame 
 de Moldau was the princess, he was 
 aware of it. She said she had told 
 him every thing about herself, so he 
 supposed he did. This thought in- 
 spired him with a sort of embarrass- 
 ment, 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. 
 Agathe, where he had business to 
 transact with Madame de Moldau. He 
 found her sitting at a table in the 
 verandah looking over the map of the 
 concession. She raised her eyes, so 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 81 
 
 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 talk- 
 ing 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 
 trilling circumstances which remain 
 impressed on a person's memory, and 
 which just then came back into his 
 mind. When the young princess was 
 dancing with him she had mentioned 
 that the lady opposite to them had 
 undergone a painful operation to im- 
 prove the beauty of her features. " I 
 do not think it was worth while," she 
 said ; and then, pointing 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 arm. Could he 
 but see the arm, which was resting 
 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 taking 
 pencil notes of what he was saying. 
 At that moment a small spider crept 
 out of a bunch of flowers on to the 
 table, and then towards the sleeve so 
 anxiously watched. D'Auban noticed 
 its progress with the same anxiety with 
 which Robert Bruce must have ob- 
 served that of the insect whose per- 
 severance decided his own. The crea- 
 ture passed from the lace edging to the 
 white arm. Madame de Moldau gave 
 a little scream and pulled up the sleeve. 
 D'Auban removed the insect, and saw 
 the mole in the very spot where he re- 
 membered it. He carried away the 
 6 
 
 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 down again, M. d'Auban," she 
 said, "and explain to me where you 
 want to build those huts." 
 
 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 lips. 
 She turned round, surprised at this 
 action, and she saw that his eyes were 
 full of tears. 
 
 " What has happened ? what is the 
 matter ? " 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 1 God forbid 1 
 But, good heavens ! who has told you ? 
 M. d'Auban, I had promised never to 
 reveal this secret." 
 
 " You have kept your promise, Prin- 
 cess ; nothing but accidental circum- 
 stances have made it known to me. Do 
 not look so scared. What have you to 
 fear ? " 
 
 " Oh ! if you knew what a strange 
 feeling it is to be known, to be ad- 
 dressed in that old way again. It agi- 
 tates 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 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 Rus- 
 sia?" 
 
 "No; I left St. Petersburg before 
 
82 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 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 Gen- 
 eral Lefort." 
 
 " Is it possible ! I feel as if I was 
 dreaming. Is it really I who am talk- 
 ing of my own self and of my former 
 name, and as quietly as if it was a mat- 
 ter of course ? But how extraordinary 
 it is that you should have suddenly 
 recollected where you had seen me ! 
 What led to it ? " 
 
 " Simonette's suspicions about some 
 jewels, and a picture in your posses- 
 sion." 
 
 " Oh yes. I believe the poor girl 
 thinks I have stolen them. I perceived 
 that some time ago. I have been very 
 careless in leaving such things about. 
 I do not see any way of explaining to 
 her how I came by them; but as I 
 am going soon, it does not signify so 
 much." 
 
 "Do you still think you must go, 
 Princess ? Does.not my knowledge of 
 what you are alter our relative posi- 
 tions. If, imploring at your feet for- 
 giveness 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 High- 
 ness who feels herself obliged to forego 
 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 un- 
 exampled that I deemed myself bound 
 by no ordinary rules. I fancied neither 
 God nor man would call me to account 
 for its driftless course. I should have 
 let you know at once that there were 
 reasons of every sort why we could 
 never be any thing 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 pecu- 
 
 liarity of my fate, I 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 applied 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 lived in a state that can hardly 
 be conceived. It was like groping 
 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 live and to struggle." 
 
 She paused as if to collect her 
 thoughts, and then said with a melan- 
 choly smile : 
 
 " Then you know who I am ? " 
 
 " Yes, Princess ; and in that knowl- 
 edge 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 
 contrary, my gratitude for what you 
 have done for me is too deep, too vast, 
 for words. I do not know how to ex- 
 press 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 words, 
 that there is something better and 
 higher than earthly happiness. You 
 made me believe in the religion which 
 bids me part from you, and which gives 
 me the strength to do so." 
 
 " Thank God that we have met and 
 not met in vain," d'Auban answered, 
 with the deepest feeling. "Thank 
 God for the sufferings of' a separation 
 more bitter than death, if we do but 
 meet at last where the wicked cease 
 from troubling " 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "Ay, and where the weary are at 
 rest. But now, even now, I am at rest," 
 she added with an expression of wonder- 
 ful 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, per- 
 haps, of all God's creatures, the most 
 solitary being that ever wandered on 
 the face of the earth seeking a spot 
 wherein to hide and die, I feel happy 
 
 Can you understand this, M. d'Au- 
 
 ban?" 
 
 "Yes; for it is the Christian's se- 
 cret." 
 
 " But you have always had faith 
 you cannot perhaps quite conceive the 
 feelings of those who once were blind 
 and now see. You don't know what it 
 
 is to have lived half a lifetime in dark- 
 ness, and then to feel the glorious light 
 breaking in upon your soul and flood- 
 ing it with sunshine I " 
 
 D'Auban was too much moved to 
 speak for awhile, and then said, 
 " Would it agitate or pain you, Prin- 
 cess, to relate to me the particulars 
 of" 
 
 "Of my extraordinary history my 
 unparalleled 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 before we 
 parted." 
 
 It was in the following words that 
 Madame de Moldau told her story. 
 
 CHAP TEE VIII. 
 
 MADAME DE MOLDAU'S STORY. 
 
 I will relate all my years in the bitterness of my soul. 
 
 EttekiaKs Song. 
 
 And she hath wandered long and far 
 Beneath the light of son and star, 
 Hath roamed in trouble and in grief, 
 Driven forward like a withered leaf, 
 Tea, like a ship at random blown 
 To distant places and unknown. 
 
 Wordsworth, 
 
 " MY childhood went by like a pleas- 
 ant dream. The ducal palace in 
 which I was born, with its gay parter- 
 res, its green bowers, and the undulat- 
 ing 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 exter- 
 nal 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 kindness, 
 the placidity, and the romantic senti- 
 mentality of the Northern German 
 character. We were, I suppose, sweet- 
 tempered children, and scarcely a rip- 
 ple marred the smooth surface of our 
 even days. Nothing but gentleness 
 was shown to us. Study was made 
 interesting. We led a charmed exist- 
 ence, such as is depicted in fairy tales, 
 and seeing nothing as it really is. We 
 thought peasants were like the shep- 
 
84 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 herds and shepherdesses made of Dres- 
 den China, and that the poor were peo- 
 ple who lived 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 suffered to approach us. 
 We were taught music and morality, 
 languages and universal benevolence. 
 Religion was exhibited to us as a senti- 
 ment well 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 unruffled tranquillity and youthful 
 enjoyment, in those secluded bowers 
 where 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 those early 
 years looked and felt so like virtue. 
 And as we grew older, the love of poe- 
 try 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 pur- 
 posely vacant in our hearts and minds. 
 No definite faith was instilled into our 
 souls. We were instructed in the phi- 
 losophy which looks on all dogmas 
 with indifference. It was only on the 
 map that we were permitted to dis- 
 tinguish between the creeds which men 
 profess. We were to be educated to 
 respect them all, and to believe 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 sur- 
 rounded us held nobler views or a 
 higher language 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 him. He was our chamberlain 
 from the time we were old enough 
 to have a household app6inted for us. 
 Even in those days we playfully called 
 him father, as I have done in sad and 
 sober earnest and with 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 
 silvery river, the old palace, the library 
 where we used to see learned men 
 assembling from all parts of the 
 world" 
 
 " I have seen it," said d'Auban. " I 
 have seen those hills, that palace. I 
 saw you 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 with 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 breathing the same air, 
 gazing on the same scenes, speaking 
 careless words to each other ! But 
 tell me, did you feel sorry for me then ? 
 Did you foresee what I should suffer ? " 
 
 " I remember musing on the fate 
 which 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 
 inclined to compassionate those you 
 were about to leave than to foresee 
 suffering in a destiny which promised 
 to be brilliant." 
 
 " Well, I parted with' my sister, took 
 a last farewell of the happy scenes of 
 my childhood, received a wreath 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 
 which it stands with a sorrowful but 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 85 
 
 not a desponding heart, for I was ful- 
 filling, a woman's and a princess's part. 
 Forgetting my father's house, I said to 
 myself, going forth like Rebekah to 
 meet an unknown husband in a strange 
 land. My sister, so said the poets of 
 the ducal court, was to wed the Aus- 
 trian eagle ; I was to be the mate of 
 the Imperial bird of the north. * Joy 
 to the Czarevitch's bride 1' the sound 
 rang in my ears, and my heart beat 
 with more of hope than of fear. The 
 title of the son of the Czar pleased my 
 girlish fancy, and I had a romantic ad- 
 miration for the great Emperor whom 
 the philosophers and the men of let- 
 ters 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 besought 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 twitch which some- 
 times convulsed his features. 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 such a narrative to speak 
 of that man who was " 
 
 " Who is my husband the father of 
 my child my persecutor, my enemy, 
 and yet Oh I 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 him, 
 and felt that others will have to answer 
 
 br 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 dif- 
 ferent stamp. It is impossible to imag- 
 ine two beings brought up in a more 
 different manner than the Czarevitch 
 and myself. Darkness and gloom had 
 overshadowed his cradle ; the rancour 
 which was fostered in his soul from 
 the earliest dawn of reason was joined 
 to a passionate attachment to the cus- 
 toms, manners, religion, and language 
 of the Muscovite nation. Early in life 
 he had felt a burning resentment at 
 the banishment and disgrace of his un- 
 happy mother, the Empress Eudoxia. 
 In the visits he obliged me to pay to 
 * Sister Helen,' the pale wild-looking 
 recluse of the monastic prison of Isdal, 
 I saw that the same passions which in- 
 fluenced him were eating her heart 
 away in that horrible solitude; and 
 what a fatal effect they had upon his 
 character ! Yet I was glad ; yes, it 
 was a relief to see that he loved her, 
 that he loved any one. His detesta- 
 tion of the Empress Catherine was as 
 vehement as his sense of his mother's 
 wrongs." 
 
 "There is something very fearful," 
 d'Auban said, " in a child's hatred. It 
 is almost always founded on a secret or 
 acknowledged consciousness of injus- 
 tice, on the feeling that some great 
 injury has been done to itself or to 
 another. Nothing destroys so effectu- 
 ally youthfulness of heart." 
 
 " And the prince's hatred extended 
 also in some measure to his father : he 
 looked upon him as an oppressor whose 
 will it was all but hopeless to with- 
 stand, but a sort of infatuation urged 
 him on to the unequal struggle. There 
 was not one subject on which the son 
 did not abhor his father's policy. He 
 detested foreign manners and foreign 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 languages, and, above all, foreign inno- 
 vations. He loathed the sight of the 
 new capital, which had risen up in a 
 day, and taken the place of the beauti- 
 ful city of his birth the Queen of the 
 old Muscovite empire. The Emperor's 
 assumption of supremacy in ecclesias- 
 tical matters, and the suppression of 
 the patriarchate, were in his eyes acts 
 of audacious impiety. His attachment 
 to theological studies in his 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 surround- 
 ed alternately by his drunken compan- 
 ions and by the clergy of the Russian 
 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 him up again with contemp- 
 tuous 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 In- 
 dian legend that Therese repeated to us 
 on the eve of New Year's Day ? " 
 
 " The story of Hiawatha ? I noticed 
 at the time that some parts of it seemed 
 to strike you very much." 
 
 " It made me think of the struggle I 
 am speaking of. Those stanzas par- 
 ticularly 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 
 rocks : 
 
 For his 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. 
 
 " Now, M. d'Auban, you can imagine 
 with what feelings that rebellious spir- 
 it, that resentful son, that wild and 
 weak young man, must have looked 
 upon the bride which his father had 
 chosen for him the German bride, 
 who could not speak one word of the 
 Russian language, and who, with child- 
 like imprudence, showed her aversion 
 to many of the customs of Russia, some 
 of them the very ones which Alexis 
 would almost have died to uphold; 
 who spoke with 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 mar- 
 riage, 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 unconsciously sported with the ele- 
 ments of future misery, and thought 
 I could tame, by playful looks and 
 words, the fierce nature of my hus- 
 band ! 
 
 "It was a few days after we had 
 arrived at the palace at St. Petersburg, 
 that I received my first lesson in the 
 Greek religion; and in the evening, 
 whilst conversing with General Aprax- 
 in, I laughed at the pains which my 
 instructor had taken to explain to me 
 that the Czar could not be Antichrist, 
 as the number 666 was not to be found 
 in his name. I saw my husband's eyes 
 fixed upon me with a look of hatred 
 which 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 offi- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 cers was giving of the discipline to 
 which the Russian 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 u Barbarians" es- 
 caped my lips. The Czarovitch started 
 up in a fury, and dealing me a heavy 
 blow, exclaimed " This will teach 
 you, madame, to turn into ridicule the 
 ancient customs of this nation." 
 
 " I turned away from 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. Petersburg 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 
 life became every part of it, every 
 moment of it! I had not one human 
 being about me whom I could trust, 
 except my faithful M. de Sasse M. de 
 Chambelle, as we called him here who 
 alone had been suffered to accompany 
 me to Russia. He w r as of Russian par- 
 entage 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 Czaro- 
 vitch's wife; one whom many speak 
 against ; one whose life has been as ex- 
 traordinary, though a very different 
 one from mine; one who may have 
 been guilty towards others, God only 
 knows, but to me a friend to more than 
 royal friendship true. Never, as long 
 as life 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 recognized her as 
 his wife my heart was very sore. Dis- 
 enchantment, that sickness of the soul 
 a still more hopeless one than that of 
 hope deferred had come over me. No 
 one had said a word of tenderness to 
 me since I had left my home. The 
 
 Countess of Konigsmark was not yet in 
 Russia. I had no feeling for or against 
 the new empress. My husband detested 
 her ; but I had espoused none of liis 
 hatreds, and was more inclined towards 
 those whom his friends opposed than 
 those whom they favoured. When I 
 saw her handsome face beaming upon 
 me with the sunshiny look which, 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 very miserable. She had not 
 yet learnt the cold reserve which royalty 
 enforces. The womanly heart of the 
 Lithuanian peasant warmed towards 
 the desolate princess; she clasped me 
 to her breast, and I felt hot tears falling 
 on my brow. She doubtless guessed 
 what I had already suffered, and the 
 doom that was reserved to me ; for she 
 knew what it was to be wedded to a 
 Romanoff to live in fear and trembling 
 with a hand on the lion's mane. She 
 knew how fierce a thing was even the 
 love of one of that race: well might 
 she divine what their hatred must be. 
 Our meetings were not frequent our 
 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 Czarovitch should try his hand 
 at governing during those absences. 
 He took care, however, 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 
 those of my husband. He hoped I 
 should gain an influence over him. It 
 was a vain hope. . 
 
 " I will not dwell on one circum^ance 
 of my history which, as you have 
 resided in Russia, you probably are 
 acquainted with. You doubtless heard 
 it said, that Charlotte of Brunswick 
 
88 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 had a rival in the person of a Russian 
 slave." 
 
 "I knew it," said d'Auban, with 
 emotion. 
 
 " It was no secret," Madame de Mol- 
 dau went on to say. " The prince used, 
 in my presence, to complain that the 
 Czar had married a peasant, and that he 
 had been compelled to wed a princess. 
 
 "Now you can understand what a 
 fatal effect my position had upon me, 
 as regarded religion. How I hated the 
 creed which it had been agreed upon 
 as a condition of my marriage that I 
 should profess ; which they wished to 
 teach me, as if it had been a language 
 and a science. A Protestant may be a 
 sceptic, and yet scarcely conscious of 
 hypocrisy in calling himself a Christian ; 
 but the Greek religion enforces observ- 
 ances which are a mockery if practiced 
 without faith in them. I would not 
 receive the sacraments of the Greek 
 Church. The Czar did not compel 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 ir- 
 ritated his fanaticism. His religion 
 consisted in a kind of gloomy, intense 
 devotion to a national form of worship, 
 identified with his prejudices, but with- 
 out any influence on his heart or life. 
 My own early impressions were too 
 vague, too indefinite, to offer any stand- 
 ing-ground between the tenets which 
 were forced upon me and the scepticism 
 in which I took refuge. Can you won- 
 der that I became almost an infidel ? " 
 
 " It would have been strange had it 
 been otherwise," d'Auban answered. 
 " It is a great mercy that the principle 
 of faith was not utterly destroyed in 
 your soul. But ^t is, thank God, only 
 wilful resistance to truth which hope- 
 lessly hardens the heart. You were 
 guiltless of that." 
 
 "Every thing that now appears to 
 me in another light, under another 
 
 aspect, was then distorted, as if to 
 delude me. The prince used to take 
 me in secret to the monastery of Isdal 
 to see his mother and his aunt, the 
 Princess Sophia the so-called nuns, 
 the unhappy recluses whose bodies 
 were confined in this cloistered prison, 
 whose hearts and minds were incessant- 
 ly bent on ambitious projects, on in- 
 trigue 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 weak, her 
 face, as I used to see it, half concealed 
 by a dark cowl, haunts me like a spec- 
 tre. And the Czar's sister her haughty 
 silence her commanding form 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 ! 
 
 "I am afraid of wearying you, M. 
 d'Auban, with the detail of my suffer- 
 ings, 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 you 
 think. Go on. It will 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 wrought with you, 
 my-" 
 
 He stopped. The words "beloved 
 one," were on his lips, but were checked 
 in time. It was a hard task for that 
 man to hear her tale of sorrow, and 
 not pour forth in burning words the 
 feelings of his heart. 
 
 She continued: " Every thing 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 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 89 
 
 sometimes, out of caprice, the prince 
 forced me to witness. At other times 
 I was left in absolute neglect, and even 
 penury. 
 
 "You have sometimes wondered at 
 my patient endurance for a few weeks 
 of the horrors, as you termed them, of 
 Simon's barge, and the hut where 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 neglect. 
 
 "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 traversed, day and 
 night, with scarcely any interval of 
 repose. He detested those forced 
 marches, and used sometimes to feign 
 illness in order to avoid them. When 
 we joined the court I was secure for 
 awhile from ill-treatment, for the Czar 
 was always kind, the Empress aflfe^- 
 tionate to me ; but then I used to suffer 
 in another away. You will understand 
 it: something you said to me about 
 the Czar makes me sure you will. Since 
 my girlish days I had looked upon him 
 with admiration his prowess, his 
 intellect, his energy, the immense 
 works he had achieved, his gigantic 
 creations, had stimulated all the enthu- 
 siasm of my nature. Perhaps my hus- 
 band would not have hated me so 
 bitterly if I had not exalted his father's 
 name, his schemes, and his innovations 
 with an enthusiasm, and in a way, 
 which was gall and wormwood to him. 
 When I was suffering the deepest 
 humiliations, when insulted and ill- 
 used by the Czarevitch, I used to glory 
 that I was the Czar's daughter that 
 my child would be his grandson. But 
 shadows gradually darkened these vis- 
 ions. 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 disbelieved them. The slaughter of 
 thousands of men the extermination 
 of the Strelitz I recked not of. The 
 majesty of the crown had to be vindi- 
 cated. The young Czar, in the hour 
 of his might and of his triumph, bore 
 the aspect of an avenging divinity in 
 my blinded vision, and the glories of a 
 nation rose out of the stern retributive 
 justice of these acts. 
 
 " But when in his palace, for the first 
 time, I saw him give way to passion, 
 not as a sovereign, but as a savage (you 
 used that word once ; I fear it is the 
 true one); when I saw him, with my 
 own eyes, strike his courtiers; when 
 with trembling horror I heard of his 
 cutting off the head 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 dis- 
 gusting buffooneries he delighted in 
 were also a torment to me. The cyni- 
 cal derisive pantomimes enacted in his 
 presence, ia which even the sacred 
 ceremony of marriage was profaned 
 and ridiculed; the priesthood, de- 
 graded though they might be, turned 
 into ridicule it was all so revolting, 
 so debasing. No 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 
 Russian 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 power, or in a civilization 
 which improves the intellect and 
 softens the manners without amending 
 the heart and converting the soul. Did 
 
90 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 you ever venture to express these ideas 
 to the Czar ? " 
 
 " Sometimes, in a general way, but 
 you must remember, that whatever 
 may have been right in my impressions 
 at that time, was the result of a con- 
 scientious instinct, not of any definite 
 principles. I was afraid of showing 
 him how much I disliked 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 re- 
 form oneself.' There was something 
 grand in this acknowledgment from 
 one with whom no one on earth would 
 have dared to find fault." 
 
 "Amendment would have been grand- 
 er. But the fact is, he had no wish 
 to amend. He has no faith, no princi- 
 ples. Ambition is his ruling passion, 
 and what in him looks like virtue is 
 the far-sighted policy of a wise legisla- 
 tor. What unmitigated suffering the 
 atmosphere of that court must have 
 been to a nature like yours ! The nat- 
 ural 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 footing on which to take your 
 own stand in the midst of all that cor- 
 ruption." 
 
 " Yes, even those whom I had a bet- 
 ter opinion of, and who took an inter- 
 est in me, men imbued with the philo- 
 sophical 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 com- 
 panions, had nothing better to recom- 
 mend to me, in order to strengthen my 
 mind and guard me against tempta- 
 tion, than reading Plutarch's Lives and 
 Montesquieu's works. General Apraxin, 
 Count Gagarin, and Mentzchikoff, the 
 Emperor's favourite, were of the num- 
 ber of these friends who ridiculed the 
 
 longbeards, as they called the clergy, 
 and applauded my aversion to the cere- 
 monies of the national religion. 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 and 
 some in my husband's interest. An- 
 other 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 Konigs- 
 mark (this was about two years after 
 my marriage) brought 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 
 Czarovitch intended to make away 
 with me, in order to marry the slave 
 Afrosina. Then fear of another sort 
 became my daily lot; uneasiness by 
 day and terror by night. If ever the 
 sljpry of Damocles was realized in a 
 living being's existence, it was in mine. 
 The torment of that continual fear be- 
 came almost unbearable, and the home- 
 sickness preyed upon my spirits with 
 unremitting intensity. It was at once 
 the prisoner's and the exile's yearning 
 the burthen of royalty and that of 
 poverty also. I was penniless amidst 
 splendour; in debt, and deprived, at 
 times, of the most common comforts of 
 life. On state occasions decked out 
 with eastern magnificence, at home in 
 miserable penury. Often I was obliged 
 to submit to arrangements which were 
 intolerable to a person of even ordinary 
 refinement. In "the temporary residen- 
 ces which we occupied during the pro- 
 gresses of the court, my apartment was 
 crowded with female slaves, both by 
 day and by night; and there was 
 more vermin in some of the Muscovite 
 palaces than in the wigwams of our 
 poor Indians. 
 
 " One of the peculiarities of my fate 
 in those days was that of being, in one 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 91 
 
 sense, never alone, and continually so in 
 another. If amongst my attendants I 
 seemed to distinguish one from the rest 
 if any affection seemed to spring up 
 tween 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 sta- 
 tion." 
 
 "An equally dreadful fate in your 
 eyes, princess," said d'Auban, in a voice 
 in which there was a slight shade of 
 wounded feeling. Madame de Moldau 
 did not seem to notice it. 
 
 "The loss was the same to me in 
 both cases," she said. " The severity 
 of the trial to them must have depend- 
 ed on the peculiarities of their own 
 character, or the disposition of the per- 
 son they were forced to wed. I envied 
 them all, I believe the exiles to Sibe- 
 ria most. I would have gone any- 
 where, done any thing to fly away and 
 be at rest; and there was no rest 
 think of that 1 no rest to body, heart, 
 or mind ! One while the Czarevitch 
 would bring his friends into my room, 
 and hold his drunken revels there, 
 playing at a game where the penalty 
 consisted in swallowing large bowls of 
 brandy at one draught. He used 
 roughly to compel me to join in these 
 sports, and brutally resented 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 weary ancl dis- 
 tracted he called me a German infidel, 
 and cursed the day he had married me. 
 Now you see why I shuddered when 
 you first spoke to me of religion. It 
 was as if the spectre of past suifering 
 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 long years of anguish. 
 I have been a mother, but I have not 
 known a mother's joy. I went through 
 
 the trying hour of a woman's life, with- 
 out one word of affection or of tender- 
 ness to soothe or to support me. In a 
 cold desolate apartment in the winter 
 palace, more like a hall than a cham- 
 ber, 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 particle of it 
 was to be infringed, but the actors in 
 it forgot or refused to come and per- 
 form their parts; and no peasant, no 
 slave, no criminal, was ever left in such 
 helpless abandonment as the Czaro- 
 vitch's wife. They carried away my 
 infant. They kept him out of my 
 sight. They left me alone shivering, 
 shuddering, pining in solitude, conjur- 
 ing up visions of terror during the long 
 interminable nights, and nervous fan- 
 cies without end. Hating to live, fear- 
 ing to die, trembling at every sound, 
 weary, weary unto death, I lay there 
 thinking of my child in the hands of 
 strangers, deeming that the poison I 
 had been threatened with might be 
 even then destined for him, and the 
 while cannons were firing, and bells 
 ringing, and men carousing for joy 
 that an heir was born to the house of 
 Romanoff". Forty days elapsed and I 
 was at last permitted to see my son. 
 The Czar had returned, and the Em- 
 press 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 Em- 
 press), she did not try to stop my 
 weeping. She laid the baby one mo- 
 ment 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 Em- 
 peror and the Empress. The Patri- 
 arch performed the ceremony. I 
 
92 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 went through it with a heart of 
 stone. There was no thanksgiving 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 thinking of the visits I 
 used to pay to my child at stated times 
 only. 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 return to my detested 
 home, what wild dreams I had of es- 
 cape, of freedom 1 "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 some- 
 times 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 Czarevitch's son," said d'Au- 
 ban, with a strong rising in his heart. 
 It was almost more than he could en- 
 dure to hearken to this story in silence. 
 He was more deeply moved than she 
 could know. What it was a relief to 
 her 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 
 make us bless God that we have never 
 
 been tempted beyond what we could 
 bear ; that we have never been, like poor 
 Charlotte Corday, for instance, mad- 
 dened into one of those crimes which 
 almost look like virtue. 
 
 D'Auban was thankful that day that 
 the wide Atlantic rolled between him 
 and the royal miscreant who had done 
 such deeds of shame. 
 
 "A few more words, and then you 
 will have heard all," Madame de Mol- 
 dau said, "all that I can tell of the 
 closing scene of that long agony of 
 fear and suffering. I was continually 
 warned of my danger: continually 
 received messages to put me on my 
 guard against eating certain food, or 
 speaking alone to some particular per- 
 son. The Czarevitch himself had often 
 uttered dark threats, in which I clearly 
 perceived the doom I had to expect at 
 his hands. His hatred of me seemed 
 to grow every day more intense. At 
 last I discovered that a conspiracy 
 against his father was on foot. Evi- 
 dence 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 into strange perplexities. 
 Whatever kindness I had received in 
 Russia was from the Czar and his con- 
 sort, and my soul revolted at the idea 
 of being implicated in my husband's 
 unnatural conduct. 
 
 " One day I took courage. We were 
 alone together, which was not often 
 the case. I told him of my suspicions, 
 my more than suspicions 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 foreshad- 
 ows death in royal houses. That I 
 hated his mother, and despised his 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 93 
 
 church, but now the crisis was come. 
 The day of doom at hand. The desti- 
 nies of Russia were at stake. Swear,' 
 he said, * Swear by God, that is, if in- 
 deed you believe there is a God swear 
 that you will be silent as the grave re- 
 garding the glorious delivery which is 
 at hand. Do you value your life ? ' he 
 said savagely, as I turned away from 
 him without replying. ' Do you value 
 your life ? ' he repeated, his eyes glow- 
 ing with an expression of mingled 
 hatred and fear. 
 
 "'What has my life been that I 
 should value it?' I cried, the strong 
 sense of accumulated wrongs finding 
 vent at last. ' What has my life been 
 but a living death since I set foot in 
 this detested land, since I became the 
 bride of a savage. Give me back my 
 own country, give me back my youth ' 
 
 " ' Your youth,' he cried, ' your coun- 
 try. 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 faith of 
 holy Russia. But by that faith I swear 
 you shall come this very day to my 
 mother'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 murmured, 
 'Will she teach it me.' My eyes 
 doubtless spoke the sarcasm my lips 
 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 wild cry, and then 
 nothing more ; nothing for many nights 
 and many days. 
 
 " When I recovered my senses I was, 
 or fancied I was, 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, who I was, and 
 then with a sort of bewildered astonish- 
 ment 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 feeling faint and 
 giddy, I raised my heavy head from 
 the pillow, and saw M. de Sasse, sit- 
 ting 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 ? ' 
 
 "'You are dead, 1 he emphatically 
 whispered; 'that is, everybody, and 
 the monster who killed you, thinks 
 you are dead.' Who killed me ? What 
 monster ? Ah ! it all came back upon 
 me, and I gave a fearful scream. 
 ' Hush, hush ! for heaven's sake ! ' im- 
 plored 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 dark. Is it night or day? 
 Is this life 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 apprehen- 
 sion. He laid a pillow on my face, 
 and I cried out, ' Will you, too, murder 
 me ? ' I shall never forget his groan as 
 he dashed the pillow to the ground, 
 and tore his gray hair. Poor, faithful 
 old man, it was the sight of his grief 
 which quieted me. I gave him my 
 
94 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 hand and fell asleep, I believe. The 
 next time I woke, the Countess de 
 Konigsinark was kneeling by the bed- 
 side ; when I opened my eyes they met 
 hers. I had known her from my ear- 
 liest childhood. Her son, Comte Mau- 
 rice de Saxe, had been my playfellow 
 in former days. She was one of my few 
 friends since niy marriage. Whenever 
 she came to the court of Russia, her 
 society was a consolation to me. Dur- 
 ing those years of misery she was the 
 only person to whom I opened my heart. 
 What a relief 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.' 
 
 "'My darling princess,' said the 
 countess, ' do you care to live ? ' 
 
 "I started up in wild affright, a 
 dreadful idea had passed through my 
 mind. I was perhaps a prisoner con- 
 demned to death. 'What have I 
 done ? Am I to die ? ' I cried, ' Is the 
 Czar dead ? ' 
 
 "The tears fell fast from the coun- 
 tess's eyes. She shook her head : ' No, 
 but he is far away, my princess, and the 
 wretch who all but killed you, and be- 
 lieves 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 the absolute 
 certainty of this. His measures were 
 taken, and I saw but one way of saving 
 you. We sent him word that you were 
 dead, and spread abroad the news of 
 your decease. A mock funeral took 
 place, and the court followed to the 
 grave what they supposed to be your 
 mortal remains.' 
 
 " ' It is very dreadful,' I said, shud- 
 dering. 
 
 " ' If it had not been for this strata- 
 gem your faithful servants could not 
 have saved you. The Czarovitch has 
 determined you shall die.' 
 
 '"And he thinks that I am dead?' 
 I asked, with a strange fluttering at 
 my heart, such as I had never known 
 before. 'But when he hears that I 
 am alive! Ah, I am afraid! I am 
 horribly afraid! Hide me from him. 
 Save me from him.' I clung 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 re- 
 covered a little strength you must fly 
 from tbis country. We have all incur- 
 red a terrific responsibility who have 
 been concerned in this transaction, for 
 we have deceived not only the Czaro- 
 vitch, but the Czar himself. The 
 court, the nation, your own family, all 
 Europe, have put on mourning for you. 
 The funeral service has been perform- 
 ed over a figure which represented you, 
 sweet princess; the bells have tolled 
 in every church of the empire for the 
 flower of Brunswick's line, for the 
 murdered wife of the Czarovitch for 
 your supposed death is laid at his 
 door.' 
 
 '"I am dead, then,' I exclaimed, 
 looking straight at the countess with 
 such a wild expression 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 remain always 
 here ? ' I asked, glancing with a shud- 
 der at the dismantled walls and narrow 
 windows. 
 
 " ' No,' she softly answered. ' Like 
 a bird let loose, like a prisoner set free, 
 you will fly away and be at rest.' 
 
, 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 * Yes, yes,' I cried, laying my head on 
 her shoulder. 'Rest that is what I 
 want.' And my tears flowed without 
 restraint. 
 
 "'Under a brighter sky,' she con- 
 tinued, ' amidst fairer scenes, you will 
 await the time when a change of cir- 
 cumstances may open the way for your 
 return.' 
 
 '"Cannot I go to Vienna, to my 
 sister, or to my own native Wolfen- 
 buttel?' 
 
 " I immediately saw in the countess's 
 face how much this question distressed 
 her. ' Princess,' she said, ' this is not 
 possible. Not only the Czarevitch, but 
 the Czar himself, believes you are no 
 more. If you revealed your existence, 
 you would expose to certain death 
 those who, at the risk of their lives, 
 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 persuad- 
 ed 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 exist- 
 ence?' Madame de Konigsmark ex- 
 claimed. ' Have you drained the cup 
 of happiness during the twenty-three 
 years you have lived ? Cannot enjoy- 
 ment be found in a life of retirement ? ' 
 
 '"Drained the cup of happiness!' 
 I bitterly cried. ' Why mock my de- 
 spair ? Have I known a single day of 
 peace since I married the Czarovitch ? 
 Let me die of hunger, or call my hus- 
 band's hirelings to despatch me atonce, 
 but do not drive me mad by talking to 
 me of happiness.' 
 
 "I raved on for some time in this 
 
 state, half conscious, half delirious, I 
 believe, fearing to fix my thoughts on 
 any thing, and doubting whether those 
 who had saved my life were my friends 
 or my enemies. Madame de Konigs- 
 mark sat patiently by my side for hours 
 together, watching, as I have since 
 thought, every turn of my mind. She 
 became more and more alarmed at the 
 bold measures she had adopted, and 
 seemed terrified lest I should refuse to 
 disappear altogether from the world 
 where I was known. Nothing could 
 be more skilful or better planned than 
 the way in which she brought me to 
 the point. She did not say any thing 
 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 looking on a garden at 
 the back of the palace. The sudden 
 burst of a Russian spring the most 
 beautiful though the most short-lived 
 of seasons was imparting a wonderful 
 beauty and sweetness to the shrubs 
 and flowers. The sky was of the softest 
 blue, and a southern wind fanned my 
 cheek, reminding me of my fatherland. 
 It awoke the wish to live. I could not 
 now bear the idea of dying, either by 
 violence or by poison, the effects of 
 which had already, in spite of antidotes, 
 begun to tell upon my health. I felt 
 incapable of forming plans, but to get 
 away to escape became now my 
 most intense desire. At nights I was 
 afraid of assassins. Every sound 
 every step made me tremble. 
 
 "A day or two later, Madame de 
 Konigsmark came to me in great alarm. 
 One of the prince's favourites had been 
 seen in .the palace, conversing with the 
 servants and making inquiries, which 
 M. de Sasse had overheard. Rumours 
 were afloat, she told me, that I had 
 been killed by my husband, and my 
 attendants, it was supposed, would un- 
 dergo an examination. 
 
 '"Princess, you must go this very 
 
96 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 night,' she 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 per- 
 fectly safe from discovery. I have se- 
 cured 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 own property you must 
 take with you. M. de Sasse will pass 
 for your father ; and if Mademoiselle 
 Rosenkrantz should decline to leave 
 Europe, you can easily procure in 
 France another attendant. There is 
 not a moment to lose. Your own life, 
 and the lives 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 discov- 
 ers you are alive, I cannot answer for 
 your life or for mine. Do you think 
 I should urge you to forego your posi- 
 tion if there were any other way of sav- 
 ing you ? ' 
 
 "It was not difficult to persuade 
 me; I had not strength to resist. In 
 the middle of the night we descended 
 the narrow staircase, and found a car- 
 riage waiting for us. I moved like a 
 person in a dream. Madame de Ko- 
 nigsmark was by my side. I do not re- 
 member having any distinct thoughts 
 during that journey, or any feeling but 
 that of a hunted animal pining to es- 
 cape. When we came near to the coast, 
 and I felt on my cheek the peculiar 
 freshness of the sea air, it revived me a 
 little ; but when, by the light 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 
 parting embrace. I did not shed a 
 tear. It seemed as if every thing 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 
 servant, then my only protector 
 watched me all that day and the fol- 
 lowing night. I believe 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 life been ! " 
 
 " I can see it now ; but at the time 
 all was darkness. From Hamburgh, 
 where we landed, we went to Paris, 
 and soon afterwards to Havre de Grace, 
 where we embarked, as I have told you 
 before, in a vessel with eight hundred 
 German emigrants on board. I was 
 impatient to get away from France, 
 always fancying myself pursued by the 
 Prince's emissaries. Even at New Or- 
 eans I was in a constant fear of being 
 recognized, and insisted on leaving it as 
 soon as possible. We only stayed till 
 M. de Sasse could dispose of my dia- 
 monds, and had placed the money at a 
 Danker's. Here I thought I should be 
 out of the reach of travellers. You 
 can imagine what I suffered the day 
 ;hose strangers came. I could not re- 
 sist the wish to hear something about 
 Russia and my poor little son. Alex- 
 ander Levacheff recognized me. I saw 
 lim in private, and exacted from him 
 an oath of secrecy. And now I have 
 only a very few more words to say. 
 Some persons in our position, M. d'Au- 
 an, might feel when about to part, 
 It would be better that they had 
 never met.' But I can, and from the 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 depths of my heart I do say : ' It has 
 been well for me that I have met you, 
 known you, trusted you ' " 
 
 She broke down, and could not finish 
 the sentence. 
 
 He was going to answer, but she 
 stopped him and said, with some ex- 
 citement : 
 
 " But you what good have I done 
 you? I have saddened your life by 
 the sight of my grief, long wounded 
 you by my silence, and now I leave 
 you, less able perhaps 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 in- 
 audible 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 drift- 
 ing like a rudderless bark on a dark 
 sea. The Bible says, that man is blest 
 who could have done evil and did not 
 do it. I might well apply to you those 
 other words of Scripture : * Thou art 
 that man.' May He who knows all re- 
 ward you ! " 
 
 No other words passed between them. 
 He took her hand, silently kissed it, and 
 withdrew. The shades of evening had 
 gradually fallen, and the moon was 
 shining on the long thick grass of the 
 lawn. As he looked upon the beauti- 
 ful glade and the silvered 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 
 ho was listening to her he had hardly 
 realized what it would be to live and 
 to work on alone in that spot where for 
 two years she had been his constant 
 7 
 
 companion and the principal object of 
 his life. 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. Overpow- 
 ered 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. 
 
 " What do you want ?" he exclaimed, 
 starting to his feet. 
 
 " I have something to say to you. I 
 want you to promise not to let my mis- 
 tress" (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?" 
 
 "Nothing, 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 can- 
 not 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 me so ? " exclaimed d'Auban, pale 
 with anger. "I have had patience 
 with you long. I have shown great 
 
98 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 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 agitated. 
 
 " Wait wait ! " cried Simonette, in 
 a tone of anguish, and clasping her 
 hands together. He did not turn back. 
 She gazed after him -for a moment. 
 "Not 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 story, and not taken meas- 
 ures to secure her secrecy. He felt his 
 anger had made him 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. Mad- 
 ame de Moldau and the servants sup- 
 posed she had gone to the village. He 
 went there at once, but she had not 
 been seen. He told Therese 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 communi- 
 cated 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 gone to New Orleans to denounce 
 her mistress as the possessor of stolen 
 jewels. 
 
 " She has often spoken to me of her 
 scruples 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 
 the 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 Russia, and not the 
 preceding facts enough to confirm her 
 suspicions, not enough to enlighten her. 
 Would I had stopped and questioned 
 her ! The doubt is most harassing. 
 But she cannot 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 
 overtake 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 Or- 
 leans mentioned that orders had been 
 sent out by the French Government to 
 make inquiries in the colony as to the 
 sale of .jewels supposed to belong to 
 the Imperial family of Russia, and to 
 arrest any persons supposed to be in 
 possession of them. If suspicions pre- 
 viously existing were to be renewed by 
 Simonette's 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'Auban 
 was compelled to wish for it also. In 
 the mean time he tried to re-assure Mad- 
 ame de Moldau about Simonette's dis- 
 appearance by stating she had hinted 
 to him the day before that she had 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 99 
 
 some such intention. Though with 
 little hope of success, he despatched 
 men in various directions, and one in a 
 boat for some miles down the river, to 
 search for her. At night-fall they re- 
 turned, 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 disappeared, which 
 seemed to confirm the supposition that 
 she had gone to New Orleans. D'Au- 
 ban suffered intensely, from a two-fold 
 anxiety. He reproached himself for 
 the harsh way in which he had spoken 
 to Simonette, and sometimes a terrible 
 fear shot across his mind. Was it pos- 
 sible that she had destroyed herself! 
 He could not but call to mind the wild- 
 ness of her look and manner. He knew 
 how ungovernable were her feelings, 
 and how she brooded on an unkind 
 word from any one she loved. The 
 blood ran coldly in his veins as he re- 
 membered 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 she had to 
 perform would require all her strength. 
 Had she gone out into the dark night 
 driven away by his unkindness, and 
 rushed into eternity with a mortal sin 
 on her soul the child whom he had 
 instructed and baptized, and who had 
 loved him so much and been so patient 
 with him, though with others so fiery ! 
 The bare surmise of such a possibility 
 made him shudder, especially if at night 
 he caught sight of something white 
 floating on the river a cluster of lotus 
 flowers, or a branch of cherry blossoms, 
 which at a distance looked like a wo- 
 man's dress. But by far the most prob- 
 able supposition was, that she had gone 
 
 to denounce her mistress; and this 
 caused him 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 had had more patience and more 
 indulgence it might have been prevent- 
 ed. Day after day went by and brought 
 no tidings of the missing girl, nor of 
 the expected travellers. Heavy rains 
 set in, and even letters and newspapers 
 did not reach St. Agathe and its neigh- 
 bourhood. This forced inactivity was 
 especially trying 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 free- 
 dom in the intercourse between d'Au- 
 ban 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 say- 
 ing what was passing in their minds. 
 She was quite a prisoner in the pavilion. 
 During those long weeks of incessant 
 down-pouring rain, Simonette's absence 
 obliged her to wait on herself, and 
 she set herself with more resolution 
 than heretofore to attend to household 
 affairs, and to 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 disclosures 
 bringing about some untoward event. 
 Week followed week, and nothing in- 
 terrupted 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. 
 
100 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 All was ended now ; the joy, and the fear, and the sorrow ; 
 All the aching of heart, the restless unsatisfied longing ; 
 All the dull deep pain and constant anguish of patience. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 As are our hearts, our way is one, 
 And cannot be divided. Strong affection 
 Contends with all things, and o'ercometh all things. 
 Will I not live with thee ? Will I not cheer thee ? 
 Wouldst thou be lonely then ? Wouldst thou be sad ? 
 
 Joanna JSaillie. 
 
 AT last, one morning, the rain ceas- 
 ed ; the heavy clouds rolled away tow- 
 ards the West, and hung in heavy 
 masses over the distant hills ; the birds 
 began to sing ; the hares and rabbits 
 emerged from their holes, and ran once 
 more over the greensward. The buffa- 
 loes came trooping down from the 
 mountains to the prairies, and a hoary 
 bison swam across the river, and looked 
 out upon the world from one of the 
 flowery islands on its bosom, like a con- 
 queror taking possession of a kingdom. 
 A burst of glorious sunshine gladdened 
 the expanse of wood and water around 
 St. Agathe, and the herbage and the 
 flowers, and living things without 
 number, seemed to exult in its light. 
 The brightness of that first fine morn- 
 ing, after weeks of incessant rain, was 
 like the first return of joy to a heart 
 long oppressed by grief. It felt almost 
 like a presage of approaching change 
 in the lives of its inhabitants. It was 
 a Sunday morning, too, and d'Auban, 
 who heard that Madame de Moldau 
 had been longing to get to church, 
 brought his horse ready saddled for 
 her to the door of the pavilion, and 
 prepared to conduct her in this way 
 to the village. She consented; he 
 took the bridle in his hand, and the 
 Indian servant and the Negro boy fol- 
 lowed them on foot. They crossed the 
 wood between them and the river, which 
 
 was sometimes traversed in a boat and 
 sometimes by means of a series of small 
 islets forming a kind of natural bridge, 
 the spaces between being filled up with 
 a network of floating verdure. Their 
 progress was slow, for the ground, sat- 
 urated with wet, was in some places 
 almost impassable. D'Auban kept a 
 little in advance of the horse, and tried 
 at each step the firmness of their foot- 
 ing. The dripping branches over their 
 heads rained upon them as they went 
 along. But the scents were delicious, 
 and the air very reviving to those who 
 had been long confined within the 
 house. For the first time for many 
 weeks Madame de Moldau was in good 
 spirits : she murmured the first words 
 of the service of the Mass "I shall go 
 to the altar of God, of God who renews 
 my youth," and a sort of youthful hap- 
 piness beamed in her face; she made 
 nosegays of the wild flowers which her 
 attendants plucked for her, from the 
 banks and from the boughs through 
 which they threaded their way. But 
 the flowers were not to adorn the altar, 
 nor the little party, on its way to the 
 church, to hear Mass that day. The 
 sound of the gong, which served as a 
 bell, came booming over the water, but 
 its summons was to sound in vain for 
 them ; they were about to be stopped 
 on their road. 
 D'Auban was just examining whether 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 101 
 
 it would be possible to cross the river 
 on the island bridge, or to get the boat, 
 when a cry reached their ears a low, 
 feeble, and yet piercing cry. 
 
 " Did you hear ? " they all exclaimed 
 at the same time. The boy shuddered, 
 and said it was one of the water-spirits 
 that had cried out. The Indian shaded 
 her eyes with her hand, and with the 
 long-sightedness common amongst her 
 race, discerned a speck in the distance, 
 which she declared was a boat. 
 
 "But it is a phantom boat!" she 
 added. " There is no one in it, and it 
 is coming towards us very slowly ; but 
 it advances, and against the* stream." 
 Madame de Moldau turned pale. She 
 was prone to believe in the marvellous, 
 and easily credited stories of ghosts and 
 apparitions. They all gazed curiously, 
 and then anxiously, at the little boat as 
 it approached. 
 
 " There is somebody in it, after all ! " 
 the Indian exclaimed. 
 
 "Of course there is," said d'Auban, 
 with a smile ; " but it is a child, I think ; 
 a small creature, quite alone." 
 
 "It is Simonette," cried the Indian. 
 "Good God! I believe it is." There 
 was an instant of breathless silence; 
 the eyes of all were fixed on the little 
 boat. It ceased to advance. The oars, 
 which could now be seen, fell with a 
 splash into the water, and the figure of 
 the rower disappeared. 
 
 "She has fainted!" cried d'Auban, 
 dreadfully agitated ; thought upon 
 thought, conjecture on conjecture, 
 crossing his mind with lightning rapid- 
 ity. He hastily assisted Madame de 
 Moldau to dismount, made her sit 
 down on a fallen tree, gave his horse 
 in charge to the boy, and then spring- 
 ing from one islet to another, and lastly 
 swimming to the one against which the 
 boat had drifted, he saw the lifeless 
 form of the young girl lying at the 
 bottom of it. There was not a shadow 
 of colour in her face ; her hands were 
 
 transparently thin, and sadly bruised 
 within by the pressure of the oars ; a 
 dark rim under her eyes indicated star- 
 vation. If not dead, she was appar- 
 ently dying. D'Auban's chest heaved, 
 and a mist rose before his eyes. It was 
 dreadful thus to see the creature whom 
 he had known from a child, so full of 
 life and spirits, to think of her dying 
 without telling where she had been, 
 what she had done, without hearing 
 words of pardon, blessing, and peace. 
 He raised her in his arms, chafed her 
 hands, and tried to force into her 
 mouth some drops of brandy from his 
 flask. After a while she languidly 
 opened her eyes, and when she saw 
 him, a faint smile for an instant light- 
 ed up her face. She pointed to her 
 breast, but the gleam of consciousness 
 soon passed away, and she fell back 
 again in a swoon. 
 
 He hesitated a moment. Then quietly 
 laying her down again, with her head 
 supported by a plank, he seized the 
 oars, and vigorously pulled towards the 
 spot where Madame de Moldau and 
 the servants were waiting. After a 
 rapid consultation, it was determined 
 that he should row her and the dying 
 girl to the opposite shore, and then 
 return to convey the horse across. The 
 two servants in the mean time contrived 
 to cross the islet bridge. When they 
 met on the other side, the boy was sent 
 to the village to fetch assistance, in 
 order that Simonette might be con- 
 veyed to Therese's hut, the nearest 
 resting-place at hand, and to beg 
 Father Maret to come to them as soon 
 as possible. Madame de Moldau had 
 thrown her cloak on some moss less sat- 
 urated with wet than the long grass, and 
 sitting down upon it, received in her 
 arms the light form which d'Auban 
 carefully lifted out of the boat. She 
 pressed the wasted limbs against her 
 bosom, striving thus to restore warmth 
 to them. She breathed through the 
 
102 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 cold lips, whilst he chafed the icy feet. 
 t They scarcely spoke at all during these 
 moments of anxious watching. Mad- 
 ame de Moldau's tears fell on the poor 
 girl's brow and cheeks. He gazed 
 upon her with the most mournful feel- 
 ings. Their thoughts were doubtless 
 the same. They wondered where she 
 had been. They prayed she might not 
 die before the priest came. ' 
 
 After swallowing some more brandy, 
 which they had poured down her 
 throat, she revived again a little. 
 D'Auban forced into her mouth some 
 crumbs from a piece of bread he had 
 in his pocket, and in an authoritative 
 manner bade her eat them. She opened 
 her eyes, which looked unnaturally 
 large, and obeyed. After two or three 
 ineffectual attempts at speaking, she 
 succeeded in saying, as she pointed 
 again to her breast, " Here, here, in my 
 dress." To quiet her he nodded assent, 
 and said he understood; upon which 
 she closed her eyes again. He went on 
 putting in her mouth a crumb of bread 
 at a time. 
 
 In the mean time four men from the 
 village were bringing a sort of rude 
 litter, made of planks and moss ; and 
 Father Maret accompanied them. The 
 boy had arrived at the church just as 
 he was finishing Mass. 
 
 " She has revived a little," whis- 
 pered d'Auban, "but is scarcely con- 
 scious. Feel her pulse. Will you try 
 and speak to her now, or can we venture 
 to carry her at once to Therese's hut ? " 
 
 " I think you may," said the priest, 
 counting the beats of her feeble pulse ; 
 " I fear she will not recover, but there 
 is still some strength in the poor child. 
 She will be much more conscious, I ex- 
 pect, in a little while than she is now." 
 He drew his hand across his eyes, and 
 sighed deeply. " If you please, I will 
 ride your horse by the side of the litter, 
 and watch her closely. Wait, however, 
 for one instant." Before Simonette 
 
 was lifted from Madame de Moldau's 
 knees he bent down and whispered: 
 " My child, are you truly sorry for all 
 your sins against the good God who 
 loves you so much ? " 
 
 She opened her eyes, and answered 
 distinctly, " Yes, Father, very sorry." 
 
 "Then I will give you absolution, 
 my child," he said, and pronounced 
 the words which have spoken peace to 
 so many contrite hearts since the day 
 that our Lord said, " Whose sins you 
 shall forgive they are forgiven. Lo, I 
 am with you always to the end of the 
 world." 
 
 After sjie was laid on the couch of 
 moss, covered with skins, which was 
 Therese's bed, Simonette fell fast asleep 
 for two or three hours. When she 
 awoke she eagerly asked for d'Auban 
 and Madame de Moldau. 
 
 " Will you not first see the chief of 
 prayer ? " said Therese, who feared she 
 would exhaust all her strength in 
 speaking to them. 
 
 " No ! I must see them first ; but I 
 wish the Father to come in also." 
 
 In a few moments Madame de Mol- 
 dau was sitting on one side of her, and 
 Father Maret on the other side of the 
 couch. D'Auban was standing at its 
 foot, more deeply affected than any 
 one would have thought from the stern 
 composure of his countenance. It was 
 by a strong effort he repressed the ex- 
 pression of feelings which were wring- 
 ing his heart, for it was one of the ten- 
 derest that ever beat in a man's breast. 
 
 Simonette looked at him fixedly for 
 a moment, then tried to undo the 
 fastenings of her dress. She was too 
 weak, and made a sign to Madame de 
 Moldau to do it for her. Then she 
 drew from her bosom a newspaper and 
 a letter. The former was a number of 
 the " Gazette de France," and an arti- 
 cle in it was marked with black ink. 
 She put her finger upon it, and beck- 
 oned d'Auban to come nearer. "It 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 103 
 
 was for this I went," she murmured. 
 " That is why I wanted her to stay." 
 
 D'Auban took the paper, and moved 
 away a little. She watched him with 
 an eagerness which brought a faint 
 colour into her cheek. He, on the 
 contrary, turned as white as a sheet, as 
 his eyes glanced over the passage in 
 the Gazette and then at the letter she 
 had brought. He came round to the 
 side of the bed, and whispered to Mad- 
 ame de Moldau, "Will you give up 
 your seat to me for a moment ? " She 
 looked surprised, but immediately rose, 
 and went out of the hut with Therese. 
 
 D'Auban handed the newspaper and 
 the letter to Father Maret, and then 
 bending down his head and taking 
 Simonette's cold hand in his "My 
 poor child," he said, with a faltering 
 voice, "you have killed yourself, I 
 fear 1 " 
 
 "But you will be happy," she an- 
 swered, and a large tear rolled down 
 her cheek. 
 
 "No! No! I shall always reproach 
 myself always feel as if I had caused 
 your death." 
 
 "But you must not do so, because I 
 am very glad to die, and always wished 
 to die for you ; " and turning to the 
 priest, she said, " Father 1 did not our 
 Lord say that no greater love could a 
 man have than to lay down his life for 
 a friend ? " 
 
 "God may hear our prayers; you 
 may yet live," d'Auban cried. 
 
 " Do not agitate her," Father Maret 
 said; "let her tell you quietly what 
 she wishes, and then leave her to turn 
 all her thoughts to the next world." 
 
 The dying girl raised herself up a 
 little, and uttered at different intervals 
 the following sentences : " I had re- 
 solved to denounce her, because I 
 thought she was wicked, and I was 
 afraid you would marry her . . . But I 
 heard her tell you her story . . . and 
 I saw how much you loved her . . . 
 
 and that she loved you. Hans had told 
 me the night before that he thought 
 the great emperor's son was dead. But 
 he was not certain of it. ... I was 
 going the next day ... to New Or- 
 leans to accuse her ... I went, but it 
 was to find out if she might stay . . . 
 if you could marry her ... and be 
 happy. . . ." 
 
 " Oh 1 Simonette, my dear, dear child, 
 it breaks my heart." . . Father Maret 
 made an authoritative sign to him to 
 command his feelings, and she went on 
 in the same faltering voice : 
 
 " I found it was true, and they gave 
 me that newspaper, and M. Perrier 
 wrote for me that letter, that you 
 might be quite sure it was true." At 
 that moment the poor girl, with the 
 quick perception which even then she 
 had not lost, saw a shade of anxiety in 
 his face. " He did not know why I 
 asked for it," she added; "I did not 
 tell him any thing." She paused, and 
 then her mind seemed to wander a lit- 
 tle. She began again : " I went very 
 quickly down the river, but I was very 
 long coming back . . . like what you 
 once said about sinning and repenting, 
 Father. . . . But I did not repent of 
 having gone ... I prayed all the day 
 . . . prayed so hard . . . and rowed 
 very hard. But not so hard at last. I 
 had nothing to eat. ... It was much 
 longer than I thought from the last 
 settlement. I ate grapes as I went 
 along, but the rain had spoiled them 
 . . . and I went so slowly ... so 
 slowly at last . . . and then when I 
 could not row any more, I screamed." 
 . . . "Oh! that scream," murmured 
 d'Auban ; " I shall remember it to my 
 dying day ! " "I have only one thing 
 more to say ; I had always wished to 
 die for you. Nothing, nothing else. If 
 I have loved you too much, I hope 
 God will forgive me." 
 
 " He will, my child," said the priest. 
 " If now you turn to Him with all your 
 
104 
 
 TOO. STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 heart ; and oh ! my child, if a human 
 being has been so kind to you, and 
 saved you from so many evils, as I 
 know you think this good man has 
 done ; if he, God's creature, has done 
 so much for you; think of what His 
 goodness must be, of which all human 
 goodness is but a faint reflection." 
 
 Simonette raised her eyes to heaven 
 her lips silently moved a smile of 
 greater sweetness than any that had 
 ever lighted up her face before passed 
 over it, and then she said in a low voice : 
 " Father ! during those long weary days, 
 and the dark solitary nights, on the 
 river, God was very good to me, and 
 made me love Him more than any one 
 on earth. I am very glad to go to 
 Him. . . . God of my heart, and my 
 portion for ever!" She pressed the 
 crucifix to her breast, and remained 
 silent. 
 
 Father Maret made a sign to d'Auban 
 to withdraw. In a little while he called 
 him back, and Madame de Moldau and 
 Therese and the servants knelt with 
 him round the bed. The last sacra- 
 ments were administered, and they all 
 joined in the prayers for the dying. 
 When Father Maret uttered the words 
 " Go forth Christian soul ! " a faint 
 struggle was visible in the pallid face 
 a faint sigh was breathed, and then the 
 heart that had throbbed so wildly ceased 
 to beat. " Requiescat in pace ! " said 
 the priest, and d'Auban hid his face in 
 the bed of moss, and wept like a child 
 by the corpse of the poor girl who had 
 loved him " not wisely, but too well." 
 
 There was something shrinking and 
 sensitive in Madame de Moldau's dis- 
 position, which made her peculiarly 
 susceptible of painful impressions. It 
 is a mistake to suppose that those who 
 are harshly and unjustly treated, always 
 or even generally, become callous to 
 such treatment ; that after having met 
 with cruelty they are not sensible of 
 slight unkindnesses. This is so far 
 
 from being the case, that with regard 
 to children who for years have had 
 blows and curses for their daily portion, 
 it is observed that tenderness and gen- 
 tleness are peculiarly needed, in order 
 to avoid checking the gradual return 
 to confidence, and the expanding of 
 affection in their young hearts. The 
 new joy of being loved is easily extin- 
 guished. They are so fearful of losing 
 it, that a cold look or word from one 
 who for the first time in their lives. has 
 fondled and caressed them, seems to 
 wound them quite in a different manner 
 from those on whom the sunshine of 
 affection has beamed from their earliest 
 infancy. The heart, when sore with a 
 heavy affliction, winces at every touch, 
 and when, on the contrary, great hap- 
 piness fills it, the least casual pleasure 
 is sensibly felt. The slow admittance 
 of pleasurable feelings in the case of 
 those who grind amidst the stern neces- 
 sities and iron facts of life, is one of the 
 most affecting things noticed in dealing 
 with the poor. It is akin to that grati- 
 tude of theirs which Wordsworth said 
 " so often left him grieving." 
 
 Madame de Moldau had experienced 
 a slight feeling, not of annoyance or 
 displeasure, but simply of depression, 
 at 'the manner in which d'Auban ap- 
 peared to have lost all thought of her 
 during the whole time of poor Simpn- 
 ette's dying hours. This was selfish, 
 heartless some people would say ; and 
 there is no doubt that any engrossing 
 affection, if it is not carefully watched, 
 is apt to make us selfish and unfeeling. 
 Conscience, reason and prayer, banish 
 these bad first thoughts more or less 
 speedily in those under the influence 
 of a higher principle ; but the emotion 
 which precedes reflection often marks 
 the danger attending a too passionate 
 attachment ; and when it is one which 
 ought to be subdued and renounced 
 which has not the least right to look 
 for a return or to expect consideration 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 105 
 
 sharp is the pang caused by any 
 symptoms of neglect or indifference. 
 Madame de Moldau did not know the 
 bitter self-reproach which was affecting 
 d'Auban's heart; she did not know 
 that Simonette had lovingly thrown 
 away her life for the sake of bringing 
 him tidings which would change the 
 whole aspect of his destiny and of her 
 own. But she saw him hanging over 
 her death-bed with irrepressible emo- 
 tion, his eyes full of tears his soul 
 moved to its very depths. It did so 
 happen, that when he rose from the 
 side of the dead, he had abruptly left 
 the hut, as if unable to command him- 
 self. He did feel at that moment as if 
 he could not look at her. The new 
 hope which had come to him was so 
 mingled with thoughts of the closing 
 scene, and of the sacrifice of Simonette's 
 young life, that it seemed unnatural 
 almost painful to dwell upon it, and 
 so he passed by her without speaking 
 to her, and went straight into the 
 church. 
 
 Meanwhile she suffered intensely. 
 True, she had made up her mind to 
 separate from him, to accept a lonely 
 existence in a distant country, even 
 perhaps never to set eyes upon him 
 again ; but to think he had not really 
 cared for her cared perhaps for another 
 person under her roof the thought 
 stabbed her to the heart, even as if no 
 unreal weapon had inflicted the wound. 
 Her brow flushed with a woman's re- 
 sentment. The pride of a royal line 
 the German ancestral pride latent within 
 her, burst forth in that hour with a 
 vehemence which took her by surprise. 
 Had Charlotte of Brunswick, the wife 
 of the Czarevitch, the daughter of 
 princes, the sister of queens and kings, 
 been made the object of a momentary 
 caprice ? Had she tacitly owned affec- 
 tion for a man who had lovefl a base- 
 born Quadroon ? The fear was mad- 
 dening ? 
 
 Yes! madness lies that way. An 
 injury received a wrong suffered at 
 the hands of one loved and trusted, 
 may well unsettle reason on its throne 
 the mere suspicion of it makes strange 
 havoc in the brain, when we rest on 
 the wretched pinnacle we raise for our- 
 selvesthe false Gods of our worship. 
 There is but one remedy for that parch- 
 ing fever of the soul. To bow down 
 lower than men would thrust us. To 
 fall down at His feet who knelt at the 
 feet of Peter and even of Judas who 
 would have knelt at our feet had we 
 been there. This is the thought that 
 leaves no room for pride, scarcely for 
 indignation, as far as we are ourselves 
 concerned. It had been often set be- 
 fore Madame de Moldau, and its re- 
 membrance soon caused a reaction in 
 her feelings. What was she, poor worm 
 of earth, that she should resent neglect ? 
 What had she done to deserve affec- 
 tion ? How should she dare to suspect 
 the sincerity of so true a heart so noble 
 a character ? And if, as she had some- 
 times thought, that poor girl loved him, 
 had she not a better right to do so than 
 herself, a wedded wife, who ought 
 never to have admitted this affection 
 into her heart ? And did not her un- 
 timely death claim from him a more 
 than common pity? The cold dull 
 hardness in her bosom gave way to ten- 
 derness. The sweetness of humiliation, 
 the joy of the true penitent, took its 
 place. She went into the chamber of 
 death, and remained there till Father 
 Maret came to request her to follow 
 him to his house. 
 
 D'Auban was there. He went up to 
 her as she entered, and seemed about 
 to speak, but, as if unable to do so, he 
 whispered to the Father: "I cannot 
 break itto her; tell her yourself." Then, 
 holding her hand in both his, he said, 
 with much feeling "Princess! thus 
 much let me say before I go ; whatever 
 may be your wishes or your commands, 
 
100 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 my time, my actions, and my life, are 
 at your disposal." 
 
 She looked up in astonishment, and 
 when he had left the room turned to 
 Father Maret, and asked, " What does 
 he mean ? What has happened ? " 
 
 " He alludes, Princess, to a great 
 event, the news of which has just reached 
 us ; one that touches you nearly." He 
 paused a minute, and then quietly added, 
 "The Czarovitch is dead." She did 
 not start, or faint, or weep. For several 
 minutes she sate still, not knowing 
 what was the kind of feeling which 
 tightened her heart, oppressed her brain, 
 and kept her silent and motionless as a 
 statue. 
 
 " Dead ! " she slowly repeated. " How 
 did he die?" 
 
 " It is a mournful story," the Father 
 answered. " The Prince came back to 
 Russia, as you know, on a promise of 
 pardon; but fresh accusations were 
 brought against him since his return. 
 He was tried, and found guilty." 
 
 " Oh ! do not tell me that his father 
 put him to death." 
 
 " The account given in this paper 
 from Russian sources is, that his sen- 
 tence was read to him, and that the 
 shock proved fatal to a constitution 
 weakened by excesses. It says he fell 
 ill, and never rallied again. It also 
 mentions that he received the last sacra- 
 ments before the whole court ; that he 
 requested to see his father before his 
 death, and that they embraced with 
 many tears. The French editor, how- 
 ever, throws great doubts on the cor- 
 rectness of this statement, and hints at 
 the prince having been poisoned by his 
 father." 
 
 " Oh ! surely this must be false. I 
 cannot, cannot believe it. ... Is it not 
 too horrible to be true ? And yet, after 
 what I have seen. . . . Oh ! why did I 
 ever belong to them? Why was my 
 late cast with theirs ? " 
 
 " You are not obliged ; you had bet- 
 
 ter not, Princess, form a judgment on 
 these conflicting statements. Leave 
 the doubtful, the dreadful past in God's 
 hands. Think of it only when you 
 pray, that your husband's soul may 
 find mercy, and that this terrible 
 event may have changed his father's 
 heart. 
 
 " He may have repented, poor Prince ! 
 He had some kind of faith, and he loved 
 his mother. If he had had a wife who 
 had prayed for him then. ... Oh ! my 
 God, forgive me." She sank down on 
 her knees then suddenly lifting up her 
 head, she asked, " How did this news 
 come ? Is it certainly true ? " 
 
 " Perfectly certain the poor girl who 
 brought the newspaper from New Or- 
 leans also brought a letter from M. Per- 
 rier to M. d'Auban, which places the 
 matter beyond all doubt. Will you 
 read it, Princess ? " " Read it to me," 
 she answered, her eyes filling with tears. 
 " I cannot see." Father Maret read as 
 follows : 
 
 "My DEAK M. D'AUBAN, 
 
 " A young woman, who says she is 
 your servant, has made a very earnest 
 request that I should state to you in 
 writing that the news contained in the 
 last number of the ' Gazette de France,' 
 relative to the death of the Czarovitch 
 of Russia, is perfectly authentic. It is 
 most undoubtedly so; notice of this 
 Prince's demise has been received at 
 the Court of France, and their Majesties 
 have gone into mourning. I do not 
 know on what account, nor would your 
 servant tell me why, this intelligence is 
 important to you. I conjecture that it 
 may have some connection with a rob- 
 bery of jewels belonging to the late 
 Prince's wife, which are said to have 
 been sold in the colony. If any infor- 
 mation on that subject should come to 
 your notice, I should feel obliged to you 
 to let me know of it. But I am inclined 
 to believe it an idle story. Wishing 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 107 
 
 you every happiness, I remain, my dear 
 M. d'Auban, 
 
 " Your attached and obedient ser- 
 vant, PERKIER." 
 
 "Poor Simonette!" exclaimed Mad- 
 ame de Moldau. " These are then the 
 papers she gave M. d'Auban. This was 
 what she was pointing to when she 
 touched her breast, whilst lying half 
 unconscious on my knees. But what, 
 reverend father, do you suppose was 
 exactly her object ? " 
 
 Madame de Moldau blushed deeply 
 as she put this question, and as Father 
 Maret hesitated a little before answering 
 it, she said : " Had she, as M. d'Auban 
 thought, overheard our conversation on 
 the night before she went away ? Do 
 you think she knew who I am ? " 
 
 "No doubt that she did, Princess. 
 She told us that she had intended to 
 go to New Orleans to accuse you of 
 possessing stolen jewels, but that having 
 discovered who you are, she went, but 
 with a different purpose. She wished 
 to find out if you were free, thinking, I 
 suppose, that this knowledge might 
 greatly influence yours and M. d'Au- 
 ban's fate." 
 
 "Poor girl, poor Simonette, it was 
 for his sake, then ; but I do not see, I 
 do not know, that it can make any dif- 
 ference I thought she had left 
 
 me in anger. Thank God, I did not 
 resent it; but how little did I think 
 .... Good heavens, if it was for him, 
 Father; fot his sake, she did this; 
 what a wonderful instance of devoted 
 disinterested affection ! How mean, 
 how selfish my own feelings seem to 
 me, when I think of her. Even now I 
 cannot help thinking of myself, of the 
 change in my fate, what it might lead 
 to, what it might involve .... There 
 are so many obstacles besides the one 
 now so suddenly, so terribly removed. 
 . . . Poor girl, it would be sad if she 
 had sacrificed herself in vain. My mind 
 
 is so confused, I scarcely know what I 
 think or say." 
 
 " And you should not try to think, 
 or to resolve, whilst you are BO much 
 agitated. The Bible says, 'Do not 
 make haste in time of clouds.' " 
 
 "But I do not feel as if I should 
 ever be calm again, and I hate myself 
 for thinking of any thing to-day but 
 the death of that poor prince he 
 hated me, but he was the father of my 
 child. My child ! my poor forsaken 
 child. I should never have left him. 
 I did not know what I was doing. O ! 
 reverend father, was it not unnatural, 
 horrible, in a mother to leave her 
 child !...." 
 
 " You were, in a certain sense, com- 
 pelled to do so, Princess. Your life 
 was threatened, and it is very prob- 
 able that by your flight you saved your 
 husband from the commission of a 
 crime." 
 
 " True ; God bless you for those 
 words for reminding me of that." 
 She was silent for a moment, and then 
 said, in an excited manner : " I cannot 
 see or speak to M. d'Auban for some 
 days. I must be alone. I want to see 
 no one but you and Therese. I don't 
 want to go back to St. Agathe just now." 
 
 " You would, I think, find it a com- 
 fort to remain here with Therese, and 
 near the church. M. d'Auban intends, 
 immediately after the funeral, to go 
 and meet Simon, who must be by this 
 time on his way back from the Arkan- 
 sas. He wishes to tell him himself of 
 his daughter's death." 
 
 " Simonette dead ! " murmured Mad- 
 ame de Moldau ; " dead 1 a creature so 
 full of life and spirits lying dead in 
 that next hut 1 all over for her, save 
 the great realities of another world. 
 She ought not to have died in vain. 
 How passionately she must have wished 
 him to be happy 1 but perhaps I ought 
 still to go." 
 
 " Princess, that is a question you 
 
108 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 cannot decide in a moment. Time and 
 prayer must help you to it." 
 " And you, too, will help me ? " 
 " Certainly, as far as I can. I will 
 beg of our Lord to give you grace to 
 resolve aright. I feel very much for 
 you, my child." These words were 
 said most kindly, and went to the 
 poor lonely woman's heart, who, at 
 this turning-point in her life, had not a 
 friend or a relative to take counsel 
 with, and who dreaded perplexity be- 
 yond all other trials. There are na- 
 tures to whom it is the only intolera- 
 ble suffering ; that have a strong pas- 
 sive power of endurance under inevita- 
 ble evils, but to whom the responsibility 
 of a decision is perfect anguish. In 
 struggles between duty and inclination, 
 between conscience and temptation, the 
 lines are clearly denned, and each suc- 
 cessive effort is a pledge of victory. It 
 is like scaling a steep ascent in the free 
 air and broad sunshine. But where 
 conflicting duties, as well as conflicting 
 feelings, are in question, and the mind 
 cannot resolve between them, the de- 
 pressing effect on the mind is akin to 
 that of walking in a thick fog at night 
 amidst precipices. Under such circum- 
 stances, a child's impulse would be to 
 sit down and cry. There was some- 
 thing childlike in Madame de Mol- 
 dau's character, in spite of its latent 
 energy. It did her good to be pitied. 
 Father Maret's sympathy seemed to 
 loosen the tight cord which bound her 
 heart, and she sat down in Therese's 
 little garden, and after a good fit of 
 weeping, felt comforted and relieved. 
 
 Over and over again she read and 
 muse.d over the details of the Czaro- 
 vitch's death, which the French Ga- 
 zette contained. A deep compassion 
 filled her soul for the unhappy man 
 who had been her husband. Woman- 
 like, she resented his wrongs, and 
 shed tears over his fate. Whilst read- 
 ing the eloquent words with which 
 
 the bishops of the Greek church had 
 sought to obtain mercy from him at 
 his father's hands, she felt it had been 
 wrong to despise them as she had done 
 in former days, and that the Christian 
 faith,- however obscured, and a Chris- 
 tian church, however fallen, can speak 
 in nobler accents and find words of 
 greater power than cold unbelief can 
 ever utter. Her heart softened tow- 
 ards those Greek priests she had 
 once hated, and she said, " God bless 
 them for this thing which they have 
 done." 
 
 In one part of Therese's cabin that 
 night was reposing the lifeless form of 
 the girl who had just died, and divided 
 from it only by a thin partition rested 
 the woman in whose fate so great a 
 change had taken place. On each pale 
 face the moon was shedding its light. 
 Cold and motionless was the bosom of 
 the first, whilst that of the other was 
 heaving like a child's that has cried 
 itself to sleep. For the girl of seven- 
 teen all was over on earth. For the 
 widowed wife life was opening new 
 vistas; dream after dream filled her 
 brain with visions of grief and joy, in 
 wild confusion blent. Words akin to 
 those dreams fell from her lips 
 
 And as the swift thoughts crossed her soul, 
 
 Like visions in a cloud, 
 In the still chamber of the dead 
 
 The dreamer spake aloud. 
 
 Therese did not sleep. She was ac- 
 customed to long night watches, and 
 she knelt and prayed between the two 
 sleepers. She did not know the secrets 
 of those two destinies, but she said the 
 " De profundis " for the one, the " Me- 
 morare " for the other. " May she rest 
 in peace," for the dead ; " May she live 
 for God," for the living. 
 
 When the morning dawned, and the 
 rays of the rising sun began to light up 
 the silent hut, she laid down by Mad- 
 ame de Moldau, and took a few mo- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 109 
 
 ments' repose. Once she was roused 
 by hearing her murmur some words of 
 the Bible ^ they were these : " Am I not 
 better to thee than ten sons ? " 
 
 D'Auban had attended the service for 
 poor Simonette's burial. He had stood 
 on one side of the grave and Madame de 
 Moldau on the other. Their eyes had 
 not met whilst the solemn rites were 
 performed. It was only when the 
 crowd had dispersed for settlers and 
 natives had attended in great numbers 
 the funeral of Simon's daughter that 
 he came up to her where she was still 
 standing, in the cemetery, and placed 
 a letter in her hands. She took it in 
 silence, and held out her hand to him. 
 He kissed it, and withdrew to prepare 
 for his departure. His letter was as 
 follows : 
 
 "MADAME: I have a few words to 
 say, which I feel it easier to write than 
 to speak. Your fate is changed, and 
 so are my duties towards you. From 
 the moment I became acquainted with 
 your name and rank, that I knew you 
 to be a princess and a wife, I felt the 
 deepest regret that by my rashness and 
 presumption I had put it out of my 
 power to devote to you as a servant a 
 life which I would fain have spent in 
 your service ; that I had made it im- 
 possible for you to accept of the ser- 
 vices which, under other circumstances, 
 I might have been permitted to render 
 to one so infinitely above me in rank, 
 as well as in merit. Whilst you were 
 forced to hide your name, whilst the 
 unhappy prince, your husband, was 
 alive, I felt constrained to see you de- 
 part from hence alone and unprotected, 
 and dared not even offer to accompany 
 you to the place you had fixed upon 
 for your future residence. I will not 
 dwell upon what I suffered ; it was one 
 of those efforts at passive endurance 
 more trying than the most painful 
 exertions. 
 
 "Now, as I said before, a great 
 change has taken place in your posi- 
 tion, and I venture to lay at your feet 
 whatever God has given me of strength 
 and energy, to be spent, and if it please 
 Him, consumed in helping you to reas- 
 sume the position which belongs to 
 your Imperial Highness, both by birth 
 and marriage, and replacing you on 
 the steps of the throne which your son 
 is one day to occupy. I have no ties 
 or duties which bind me in an absolute 
 manner to any spot on earth. If you 
 will deign, Princess, to accept me as 
 your servant ; if you will allow me to 
 act by you as our poor friend would 
 have done had he yet been alive, I will 
 accompany you to Europe, and only 
 leave you the day when, amidst your 
 relatives, and the friends of your youth, 
 you will stand once more acknowledged 
 by them all as their lost princess. 
 
 " I implore you to trust me. I dare 
 not promise to forget the past, but I 
 can and do promise that no word shall 
 ever pass my lips unbecoming a servant. 
 I would not ask to live near you at 
 Court, and be your servant there ; but 
 whilst trials and difficulties beset you, 
 whilst you are friendless and alone, 
 grant me this favour. Let me be your 
 servant. I feel nearly as old as poor 
 M. de Chambelle. The last few months 
 have seemed to add many years to my 
 age. Let me be your guardian. I 
 could not brook a refusal. It would 
 wound me to the heart. I know there 
 will be many difficulties to overcome, 
 and a long time may elapse before your 
 identity is acknowledged, but that it 
 will be so at last I feel no doubt of; 
 and if it is granted to me to see you 
 happy I was going to say I could be 
 happy to part with you for ever, but I 
 cannot, dare not, write such an untruth. 
 I do not want to be happy myself; I 
 want to see you happy. That I can and 
 do say from the depths of my heart. 
 Forgive me, Princess, if this letter ends 
 
110 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 in a less formal manner than it began. 
 It need not make you distrust the prom- 
 ise I have made. I have not courage 
 to write it over again, so I send it just 
 as it is, with the most fervent blessings 
 and prayers that you may indeed be 
 happy, and that I may help you to be 
 so. 
 
 " Your Imperial Highness's 
 " Devoted servant, 
 " HENRI 
 
 This letter had been written the 
 night before it was given to Madame 
 de Moldau. Perhaps the tone of it 
 might have been a little different had 
 it been composed after the brief meet- 
 ing in the cemetery ; for as he looked 
 at her, as he kissed her hand, as he felt 
 its silent pressure, hope, in spite of 
 himself, sprung up in his heart and 
 made it bound. Princess as she was, 
 the woman he loved was now free. 
 Men's customs, their habits, perhaps 
 their laws, stood between him and her, 
 but not God's laws, not His command- 
 ments. The words she had once said 
 came back to his mind: "It is the 
 wedded wife, not the Imperial High- 
 ness, who rejected your love." And as 
 he gazed at the solitary beautiful land- 
 scape, at the boundless plain and far- 
 stretching forests on every side, he 
 thought how insignificant were the 
 thoughts of men in that solitude, how 
 impotent their judgments. If she 
 should choose to abandon altogether 
 the old world and accept a new destiny 
 in the land where their lot was now 
 cast, might they not now, with safe 
 consciences and pure hearts, be all in 
 all to each other ! But he had resolu- 
 tion enough to give her the letter he 
 had written under a stern sense of duty, 
 and not to add a word to diminish its 
 effect. He went on his way through 
 the forests and the deserts, and en- 
 countered the usual difficulties belong- 
 ing to such journeys. But bodily 
 
 exercise relieves activity of mind, and 
 he was glad to have something to direct 
 his thoughts from their too 'absorbing 
 preoccupation. Six days after his 
 departure he met Simon, and went 
 through the painful task of breaking 
 to him his daughter's death. The 
 bargeman was much afflicted by this 
 sudden blow, but he did not care quite 
 so much for his child since she had 
 ceased to be his companion and play- 
 thing. D'Auban gave him a sum of 
 money in recompense for Simonette's 
 services to Madame de Moldau, think- 
 ing at the same time how little money 
 could repay what the poor girl had 
 done for them. Simon was not indeed 
 consoled, but somewhat cheered, by 
 the sight of the gold; for the ruling 
 passion is strong in grief as well as in 
 death. Then d'Auban retraced his 
 steps, and stopped that night at the 
 little Mission of St. Louis. He reached 
 it just as the evening service was going 
 on. The scene was precisely similar to 
 the one so beautifully described in 
 Longfellow's poem : 
 
 Behind a spur of the mountains, 
 
 Just as the sun went down, was heard a 
 murmur of voices, 
 
 And in a meadow green and broad, by the 
 bank of a river, 
 
 Rose the tents of the Christians the tents 
 of the Jesuits' mission. 
 
 Under a towering oak, that stood in the 
 midst of the village, 
 
 Knelt the Black Robe chief with his children j 
 a crucifix, fastened 
 
 High on the trunk of the tree, and over- 
 shadowed by grape vines, 
 
 Looked with its agonized face on the multi- 
 tude kneeling beneath it. 
 
 This was their rural chapel aloft, through 
 the intricate arches 
 
 Of its aerial roof, arose the chant of their 
 vespers, 
 
 Mingling its notes with the soft susurrus and 
 sighs of its branches. 
 
 The traveller knelt down and joined 
 in the devotions of the Indian congrega- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Ill 
 
 tion, and after they were ended intro- 
 duced himself to the priest, who invited 
 him to spend the night in his hut. The 
 pleasure of seeing a Frenchman, and 
 conversing in his native language a 
 rare one in that locality, beamed in 
 the face of the good father. " I have 
 been very fortunate this week," he 
 said ; " for several months past I had 
 had no visitors, but on Tuesday quite 
 a large party of travellers, including 
 two European ladies, halted here on 
 their way to Montreal. "We had some 
 difficulty in putting them all up for 
 the night. I managed to accommodate 
 the two priests and one of the gentle- 
 men, the others slept in the school- 
 master's hut, and the two ladies in the 
 schoolroom. It was luckily fine weath- 
 er, and they were not very uncom- 
 fortable, and I had not had such a 
 treat for a long time. Three masses 
 were said the next morning in our poor 
 little chapel. It was the first time 
 such a thing had happened. And they 
 were all such kind and pleasant peo- 
 ple." 
 
 Little did the good father guess, as 
 he good-humou redly talked on in this 
 manner, what anguish he was causing 
 his guest, who, in a voice which any 
 one who had known him would have 
 thought strangely altered, inquired the 
 names of these travellers. 
 
 " Father Poisson and Father Roussel, 
 and M. and Madame Latour, and M. 
 Macon. I did not catch the name of 
 the other lady." 
 
 "Was she tall and fair?" 
 
 "Yes, I should say so tall, cer- 
 tainly." 
 
 " Young and pale ? " 
 
 " Rather pale, I think ; but about 
 ladies' ages I never know yes, I 
 suppose she was quite young. Are 
 you acquainted with them, my dear 
 sir?" 
 
 "I know some of them by name," 
 d'Auban answered, pushing away the 
 
 dish which had been set before him ; 
 he could not have swallowed a mor- 
 sel. There are circumstances which 
 heighten singularly the acutencss of 
 certain trials. He knew that he might 
 still have to part from Madame de 
 Moldau, though during the last few 
 days hope had been gradually gam- 
 ing ground in his mind; but he had 
 never anticipated that such a separation 
 would take place in an unexpected and 
 abrupt manner. That she should leave 
 St. Agathe during his absence, and 
 that he should thus lose the oppor- 
 tunity of speaking a few parting words 
 to her, was more than he could endure ; 
 it almost upset his fortitude. The 
 Father noticed his paleness and want 
 of appetite, and the way in which he 
 unconsciously pressed his hand against 
 his temples, as if to still their throbbing. 
 " I am sure you have a bad headache," 
 he kindly said; "come out into the 
 air and take a stroll it is a beautiful 
 night." 
 
 D'Auban accepted the proposal, for 
 the hut was very close. The fresh air 
 did him good. He took off his hat, 
 to let it blow on his forehead. He 
 tried to think that the second lady 
 of the party might not, after all, 
 be Madame de Moldau, though the 
 others were the people she was to 
 travel with; and only one lady had 
 been mentioned by Father Maret's cor- 
 respondent. 
 
 As they passed a small cluster of 
 cabins the priest pointed to one of 
 them, and said, " Ah ! there is the 
 bedroom of our ladies. They had to 
 sleep on mats with a bundle of moss 
 for a pillow." 
 
 The door was open. D'Auban stood 
 on the threshold, and gazing into it, 
 thought : " Did she indeed sleep in 
 this spot two days ago, worn out by 
 fatigue and sorrow, or did she lie 
 awake thinking of the past and of 
 the future, without a friend near her ? 
 
112 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Or is she now glad to escape from that 
 love I could not conceal, and which 
 perhaps frightens her away ? Perhaps 
 she is seeking other assistance than 
 mine to recover her position. She will 
 not, I suppose, accept the services of 
 one who has dared to love her. It 
 would not have been wrong, however, 
 to wait for my return. . . . She 
 might have spared me this suffering." 
 Absorbed in these musings he was for- 
 getting his companion, and was only 
 roused by hearing him exclaim, " Ah ! 
 what have we here ! See, one of those 
 poor ladies has dropped her neck- 
 handkerchief. It will be no easy mat- 
 ter to restore it, seeing we have no 
 postal service in this part of the 
 world ! " D'Auban till that moment 
 had had a lingering hope that Madame 
 de Moldau had not after all been one 
 of the ladies of that party ; but now 
 he could no longer have a doubt on the 
 subj ect. The blue and black silk hand- 
 kerchief in the hands of the priest was 
 the very one he had often and often 
 seen round her neck. He mechanically 
 stretched out his hand for it. It was 
 one of those little things connected 
 with the remembrance of past happi- 
 ness which affect the heart so deeply. 
 
 When the evenings grew chilly after 
 hot sunny days, or when in the boat or 
 the sledge on bright frosty nights, he 
 used to remind her to tie her handker- 
 chief round her throat her white, 
 slender, swan-like throat. It had a 
 trick of slipping off. He saw her in 
 fancy smiling as she was wont to do, 
 on these occasions. So vivid was this 
 recollection that a deep sigh burst from 
 him. 
 
 " You are suffering very much ; I am 
 certain of it," said his companion; 
 "you must let me prescribe for you; 
 like most missionaries, I am somewhat 
 of a physician." 
 
 D'Auban seized his hand. 
 
 " I am not ill, my dear father, but it 
 
 is true I am suffering. Pray for me, and 
 forgive my strange and ungracious con- 
 duct." 
 
 " Would it be a comfort to you to 
 tell me your grief ? " 
 
 " I could not speak of it without 
 relating too long a story for me to tell 
 or for you to hear to-night. But thus 
 much I will say : missing those travel- 
 lers who were here three days ago has 
 been a terrible blow to me. One of 
 them, the one to whom this hand- 
 kerchief belonged, is very dear to me ; 
 and I shall probably never see her 
 again." 
 
 " But could you not overtake them, 
 my dear friend ? women cannot travel 
 fast." 
 
 " Do you know what road they were 
 to take?" 
 
 " The usual one to Canada ; but, to 
 be sure, in a country like this it would 
 be ten chances to one that you hit on 
 the same track." 
 
 This was obvious ; and d'Auban, who 
 for one minute had been tempted to 
 catch at the suggestion, remembered 
 that there were other reasons against 
 it. His absence from the concessions 
 even for a week had been a risk, and a 
 prolonged one might affect not only 
 his own but likewise Madame de Mol- 
 dau's interests ; and she might be more 
 than ever in want of means, if she in- 
 tended to return to Europe. It might 
 also have been her wish by this sudden 
 departure to avoid the pain or the 
 embarrassment of a parting inter- 
 view. 
 
 Observing his agitation, the priest 
 said, in a grave and compassionate man- 
 ner, " Perhaps you ought not to follow 
 her?" 
 
 " No, father ; it would not be wrong, 
 but it would be madness. I must, on 
 the contrary, return as speedily as pos- 
 sible to my habitation. If you have 
 any thing to write to Father Maret 
 will take charge of it." . 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 113 
 
 "You know him, then?" said the 
 priest, with a look of pleasure. 
 
 " He is my most intimate friend." 
 
 " Ah ! well, God bless you. It is a 
 good thing in sorrow to have a friend, 
 and a friend like him. I will spend 
 the night in writing, and then you can 
 use my bed ; that will suit us both." 
 
 D'Auban remonstrated against this 
 arrangement, but the good missionary 
 insisted on carrying it out. He took a 
 few hours' broken and restless sleep on 
 the poor couch, whilst his host sat 
 writing on an old trunk, which served 
 at once as a chest and a table. 
 
 The first sight of St. Agathe was 
 almost more than d'Auban could bear. 
 He had, during his homeward journey, 
 schooled himself to endure with forti- 
 tude his return to the place which had 
 been her abode, and in which every 
 object was so intimately connected with 
 her presence, that he could hardly pic- 
 ture it to himself without her. But 
 when, as he came out from the forest 
 into the glade, it rose before him in all 
 its cheerful beauty, so striking amidst 
 the grand and gloomy scenery around 
 it, his courage almost failed. But he 
 determined to master the pain and to 
 look that suffering in the face. Riding 
 up to the door he gazed on the park, 
 the verandah, the window of her room, 
 and then breathing a deep sigh, turned 
 away, saying to himself, " The worst is 
 over now," and rode on to his own 
 house. When he entered, he was look- 
 ing so worn and ill, that his servant 
 Antoine was quite frightened. He 
 brought him some wine, and anxiously 
 asked him if he had not met with some 
 accident. He said no; and asked if 
 any letter had arrived during his ab- 
 sence. 
 
 " No, not one, sir," Antoine answered. 
 
 D'Auban thought Madame de Moldau 
 
 would at least have written to him. A 
 
 feeling of resentment rose in his breast, 
 
 which made him better able to conceal 
 
 8 
 
 his feelings. He would not for the 
 world have uttered her name, though 
 he would have wished to know the 
 exact day on which she had left. 
 Wounded pride is a powerful stimu- 
 lant ; it gives a false kind of strength 
 even whilst it embitters a wound. 
 
 He sent for his overseer and looked 
 over his accounts. Both the overseer 
 and Antoine observed the burning heat 
 of his hands, and that he often shivered 
 that evening. His face was alternately 
 pale and flushed. They felt anxious 
 about him, and well they might ; for 
 he had caught the fever of the country 
 whilst taking a few hours' rest in a hut 
 by the river-side on the last day of his 
 journey. The sufferings he had gone 
 through had predisposed him to it. 
 In a few hours he was so ill that Father 
 Maret was sent for. For two or three 
 days he was alarmingly ill ; and it was 
 evident that he was suffering in mind 
 as well as in body. There was in his 
 character and it was perhaps the only 
 fault that others noticed in him a 
 rigidity which made him take extreme 
 resolutions, and act up to them with a 
 firmness bordering on obstinacy. From 
 the moment he found that Madame de 
 Moldau had left St. Agathe he deter- 
 mined to suppress in himself, by a strong 
 effort of the will, all feelings more ten- 
 der or affectionate than those which it 
 was befitting for him to entertain tow- 
 ards a person in her position. He would 
 work for her and watch over her inter- 
 ests more closely than ever. If she 
 should ever call him to her assistance 
 he would obey her summons and never 
 utter a word of complaint ; but, except 
 when business made it necessary, he 
 would never pronounce her name or 
 allude to their former intimacy. And 
 accordingly when Father Maret visited 
 him on his sick bed he did not allude 
 to her departure, and abruptly changed 
 the subject whenever he seemed about 
 to speak of her. At the end of the 
 
114 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 fourth day the fever abated, but it 
 promised to take an intermittent form, 
 and in the intervals his weakness was 
 great. 
 
 Antoine watched him most carefully, 
 and when Therese offered to come and 
 nurse him, he somewhat scornfully re- 
 jected her proposal. " These women," 
 he said one evening to his master, " are 
 always fancying that nobody can take 
 care of sick people but themselves. 
 And they are often dreadfully in the 
 way. Ministering angels I have heard 
 them called; very troublesome angels 
 they sometimes are. The second even- 
 ing after Monsieur came home, and 
 when he was so ill, and I wanted to 
 keep the house quiet, there was Madame 
 de Moldau coming at the door and 
 wanting every minute to know. . . ." 
 
 D'Auban started up, the blood rush- 
 ing violently in his face. 
 
 " What did you say ? " he asked in a 
 voice, the agitation of which made it 
 sound fierce. "Has not Madame de 
 Moldau left St. Agathe ? " 
 
 "Oh dear, no! She was here this 
 morning to hear how Monsieur was, and 
 if we wanted any thing. I did not mean 
 to speak unkindly of her, poor lady ! 
 She did not make much disturbance 
 after all, and took off her shoes not to 
 make a noise on the boards." 
 
 A joy too great, too deep for words, 
 filled the heart which had so much 
 suffered. It was visible on the face, 
 audible in the voice of the sick man. 
 Antoine noticed the change. He had 
 some vague idea of what was going on 
 in his master's mind. Perhaps his men- 
 tion of the Lady of St. Agathe had not 
 been quite accidental. He went on 
 brushing a coat with his face averted 
 from him. 
 
 " I should not be surprised," he said, 
 " if she were to be here again this after- 
 noon. I told her we had no more lem- 
 ons, and she said she would bring or 
 send some. As Monsieur is up to-day, 
 
 perhaps he would like to see Madame, 
 if she comes herself with them ? " 
 
 "Of course, if ... if she should 
 wish. . . But I ought to go myself to 
 St. Agathe. I think I could." 
 
 " You ! oh, that's a good joke ! Fa- 
 ther Maret charged me not to let you 
 stir out of the house to-day. To- 
 morrow, perhaps, you may take a little 
 walk." 
 
 From the window near which he was 
 sitting, in less than an hour, d'Auban 
 saw Madame de Moldau crossing the 
 glade, and approaching his house. It 
 was a moment of unspeakable happi- 
 ness. She was still all she had ever 
 been to him. She had not spumed his 
 offers, or sought other protection than 
 his. This was enough. He did not at 
 that moment care for any thing else. 
 Their eyes met as she passed under the 
 window, and in another moment she 
 was in the room. 
 
 " Sit down, dear Monsieur d'Auban," 
 were her first words, as he rose to greet 
 her. " Sit down, or I Khali go away." 
 
 " No ! don't go away," he said, sink- 
 ing back into the arm-chair, for he had 
 not strength enough to stand. "For 
 some days I thought you were gone 
 gone for ever ! " 
 
 "Did you? Owhy?" 
 
 He drew her silk handkerchief from 
 his bosom. " I found this in a hut a 
 hundred miles off, where the people 
 you were to have travelled with slept a 
 few nights ago. And there was a lady 
 with them besides Madame Latour. . ." 
 
 " O, Monsieur d'Auban, how grieved 
 I am about that handkerchief. It must, 
 indeed, have misled you. What a 
 strange coincidence that you should 
 have found it ! I gave it to Made- 
 moiselle La Marche ; she was the sec- 
 ond lady of the party. They all stopped 
 here for a day. Had it been a fortnight 
 ago I should now have been with 
 them." 
 
 "What made me so miserable was 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 115 
 
 the thought that you did not trust me. 
 That you rejected my offer of accom- 
 panying you to Europe." 
 
 " I am not going back to Europe," 
 she said in a low voice. 
 
 " But, ought you not ? " he answered, 
 trying to speak calmly. " Ought you 
 i not to resume your rank and your posi- 
 tion to return to your son ? Is it not, 
 perhaps, your duty to do so ? " he asked, 
 with a beating heart. 
 
 " As to rank and position, to forego 
 them for ever would be my greatest 
 desire. But it would no doubt be my 
 duty to return to my poor child r if I 
 could do so even at the cost of the 
 greatest misery to myself -even though 
 convinced that the same heartless eti- 
 quette which separated me from him 
 as an infant would still keep us apart 
 ; if I went back. It would certainly 
 have been right to make the attempt, 
 and if spurned and rejected by my own 
 kindred. . . ." She stopped and held 
 out her hand to him. " You would not 
 i have forsaken me." 
 
 "Never! as long as I live. If you 
 were on a throne you would never see 
 me, but you would know there was a 
 faithful heart near you ; and if driven 
 from it, O how gladly would it wel- 
 come you ! " 
 
 "I know it I never doubted it 
 and if it had been possible, under your 
 I protection, I would have tried to make 
 f my way to Russia, and to take my 
 f place again near my son. But I forget 
 ;if I told you that, before I left St. 
 Petersburgh, the Comtesse de Konigs- 
 mark made me solemnly promise that, 
 as long as the Czar lived, I should not 
 reveal to any one the secret of my ex- 
 istence. She knew that the emperor, 
 even if he chose to acknowledge and 
 receive me, which is doubtful, would 
 never forgive those who had deceived 
 him, even though it was to save my 
 life. My attendants especially would 
 be liable to his vengeance. She had 
 
 interests I know which made her very 
 fearful of incurring his displeasure. It 
 would not, at all events, be possible 
 for me to act in this matter without 
 her knowledge and approval. I have 
 written to her, and must be guided by 
 her answer. I may hear from her any 
 day. I cannot but think she will write 
 to me at such a decisive moment." 
 
 "And, in the mean time, you will 
 stay here ? " 
 
 "Yes. In any case till I get her 
 letter." 
 
 " And if you decide not to return to 
 Europe, what will you do ? " 
 
 She coloured deeply. " Had we not 
 better put off speaking of that till I see 
 my way clearly before me ? I need not 
 tell you. . ." " Yes," he exclaimed, 
 "I need that you should tell me, I 
 need to know that, if we part . . ." 
 " If we part, M. d'Auban, I shall be 
 making the greatest sacrifice a woman 
 can make to duty and to her child." 
 This was said with an emotion which 
 could leave no doubt in his mind as to 
 the nature and strength of her feelings 
 towards him. From that moment per- 
 fect confidence was established between 
 them. Each tried to keep up the other's 
 courage. Both looked with anxiety 
 for the arrival of the expected letters. 
 One packet arrived, but it had been 
 delayed on its way, and contained 
 nothing of particular interest. At last, 
 one afternoon, as they were busy plant- 
 ing some creepers round the stump of 
 an old tree, each thinking, without 
 saying it, that they might not stay to 
 see them grow, a boatman came up to 
 the house, and delivered a letter into 
 Madame de Moldau's hand. She sat 
 down and broke the seals and untied 
 the strings with a nervous trepidation 
 which made her long about it. He 
 continued to prune the newly-planted 
 shoots in an unsparing manner. He 
 did not venture to watch her face, but 
 the sound of a sob made him turn 
 
116 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 round. She was crying very bit- 
 terly. 
 
 " We are to part," lie thought. 
 
 "What is it, princess?" he said; 
 "any thing is better than suspense." 
 
 " My poor child ! my boy ! " she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "What what has happened to 
 him?" 
 
 " He is set aside ; thrust out of the 
 succession. The Empress Catherine's 
 son named heir to the crown. Poor 
 fatherless forsaken child ! forsaken on 
 the steps of a throne, like a beggar's 
 infant on a doorway ! O why, why did 
 I leave him ! my little Peter my son." 
 
 D'Auban, though he could not forget 
 his own interest in the contents of the 
 letter, checked his anxiety, and only 
 expressed sympathy in her sorrow. 
 
 In a moment she took up the letter 
 again, and said: "I am ashamed of 
 caring so much for my son's exclusion 
 from the throne. Have I not often and 
 often wished he had not been born to 
 reign? Would not I give the world 
 to withdraw him from the court? 
 Would that they would let me have 
 him ! Who cares for him now ? Per- 
 haps I might go one day and steal him 
 out of their hands, and carry him off 
 to this desert, and bring him up in my 
 own faith. But for the present the 
 Comtesse de Konigsmark insists on the 
 fulfilment of my promise. This is what 
 she says, M. d'Auban. 'Princess, if 
 you should come forward at this mo- 
 ment, and seek to establish your posi- 
 tion as the widow of the late prince, 
 and the guardian of your son, you will 
 infallibly be treated as an impostor, 
 and your claims set aside. None of 
 those who assisted in your escape could 
 venture to give their testimony to the 
 truth of your assertions. Your reap- 
 pearance at this time would involve 
 your own family in difficulties with the 
 Czar, and would expose those who 
 saved you in the hour of danger to the 
 
 greatest danger themselves. It might 
 even be fatal to your son. As long as 
 there is no one to resent his wrongs or 
 advocate his cause, he is safe in the 
 hands of the emperor. The empress 
 is very kind to him now, but who 
 knows what would be the consequences 
 if she thought you were alive and in- 
 triguing against her own son. It grieves 
 me deeply to have to write it, but for 
 the sake of all concerned, I feel bound 
 to claim the fulfilment of your promise, 
 solemnly given at the moment of your 
 departure ; and I feel assured that in 
 doing so I am serving your own in- 
 terest and those of your son. The 
 day may come when, in spite of the 
 late decree, he will ascend the imperial 
 throne. Then, perhaps, you may safely 
 return to Europe ; but you know Rus- 
 sia too well not to be aware of the 
 dangers which threaten those nearest 
 to the throne, when not too helpless to 
 be feared.' Nothing can be clearer. I 
 am tied hand and foot cast off never 
 to see my child again ; for who would 
 know me again years hence ? who 
 would believe me then ? Oh, my boy, 
 has it indeed come to this!" These 
 words, and the burst of grief which 
 accompanied them, painfully affected 
 d'Auban. She saw it in his face, and 
 exclaimed : " Do not mistake me ; you 
 cannot guess, you do not understand, 
 what I feel. It is very strange very 
 inconsistent." 
 
 " God knows, Princess, I do not won- 
 der at your grief. What can I be to 
 you in comparison with your child ? 
 How can I claim an equal place in your 
 heart?" 
 
 "Equal! Oh, M. d'Auban, do not 
 you see, do not you understand that I 
 love you a thousand times better than 
 that poor child, and that I hate myself 
 for it?" 
 
 He silently pressed her hand, and 
 when both had grown calm they parted 
 for that day ; he to attend to business, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 117 
 
 and she to walk to the village, where 
 she had a long interview with Father 
 Maret. He listened patiently to the 
 outpourings of her doubts, her mis- 
 givings and self-accusations; to the 
 inconsistencies of a loving heart and 
 a sensitive conscience. It was a 
 work of patience, for he perfectly 
 well knew how it would end ; and 
 feeling certain that she would mar- 
 ry d'Auban at last, and not seeing any 
 thing wrong in her doing so, he gave 
 it as his opinion that she had better 
 not torment herself and him by pro- 
 longed hesitation, but agree to join 
 their hearts, their hands, and their plan- 
 tations ; and from that hour to the one 
 in which death would part them, do as 
 much good together as they could in 
 the New World, or wherever else the 
 providence of God called them. 
 
 A few weeks *ater, in the church 
 of the Mission, Charlotte of Brunswick 
 
 was married to Henri d'Auban. She 
 had required from him a promise, which 
 he willingly gave, that if the day should 
 ever come when she could approach her 
 child without breaking her promise, 
 that he would not prevent, but on the 
 contrary assist her to do so. As the 
 husband and wife came out of the 
 church they stopped a moment to pray 
 at M. de Chambelle's tomb. As they 
 were leaving it, she said, "Monsieur 
 d'Auban, you have kept your promise 
 to him." 
 
 " Ah ! but what would the good old 
 man have thought of such a mesal- 
 liance, Madame ? " d'Auban answered. 
 
 "I would have told him," she re- 
 plied, smiling also, but with tears in 
 her eyes, " that the princess lies buried 
 in the imperial vault at Moscow, tfnd 
 that she whom you have married has 
 neither rank nor name nothing but a 
 woman's grateful heart." 
 
PART II. 
 
 OHAPTEK I. 
 
 Sweet was the hermitage 
 Of this unploughed, untrodden shore, 
 Like birds, all joyous from their cage, 
 For man's neglect we loved it more. 
 And well he knew, my huntsman dear, 
 To search the game with hawk and spear, 
 Whilst I, his evening food to dress, 
 "Would sing to him in happiness. 
 
 And I, pursued by moonless skies, 
 The light of Connocht Moran's eyes. 
 
 Campbett. 
 
 she walks on the verandah, 
 And she laughs out of the door, 
 And she dances like the sunshine 
 Across the parlour floor. 
 Her little feet they patter, 
 Like the rain upon the flowers, 
 And her laugh is like sweet water, 
 Through all the summer hours. 
 
 
 Negro Melody. 
 
 A FEW brief years will suffice to 
 record the history of Henri d'Auban 
 and his wife, during the eventful years 
 which followed their marriage. Nov- 
 elists are sometimes reproached with 
 dwelling qn the melancholy .side of 
 life, of not presenting often enough to 
 their readers pictures of happiness, such 
 as exists in this world even in the midst 
 of all its sin and suffering. But is it 
 not the same with history ? How sel- 
 dom do its pages carry us through 
 bright and smiling scenes ? How few 
 of them record aught else but crime or 
 sorrow? The truth is that there is 
 very little to relate about happy peo- 
 ple. A joyous face tells its own story ; 
 a peaceful heart has no secrets. If 
 everybody was good and happy, writ- 
 
 ers 
 
 of fiction might lay aside their 
 pens. 
 
 She, who though doomed to death 
 had been so strangely fated not to die, 
 and who had passed as it were through 
 the grave into a new world, sometimes 
 felt almost tempted to believe that the 
 whole of her past life was a dream. 
 That the deserted, hated, and miserable 
 princess of former days could be the 
 same person who now, with a light 
 step and a gay heart, trod the sunny 
 prairies of the New World and the 
 mossy carpets of its wide forests, as if 
 the blue sky over head was the dome 
 of a vast temple, in which the varying 
 seasons kept festival with incense- 
 breathing flowers, and winds whisper- 
 ing songs of praise, seemed indeed 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 119 
 
 incredible to herself, as it would have 
 been to any one who had looked on 
 this picture and on that. When once 
 she had fully entered into the full spirit 
 of a settler's life, its very freedom from 
 conventional trammels was as agreeable 
 to her as the boundless air to the bird 
 set free, or the sight of the wide ocean 
 to the liberated captive. She had never 
 enjoyed till then a sense of liberty. 
 The gentle formalities of her father's 
 dull court had preceded the miserable 
 slavery of her wedded life, and that 
 had been followed again by all the suf- 
 ferings of her flight, and of her arrival 
 in America. 
 
 Now it seemed as if for the first time 
 sunshine was flooding her soul. In 
 the new atmosphere of faith and love 
 which surrounded her, every faculty 
 was developed, and. every aspiration 
 fulfilled. No human happiness is, how- 
 ever, perfect. There were moments 
 when the very blessings she enjoyed 
 called up a sharp pain. When her eyes 
 had been fixed awhile on her husband's 
 face, or on the various beauties of her 
 home, she would suddenly turn them 
 away, and appear to be gazing on some 
 distant scene till tears gathered in 
 them. 
 
 And when she became for the second 
 time a mother, when her little girl was 
 born, when she nursed her at her breast, 
 when she carried her in her arms, when 
 she saw her totter on the grass, and 
 then fall with a scream of joy into her 
 delighted father's arms, when she be- 
 gan to lisp a few words of prayer at 
 her knee, and when, as time went on, 
 she did not miss one of her smiles, one 
 of her childish sallies, but noticed and 
 dwelt upon and treasured them all ; 
 as she kissed her soft cheek, and twined 
 her little arms round her neck, a feel- 
 ing, made up of pity and yearning and 
 a vague self-reproach, would for a mo- 
 ment wring her heart at the thought 
 of her first-born, the lonely royal child 
 
 in the cold northern palace far away. 
 Sometimes she passionately longed for 
 tidings of her kindred. Sudden and 
 final as her separation had been from 
 them, gushes of tender recollections 
 would now and then arise in her soul, 
 when some accidental word or sound, 
 or the smell of a flower, or a feeling in 
 the air, recalled some scene of her 
 childhood and youth. Of her sister 
 she chiefly thought ; who, on the same 
 day as herself, had been doomed to an 
 untried destiny, and with whom she 
 had parted in the blissful unconscious- 
 ness of coming woes. Often after a day 
 when she had gathered about her all 
 the little children of the Mission, and 
 played and laughed with them to their 
 hearts' content, her pillow at night 
 would be wet with tears. These were 
 the shadows that clouded over her 
 bright days, but bright they were with- 
 all, bright as love could make them. 
 With the quiet enthusiasm of the Ger- 
 man character she applied herself to 
 all the duties of her new position, and 
 governed her household with the talent 
 whicn Peter the Great had discerned 
 in his daughter-in-law. It was a pecu- 
 liar one she had to rule, but the charm 
 of her manner, joined to the goodness 
 of her heart, carried every thing before 
 it. She was a little bit exacting ; she 
 liked to be waited upon and followed 
 about, and made the first object of all 
 her dependents, but they did not love 
 her the less for it. There are persons 
 who are allowed to be tyrants by a sort 
 of common assent ; no one has any de- 
 sire to shake off the yoke, so sweetly 
 and lightly does it sit upon them ; but 
 they must be the elected monarchs of 
 their subjects' hearts. Nobody has a ( 
 divine right to have their own way. 
 
 Who would ever have guessed that 
 Madame d'Auban had been reared in a 
 palace who had seen her at work in her 
 kitchen or in her laundry by the river's 
 side ? And yet, perhaps, a keen-sighted 
 
120 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 observer would have noticed the refine- 
 ment of all her movements the grace 
 of her attitudes and .deemed her fit 
 for a throne as she stood amidst her 
 dark-coloured slaves on the green mar- 
 gin of the stream, spreading the white 
 linen on the grass, or wringing it with 
 her still whiter hands. 
 
 It was as pretty a picture as possible, 
 with its background of forest trees, 
 and its chequered lights and shades. 
 D'Auban sometimes watched it from 
 a distance, and reminiscences of his 
 classical studies would recur to him as 
 he gazed on his fair and beautiful wife 
 and her dark attendants. Thus were 
 Homer's princesses wont to direct the 
 labours of their maidens. He did not 
 feel as if his bride was one whit less 
 royally occupied than if she had been 
 holding a drawing-room. What would 
 have seemed unbefitting her birth in 
 such occupations if associated with the 
 commonplace scenes of the Old World, 
 seemed transformed into poetry when 
 carried on amidst the grand scenery of 
 the New. The wild-looking Indians; 
 the negresses with their bright-coloured 
 head-dresses ; the pines, the palms, the 
 brilliant sky, lent an Oriental colour- 
 ing to the whole scene. St. Agathe 
 seemed made for the abode of a fairy 
 queen. Nature and fancy had lavished 
 upon it all their gifts; and love, the 
 most potent of all magicians, had 
 heightened all its charms. D'Auban's 
 fond dream had been to make it a per- 
 fect home for the woman who had 
 transformed his solitude into a para- 
 dise, and many a princess, " nursed in 
 pomp and pleasure," but *who had 
 never reigned over a devoted heart, 
 might have envied the fate of the set- 
 tler's wife. She had her courtiers, too, 
 this princess, who, when once she had 
 renounced her rank and gained happi- 
 ness in its stead, began, with a truly 
 royal instinct, to gather around her 
 a crowd of satellites, and was more 
 
 worshipped than any eastern or west- 
 ern queen. Her house was literally 
 besieged all day by these, liege lords of 
 every race and colour. Indians, ne- 
 groes, and poor whites were equally 
 devoted to the lady of St. Agathe. 
 They claimed her bounty and her sym 
 pathy her help, or, if nothing else, 
 her kind words. They brought offer- 
 ings also, and laid at her feet fish and 
 game, and fruit and flowers ; she who 
 had once, in her days of gloom and 
 misery, disclaimed all love for "the 
 sweet nurslings of the vernal skies," 
 now gladdened with delight at the 
 sight of the prairie lily, the wild rose, 
 or the blue amorpha. The homage 
 paid her by the childlike Indians was 
 almost superstitious. One of the hairs 
 of the head once bowed down in an- 
 guish at the feet of a princely ruffian 
 was treasured as a talisman. Father 
 Maret said to her one day, " I must 
 preach, Madame, against the Magnolian 
 idolatry. One of your Indian worship- 
 pers wears a stone fastened to his 
 girdle. I asked him what it meant, 
 and he said the wife of the French 
 chief, the white Magnolia, had set her 
 foot on it when she entered his cabin. 
 I cannot sanction the use of these new 
 manitous." 
 
 She laughed, and answered, " It is all 
 poetry, reverend Father ; poetry in ac- 
 tion. Now that I begin to understand 
 the language of these people, I am more 
 and more struck with the imaginative 
 beauty of their ideas, and the graceful 
 form in which they clothe them. I 
 try to enter into its spirit, and to reply 
 to them in the same manner. The 
 other day I met an Indian, an old man, 
 but not of this tribe; he belongs, I 
 think, to the Dacotahs. He stopped, 
 and said to me : ' Ah ! my daughter, 
 happy are my eyes to see thee ! My 
 heart's right hand I give to thee. The 
 earth never blossomed so gaily, or the 
 sun shone so brightly, as on this day 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 121 
 
 when I behold thee.' I answered: 
 * Stranger, your words are very good, 
 and I too give you my heart's right 
 hand ; but whence do you know me ? ' 
 'The Mississippi,' he said, 'has whis- 
 pered to the Wabash, and the Wabash 
 to the Ohio, that the white flower of 
 the Illinois loves the race of the red 
 men. Therefore, my daughter, if thou 
 wilt come to the land of the Dacotahs, 
 and to the hut of their Great Eagle, its 
 doors will be open to greet thee in 
 peace.' Was not that pretty, reverend 
 Father, and much more flattering than 
 the best- turned French compliment ? " 
 
 " I am afraid, Madame," said Father 
 Maret, " that the Indians will propose 
 to make you a woman-chief like the 
 female suns of the Natches." 
 
 "And why not?" cried Madame 
 d'Auban gaily. "We might both be 
 suns, or Henri might be the sun, and I 
 the moon and revolve around him. 
 What do you say to this idea, Monsieur 
 d'Auban ? Shall we be king and queen 
 of the Illinois?" 
 
 Her husband looked up into her face 
 as she bent lovingly over him, and said 
 with a smile, " The hereditary instinct 
 is still at work, I see, Madame. How 
 little we thought," he added, turning 
 again to Father Marct, "how much 
 ambition there is still in this deceitful 
 woman's heart ! She has set up a per- 
 fect sovereignty over the hearts of this 
 people, and is dreaming of fresh con- 
 quests." 
 
 " Ah ! I took you both in. Well, I 
 own I am ambitious, but it is a little 
 your doing, reverend Father. When 
 one has once realized that principle of 
 yours, of working towards an end, and 
 doing every thing with a purpose, there 
 is no knowing where it may lead one. 
 It is a little like the traveller's story of 
 the Flying Dutchman when his leg 
 was wound up he could never stop 
 again. I want to convert thousands of 
 souls; to draw all the neighbouring 
 
 tribes into the fold of the Church ; to 
 have as many missions here as in Para- 
 guay." 
 
 " Then, Madame, I see no hope of 
 rest for you on this side the grave," 
 answered the Father with a smile. " I 
 never expected to see you so fond of 
 work." 
 
 " There is no saying what indolent 
 natures, when once roused, will arrive 
 at. Do not you notice, reverend Fa- 
 ther, great varieties of character and 
 habits amongst these Indian nations ? " 
 
 "Very striking ones, I should say. 
 The Arkansas and the Algonquins, as 
 well as the Illinois, have received Chris- 
 tianity with much willingness, and are 
 attached to the French. With the 
 Dacotahs and the Natches, though in 
 some respects more civilized, very little 
 progress has been made. The Dacotahs 
 and Choktaws are fierce, warlike races, 
 and, though they call themselves our 
 friends, are not quite to be trusted." 
 
 " I often think," d'Auban observed, 
 " that this colony is living on a volcano. 
 Only think how insignificant is the 
 number of our countrymen in compari- 
 son with the multitude of natives and 
 of negro slaves we have imported ; a 
 mere handful, after all ! Things are in 
 a state in which an accidental spark 
 might kindle a flame from New Orleans 
 to the sources of the Mississippi." 
 
 " Here at least," said his wife, " we 
 can feel quite in safety; our dear In- 
 dians would never turn against us." 
 
 "No; because they are almost all 
 Christians," said Father Maret. " Every 
 nation which belongs to the Prayer, as 
 they call our religion, is attached to 
 France. The tie between them and 
 their pastors is a security against dis- 
 affection. It is extraordinary that the 
 Government does not feel this, and that, 
 intent as it is on rallying to itself the 
 native Indians, it does so little to for- 
 ward their conversion and to multiply 
 missions. The fault does not rest with 
 
122 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the Government in France; and M. 
 Perrier would willingly assist the mis- 
 sionaries, but the Company is indifferent 
 to all but material interests." 
 
 "Why has it been so difficult," 
 d'Auban asked, "to evangelize the 
 Natches, the most civilized, perhaps, 
 of all these nations ? " 
 
 " They have a far more organized 
 system of religion than any other tribe, 
 and it is identified with their habits of 
 life and form of government. When 
 this is the case, it is always more diffi- 
 cult to obtain a hearing." 
 
 " Do they not worship the sun, like 
 the ancient Persians ? " 
 
 "Yes, and their chief is called the 
 Great Sun of the Natches. All his rel- 
 atives are also suns, women as well as 
 men. But he is himself the chief rep- 
 resentative of the glorious luminary 
 they adore. Their temples have some 
 architectural pretensions, and their 
 ceremonies are more plausible than the 
 gross superstitions of the northern tribes. 
 Our converts here are certainly wonder- 
 fully good. I do not suppose that you 
 could find in any town or village of Eu- 
 rope, in proportion to the number of 
 inhabitants, so many pious, practical 
 Christians as in this Indian settlement. 
 I regret to say that, for the first time 
 since I came here, I shall be obliged to 
 leave my flock for a while. I must go 
 to New Orleans to confer with my su- 
 periors. The father provincial expects 
 me this month. I hope to bring back 
 many treasures for our Mission ; amongst 
 them, a detachment of Ursuline nuns. 
 They are doing wonders in New Or- 
 leans. What do you say to a log-built 
 convent, Madame ? We must fix upon 
 a suitable position. There are several 
 Indian girls preparing to join them." 
 
 " How happy Therese will be to see 
 the black-robe women she so often talks 
 of! But what will become of the Mis- 
 sion during your absence, reverend 
 Father, not tp speak of ourselves ? " 
 
 " The hunting season is at hand, and 
 our people will soon disperse. Other 
 years I have followed them into the 
 forests, and assembled them on Sundays 
 and festivals." 
 
 "Ah! now I enjoyed that time last 
 year," exclaimed Madame d'Auban. 
 " Those encampments round the huge 
 pine-wood fires, in the midst of such 
 beautiful scenery ; the grand leafless 
 oaks, the pines burdened with snow, 
 and .the magnificent cascades; how 
 they filled the air with music till the 
 frost set in, and then how fine they 
 were, chained spell-bound in awful 
 silence ! I shall never forget our Mid- 
 night Mass in the open air. The words 
 ' Gloria in excelsis Deo, et in terra pax 
 hominibus bonae voluntatis!' seemed 
 so appropriate under that dark blue 
 sky, studded with myriads of stars, and 
 amongst our childlike people, as simple 
 and good as the shepherds of Bethlehem. 
 Shall we have no Mass at Christmas, 
 reverend Father? Shall we be for 
 weeks, nay, months, perhaps, without 
 a priest?" 
 
 " Father Poisson, from St. Louis, 
 has promised to visit you during my 
 absence. You must both do what you 
 can for our poor people, especially the 
 sick, teaching them to supply, by fer- 
 vent acts of contrition, for the loss of 
 the sacraments. The early Christians 
 for months, and even for years, had to 
 endure similar privations, and so have 
 the English Catholics in our days." 
 
 " Seasons of famine," answered Mad- 
 ame d'Auban, " teach us the blessings 
 of abundance. Henri, do you hear 
 any thing ? " she asked, observing that 
 her husband bent forward, so as to 
 catch a distant sound. "Is anybody 
 coming ? " 
 
 " I thought I heard the tramp of a 
 horse's feet," he said. 
 
 They all listened, but the distant 
 sound, if there was one, was drowned 
 at that moment by the shouts of a 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 123 
 
 troop of children, at whose head was 
 Wilhelmina, Monsieur and Madame 
 d'Auban's little girl. They came 
 sweeping round the corner, and ap- 
 peared in front of the verandah, where 
 her parents and the priest were sitting. 
 
 If her mother was the queen of all 
 hearts in the little world of St. Agathe, 
 Wilhelmina was the heiress apparent 
 of that sovereignty. From the day 
 when the Indian women gathered 
 round her cradle, gazing on the white 
 baby that looked like a waxen image, 
 wondering over its beauty till they 
 almost believed that the tiny creature 
 had blossomed like a lily in the prairie, 
 she had been the favourite and the 
 darling of every man, woman, and 
 child in the Mission. She was fair 
 like her mother, her features as deli- 
 cate, and the oval of her face as per- 
 fect; but her eyes were of a deeper 
 blue, and shaded by dark eyebrows 
 and eyelashes. From her earliest in- 
 fancy she had always looked older 
 than she was. In her firm step and 
 determined manner there was an amus- 
 ing likeness to her father. She evinced 
 the most decided preference for the 
 Indians over the Europeans and the 
 negroes. Even as a baby she was wont 
 to stretch, out her little arms and call 
 them her dear brown-faces, and at a 
 later age would fall into a passion if 
 any one said white faces were prettier. 
 The loud, monotonous chant of the 
 women, unmelodious as it is in Euro- 
 pean ears, was pleasing to the child, 
 who, in her aerial cradle amidst the 
 pine woods, had been rocked by its 
 wild music. Her playfellows were 
 almost all of them Indians, and their 
 language was as familiar to her as 
 French or German. 
 
 Brought up in the Mission-school, 
 and by their Christian parents, these 
 children were good and innocent. 
 There was only one point on which 
 Mina's parents dreaded the effect of 
 
 her constant association with them. 
 The missionaries had not yet succeeded 
 in eradicating from the minds of their 
 converts all their ancient superstitions. 
 Sorcerers and jugglers still exercised 
 some influence over the native Chris- 
 tians. It took a long time to induce 
 them to give up their manitous and 
 their fetishes. These were objects to 
 which a superstitious reverence was 
 attached, and to the possession of 
 which were ascribed many supernatu- 
 ral advantages success, for instance, 
 in war and in the chase, and immuni- 
 ty from various dangers. A fetish was 
 sometimes an animal, or it might be a 
 plant, or a stone, or a piece of wood. 
 Tales of magic were current amongst 
 the Indians, and held in belief even by 
 those who on principle renounced all 
 intercourse with sorcerers or magi- 
 cians. 
 
 Madame d'Auban, whose mind had 
 wandered at random in her youth in 
 an imaginary world, peopled with 
 self-created visions, and unchecked 
 by any definite faith, and whose only 
 ideas of the supernatural had been 
 drawn from the legendary lore of her 
 native country, and stories of appa- 
 ritions, such as the well-accredited 
 ones of the white lady who visits the 
 palaces of the Teutonic kings when 
 death is at hand, and of spectral pro- 
 cessions like Lutzoflfs wild rushing 
 midnight hunt, could not always re- 
 press a shudder at the mysterious tales 
 of the Indian wizards, But Wilhelmi- 
 na, who from her earliest childhood 
 had believed in angels and saints, and 
 to whom the thought of the supernatu- 
 ral world was one of the brightest joys 
 of life, utterly scouted whatever the 
 Church did not teach, and set her face 
 against all superstitious practices with 
 the resolution which was even at that 
 early age a feature in her character. 
 If any of her companions happened 
 to show her a manitou, she stamped 
 
124 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 with her tiny feet, and cried out, 
 "Throw it away, or Mina will not 
 love you." If they spoke of appari- 
 tions, wailing voices in the forest at 
 night, eyes glaring on them in the 
 darkness, invisible icy hands clasping 
 theirs, she would shake her head, and 
 say, "Mina never hears those voices 
 Mina never sees those eyes Mina 
 never feels those hands Mina makes 
 the sign of the Cross, and, if there are 
 devils near her, they go away." 
 
 "But, little Lily of the Prairie," 
 they would sometimes urge, " Red- 
 feather has a manitou that makes him 
 catch more game than any other hunter 
 in the village." 
 
 " I don't believe it," Mina would an- 
 swer ; and if they persisted it was true, 
 she said, "Then the devil helps Red- 
 feather. I am sorry for him, and the 
 game he catches will do him no good." 
 In this way she fought her battles, al- 
 ways adhering to her principle, and 
 insisting on her conclusion, "It is not 
 true, or if it is true, it is wicked : " she 
 never deviated from that line of argu- 
 ment. She would not play with any 
 child that had a manitou ; but if her 
 companions were frightened at going 
 home in the dark, or would not cross a 
 part of the forest supposed to be haunt- 
 ed by evil spirits, she offered to accom- 
 pany them, and they were never afraid 
 when they held her little hand, and 
 she sang as they walked along " Salve 
 Regina ! Mater misericordise ! " 
 
 Mina was a most joyous child. Her 
 mother was sometimes almost alarmed 
 at the exuberance of her spirits, but there 
 was a deep vein of thoughtfulness in her 
 character, and when she had once learnt 
 to read her greatest delight was to take 
 a book out of her father's library and 
 carry it into the garden, where she sat 
 for hours under the shade of a gum 
 tree, poring over the Lives of the Saints 
 or Corneille's Tragedies. A child's 
 book she had never seen : the few that 
 
 might have existed at that time were 
 not to be met with in the colony. One 
 prevailing feeling seemed to grow with 
 her growth, and to strengthen with her 
 advancing years. This was her devoted 
 attachment to the land of her birth and 
 its native inhabitants. It made her 
 angry to be called a French child. 
 She once stained her face and hands 
 with walnut juice to look like an In- 
 dian. All the high-flown sentiments 
 to be found in books about patriotism 
 she applied to her own feelings for 
 this beloved country. Whilst learning 
 history and geography from her father 
 she always harped on this point, and 
 exulted in finding on the map that the 
 Seine and the Loire were mere stream- 
 lets in comparison with the Mississippi 
 and the Ohio, and maintained that 
 Indian Christians would never do such 
 wicked things as the bad Europeans. 
 She had been named Wilhelmina at 
 Madame d'Auban's earnest request. 
 Her father would have liked to call 
 her Agathe, but yielded to her mother's 
 wishes. "But, my dearest wife," he 
 said, " you will never let her know, I 
 hope, that royal blood flows in her 
 veins, and that she can claim kindred 
 with crowned heads. Let her grow up 
 I beseech you, in the freedonrand sim- 
 plicity of the lot you have yourself 
 chosen, and let no thoughts of worldly 
 grandeur come between her and her 
 peace. It might well turn a young 
 head," he added with a smile, " to be 
 told that she was the niece of the Em- 
 press of Austria, and the sister of the 
 future Emperor of Russia." 
 
 Madame d'Auban sighed, though she 
 smiled at the same time. " I promise 
 you to be silent on that point," she 
 said, fondly gazing on her infant's tiny 
 face ; " but for my own satisfaction I 
 like her to bear a name which reminds 
 me of my childhood. It is, perhaps, 
 a weakness, but, having broken every 
 tie which bound me to my family, there 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 125 
 
 is something soothing in the thought 
 of one slight link between us still." 
 
 And so the little Creole was named 
 Wilhelmina, and called by her parents 
 Mina, and by the Indians Wenonah, 
 ' Lily of the Prairie." 
 
 On the evening previously mentioned 
 she had been mistress of the revels at a 
 feast given by The>ese to her scholars, 
 and now, after dismissing her courtiers 
 with parting gifts of maple-sugar and 
 sine-jelly, she sat down on her mother's 
 snees. Her father, noticing that she 
 seemed rather pensive, asked her what 
 she was thinking of. She raised her 
 head, and said, " I wish I had a broth- 
 er! Little Dancing-feet said to-night 
 she would take her sweet-cake home to 
 her brother, because he was good, and 
 carried her over the brooks and up the 
 hills when they went out to look for 
 berries. Mother, would not you like 
 to have a son ? " 
 
 " Come to me, Mina," cried her 
 father, who saw tears in his wife's eyes. 
 Mina went to him, but she too saw 
 those tears, and, rushing back to her 
 mother, she laid her head on her bosom, 
 and whispered, " Mother, have I got a 
 brother in heaven ? " 
 
 Madame d'Auban bent down and 
 kissed her. "My Mina," she said, 
 "you have a brother; but you will 
 not see him on earth. You must never 
 mention his name ; but when you say 
 your prayers you may ask God to bless 
 him." 
 
 " What is his name ? Oh, do tell me 
 his name ! " 
 
 " You may say, ' God bless my brother 
 Peter ! ' " 
 
 " I shall say it very often," cried 
 Mina, throwing her arms round her 
 mother's neck. 
 
 " Not out loud, my child." 
 
 "No; like this." She moved her 
 lips, without making any sound. Her 
 mother pressed a kiss upon them, and, 
 looking at her husband, said, " It is a 
 
 comfort to have told her. I could not 
 help it." He nodded assent, but looked 
 rather grave. He was sorry that the 
 least shadow of a mystery should lie 
 in his little daughter's mind. She had 
 an instinctive feeling that her parents 
 were both grieved at what had passed, 
 and, as is the case with children on 
 such occasions, she did not know exact- 
 ly how to behave. Slipping off her 
 mother's knees, she went round to 
 Father Maret's side, and asked him to 
 play dominoes. 
 
 The tread of a horse was now distinct- 
 ly heard coming up the approach, a very 
 unusual sound, especially at that time 
 of the year. In another moment both 
 horse and rider became visible, and 
 d'Auban recognized one of M. Perrier's 
 messengers. 
 
 "What, Ferual!" he exclaimed, "is 
 it you ? Do you bring letters ? " 
 
 "Yes, sir; a despatch from M. 
 Perrier." 
 
 "Oh, indeed!" He held out his 
 hand for it, and was about to break 
 the seal, but looking up, said, " Mina, 
 run and fetch somebody to hold the 
 horse. You look very tired, Ferual; 
 you have ridden hard, and we know 
 through what sort of country. Mad- 
 ame," he said, turning to his wife, 
 " will you give orders that refreshments 
 may be set before M. Ferual." 
 
 The servants were all at work out 
 of doors, so Mina held the horse, and 
 coaxed him to eat some bits of cake 
 out of her hand, and Madame d'Auban 
 went herself to the kitchen to prepare 
 food for the stranger. 
 
 D'Auban sat down at the table, and 
 was soon absorbed in the contents of 
 M. Perrier's letter. As soon as he had 
 finished the first sheet he handed it to 
 Father Maret, and BO on with the 
 others. When both had read the whole 
 despatch, the Father said : 
 
 " Your previsions are realized, sooner 
 than we expected." 
 
126 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "Ay," said d'Auban, "I had long 
 feared something of the kind ; but how 
 different it is only to anticipate such a 
 calamity, or to have it actually present 
 before one, almost at one's own doors ! " 
 
 " What will you do ? " 
 
 "I must go as soon as possible. I 
 don't see how it can be avoided. I 
 consider every Frenchman is bound to 
 obey the Governor at this- moment as 
 if he was his commanding officer." 
 
 " And your wife and child ? " 
 
 " I should like at once to take them 
 to New Orleans, where they would be 
 in safety, and then place myself at M. 
 Perrier's disposal." 
 
 " I suppose that would be best ; not 
 but that they would be safe here, I 
 think. We could trust our Indians." 
 
 " Oh ! for that matter, I believe every 
 one of them would shed his blood for 
 the mother and the child ; but my wife 
 could not endure, I am sure, to be left 
 behind, especially as you, too, are go- 
 ing away. No; we must set off as 
 soon as we can, and must break it to 
 her at once." 
 
 " You have no fears for the journey ? " 
 
 "Not any immediate fears. As I 
 was saying an hour ago, I have long 
 felt that we are living on a volcano. 
 You notice the day fixed for the general 
 insurrection is still some weeks distant 
 the 15th January, according to our 
 calendar. I suspect that up to that 
 moment we shall find the Indians more 
 than commonly friendly. But for the 
 future of the colony! God help all 
 those engaged in the struggle. I fear 
 it will be a terrible one! Ah!" he 
 said, leaning his head on his hands, 
 " our honeymoon is over ! It has lasted 
 nearly ten years. We ought not to re- 
 pine. It is not often given to man to 
 enjoy ten years of almost uninterrupted 
 happiness. Here she comes! How 
 will she bear to leave St. Agathe ! And 
 poor little Mina what will she feel? 
 Well, well, it must be gone through." 
 
 "I will leave you," Father Maret 
 said, as he moved towards the door. 
 " You had better be alone to talk over 
 this matter with your wife ; and I have 
 much to do at home. But when your 
 plans are settled, let me know, and on 
 what day you will start." 
 
 As he was walking away, Madame 
 d'Auban called him back. He waved 
 his hand with a kind smile, but went 
 on ; and her husband said : 
 
 " He is anxious to get home, dearest ; 
 and I want to talk to you." 
 
 " What is the matter, Henri ? What 
 does M. Perrier say ? Oh ! I am sure 
 there is something amiss; I see it in 
 your face. For God's sake, what is it ? 
 Nothing that will separate us ? I can 
 bear any thing but that." 
 
 " Not now, not at present, if you will 
 come with me to New Orleans, where 
 I must go at once. M. Perrier has re- 
 ceived information that a general ris- 
 ing of the Indian tribes is to take place 
 on the 15th of December that they 
 have planned a general massacre of the 
 French. If the Governor had not re- 
 ceived timely notice of this conspiracy, 
 the whole colony must have perished. 
 Now there will be time to avert the 
 danger. He wishes me to come to him 
 as soon as possible. He says my long 
 intimate knowledge of the Indians 
 will be of great service at this moment, 
 when the lives of Frenchmen and the 
 fate of the colony hang on a thread. 
 Now, dearest wife, what do you think 
 we should do? For the present we 
 run no danger in remaining here. So 
 many of the Illinois are Christians, 
 that there is no danger of their rising 
 against us." 
 
 Madame d'Auban did not answer at 
 once. She walked onwards a few steps 
 into the garden, which had grown 
 beautiful under her care. She looked at 
 the majestic river, the pine forest, the 
 grove of tulip-trees, and all the familiar 
 features of the much-loved scene where 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 127 
 
 for ten years she had been happy ; and 
 then, turning to her husband, said the 
 'same words he had uttered a moment 
 before : 
 
 " Our long honeymoon is at an end ! " 
 
 "But our love . . . ?" he tenderly 
 whispered : 
 
 " Is holier, deeper, stronger than 
 ever," she fervently exclaimed. " Do 
 not be sorry for me, Henri ; all will be 
 right if only you will take us with 
 you." . 
 
 " That is indeed what I wish ; I am 
 not afraid of our poor Indians. But 
 who knows what might happen if they 
 were attacked by more powerful neigh- 
 bours." 
 
 "And if we were ever so safe if we 
 could live on in peace whilst others 
 were struggling and perishing around 
 us, we would not accept of such peace 
 as that, Henri. It is your duty to go. 
 It is mine to follow you. If there is 
 danger, let us meet it together." 
 
 "Ah, madame! I thought such 
 would be your wish. There is no doubt 
 that I ought to obey M. Perrier's sum- 
 mons, and assist in every way I can in 
 this emergency. I own I could not 
 endure to lea,ve you and our daughter 
 behind. But I am also very reluctant 
 to drag you back into the world you 
 have so much reason to abhor." 
 
 " I fear nothing but to leave you. 
 And may I not be of use, also, in the 
 hour of danger ? You have taught me 
 to work, my Henri : you can also show 
 me how to suffer and to dare." 
 
 " I have no doubt you may be of the 
 greatest use, dearest wife. "We may, 
 indeed, be called upon to take a part 
 in this struggle a terrible one, I fear 
 for evil passion's will be engaged on 
 both sides." 
 
 A shade of anxiety passed over her 
 face. 
 
 " At New Orleans there are so many 
 Europeans. Is there no danger of my 
 being recognized ? " 
 
 " Not much, I think, after the lapse 
 of ten years, and when you appear there 
 as my wife. But we must be cautious 
 how we proceed, and at first you must 
 live in retirement at the Ursuline Con- 
 vent, perhaps, if I have to leave you 
 for a while. I would rather you were 
 not identified even with Madame de 
 Moldau." 
 
 " A likeness may strike people, but 
 nothing more, I should hope. We 
 sometimes forget, dearest, how incredi- 
 ble a true history may be ; and every 
 day makes me less like my old self." 
 
 D'Auban smiled, and thought the 
 lapse of time did not make her a whit 
 less beautiful. She was at thirty -three, 
 though in a different way, just as lovely 
 as at nineteen. 
 
 "Then you will be ready to go as 
 soon as I can arrange about a boat and 
 engage rowers. The sooner we set off 
 the better. Father Maret will go with 
 us, I think. How little we thought, 
 when he was talking just now of his 
 journey, that we should be his com- 
 panions! The descent of the river is 
 of course a far easier thing than its 
 ascent. Still it is tedious enough. But, 
 please God,- we may return here in a 
 few months. "We must look forward 
 to that, my dearest wife." 
 
 " I dare not think of it, Henri. For 
 some time past I have had a presenti- 
 ment that we were a great deal too 
 happy here happier than people 
 usually are. I felt certain a change 
 was at hand. For the last few days I 
 have had ringing in my ears some lines 
 a traveller carved with a penknife on 
 a plank in Simon's barge." 
 
 " Oh ! my superstitious darling," ex- 
 claimed d'Auban, fondly and reproach- 
 fully, " will you never give up believing 
 in presentiments ? What are the lines 
 you mean ? " 
 
 And if, midway through life ft storm should 
 
 rise 
 Amidst the dark'ning seas and flashing skies, 
 
128 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE' TRUE. 
 
 With faith unshaken and with fearless eye, 
 Thy task would be to teach me how to die. 
 
 "And you would teach me to die, 
 Henri, as you have taught me to 
 live." 
 
 " I will teach you anything you like, 
 my own love, but I don't see any par- 
 ticular prospect of death just now. And 
 I look forward to gathering plenty of 
 strawberries next summer from the 
 plants we set this morning. It is a 
 great blessing we have an overseer we 
 can trust. Jean Dubois will look after 
 our affairs as well as I could myself 
 Antoine will come with us, I suppose. 
 And now go and tell Mina of the jour- 
 ney she is about to take." 
 
 " Henri," she said, turning back again 
 as she was going into the house, " do 
 you know what a feeling of relief it is 
 'when Providence decides a question 
 long debated in one's conscience? I 
 have often thought our life here was 
 like paradise for you and myself, but 
 that a change might be good for Mina ; 
 and then I scarcely ever hear now any 
 thing of that other poor child. There 
 may be duties to perform towards him 
 yet. I had never courage to say this ; 
 but, now God calls us away, I feel it is 
 right. Perhaps He is doing for me 
 what I had not strength to do for my- 
 self." 
 
 " Thank God you see it in that light, 
 dearest ; but you should have told me 
 you had those scruples." 
 
 " Oh, Henri ! It is easier to accept 
 than to seek suffering." 
 
 It was not quite in d'Auban's nature 
 to feel this. Courage in endurance 
 rather than in action is in general a 
 woman's characteristic. 
 
 When it was known in the settlement 
 that the inhabitants of St. Agathe were 
 about to depart, though only for a few 
 months, there was a general feeling of 
 dismay. Not only the Black Robe was 
 going, but the White Chief and his wife 
 and child. It was a public calamity, 
 
 and crowds came to St. Agathe to as 
 certain if it were true. 
 
 Mina assembled her friends on the 
 lawn and made them a parting speech. 
 She said she was going to the south, 
 like the birds they used to watch pre- 
 paring for their yearly flight, and that 
 like them she would return when the 
 winter had come and gone. She was 
 sorry to go, and she carried away in 
 her heart all her Indian brothers and 
 sisters. She would bring them back 
 gifts from the city of the white men : 
 golden balls, such as Simon sometimes 
 carried in his barge, and pictures like 
 those in the church, only so small that 
 they could hold them in their hands 
 and sweetmeats -more delicious than 
 maple-tree sugar. But she should not 
 stay with the white people, she did not 
 like white children she could not help 
 being white herself, it was not her 
 fault : the lilies could not make them- 
 selves red like roses, if they wished it 
 ever so much : she must be white wheth- 
 er she liked it or not." Here the little 
 orator paused, and one of the Indian 
 children answered 
 
 " We love your whiteness, little Lily ; 
 we should not love a red rose half so 
 well. We should not think you so 
 pretty if you were brown like us. But 
 when you play with white children in 
 the land where golden balls hang 
 amidst shining leaves, do not love them 
 as you love us ; they will not love you 
 as we do. You will get tired of golden 
 balls and sweetmeats. You will long 
 for the forests and the prairies. You 
 will not complain, for the daughter of 
 a chief never complains, even if the 
 enemy tears out her heart. But you 
 will die if you do not come back to us? 
 and then we shall not see you till we 
 go to the land of the hereafter." 
 
 In a very few days d'Auban's arrange- 
 ments were completed, a small amount 
 of luggage stowed in the barge he had 
 engaged, and a mattress placed at one 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 129 
 
 end of it for his wife and daughter. 
 He took with him a fowling piece, a 
 pair of pistols in case of danger, and 
 also some provisions; for he did not 
 wish to stop at the Indian villages oft- 
 ener than was necessary. He hoped to 
 kill game as he went along, and so eke 
 out their supplies till they arrived at 
 New Orleans. As to Father Maret, his 
 breviary was the heaviest portion of 
 his luggage. They started on a beau- 
 tiful October morning. St. Agathe was 
 in its greatest beauty. Madame d'Au- 
 ban fixed her eyes wistfully on the pa- 
 vilion as the barge glided away, and took 
 leave of it in the silence of her heart. 
 She squeezed tightly the little hand 
 clasped in her own. Mina's regrets 
 were for the moment swallowed up in 
 the excitement of the journey, and when 
 the boat began to move she clapped her 
 hands with joy. 
 
 The descent of the stream, as d'Au- 
 ban had said, was far less trying than 
 its ascent; still it had its difficulties, 
 its sufferings, and its dangers. In some 
 places it was difficult to steer the boat 
 amidst the floating masses of rotten 
 wood and decaying vegetation which 
 impeded its progress. Sometimes a 
 cloud of musquitoes darkened the air 
 and inflicted the greatest torment on 
 the travellers. They had to step on 
 shore now and then to get provisions 
 and purer water than that of the river. 
 If they landed amidst the brushwood 
 they were obliged to light fires for fear 
 of serpents. The sun was very hot and 
 the nights sometimes cold. They hur- 
 ried on as much as they could, without 
 feeling any considerable amount of anx- 
 iety ; still they could not but long for 
 the journey to end. Now and then 
 they exchanged a few words with some 
 of the natives on the banks of the 
 river. They seemed in general well 
 disposed, and nothing in their lan- 
 guage or their looks gave the least 
 intimation that events such as M. 
 9 
 
 Perrier anticipated were really im- 
 pending. 
 
 One evening the rowers had slack- 
 ened their speed, they were lying on 
 their oars and the boat gently drifting 
 with the current, when on a promon- 
 tory a little ahead of them appeared 
 two persons, who hailed them as they 
 approached, and made signs they wish- 
 ed them to stop. They turned out to 
 be Frenchmen from the settlement of 
 the Natches, who were on the look-out 
 for Father Maret. They had heard 
 that a priest was on his way to New 
 Orleans. Father Souel had gone some 
 weeks before to the district of the 
 Yasous. Two or three persons had 
 fallen ill since and were lying on their 
 death-beds in great need of spiritual 
 assistance. The next day happened 
 to be a Sunday, and the French, to- 
 gether with a few native Christians, 
 had commissioned these deputies to 
 entreat the stranger priest to tarry for 
 a few hours to say Mass for them, and 
 to minister to the sick and dying. 
 D'Auban did not much like the idea 
 of this delay, but the need was so 
 urgent that he did not feel himself 
 justified in refusing his assent. The 
 boat was accordingly moored to the 
 shore and a single rower left in charge 
 of it. The travelling party, escorted 
 by the messengers, proceeded to the 
 city of the Natches, where Christians 
 from the neighbouring habitations 
 had met and were awaiting Father 
 Maret's arrival. 
 
 Mina was enchanted to land, after 
 so many weary days' confinement in 
 the boat, to run on the grass and to 
 climb the hill which stood between 
 the river and the beautiful plain in 
 which the tribe of the Sun for so the 
 Natches called themselves had built 
 their city, or rather the immense vil- 
 lage, the huts of wliich were scattered 
 amidst groves of acacias and tulip- 
 trees. In the centre of a square stood 
 
130 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the palace of the Sun, or chief, of the 
 nation. Opposite to it was the abode 
 of the female Sun, mother of the heir- 
 apparent. It was only as to size that 
 these palaces differed from the other 
 huts. All the houses were composed 
 of one story. They were roofed with 
 thatch interwoven with leaves. The 
 halls were hung with mats of a fine 
 texture and embroidered in various 
 colours. The day was waning as the 
 travellers approached the city. Torches 
 of blazing pine-wood, fixed at certain 
 distances, and carried about in the 
 hands of the inhabitants, threw a red 
 light over the scene, which heightened 
 its picturesque effect. Mina's delight 
 knew no bounds. It was like Fairy- 
 land opening to her sight. New and 
 beautiful flowers seemed to grow on 
 every side, and the golden fruit on the 
 trees, mingling with white blossoms, 
 filled her with admiration. She saw, 
 for the first time, regular gardens and 
 alleys symmetrically planted. All the 
 gorgeous beauty of southern vegeta- 
 tion united to a degree of civilization 
 she had never before witnessed. 
 
 The party was received at the door 
 of Father Souel's hut by his only ser- 
 vant, an old negro, who clapped his 
 hands with joy at the sight of a black- 
 robe. He explained in broken French 
 all the chief of prayer would have to 
 do, and, with scarce a moment's delay, 
 Father Maret hastened to the huts of 
 the sick persons he named to him. 
 D'Auban in the mean time went to 
 visit some of the neighbouring French 
 colonists. He found them unconscious 
 of any approaching danger, and did 
 not think it prudent to communicate^ 
 to them the intelligence he had re- 
 ceived from M. Perrier. Circumstan- 
 ces might have changed since his 
 letter had been written, and, in any 
 case, a panic amongst the Europeans 
 would only have been likely to pre- 
 cipitate a collision with the natives. 
 
 In a very short time now, he would be 
 able to confer with the governor of 
 the colony on the necessary precautions 
 to be taken for the protection of the 
 Europeans. One person mentioned 
 that, a short time ago,' a deputation 
 from the chief had gone to M. Chepar, 
 the commander of the neighbouring 
 fort, to remonstrate on some harsh 
 measures which the Natches complain- 
 ed of. There had been a great deal 
 of mutual irritation at that time,- 
 which now appeared to have subsided. 
 Apprehensions, however, were enter- 
 tained of ill-will towards the French 
 on the part of the Dacotahs, a fierce race, 
 often at war with its neighbours, and 
 supposed to be hostile to the colonists. 
 
 M. des Ursins, the owner of one of 
 the principal concessions in this dis- 
 trict, described the Natches as a clever, 
 cunning, but effeminate people, who 
 would never venture on any daring act, 
 or do more than strive to outwit their 
 neighbours and cheat them in their 
 bargains. " They have had, however," 
 he added, laughing, " the worst of it 
 just now in a transaction of this sort. 
 Their hunters, which comprise, as you 
 know, almost all the men of the tribe, 
 are preparing for the winter season, 
 and have been at the fort haggling 
 with the officers about a purchase of 
 guns and powder. In their eagerness 
 to outbid each other they overdid their 
 offers, and, I believe, our people made 
 a good thing of it, and secured an im- 
 mense supply of fowls, Indian corn, 
 and provisions of all sorts." 
 
 "How far is it from here to the 
 fort?" asked d'Auban, who had lis- 
 tened thoughtfully to these details. 
 
 " About a league. The commandant 
 will be delighted to see you, and to 
 have an opportunity of sending a letter 
 by safe hands to the governor." 
 
 " Perhaps it would be as well that I 
 should see him. Where does the pere 
 Souel say mass when he is here ? " 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 131 
 
 "When the weather is fine, in the 
 open air; or in the winter or rainy sea- 
 son, in a hut which is ill-fitted for a 
 chapel. There are not a great many 
 Christians here, you know. We have 
 no regular resident missionary, and 
 no school. There have been fewer 
 converts amongst the Natches than 
 amongst any other tribe, I believe, with 
 which Europeans have had relations. 
 They are more attached to their form 
 of worship than the other Indians. We 
 colonists are not an edifying set, as 
 you well know, so that it cannot be 
 said that religion flourishes here. Still, 
 we like to hear Mass now and then. 
 We have not turned quite heathens. 
 So, au revoir; to-morrow in the field 
 behind the hut, where, I believe, you 
 are staying." 
 
 D'Auban walked back to the village. 
 The moon was shedding her pale light 
 on the trembling foliage of the acacias, 
 the large tulip leaves rustled in the 
 night breeze, and the magnolias emitted 
 their incense-like odour. 
 
 As he approached the outskirts of 
 the city, something white came running 
 swiftly towards him, and, before he 
 had time to recognize her, Mina threw 
 herself into his arms. 
 
 "Child!" he exclaimed, with the 
 sort of anger which anxiety gives, 
 "What are you doing, here? Why 
 have you left your mother ? " 
 
 " We both fell asleep when you went 
 away, but I woke up in a little while. 
 It was dull to lie down doing nothing 
 when' the moon was shining so bright- 
 ly ; I thought I would steal out quite 
 softly, without disturbing my mother, 
 and gather, in the field behind the 
 house, some flowers to put on the altar 
 to-morrow morning ; I have seen some 
 vases in Pere Scud's room like those 
 we have at home." 
 
 " You should not have left the hut 
 alone, Mina," said her father, taking 
 her by the hand, 
 
 "I have got these beautiful red 
 flowers, papa, and I met some friends 
 in that field." 
 
 " Friends ! What friends ? " 
 
 " Two Indian boys, papa, with dark 
 black eyes and long hair hanging down 
 their backs, and bright feathers round 
 their heads, and belts embroidered 
 with red silk about their waists. The 
 moment they saw me, one of them 
 came and spoke to me, in a language a 
 little like my own, but not quite the 
 same. Yet I understood what he said. 
 He asked if I was his little sister who 
 had gone some time ago to the land 
 of the hereafter. I shook my head, 
 and then the other boy said: 'Your 
 sister's skin was of the colour of the 
 leaves which fall in autumn, and her 
 eyes like the berries we gather on the 
 guava bushes. But this is a daughter 
 of the white men with a neck like 
 snow and eyes of the colour of the sky.' 
 But the other answered : ' I am sure 
 she is not a child of the white men. 
 She is not like any child I have ever 
 seen, and I should like to have her for 
 my own. I think she comes from the 
 great blue salt lake which some of our 
 people speak of, or from some cloud in 
 the sky.' " 
 
 " What did you say to them, Mina ? " 
 asked her father, clasping her hand 
 still tighter, with a vague sense of 
 uneasiness. 
 
 " I told them I was an Indian child, 
 father, and that I was born in a land a 
 great way off, which belonged to anoth- 
 er tribe, and that the Indians I loved 
 were Christians. Then they told me 
 that they were children of the sun, and 
 one of them touched my hair, and said 
 that a ray of sunshine had turned it 
 into gold, and the other asked to look 
 at my little crucifix this one round 
 my neck. He said something about 
 the black-robe chief of prayer, and then 
 spoke in a low voice to the other, who 
 asked me my name. I said it was 
 
132 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Wenouah, the Lily of the Prairie. They 
 gave me these flowers, which I was not 
 tall enough to gather myself. Will 
 they not look beautiful on the altar, 
 these bright red flowers ? " 
 
 D'Auban smoothed and stroked her 
 head, and hurried towards the hut. 
 The evening was beautiful ; the scenery 
 enchanting; the air soft and balmy; 
 but he felt ill at ease. There seemed 
 to him a heavy weight in the atmos- 
 phere. Perhaps it was only his fancy. 
 Perhaps a storm was gathering. A 
 few dark clouds were lying over the 
 mountains to the westward. The lights 
 from the pine-wood torches in the 
 town were brighter than ever. Groups 
 of Indians were scattered about 
 amongst the trees, some playing at 
 active games, some sitting in circles 
 round men who were soothsaying and 
 telling fortunes, after the manner of 
 their tribe. From the trees hung cra- 
 dles, in which infants were rocked to 
 sleep by the evening breeze. At the 
 fountain in the middle of the square, 
 maidens were filling their wooden 
 pitchers. Serene, lovely, and very 
 picturesque was the aspect of that In- 
 dian city as the moon rose high in the 
 dark-blue sky, as the light of myriads 
 of stars shamed the brightness of the 
 pine-wood torches. Strange it was 
 that precisely at that moment a fit of 
 home sickness came over d'Auban such 
 as he had never felt in the wilder 
 northern regions he had so long inhab- 
 ited. But in this hour of serene beauty, 
 in this spot of luxuriant loveliness, he 
 thought, with a pang that seemed to 
 cause him absolute physical pain, of 
 the smell and feeling of the briny, 
 damp westerly wind as it used to blow 
 in his face on the heights of Keir Anna ; 
 and of the bold, brave men who had 
 carried him on their shoulders in the 
 days of his childhood. He longed for 
 his native land; for a glimpse of its 
 cloudy sky, with a feverish longing 
 
 like that of a dying man on the battle 
 field for a glass of cold water. He 
 turned away with loathing from the 
 sight of the fair Indian valley studded 
 with white huts and gleaming with 
 lights which glowed amidst the olean- 
 ders like the fire-flies in the groves of 
 Italy, and hurried to the hut, where 
 his wife had just started up from the 
 profound sleep of fatigue, and missed 
 Mina from her side. At that moment 
 Father Maret came in also. He had 
 been visiting the sick ever since his 
 arrival, and administered the last sacra- 
 ments to two or three who were dying. 
 
 " To-morrow morning," he said, " I 
 shall have to go and give Communion 
 to an old Christian sachem at some dis- 
 tance from the village, and as soon as I 
 return I must say Mass in the field be- 
 hind this hut. Almost all the Chris- 
 tians will come. We can depart imme- 
 diately afterwards." 
 
 " The boys who gave me the bright 
 red flowers will be there," said Mina ; 
 "they told me so. They said, 'We 
 will take care of you to-morrow, little 
 sister of the children of the sun. We 
 will take you to our mother.' " 
 
 "What did they say?" said d'Au- 
 ban, sharply; "repeat their words 
 exactly." Mina did so, and then said : 
 " Father, do let us stay another day in 
 this beautiful village." 
 
 " God forbid," murmured d'Auban. 
 " This place kills me. The very smell 
 of the flowers seems to poison the air. 
 I never hated any spot so much. Now 
 let us try to eat something, and then get 
 to sleep." 
 
 Soon the mother and the child were 
 slumbering quietly side by side on a 
 mat, with some cloaks for pillows. 
 Father Maret took his breviary out of 
 his pocket, and said : " It has been a 
 good day's work, my dear d'Auban. 
 What a blessed thing it is to help a 
 poor soul on its way to eternity ! 
 Thank God we stopped here. It has 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 133 
 
 ot been in vain. Several Christians 
 would have died without the sacra- 
 ments if His Providence had not con- 
 ducted us to this place." 
 
 " You look quite worn out," said 
 d'Auban. " Surely you will not say 
 four office now : you will take some rest?" 
 
 " It will be time enough to rest to- 
 morrow," answered the priest, with the 
 
 smile which his friends knew so well, 
 and which lighted up his pale face at 
 that moment with more than usual 
 brightness. Long did d'Auban remem- 
 ber those words, and the smile which 
 accompanied them. For some minutes 
 he watched the priest saying his office, 
 and then his own eyelids closed, and he 
 fell asleep. 
 
 CHAPTEK II. 
 
 Woe, woe to the Bone of Gaul ! 
 
 They were gathered, one and all, 
 
 To the harvest of the sword, 
 
 And the morning sun, with a quiet smile, 
 
 Shone out over hill and glen. 
 
 Aye the sunshine sweetly smiled, 
 As its early glance came forth, 
 
 It had no sympathy with the wild 
 And terrible things of earth. Whither. 
 
 Odours of orange flowers and spice 
 Beached them from time to time, 
 
 Like airs that breathe from Paradise 
 Upon a world of crime. Longfellow. 
 
 BEFORE the sun had risen, just as a 
 faint ray of light was dawning in the 
 east, Father Maret was on his way to 
 the hut of the old sachem, whom he 
 had promised to visit that morning. 
 When he arrived there a noble-looking 
 Indian boy opened the door for him, 
 and pointed to the couch where the 
 sick man was lying. Whilst the priest 
 was administering the last sacraments 
 to the sachem, he went out of the hut, 
 and stood there gazing, with folded 
 arms and mournful brow, at the sky, 
 from which the stars were gradually 
 disappearing. 
 
 When the Father was preparing to 
 take leave of the old man, he detained 
 him and said, " Good Father, call my 
 son Ontara ; I would fain speak to him 
 
 in your presence, and make him my 
 parting gift. He is one of the sons of 
 the Woman Chief; his father was a 
 famous warrior who died in the war 
 with the Choktaws. He has been as a 
 son to me since the time I carried him 
 in my arms, and taught him to shoot 
 and to swim. He is good, and the 
 Great Spirit sends him higher and bet- 
 ter thoughts than to other youths of 
 his age. But he believes not yet in the 
 Christian prayer. The words I have 
 spoken to him have fallen unheeded on 
 his ear, like the seed scattered on the 
 hard rock. But I will give him this 
 crucifix, which the Black Robe of the 
 Yasous gave me when I was a prisoner 
 amongst that tribe, and he will keep it 
 for the love of Outalissi, till the day 
 
134 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 when the voice of the Great Spirit 
 speaks to his soul, and he believes the 
 Christians' prayer." As he said this a 
 change came over the features of the 
 old man, and the priest, who saw that 
 death was at hand, hastened to summon 
 the boy. His dark fearless eyes fixed 
 themselves on the face of the dying 
 sachem, who said : 
 
 "My son, take this, my greatest 
 treasure. You will one day know its 
 value." 
 
 " Is it a manitou ? " asked the boy. 
 
 " No, my son ; it is the image of Him 
 who died upon the cross ; of the Son 
 of the Great Spirit whom Christians 
 adore." ' 
 
 " I cannot belong to the Black-robe's 
 prayer," the boy said ; " I am a child of 
 the Sun." 
 
 The old man's eyes beamed with a 
 sudden light. " My beautiful one," he 
 cried, "my hunter of the hills, the 
 Great Spirit will make thee one day 
 a fisher of men." The energy with 
 which these words were pronounced 
 exhausted the speaker ; he fell back 
 in a swoon. While the missionary 
 was striving to recall life and con- 
 sciousness to the sinking frame, the 
 boy hastily snatched the crucifix, which 
 had fallen from his hands, and hid it in 
 his bosom. 
 
 A few moments afterwards the aged 
 sachem breathed his last, and whilst 
 the priest, kneeling by the side of the 
 corpse, repeated in a low voice the 
 " Miserere," the Indian youth struck up 
 a death-song, in which were blent, with 
 great pathos, his own impassioned re- 
 grets, praises of the dead, and previ- 
 sions as to the destiny of the departed 
 spirit in the islands of the blessed, in 
 the kingdom of the hereafter. The 
 hour which had been fixed upon for 
 Mass was arrived. Madame d'Auban 
 and the Pere Souel's negro servant had 
 arranged the altar on the greensward 
 behind the hut : a sort of plain which 
 
 extended from the village to the forest. 
 Mina had ornamented it with nosegays 
 of red and white flowers, and festoons 
 of the trailing vine. The Pere Maret 
 returned just before the appointed time. 
 He had to hear confessions before be- 
 ginning the Holy Sacrifice, and stayed 
 in the hut for that purpose. Mean- 
 while the French colonists and a small 
 number of Indian converts emerged 
 from the shadowy depths of the neigh- 
 bouring groves, and seated themselves 
 upon the grass. Men, women, and chil- 
 dren were there. Even the least reli- 
 gious amongst the emigrants felt a 
 pleasure at the thought of hearing Mass 
 again. 
 
 At last the Pere Maret came out of 
 the hut with his vestments on, and the 
 people knelt down before the altar. 
 He began by reading some prayers in 
 French ; then he preached a short ser- 
 mon. D'Auban, who was to serve his 
 Mass, was standing a little behind him. 
 He saw that the congregation was still 
 gradually increasing; more and more 
 Indians were approaching from various 
 directions ; quietly, unobtrusively, they 
 drew near. There was no sound of 
 feet on the smooth grass. They stood 
 in a respectful attitude, motionless like 
 statues ; rank after rank of these sable 
 forms ranged themselves around the 
 worshippers'; not a footfall, not a whis- 
 per was heard ; it was like the snow- 
 drift which accumulates noiselessly in 
 the silence of night ; nothing was heard 
 but the voice of the preacher. When 
 the sermon was ended, and he had given 
 his blessing, he turned towards the altar. 
 D'Auban glanced at the spot where his 
 wife and his child were kneeling, with 
 their heads bowed down to receive that 
 blessing, and in that one glance he took 
 in the aspect of the whole field ; it was 
 now crowded with Indians; not one 
 spot was left unoccupied, not one issue 
 open. The Pere Maret began Mass. 
 
 " Judica me, Deus, et discerne cau- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 135 
 
 earn meara de gentc non sancta. Ab 
 homine iniquo et doloso erue me." 
 With what a strange force and mean- 
 ing those words fall on d'Auban's car ! 
 The alternate sentences are uttered. 
 The Confiteor is said, first by the priest, 
 and then ty the server in the name of 
 the people. Then the priest goes up to 
 the altar, first to the right side to read 
 the Introit, a short passage from the 
 Scriptures ; then to the centre, to cry 
 out for mercy for himself and others. 
 " Kyrie Eleyson," he says. " Kyrie 
 Eleyson," answers the server. Ay ! 
 God have mercy on them both ! God 
 have mercy on all present ! 
 
 A shot is fired, and the priest falls 
 upon the flowery sod at the foot of the 
 altar, beneath the cloudless sky, in the 
 bright sunshine, robed in his white vest- 
 ments ; like a soldier on duty struck 
 down at his post. D'Auban's first 
 movement is towards him. He kneels 
 by his prostrate form. The wound is 
 mortal; life ebbing fast. One last 
 word the dying man struggles to utter. 
 D'Auban puts his ear close to his lips. 
 " The young Indian, Ontara," he whis- 
 pers, and then he breathes a sigh and 
 dies. When d'Auban raised his head 
 the scene before him was one of wild 
 and horrible confusion; the work of 
 slaughter had begun. A cry of despair 
 burst from him. Paralyzed one mo- 
 ment by the hopelessness of the calam- 
 ity, he stood like one transfixed, his 
 eyes turned towards the spot where he 
 had last seen the treasures of his heart ; 
 the next he made a desperate rush in 
 that direction, but crowds of armed In- 
 dians encircled him on every side. The 
 shrieks of the murdered were in his 
 ears. The bodies of his dead country- 
 men flung at his feet. "Kill him," 
 cried the Indian who seemed to com- 
 mand the rest. " Kill the companion 
 of the Black Robe ! Destroy every 
 Frenchman 1 Slay every white man I 
 Let not one escape to tell the fate of 
 
 the others 1 But do not kill the women 
 and children; the Great Sun of our 
 tribe orders that they shall be kept as 
 slaves." D'Auban caught the sense 
 of these words, and though his brain 
 seemed on fire, he was in the full pos- 
 session of his senses. Quick as light- 
 ning the thought struck him, that to 
 surrender his life at that moment was 
 to doom his loved ones to hopeless 
 misery. If God gave him strength to 
 make his escape, help might yet be ob- 
 tained. To save himself was to save 
 them. The blood rushed back to his 
 heart, and strength returned to his 
 limbs. With a wordless prayer to the 
 God of Samson and of Joshua, and a 
 passionate invocation to the Immacu- 
 late Mother, he dashed his powerful 
 frame against his numberless foes, and 
 made his way through the infuriated 
 crowd, who shrunk back appalled by 
 his apparently superhuman strength. 
 Once, when surrounded and all but 
 overwhelmed by a rush of assailants, 
 a young Indian sprang upon him, and 
 seemed about to drag him down to the 
 earth ; but, by a sudden movement, he 
 threw himself back on his advancing 
 countrymen, checked them for an in- 
 stant, and opened for d'Auban a pas- 
 sage through their ranks. During the 
 instant he had grappled with him he 
 whispered in his ear, " Do not fear for 
 the white woman and her child ; Onta- 
 ra will protect them." With a speed 
 which baffled even the swift-footed 
 Indians, d'Auban ran towards the river, 
 and sprang into the canoe of the barge 
 with which one of his boatmen had 
 remained the night before. Cutting 
 with a knife the rope that fastened it 
 to the shore, both began to row for 
 their lives. The natives pursued them. 
 They had boats also. They had sworn 
 by the great Sun that not a white man 
 should escape. Arrows whizzed in the 
 ears of the pursued, and the savages 
 were gaining upou them. For one in- 
 
136 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 stant it was a desperate expedient 
 d'Auban laid down the oars, and 
 seized the fowling-piece lying at the 
 bottom of the barge. He levelled it at 
 them. The pursuers, terrified at the 
 sight of the gun, dashed aside and 
 slackened their speed. He loaded the 
 piece and fired. " It is a phantom 
 boat," cried the Indians, "no mortal 
 man could row so fast ! " and they 
 turned back. After some hours, dur- 
 ing which d'Auban had to keep up, by 
 promises and encouragements, the cour- 
 age of the man who shared with him 
 the desperate exertions of those fearful 
 moments, he laid down his oars, and 
 steered to the shore. 
 
 " Is this the way to the French fort ? " 
 asked his companion, who supposed 
 they were making for Baton Rouge. 
 
 " No," answered d'Auban ; " by this 
 time the French at the fort are probably 
 massacred. But hence we can proceed 
 to the district of the Choktaws, a tribe 
 which hates the Natches, and to whom 
 the tale we have to tell will be like the 
 sound of their own war-cry. You may 
 follow or leave me as you please. Nay, 
 you had better take the boat, and carry 
 the intelligence of the massacre to the 
 first European settlement you can reach, 
 and tell the commander or the resident, 
 whoever he may be, in the name of hu- 
 manity, to concert with his neighbours 
 immediate measures of relief for the 
 captives." 
 
 Then d'Auban plunged into the 
 woods, and hurried on his way to a 
 village of Choktaw Indians not far 
 from the stream. There he made an 
 appeal to the inhabitants, and with 
 their own sort of wild eloquence called 
 upon them to rise and follow him to 
 the rescue of the wives and children of 
 the white tribe. The flame which his 
 words kindled spread from wigwam to 
 wigwam, awakening the fierce antipa- 
 thies of race as well as rousing the sym- 
 pathy of men whose hearts were stirred 
 
 within them by the expressions of an- 
 guish which broke forth from a heart 
 torn by conflicting emotions of hope 
 and of terror. The appeal of the white 
 man was heard. The chief of the tribe 
 rose like a lion from his lair; seven 
 hundred warriors gathered round his 
 standard, and, with tomahawk in hand, 
 marched under d'Auban's guidance 
 across the pathless savannah and the 
 primaeval forest, towards the sunny 
 plain where the Natches were triumph- 
 ing over the slaughter of the white men, 
 and insulting the pale women and the 
 scared children of the murdered French. 
 
 It took days to prepare, days to ef- 
 fect this march; days that were like 
 centuries of anguish ; days during which 
 d'Auban's hair turned white, and lines 
 were stamped on his forehead which 
 time never effaced. 
 
 When Madame d'Auban had seen 
 the Pere Maret fall, she had risen to 
 her feet, and stretched her arms tow- 
 ards her husband, whom she had caught 
 sight of for an instant supporting the 
 form of the dying priest. But soon she 
 could discern nothing more amidst the 
 dreadful scene which ensued. She 
 could only, in a half-kneeling, half-sit- 
 ting posture, clasp her child to her 
 breast, and listen with a cold shudder 
 to the shrieks of the dying and the 
 savage yells of the murderers. 
 
 In a short time she felt her arm grasp- 
 ed, and looking up in speechless terror 
 at the Indian who had seized it, she 
 heard him say, "You are my slave, 
 pale-faced daughter of the white man. 
 Henceforward you shall serve as the 
 black skins have served the children of 
 the Sun." 
 
 Mina, who understood the language 
 of the natives better than her mother, 
 pushed back the Indian with her little 
 hands, and cried out, " "Where is Ontara, 
 the son of the Woman Chief? Ontara ! " 
 she cried out in her childish, shrill, and 
 yet sweet voice. "Ontara! help." The 
 

 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 137 
 
 boy she thus called appeared at that 
 moment in sight. He rushed to the 
 spot where both mother and child were 
 wringing their hands, and refusing to 
 follow the Indian, whose hands were 
 dripping with blood. He flourished 
 his tomahawk over the head of the lat- 
 terbade him with a torrent of impre- 
 cations resign his captives, who were 
 the slaves, he said, of his mother the 
 Woman Chief, and making a sign to 
 Mina, he prepared to lead them away. 
 The child, less bewildered than her 
 mother, and full of confidence in the 
 protection of her playmate of the pre- 
 ceding day, whispered to her, " Come, 
 mother, come away ! They will kill us 
 if we stay here. That dreadful man 
 will come back again before my father 
 returns to help us." 
 
 Madame d'Auban rose, and, with 
 eyes glazed with despair, gazed on the 
 frightful scene the lifeless corpses, the 
 deserted altar with its red and white 
 flowers still unfaded, and the blood 
 running on all sides. 
 
 " Henri ! " she cried in a loud voice, 
 " Henri ! have they murdered you, my 
 beloved ? " Wild with grief, and drag- 
 ging Mina by the hand, she rushed to 
 the spot where the priest was lying 
 dead, and falling on her knees by the 
 lifeless form, she clasped her hands, 
 and, as if he who had been as an angel 
 of God to her on earth could still hear 
 her voice, she cried out, " O Father, 
 dear Father! where is he?" No au- 
 dible answer came from the icy lips. 
 The eyes which had looked so kindly 
 upon her in life, did not turn towards 
 her now. But from that face, calm and 
 beautiful in the serenity of death from 
 the silent lips which for so many years 
 had uttered none but words of holiness 
 and peace, an answer came in that hour 
 of distracting woe, as if speaking from 
 the grave or from the skies where the 
 pure spirit had fled. She bowed down 
 to the ground, e'en as by a martyrs 
 
 side, and reverently kissed the hand 
 which had so often blest her, and then, 
 with a great patience and a great 
 strength, she raised her eyes first to the 
 cloudless sky, and then once more on 
 that scene of horror and desolation, 
 where neither amongst the living nor 
 the dead could she see her husband. 
 
 "Fiat voluntas tua," she murmured 
 with a sublime effort of resignation, 
 always more difficult during the anguish 
 of suspense than in the hour of hope- 
 less certainty. 
 
 The Indian boy had followed them, 
 and was gazing with an unmoved coun- 
 tenance on the features of the dead. 
 " Follow me," he said, pointing to the 
 palace of his mother the Woman Chief. 
 When they had arrived there, he ushered 
 the captives into her presence. She 
 was seated on a mat surrounded by her 
 attendants. The young chief said some- 
 thing to her, and she nodded assent 
 He made a sign to Mina to approach. 
 The child looked up into the face that 
 was looking kindly upon her, and said, 
 with a burst of tears, " My father ! give 
 me back my father ! " 
 
 The Woman Chief shook her head, 
 and answered, " All the white men must 
 die. But the child of the white man 
 shall live and serve the children of the 
 Sun!" 
 
 Mina gave a piercing cry. Ontara 
 led her away, and whispered in her 
 ear, " Straight as an arrow from a bow, 
 and swiftly as a feather before the wind, 
 the White Chief has gone down the 
 river, far from the land of the Natches." 
 
 Mina ran to her mother, clasped her 
 arms round her neck, and said to her 
 in a low voice, " My father is yet alive ! 
 He is gone down the river. The young 
 chief says so." 
 
 "Then there is still hope for us," 
 murmured Madame d'Auban, as she 
 pressed her child to her heart. " God 
 is merciful I That hope makes life en- 
 durable, and for thy sake, and perhaps 
 
138 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 for his, I must try to live, my 
 Mina." 
 
 And then she, who had already 
 gone through so many and strange 
 vicissitudes, the daughter and the sis- 
 ter of princes, the spoilt child of her 
 father's little Court, the victim of the 
 fierce Czarowitz, the whilom happy 
 wife of the French colonist, began 
 that night her work as the slave of 
 her Indian captors meekly, courage- 
 ously, as one who had been schooled 
 in the lessons of the Cross. 
 
 All the wives and children of the 
 murdered Frenchmen were condemned 
 to the same doom, and in the anguish 
 of bereavement, some of them with 
 nerves and feelings almost to phrensy 
 sore, many of them without any reli- 
 gious support and consolation for a 
 great number of these European emi- 
 grants, through neglecting to practise 
 their religion, had almost lost their 
 faith found themselves in presence 
 of the greatest imaginable calamity 
 without any human prospect of re- 
 lief. 
 
 Their Indian masters exulted in 
 their presence at the tragical fate of 
 their victims, and spoke openly of the 
 massacre which was to take place on 
 a particular day, at every place where 
 there were French settlements amongst 
 all the tribes on the shores of the Mis- 
 sissipi, as far as the great lakes beyond 
 its sources, or the sea at its mouth. 
 Not one Frenchman, they boasted, 
 would survive to carry the news to 
 the land they came from. The new 
 French city, and every fort and habita- 
 tion in the country, would be levelled 
 to the ground, and the Indians who 
 had learnt the Frenchman's prayer, 
 and who tried to save the life of a 
 black robe, were to be tied to a stake 
 and burnt at a slow fire. 
 
 The usefulness of their new slaves 
 induced the savages to spare their 
 lives, and even to treat them with 
 
 some degree of humanity. This was 
 at least in most instances the case. 
 They were delighted to make the 
 European women sew and make up 
 garments for them out of the skins of 
 beasts and the pieces of cloth seized 
 at the Fort where M. Chepar and all 
 his companions had been murdered. 
 The arrival of several carts laden with 
 goods at that military station a day 
 or two before had excited the covet- 
 ousness of the chiefs and the sachems, 
 and induced them to hurry operations 
 and give the signal of murder and 
 plunder before the day appointed for 
 a simultaneous rising throughout the 
 colony. The sight of some of these 
 articles of European manufacture drew 
 tears from the eyes of the poor cap- 
 tives, who saw in them many a remem- 
 brance of their native land. Homely 
 bits of furniture ; pieces of cloth and 
 linen which bore the stamp of some 
 manufacturing town which some of 
 them had once inhabited; cups and 
 glasses and plates such as were in com- 
 mon use amongst the bourgeoisie of 
 that epoch, and many of these things 
 were wrapt up in numbers of the 
 " Mercure," or the " Gazette de France," 
 or the "Journal de Trevoux," which 
 were read with eagerness and wept 
 over by the women, before whose eyes 
 rose in those moments visions of some 
 old picturesque French town, or of 
 some valley in Provence or in Norman- 
 dy, or of the narrow streets of Paris 
 a city which always preserves a power- 
 ful hold on the affections of those who 
 have been born and bred within its 
 precincts. Dreams of its bright river, 
 its quaint buildings, sunny quays, and 
 shady gardens, have haunted an exile's 
 sleep full as often as the snowy sum 
 mits of the Swiss Alps or the golden 
 groves and myrtle bowers of Italy. 
 
 Madame d'Auban and her daughter 
 were treated gently enough, owing to 
 the protection of the young chief 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 139 
 
 Ontara. Their cleverness at needle- 
 work also obtained for them the good 
 graces of the woman Sun, who was 
 delighted to appear before her subjects 
 decked in European finery. Most of 
 their time was spent in this employ- 
 ment. They sat on the grass in a grove 
 of acacias behind the palace hut, and 
 worked several hours a day. Madame 
 d'Auban found relief in this manual 
 labour to her tormenting thoughts. 
 Mina helped her eagerly or wearily, 
 according to the mood of the moment. 
 Children cannot endure the ceaseless 
 pressure of sorrow or anxiety. When 
 the uncertainty about her father's fate 
 pressed upon her, she hid her head in 
 her mother's bosom, and gave way to 
 passionate weeping ; or when she saw 
 that mother looking pale and worn 
 and working like a slave, her zeal in 
 assisting her was unbounded. But if 
 her friends the Indian youths appeared, 
 the wish to play was irresistible. 
 
 Both the young chiefs neglected 
 other amusements, and even the more 
 serious business of hunting and fishing, 
 in order to play with the little white 
 maiden, who was to them a perfect 
 vision of beauty and delight. It was 
 a pretty sight, the fair captive child 
 sitting under a hedge of oleanders be- 
 tween her two Indian playmates, who 
 were like each other as to colouring 
 and features, but whose countenances 
 were strikingly dissimilar. There was 
 something noble and refined in Ontara's 
 person and manners a gentleness 
 which, in a European, would have 
 been thought good breeding. His 
 movements were slow and graceful, 
 and his eyes had the pensive, almost 
 mournful, expression peculiar to his 
 race. Osseo's face was a cunning one, 
 and if any thing irritated him a malig- 
 nant light gleamed in his deep-set eyes, 
 which were at those moments more 
 like those of an angry animal than of 
 a man. He was related to the royal 
 
 family, but not a son of the reigning 
 sovereign. His wonderful quickness 
 and agility had made him a favourite 
 with the young chief. They were con- 
 stant companions, and equally devoted 
 to the little white captive. 
 
 One day Ontara brought her a clus- 
 ter of the waxen blossoms of the 
 Mimosa. She wove them into a wreath, 
 and with some beautiful feathers Osseo 
 had just given her, made a crown 
 which she laughingly placed on her 
 head. A sudden gloom darkened On- 
 tara's brow, and he spoke angrily to 
 Osseo. Angry glances and gestures 
 followed. Mina instantly pulled to 
 pieces both the garland and the crown, 
 and making a nosegay of the feathers 
 and the flowers, placed it in her breast. 
 She had caught the habit of expressing 
 her thoughts by signs, and was as 
 quick as the Indians themselves in the 
 use of symbols. 
 
 Osseo pointed to the nosegay and 
 said, " The flowers will be dead and 
 drop off to-morrow, but the feathers 
 will live in the maiden's bosom till she 
 is as tall as her mother." 
 
 Again a dark look gathered over 
 Ontara's brow, but Mina hastened to 
 reply "The leaves may lose their 
 colour, but they smell sweetly even 
 when they are dry and dead. The 
 feathers never smell at all. But they 
 are very pretty," she added, with such 
 a bright smile that Osseo exclaimed : 
 
 "In your eyes, little white maiden, 
 there is a more powerful fetish than the 
 one I carry in my bosom ; " and thrust- 
 ing his hand in his breast, he showed 
 the head of a serpent. 
 
 Mina shuddered, and said that a 
 fetish was a bad thing, and that she 
 hated serpents. There was no fetish 
 in her eyes, she was certain, and no 
 serpent in her breast. 
 
 On the following morning, Osseo 
 came to the Acacia Grove, and told 
 Mina to come with him into the woods, 
 
140 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 and that lie would give her more beau- 
 tiful flowers than Ontara had brought 
 her the day before, and a bird that 
 would imitate the sound of her voice. 
 She looked wistfully at her mother, 
 for she longed to run across the fields 
 into the forest ; but Madame d'Auban 
 shook her head, and bade her sit down 
 to her work. She told Osseo that 
 Mina belonged to the woman chief, 
 and could not go out without her leave. 
 Osseo's eyes gleamed with anger, and 
 he threatened to drag the -child away. 
 He said she was his slave, and he would 
 compel her to go with him. Terrified 
 at this youth's looks and manner, Mad- 
 ame d'Auban resolved to place Mina 
 under Ontara's protection. She felt an 
 instinctive, confidence in his generous 
 nature, and knew well that if an In- 
 dian once adopts any one as his sister 
 or his child, he faithfully fulfils the 
 duties he thus assumes. So the next 
 time the young chief came to the 
 palace, she made him understand that 
 Osseo called Mina his slave, and threat- 
 ened to carry her away. " Will you 
 protect her, Ontara ? " The eyes of the 
 Indian boy had flashed fire when he 
 heard of Osseo's threats; and when 
 Mina's mother made her appeal, he 
 made a sign to them both to follow 
 him. He led the way to the assembly 
 of the sachem, and, in the presence of 
 the Sun his father, he solemnly, accord- 
 ing to the custom of his tribe, made 
 her his sister ; and as a token of this 
 adoption, he placed his hand on her 
 head, threatening at the same time, 
 with a loud voice, death to any one 
 who should molest her. " She is my 
 sister," he cried. " She has returned 
 from the land beyond the grave. She 
 went away when the leaves were falling 
 off the trees, and now she has come 
 back with the green leaves and the 
 flowers, with golden hair and sunny 
 eyes. No one shall dare to touch her. 
 She is a daughter of the Sun." 
 
 Madame d'Auban looked gratefully 
 at their young protector, and raised 
 her hand to her lips a token of friend- 
 ship which he understood. 
 
 Mina was overjoyed. "I have a 
 brother now," she cried, and threw 
 her arms round the boy's neck. There 
 was something entirely new to the In- 
 dian youth in the child's innocent affec- 
 tion, and in her way of showing it. It 
 touched a chord in his heart which had 
 never yet been moved. From that 
 moment she became dearer to him than 
 aught else on earth. Her mother's 
 trust in him, her soft kiss, and the 
 name of "brother" which she gave 
 him, made life a different thing to 
 Ontara from what it had yet been. He 
 had never shed a tear his countrymen 
 do not weep but a strange sensation 
 rose in his throat, and he turned away, 
 not understanding what it could mean. 
 
 On one of the long weary days which 
 had elapsed since that of the massacre, 
 Madame d'Auban was sitting at her 
 work on the grass near their hut. and 
 Mina by her side. A Frenchwoman, 
 who was carrying a pitcher on her 
 shoulder, stopped to speak to them on 
 her way to the well. She was the 
 widow of M. Lenoir, one of the mur- 
 dered officers at the fort, and a slave in 
 the chief's palace. 
 
 "Ah!" she exclaimed, "Another 
 companion in adversity! May I ask 
 your name, Madame ? " 
 
 " Madame d'Auban." 
 
 "Ah! Madame d'Auban the wife 
 of the . . . Should I say the late 
 Colonel d'Auban?" 
 
 It is easier under certain circumstan- 
 ces to bear positive unkindness than an 
 irreverent, well-meaning handling of a 
 throbbing wound in our hearts ; and 
 perhaps the greatest trial of all is the 
 sympathy expressed by those who think 
 their sorrows are like our sorrows, when 
 they no more resemble them than the 
 prick of a pin does the stab of a dagger. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 141 
 
 "All! "sighed Madame Lenoir. "My 
 poor dear husband 1 He would come 
 to this horrid country to make his for- 
 tune, and Fortune has played him a 
 terrible trick 1 He was one of the first 
 killed by those demons that dreadful 
 morning." 
 
 " Were you here, Madame ? and was 
 your husband also massacred ? " 
 
 Madame d'Auban felt as if she was 
 laid on the rack. " I live in hope . . ." 
 she murmured, but could not finish her 
 sentence. 
 
 "My father was not killed," said 
 Mina. " I am sure he will come back 
 and take us away." 
 
 " Ah ! M. d'Auban escaped. Je vous 
 en fais mon compliment. It was, in- 
 deed, a piece of luck. I wish my poor 
 dear husband had been as fortunate ! 
 But he was what I call an unlucky per- 
 son. If there was a possibility of get- 
 ting into a scrape or a difficulty, he 
 was always sure to do so. I used to 
 say to him, * My friend, nothing ever 
 succeeds with you. You were certainly 
 born under an unlucky star. The Fates 
 did not smile on your cradle. You 
 never do the right thing for yourself/ 
 Ah ! poor man, he used to shake his 
 head and say, ( Well, my dear, I al- 
 most think you are right. I never 
 took an important step in life that 
 I did not repent of it.' You see 
 he had great confidence in my judg- 
 ment." 
 
 " Was yours a happy marriage, my 
 dear Madame ? Oh ! pardon me, if I 
 distress you. Our common sorrows 
 for no doubt you are not quite easy 
 about your excellent husband's fate, 
 even though you are so much less to 
 be pitied than I am seem to me to 
 establish quite an intimacy between 
 us. Is this charming young lady your 
 only child, Madame ? " 
 
 Mina gave a quick glance at Madame 
 d'Auban's face. The talkative stranger 
 had trod unawares on the sacred ground 
 
 which her mother and herself never 
 approached but on their knees. 
 
 " She is my only little girl," Madame 
 d'Auban nervously said, and hastened 
 to ask " Have you any children, Mad- 
 ame Lenoir ? " 
 
 "No; and indeed I am very glad 
 of it. M. Lenoir used to regret it ; but 
 I have said to him, many times since 
 we came to this country, 'Who was 
 right on that question, M. Lenoir ? I 
 suppose you will admit that a wife is 
 quite a sufficient encumbrance, as you 
 stand at present situated ? ' ' Oh, 
 quite sufficient, my dear, quite suf- 
 ficient,' he would answer. I must do 
 him the justice to say he did not often 
 contradict me. If I had had any chil- 
 dren, I should have been dreadfully 
 afraid of their becoming like those 
 young Indian devils." 
 
 " The Indians are not all devils," cried 
 Mina. " I love the Indians." 
 
 " O fie ! mademoiselle ! Love those 
 wicked Indians who murdered the 
 good priest and my poor M. Lenoir, 
 and all the Frenchmen ! It was not 
 their fault, I suppose, that your papa 
 escaped ? " 
 
 " It was one of them that helped him 
 to escape, I know ; and I love him and 
 our brave Illinois, and the Choktaws, 
 and the Dacotahs, and many others." 
 
 " I have never heard," cried Madame 
 Lenoir, " of all those savages you speak 
 of, little lady ; but I know that, for my 
 part, I should like to see every Indian 
 burnt alive, and their horrid country 
 swallowed up in the sea." 
 
 " And I should like to see you in the 
 sea, and I should not pull you out," 
 cried Mina, choking with passion. 
 
 " Oh, you little monster ! " exclaimed 
 Madame Lenoir. 
 
 " Mina, what are you saying ? " said 
 her mother, in a severe manner. 
 
 " But, mother, why does she say such 
 wicked things ? Because there are some 
 cruel Indians, must we hate them all ? " 
 
142 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " We must not hate even the cruel 
 ones, but pity and pray for them." 
 
 "Well, pious people have strange 
 notions ! " ejaculated Madame Lenoir, 
 " and they bring up their children very 
 badly, I think. It is very extraordi- 
 nary how unfeeling devout persons are ! 
 Ah ! we cannot expect to find much 
 sensibility in those who have not known 
 what suffering is. Good evening, Mad- 
 ame d'Auban. I had hoped we might 
 have proved a comfort to each other in 
 our mutual sorrows, but " 
 
 " Do not hurry away," Madame d'Au- 
 ban kindly said. "Our trials are in- 
 deed great ; and we ought to try and 
 help each other. Do not be vexed with 
 me." 
 
 " Oh, for that matter, I have a very 
 happy disposition and a particularly 
 sociable temper. But let me advise 
 you, as a friend, not to let that little 
 lady get into the habit of talking too 
 much. One never gets rid of it in after- 
 life. And do not make a devote of her. 
 Too much religion is a bad thing for 
 children." 
 
 A faint shadow of a smile crossed 
 Madame d'Auban's lips. Meantime 
 Madame Lenoir was lifting up with 
 difficulty her heavy pitcher. 
 
 " It will be heavier still when filled 
 with water," she said, with a deep 
 sigh, " and my shoulder is already 
 aching with its weight ! But I have 
 been threatened with blows by a cross 
 old Indian, in case I do not do her 
 bidding." 
 
 The poor woman sat down on the 
 grass, weeping bitterly. It was a sel- 
 fish, uninteresting grief, but pitiful to 
 witness like the sufferings of a fly 
 crushed by a wheel. 
 
 " Ah ! there is Ontara," cried Mina, 
 clapping her hands. "Now you will 
 see that he will help me to fill your 
 pitcher. May I go to the well with 
 him, mother ? " 
 Madame d'Auban assented for the 
 
 fountain was not far off. The young 
 chief took up the pitcher, and Mina 
 
 aid her hand on the handle, to help 
 lim, as she said, to carry it. He look- 
 
 d at the little white hand with won- 
 der and admiration. He did not know 
 any thing about gloves, or he might 
 have exclaimed, like Romeo : 
 
 that I were a glove upon that hand ! 
 
 Mina talked to him eagerly as they 
 walked along; and he called her his 
 " white lily," his " beautiful Wenouah." 
 
 When they had reached the foun- 
 tain, and were letting down the pitch- 
 er into the water, she said : 
 
 " Oh ! how I do wish . ." and there 
 stopped short. 
 
 "What does my flower wish?" 
 Ontara asked. "Name thy wish, and 
 I will ask my father the Sun to give 
 thee whatsoever thou desirest." 
 
 "I do not want any thing he can 
 give me. What I wish is, to see a 
 black-robe pour water on my brother's 
 head, and speak the words which 
 would make him a Christian." 
 
 " The chief of prayer is no more. 
 I have sung his death-song in my 
 heart. He can never again speak to 
 the living." 
 
 " But there are other black-robes 
 other chiefs of prayer ? " 
 
 "They must all be killed by this 
 time. Think no more of them, little 
 dove of the white man's tribe, and 
 speak not to Ontara of the French 
 prayer. He is a child of the Sun, and 
 worships his father." 
 
 " But I know he carries a crucifix in 
 his bosom," Mina eagerly cried, point- 
 ing to the Indian's breast. 
 
 "My father, Outalissi, gave it me; 
 and for his sake I keep it close to my 
 heart." 
 
 At that moment Osseo joined them. 
 Mina was not afraid of him when her 
 new brother was by her side. He was 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 143 
 
 much excited, and cried out, as soon 
 as he saw them : 
 
 " I have discovered the fetish which 
 the great sorcerer of the Abnakis pos- 
 sessed. He told me of it some time 
 ago, and I have been searching for it 
 ever since." 
 
 " What is it ? " Ontara asked. 
 
 Osseo drew a small serpent from his 
 bosom : "I have charmed it to sleep," 
 he said, as Mina drew back affrighted. 
 " It will not wake till I bid it. This 
 fetish is so powerful that he who owns 
 it never shoots an arrow in vain, and 
 is never conquered in battle ; and when 
 he goes out hunting he brings home 
 more game than any one else." 
 
 "Throw it away, Osseo; throw it 
 away," Mina exclaimed. "It will do 
 you no good." 
 
 " And if I throw it away," said the 
 youth, with a sneer, "will the dove 
 of the white tribe nestle in my bosom." 
 
 " I will love you very much," Mina 
 answered, fixing her large bright eyes 
 on the young savage. 
 
 "Not so much as Ontara?" said 
 Osseo, with a malignant glance at the 
 young chief. 
 
 " Ontara is my brother," Mina an- 
 swered, drawing closer to her pro- 
 tector. 
 
 " And if any one dares to touch a 
 single hair of her head," cried Ontara, 
 " I will take him before the sachems, 
 and slay him where he stands." 
 
 A dark hue overspread the face of 
 the other youth ; but he made no direct 
 reply. Stroking the serpent in his 
 bosom, he said to the little girl : 
 "When five summers have come and 
 gone, you shall choose which of us you 
 will marry." 
 
 " I will not marry you, and I cannot 
 marry him," Mina answered, with sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 " Why not ? " said Ontara, quickly. 
 " You are no longer a slave, since you 
 have become my sister ; and when you 
 
 are old enough we shall stand before 
 the sachems, in the presence of the 
 Great Sun, and I will make you my 
 wife." 
 
 Mina shook her head : " The daugh- 
 ters of the white men, her parents 
 said, did not marry the sons of other 
 tribes." 
 
 " Then you will never marry at all," 
 Osseo fiercely cried. " There will not 
 be a single white man left to be your 
 husband. The Indians will kill them 
 all." 
 
 "No," Mina answered; "the great 
 God will not let them do it. He is 
 more powerful than all your fetishes." 
 
 " But not than the glorious orb which 
 the Natches adore," said Ontara, point- 
 ing to the sun, at that moment setting 
 in a bed of fiery clouds. 
 
 "The God of the Christians made 
 the sun, and the moon, and the stars," 
 Mina replied, and then she sat down 
 with the two Indians on the grass by 
 the well-side, and they talked of the 
 Natches' worship and the Christian 
 prayer. A child's simple conceptions 
 of religion were more adapted to the 
 comprehension of these uncultivated 
 minds than the teachings of older per- 
 sons. They listened eagerly to her words. 
 Each of them had fastened, as it were, 
 on the side of their false belief which 
 was most in harmony with their natural 
 tendencies. Osseo's mind was filled 
 with the gloomy superstitions of devil- 
 worship. His faith in spells and charms 
 was unbounded. He had studied the 
 secrets of magic under the most learned 
 soothsayers of the neighbouring tribes, 
 and was an adept in all the arts of 
 witchcraft. Ontara, on the contrary 
 perhaps from an instinctive preference 
 of light to darkness, and also on account 
 of his close relationship to the repre- 
 sentative of the orb of day yielded a 
 peculiar and exclusive homage to the 
 sun. It seemed to him to embody all 
 the ideas he had ever formed of bright- 
 
144 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 ness and majesty. At morn he hailed 
 its rising, at noon he prostrated him- 
 self in adoration before its dazzling 
 beams, and saluted its setting with 
 hymns of praise. Mina drew from her 
 pocket a prayer-book, and read to the 
 worshipper of the sun these verses of 
 the Psalms : 
 
 " ' The heavens show forth the glory 
 of God: and the firmament declareth 
 the work of his hands. 
 
 " ' Day to day uttereth speech : and 
 night to night showeth knowledge. 
 
 " ' There are no speeches nor lan- 
 guages where their voices are not heard. 
 
 ".' Their sound has gone forth into 
 all the earth : and their words unto the 
 ends of the world. 
 
 " ' He hath set his tabernacle in the 
 sun : and he, as a bridegroom coming 
 out of his bride-chamber, hath rejoiced 
 as a giant to run his way. 
 
 " ' His going out is from the end of 
 heaven, and his circuit even to the end 
 thereof: and there is no one that can 
 hide himself from his heat.' " 
 
 Ontara listened attentively to her 
 
 artless translation of the sublime words 
 of holy writ, and made her repeat it 
 till he learned the verses by heart. 
 Osseo caressed the serpent in his bosom, 
 and said he would belong to the Chris- 
 tian prayer if it had more powerful 
 charms than those of the Abnakis. 
 
 " When my arm has acquired its full 
 strength," he exultingly declared, " and 
 my fetish its full growth, my name will 
 become as famous as that of the great 
 Oneyda, or of the wise Hiawatha, the 
 Son of the West Wind." 
 
 A sign from her mother recalled Mina 
 to the palace; Madame d'Auban was 
 patiently listening to Madame Lenoir's 
 account of the sad manner in which 
 one of her gowns had been cut up to 
 fit it for an Indian woman. If it had 
 been an act of charity to fill her pitcher, 
 it was a greater one still to let her talk 
 of the dresses she had brought from 
 Paris. It comforted her more than 
 any thing else could have done, and she 
 went back to her hard duties soothed, 
 as she declared, by Madame d'Auban's 
 sympathy in her trials. 
 
 CHAPTEE III. 
 
 And were not these high words to flow 
 
 From woman's breaking heart ? 
 Through all that night of bitterest woe 
 
 She bore her lofty part. 
 
 The wind rose high ; but with it rose 
 
 Her voice, that they might hear; 
 Perchance that dark hour brought repose 
 
 To careless bosoms near. 
 While she stood striving with despair, 
 
 And pouring her deep soul in prayer 
 Forth on the rushing storm. 
 
 Mrs. ffemans. 
 
 ANOTHER day elapsed, and another ; 
 and each time that the sun set without . 
 any change taking place, or any rumour 
 of help from without cheering the cap- 
 
 tives' ears, it became harder for them 
 to struggle against despair. 
 
 " Mother," Mina said at last, as she 
 threw her arms round Madame d'Au- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 145 
 
 ban's neck, " may I go and look for my 
 father ? Let me slip out of the hut at 
 night when nobody will miss me, and 
 go to the country of the Choktaws, on 
 the other side of the river. I am sure 
 he is there." 
 
 "Why do you think so, Mina?" 
 eagerly asked her mother, whose head 
 had been drooping on her breast in 
 heavy despondency, whose eyes were 
 strained with watching, and whose ears 
 had grown dull by the continual effort 
 to catch a sound which might indicate 
 the approach of the French. 
 
 "My brother Ontara says so. He 
 has seen a man who told him that a 
 white chief was raising a war-cry 
 amongst the Choktaws, and that they 
 are taking up arms. He will row me 
 across the river if I can get away when 
 it is dark, because he promised to do 
 whatever I asked him ; and he says a 
 child of the sun always keeps his prom- 
 ises. He will show me which way to 
 take, and in what direction to go. He 
 cannot smoke the calumet to the Chok- 
 taws, because they are enemies of the 
 Natches ; but I am sure I shall find my 
 father, and I will bring him back with 
 ine, mother." 
 
 "They watch us too closely, Mina. 
 You know that our taskmistress sleeps 
 with her back to the door of the hut, 
 to prevent any chance of our getting 
 away. I could not let you go alone, 
 my child ; but if this young Indian is 
 indeed willing to favour our escape, I 
 should be inclined to accept his aid." 
 
 " Ah ! mother, they will not let us 
 leave the hut ; but there is a space be- 
 tween the planks just behind our mat, 
 which I have been enlarging with my 
 fingers, and by lying quite flat on the 
 ground I think I could creep out, if 
 you would give me leave." 
 
 Madame d'Auban shuddered, and 
 
 threw her arms round her child. 
 
 " Mina ! " she exclaimed with agitation, 
 
 " promise me not to stir from my side. 
 
 10 
 
 I forbid you to think of leaving me 
 not at present, at least. I must tell 
 you, my child, that a great danger 
 hangs over us. That poor foolish Mad- 
 ame Lenoir has been making a plot 
 with the black slaves against our In- 
 dian masters. It cannot succeed, and 
 if it is discovered we shall be probably 
 all doomed to death. If the worst 
 comes to the worst, I may bid you fly 
 alone. I do not think they would kill 
 you, but to leave you in their hands 
 without me would be worse than death. 
 Better that you should perish in the 
 woods seeking your father than grow 
 up amongst these savages. Mina, I may 
 not have an opportunity of speaking to 
 you again. One thing I have to say to 
 you, which you must remember as long 
 as you live. You are a Christian, and 
 the child of European parents. You 
 must never abandon your faith, and 
 you must never marry an Indian." 
 
 Mina slipt off her mother's knees and 
 stood before her, clasping her hands 
 together. 
 
 " Then I shall never marry at all, 
 mother, for I told Ontara that I could 
 not be his wife, because you say that 
 white girls must not marry their In- 
 dian brothers. But I also promised 
 him that I would never marry a white 
 man. 
 
 "That was foolish, my child," an- 
 swered her mother. "You are too 
 young to make such promises. They 
 mean nothing." 
 
 " Mother, I am sure I shall keep that 
 promise. I am sure it meant something." 
 
 Madame d'Auban felt annoyed at the 
 little girl's earnestness, even though 
 she tried to treat it as mere childish- 
 ness. It was in keeping with the 
 passionate affection she had always 
 shown for the land of her birth and its 
 native inhabitants. 
 
 " If I were to die, Mina, and you re- 
 mained alone in this country, what 
 would you do ? " 
 
146 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "I would remember all you have 
 taught me, mother, and I would try to 
 be good." 
 
 " And if they tried to make you a 
 heathen, like themselves ? " 
 
 " They should kill me first." 
 
 There was at that moment in the 
 child's face and manner so strong a 
 resemblance to her father, that it took 
 her poor mother by surprise. She 
 bowed her head on her little daughter's 
 bosom, as if seeking for support in that 
 terrible hour from the brave heart in 
 that child's breast. 
 
 Clasping each other in a mute em- 
 brace, they remained silent for an in- 
 stant, and then Madame Lenoir came 
 running towards them in wild affright. 
 
 " It is all over with us," she gasped 
 out in an agonized whisper. " It was 
 such a beautiful plot ! and to think it 
 should not have succeeded after all ! " 
 And she wrung her hands and lifted 
 up her eyes, without attending to Mad- 
 ame d'Auban's anxious questions. 
 
 " Has it merely failed ? or has it been 
 discovered ? " she tremblingly asked. 
 
 " Discovered ! Yes, of course it has 
 been discovered. One of those wretched 
 negroes has betrayed us, and now we 
 shall all be put to death. Oh ! that it 
 should have come to this, such a beau- 
 tiful plot as it was ! It put me in mind 
 of the Conjuration de Cinna at Theatre 
 Francais. The traitor ! the black mon- 
 ster ! the wretch ! . . . Madame d'Au- 
 ban, you are like a statue, like a stone ; 
 you feel nothing." 
 
 " For God's sake, be silent ; give me 
 time to think," said Mina's mother, 
 "pressing her hands to her brow. She 
 remained motionless awhile, and when 
 she lifted up her eyes Ontara was stand- 
 ing before her. He was speaking in a 
 low, rapid manner, with various gesti- 
 culations, to Mina. 
 
 "What does he say?" asked her 
 mother, who did not well understand 
 the Natches' language. 
 
 "He says that at midnight all the 
 white women and children will be 
 taken to the square in the middle of 
 the village, and each tied there to a 
 stake, and at sunrise they will burn 
 them to death. He asked the Sun, his 
 father, not to kill me, because I was 
 his little sister, and that he loves me, 
 but the Sun will not listen to him, and 
 says the white-skins must all die. And 
 I do not want to live, if they kill you, 
 mother." She threw herself into her 
 arms, and sobbed on her bosom. " But, 
 oh ! what will iny father do ? " 
 
 Again Ontara spoke urgently to the 
 weeping child. 
 
 " What does he say ? What does he 
 say ? " asked the distracted mother. 
 
 "He says if I will creep out of the 
 hut through that hole to-night, before 
 they carry us away to the square, that 
 he will wait for me outside, and take 
 me to his boat and across the river to 
 the land of the Choktaws." 
 
 Madame d'Auban raised her heart to 
 Heaven for help and for guidance. It 
 was a dreadful moment. The agony 
 of that decision was almost unbearable. 
 She fixed her eyes with a wild, implor- 
 ing expression on the young Indian's 
 face. He seemed to understand the 
 mute question, the imploring appeal. 
 Quickly he drew the crucifix from his 
 breast, made the gesture which accord- 
 ing to Indian custom signifies an oath, 
 and laid his hand on Mina's head. 
 
 Madame d'Auban knew that this 
 meant a solemn promise of protection. 
 She had seen that the boy had a good 
 heart and a noble spirit. She instinc- 
 tively found words in which to express, 
 in a way he partly understood, that she 
 would trust him; and Mina clung to 
 her, and said, "Mother, do not be 
 afraid; Ontara is good, and I will 
 bring back my father in time to save 
 you." 
 
 The shades of evening had fallen; 
 the deepest silence reigned in the hut, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 147 
 
 where the captives and the Indian 
 companions were reposing. Repose 
 strange word for such an hour of mor- 
 tal agony as one of those human beings 
 was enduring, as she lay motionless on 
 I the mat with her child by her side ! 
 She clasped her hand in her own, as if 
 to make sure she was not gone ; but go 
 she must, for the words which Ontara 
 had spoken were true, and the doom 
 of the captives had been pronounced. 
 A reckless woman's fatal imprudence 
 had done its work, and the whole tribe 
 of the Natches risen in wild fury. They 
 would have slain their victims at once, 
 had it not been that they rejoiced in 
 the anticipation of their protracted 
 sufferings. Already the European and 
 negro slaves were being dragged from 
 the huts of their masters, and led to 
 the centre of the village, where the 
 sachems were assembled. The Indians 
 were brandishing their tomahawks, 
 erecting stakes, and carrying ropes 
 wherewith to bind their victims. The 
 tramp of their feet, the sounds of wail- 
 ing from the women, and the cries of 
 children, were heard in the portion of 
 the palace where Madame d'Auban 
 was confined. She felt there was no 
 time to lose. Her lips were pressed 
 close to Mina's ear. "My child," she 
 whispered, " the time is come when I 
 must trust you to God and to your 
 guardian angel. Remember, my daugh- 
 ter, your mother's last words. Do not 
 cry, my own ; the least sob might be 
 heard. Be always good, Mina, and the 
 Blessed Virgin will be thy mother. 
 God bless thee, dearest ! Now, creep 
 away; God bless thee; God guide 
 thee ! " One long, silent, ardent, pas- 
 sionate embrace, and then, by the light 
 of the moon shining through the planks 
 of the hut, the mother watched the 
 child gliding out through the narrow 
 opening in its wall. 
 
 She was gone. Gone whither ? gone 
 with whom ? a young savage for her 
 
 guide. Had she been mad, to part 
 with her thus? Her heart almost 
 ceased to beat. She stretched herself 
 on the ground near the opening through 
 which the child had passed, and gazed 
 on the meadow illumined by the bril- 
 liant moonlight. Distinctly she dis- 
 cerned Mina's figure, bounding over 
 the dewy grass with the swiftness of a 
 young antelope, and keeping pace with 
 the Indian, who had joined her. The 
 two forms on which her strained eyes 
 were gazing, disappeared from her 
 sight. They plunged into the thickets 
 which led to the river. She turned 
 round and hid her face in the heap of 
 dried leaves on which the child's head 
 had rested a moment before, to stifle 
 the least sound from passing her lips, 
 to still, by a strong effort, the agony 
 which was convulsing her frame. 
 
 It was almost a relief when they 
 came to fetch her away from the hut. 
 No great search was made for Mina. 
 The woman who was set to guard the 
 captives said a few words to the mes- 
 sengers, which apparently accounted 
 for her absence. She made a show of 
 zeal, however, by showering reproaches 
 on Madame d'Auban, and dragging 
 her roughly to the door of the hut. 
 To the mother's heart ill-usage was 
 welcome; the sight of the stakes to 
 which women and children were being 
 bound, the cruelty of the Indians, their 
 savage glee, a strange sort of consola- 
 tion. Had her own life been spared, 
 the thought that she had sent her child 
 unguarded, save by her Indian play- 
 mate, into the wilderness, would have 
 maddened her. Now that she was 
 herself about to die, she felt she could 
 commit her without reserve to God's 
 protection; now she could murmur 
 with intense gratitude, " She is gone, 
 she is gone ; " and her mental vision 
 fixed itself with an intensity which 
 was almost like sight on the thought 
 of the crucifix on the breast of her 
 
148 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 young guide. Through the long hours 
 of that terrible night, the Christian 
 heroine bore her lofty part, and during 
 the next dreadful day, and when the 
 shades of evening .fell, and again 
 through the night, which was to be 
 the last to so many human beings 
 doomed to perish at sunrise in the 
 full light of the glorious, majestic sun, 
 the noblest of God's inanimate works, 
 the object of idolatrous worship to the 
 heathen murderers gathered around 
 them, the silent witness of men's errors 
 and men's crimes. She forgot herself; 
 she forgot her absent husband and her 
 fugitive child, in the intense, all-ab- 
 sorbing desire to prepare for death 
 and judgment her companions in ad- 
 versity ; she found strength to raise 
 her voice and speak of hope to the per- 
 ishing, of pardon to the guilty. She 
 repeated aloud acts of faith, of love, 
 and of contrition ; she said that Mary 
 was praying and Jesus waiting; that 
 one word, one sigh, one upward glance 
 was enough to win heaven in that 
 hour; and as the Indians danced, as 
 was their wont, around their victims, 
 and made the air resound with their 
 songs of savage glee, her voice still 
 rose above their discordant cries, her 
 prayers filled up every pause in their 
 dreadful merriment, and grace was giv- 
 en her to do an angel's work in the 
 midst of those breaking hearts and 
 those infuriated men. 
 
 The remaining hours of life were 
 waning fast. The prisoners were to 
 die at sunrise, and the first faint light 
 of morning was beginning to dawn in 
 the sky. Many of the Indians set to 
 guard the prisoners, who were, how- 
 ever, tightly bound to their respective 
 stakes, had fallen asleep, having large- 
 ly indulged throughout the night in 
 the "fiery essence," as they called 
 brandy, which they had brought away 
 in great quantities from the French 
 fort. Madame d'Auban was still speak- 
 
 ing, in a feeble, exhausted manner, to 
 poor Madame Lenoir, whose cries of 
 despair had subsided into weary groans, 
 when she heard a voice close behind 
 her, and turning round, as much as the 
 ropes with which she was bound allow- 
 ed, she saw Osseo, with a knife in his 
 hand, standing half concealed from 
 sight. 
 
 "Daughter of the white man," he 
 whispered, " where is Mina ? I will 
 cut these ropes and show thee how to 
 escape whilst these men sleep, if thou 
 wilt tell me where I can find her." 
 
 " The Great Spirit alone knows where 
 she is now," answered Madame d'Au- 
 ban, shuddering at the expression of 
 Osseo's face. 
 
 " Do not talk to me of the Great 
 Spirit, or of your detested prayer. I 
 want Mina ; and I have in my bosom a 
 fetish which will help me to find her, 
 if thou dost refuse to tell me where she 
 is, and thou art going to die." He 
 added, in a mocking tone, " The fire is 
 even now being kindled which will 
 shrivel thy white limbs, as the flame 
 burns up the wood of the forest. Tell 
 me where Mina is, and I will save thee." 
 
 Madame d'Auban feebly shook her 
 head ; her strength was quite exhausted. 
 
 " I will search for her all over the 
 land," the young savage cried, brandish- 
 ing a tomahawk; "and if thou hast 
 sent her across the great salt lake, I 
 can row a swifter boat than man has 
 ever yet made." 
 
 The mother closed her eyes, and 
 heard the sound of his retreating steps ; 
 and then for a while the silence was 
 unbroken, save by the groans of the 
 prisoners and the heavy snoring of their 
 drunken foes. 
 
 The next time she opened her eyes 
 the sun was illuminating the mountain 
 tops. 
 
 " Glorious orb of day ! harbinger of 
 death," she murmured. "Blessed be 
 thy light shining on our painful way 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 149 
 
 . to heaven ! Blessed be thy rays warm- 
 ing our limbs, as the love of Jesus 
 twarins our hearts! Darkness is still 
 brooding over the plain, but the heights 
 are even now resplendent with light ; 
 Ithe shadows of death at hand, the 
 glory of heaven shining beyond them. 
 O my Godl Thou dost, indeed, send 
 ,thy messenger before Thee! My be- 
 loved ones, farewell ! " 
 
 Her head fell on her breast; she 
 meither moved nor spoke, but silently 
 (prepared for death. Hark ! what was 
 (the sound which fell upon her ear, like 
 tthe splash of rain-drops on the leaves 
 tof the forest, like the footfall of watch- 
 ers near a dying man's bed? Can a 
 foand of armed men tread so lightly ? 
 !Can a troop of warriors steal along 
 iwith so noiseless a progress ? Yes, for 
 tthey are of the swift, light-footed tribe 
 of the Choktaws. They are the deep 
 divers, the wily hunters of the Western 
 'Prairies. They track the wild beast 
 to his den, and surprise the alligator 
 in his sleep by the river sitle. And 
 ithey have listened to the white man's 
 (appeal. In their own tongue they have 
 heard him tell his dreadful tale. There 
 has been a long hereditary feud be- 
 tween them and the children of the 
 Sun, and their hatred of the Natches 
 has kindled into a flame, on hearing 
 of the murder of the black-robe ; for 
 the Pere SouM had been amongst them 
 and spoken of "the prayer of the 
 Christians," and they had answered, 
 " It is well ; we have heard your words, 
 and we will think on what you tell us." 
 At the voice of the stranger they have 
 risen as one man. Seven hundred 
 warriors performed the dance of war, 
 and pledged themselves to the rescue 
 of the white men's wives and children. 
 From the villages and the solitary 
 wigwams, from the hills and from the 
 plains, they emerged ad joined the 
 white leader, and crossed the great 
 river by the light of the crescent moon. 
 
 As the day dawns in the east they 
 draw near to the City of the Sun. In 
 silence they advance. If they speak, it 
 is under their breath. D'Auban marches 
 at the head of the red warriors, the 
 only stranger amongst them the only 
 one for whom more than life or than 
 fame is at stake. He feels in himself 
 the strength to struggle with a thou- 
 sand foes, and yet the stirring of a leaf 
 makes his heart beat like a woman's. 
 It was such a terrible suspense such 
 an agonizing uncertainty! His eyes 
 strive to pierce the dewy mist which 
 hides from him the distant view. They 
 grow dim with straining, those burn- 
 ing, tearless eyes, and the tangled 
 boughs and the feathery branches of 
 the forest take odd, fantastic shapes, 
 which mock his yearning sight. In 
 the dim vista of an opening in the 
 wood he fancies that he sees two figures 
 advance. No; one is advancing and 
 the other recedes, and after a while 
 disappears. But that something white 
 which approaches, what is it ? Is the 
 mist thickening, or his slight failing? 
 He can discern nothing. But a voice, a 
 cry, reaches his ear. "Father! Oh, 
 Father !" He rushes forward, and Mina 
 is in his arms. The band of warriors 
 gathers round them. 
 
 " Your mother ? Where is your 
 mother?" 
 
 " She sent me away ; I crept out of 
 the hut. Make haste ; make haste ! " 
 
 "Is she safe? Is she well? How 
 have they treated you ? " 
 
 " Well, till last night. Make haste, 
 father; make haste! The sachems 
 were very angry when my mother sent 
 me away." 
 
 D'Auban took up his little daughter 
 in his arms as if she had weighed but 
 a feather, and strode forward. Ho 
 could have carried three times her 
 weight and not have felt it, so intensely 
 strained was his nervous system. But 
 suddenly halting, he turned to the In- 
 
150 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 dians and said "My brothers, the 
 Great Spirit has sent this child to meet 
 us. The Great Spirit is with us, and 
 will bless my Indian brothers for the 
 deed they do this day." 
 
 A whisper went through the war- 
 riors' ranks. 
 
 "The white maiden," they said, 
 "was come from the Great Spirit to 
 lead them to the City of the Sun;" 
 and onward they pressed through the 
 tangled thickets, grasping their wea- 
 pons like the hunter who discerns the 
 footsteps of his prey. 
 
 The wood is passed at last, and the 
 open plain lies stretched before them. 
 They see the white wigwams of the 
 Natches' city amongst the oleander and 
 acacia groves. Another hour's march 
 and they will have reached it. D'Au- 
 ban calls one of the Indians. 
 
 " My brother Pearl Feather," he says, 
 " take this child, and stay with her in 
 this spot. If we succeed we will send 
 for you from yonder city, to sing with 
 us the' song of victory ; but if the night 
 comes and no tidings reach you, then 
 say 'My -white brother is dead,' and 
 take the child to the black robe of the 
 nearest mission, or to the French in 
 the south, and the Great Spirit will 
 bless thee, my brother, and show thee 
 the way to the land of tlie hereafter." 
 
 " I will not leave you, father," Mina 
 cried, convulsively grasping her father's 
 arm; "let me run by your side. I 
 could keep up with Ontara, let me stay 
 with you." 
 
 " Mina, in God's name, and as your 
 father, I command you to remain here." 
 He had spoken as if in anger, and the 
 child flung herself on the ground in a 
 paroxysm of grief. He did not trust 
 himself to look back. He went on, for 
 every minute was a matter of life and 
 death ; and the fair-haired child re- 
 mained lying on the greensward mo- 
 tionless as a marble image, pale as a 
 broken lily, refusing to be comforted 
 
 by the Indian, who tried in vain to 
 direct her thoughts to other objects 
 than the onward march of that little 
 band towards the city where the lives 
 of both her parents were hanging on a 
 thread. 
 
 The hour had arrived when the sa- 
 chems were to assemble in the square 
 to witness the execution of the European 
 captives. The gong which was to sum- 
 mon them was to have sounded when 
 the sun rose, but the sleeping guards 
 awoke from their drunken slumbers to 
 witness a far different scene. Weapons 
 were brandished in their eyes and over 
 their heads. Flames were bursting forth 
 from various buildings in the town. 
 The wigwams were set on fire in every 
 direction, and d'Auban's warriors had 
 encircled the square, whilst he rushed 
 to the stakes and cut the cords which 
 bound the prisoners. 
 
 A cry of rage and terror arose from 
 the affrighted city. The whilom triumph- 
 ant Natches now rent the air with their 
 howls of fury. They rushed about in 
 wild confusion, some to oppose their 
 enemies, the number of which they 
 could not discern, so utter had been the 
 surprise, so swift and stealthy their ap- 
 proach, some to extinguish the flames 
 which were extending over the village, 
 and threatened the chief's palace. 
 
 D'Auban had caught his wife in his 
 arms just as she was sinking to the 
 ground. "Mina?" she had just strength 
 to murmur. 
 
 " She is safe," he answered. " Bear 
 up for a while, my beloved one. The 
 lives of all these helpless ones depend 
 on the event of this hour." Then as- 
 suming the direction of the assailing 
 forc%, he assigned to a hundred men 
 the task of conveying the women and 
 children to the shore, where boats had 
 been previously sent to await them. 
 He despatched a man to the spot where 
 he had left his child under the care of 
 her Indian protector, with orders to 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 151 
 
 proceed at once to the river side. With 
 his remaining force he kept the enemy 
 engaged, and dreadful was the fierce 
 encounter between the two tribes. Many 
 a Natches fell under the blows of the 
 more warlike Choktaws ; but the strug- 
 gle was an unequal one, and if pro- 
 longed must have turned to the advan- 
 tage of the Children of the Sun, who 
 were beginning to recover from their 
 surprise and hurrying from every side 
 to join the conflict. D'Auban's supe- 
 rior military skill enabled him to con- 
 duct the retreat of his band, and to 
 cope successfully with their far more 
 numerous pursuers. He had sent a 
 messenger to Fort Rosalie, and had 
 hoped that a French force might have 
 been despatched in time to meet him ; 
 but a keen-eyed Indian who surveyed 
 the country from one of the neighbour- 
 ing heights could discern no sign of 
 their approach, and he determined on 
 effecting if possible the rescue of the 
 captives without attempting to maintain 
 their position in the Natches' city, 
 which ttyey had, as it were, taken by 
 storm. The Choktaw Indians, like the 
 Parthians of old, discharged their ar- 
 rows at their enemies as they retreated, 
 and d'Auban with the musket which 
 had already done him such good ser- 
 vice kept them also at bay. At the 
 sight of the murderous weapon the 
 pursuers fell back. Their missiles made 
 havoc the while amongst the rescuing 
 party, and many a Choktaw warrior 
 remained stark and cold on the green 
 slopes between the City of the Sun and 
 the Father of "Waters. At last the shore 
 was reached, and whilst the gallant 
 band under d'Auban's command faced 
 the foe, the women and children were 
 embarked in the boats and barges man- 
 ned with rowers of the friendly tribe. 
 Madame d'Auban's face turned as pale 
 as ashes, for Mina was nowhere to be 
 seen. Boat after boat was filled with 
 women and children, and shot down 
 
 the stream, impelled by the rowers and 
 aided by the current. But one remained. 
 D'Auban and his Indians fought on; 
 but how long would they remain by his 
 side? How long were they to wait? 
 How long would they shed their blood 
 for the sake of that one missing child ? 
 Himself he felt his strength giving way, 
 his arm waxing weak, his head growing 
 dizzy. At that moment the sky was 
 lighted up by a lurid glare. The Nat- 
 ches looked back towards their homes, 
 and saw the flames bursting out afresh 
 from every grove and every temple of 
 the City of the Sun. A cry rose to their 
 lips; abandoning in tumultuous haste 
 the pursuit, they retraced their steps, 
 and rushed wildly back towards the 
 burning town. At that moment also, 
 staggering under a burden that was no 
 longer a light one for the dying man 
 who was bearing it, Pearl Feather, the 
 swiftest runner of his tribe, fell breath- 
 less at d'Auban's feet. Mina was in 
 her father's arms, and the Indian gasped 
 out in feeble accents, " The bird of prey 
 sought to carry away the dove, and his 
 fetish has great power. But the Great 
 Spirit of the Christian prayer was more 
 powerful still. He gave me strength 
 to bring her to thee, my white brother, 
 and now depart and leave me to die." 
 
 Then d'Auban saw the arrow which 
 was lodged in the Indian's breast, and 
 guessed it was a poisoned one. For 
 one moment he knelt by the true friend 
 who had saved his child; and when 
 the brave spirit passed away, the prayers 
 and the blessing which followed it be- 
 yond this mortal scene were of those 
 which are not spoken in words, but rise 
 straight from the heart with speechless 
 intensity. 
 
 The friendly Indians for the most 
 part swam across the river and dis- 
 persed in the woods, bearing away with 
 them as much as they could carry of 
 the treasures stolen from the city during 
 their brief invasion of its precincts. 
 
152 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 The barge which held d'Auban, his 
 wife and child, the corpse of her dead 
 deliverer, and a few of their companions 
 in the late combat, descended the river 
 with all the swiftness possible under 
 the circumstances. It was a wonderful 
 escape the captives had had, and Mina's, 
 perhaps, the most wonderful of all. 
 Osseo had met her and her protector 
 on the way to the river, and sought to 
 detain the white maiden, who, he said, 
 was a runaway slave from the chief's 
 palace, and force her back to the town. 
 Most likely he would have succeeded, 
 for his strength was superior to that of 
 an old man and a child, had not On- 
 tara, who was also searching for Mina 
 in every direction, arrived on the spot 
 at that very moment and taken part 
 with the fugitives. Osseo turned with 
 fury on his new opponent, which gave 
 the Indian time to fly with the little 
 girl in his arms. Like an arrow from 
 a bow, swiftly and straightly he crossed 
 the plain, through the feathery grasses 
 and waving fields of green maize. Al- 
 ready were the armed men on the river 
 side and their boats there in sight, 
 when a shaft, a poisoned one too, came 
 whizzing through the air and struck 
 him as he ran. No cry escaped his lips ; 
 he scarcely slackened his pace : but the 
 child he was carrying felt he was wound- 
 ed, and that his steps were faltering. 
 She shut her eyes in anguish and called 
 to him to stop, but he heeded her not ; 
 his lips faintly murmured a chant which 
 was the death song of his tribe, but the 
 words he set to it were those of the 
 Christian prayer. His blood coloured 
 the greensward up to the margin of the 
 stream. He died silently at the feet 
 of the friend whose child he had saved. 
 No wonder that burning tears of grati- 
 tude and of sorrow fell on the lifeless 
 form of the Indian, as he lay stiff and 
 cold at the bottom of the boat which 
 bore away. the captives to safety and to 
 freedom. 
 
 Three days afterwards sheltering 
 walls enclosed the weary fugitives, 
 and the call of French sentries, as 
 they paced around the fort which 
 had received them, sounded like music 
 in their ears. D'Auban sat between his 
 wife and child, looking at them with a 
 tenderness too deep for words. He was 
 beginning to feel the effects of the 
 intense fatigue and excitement he had 
 gone through. His weary limbs and 
 overwrought mind were sinking with 
 exhaustion. He was become gray- 
 haired, and looked ten years older than 
 when he had left St. Agathe. His wife 
 recovered more quickly. At her age 
 there is still an elasticity of spirits, 
 which surmounts more speedily the 
 effects of suffering than at a more 
 advanced period of life ; and though 
 she had borne much anguish, she had 
 not had, like him, to act under its in- 
 tolerable pressure. 
 
 When Mina went to bed that even- 
 ing she hid her face in the pillow, but 
 her parents heard her sobbing as if her 
 heart would break. 
 
 "What ails you, my child?" her 
 mother tenderly inquired, whilst her 
 father anxiously bent over her. 
 
 " I shall never see my brother again," 
 cried the weeping child. "He has 
 saved my life, and I love him better 
 than any one in the world, except you 
 both. I heard one of the soldiers say 
 that the French were marching to the 
 Natches' city, and would kill all its 
 inhabitants. O father, they will kill 
 my brother, who saved your life and 
 mine ! " 
 
 D'Auban was much affected at this 
 thought, and at his daughter's well- 
 founded fears. He assured her that as 
 soon as they reached New Orleans he 
 would go to the governor, and entreat 
 him to send orders to the commandant 
 of the French troops to save the life of 
 the young chief Ontara, and to treat 
 him with kindness. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 153 
 
 " Let us go on at ODCC, then," cried 
 Mina, sitting up in her bed. 
 
 " We shall start to-morrow morning," 
 said her mother. " Try and sleep, my 
 child." 
 
 It was some days, however, before 
 d'Auban recovered sufficiently to leave 
 Baton Rouge ; but he sent a letter to 
 M. Perrier by one of the soldiers of the 
 fort. He felt great misgivings about 
 the young Indian's fate, though he tried 
 to calm Mina's fears and to divert her 
 mind from the subject. If he had 
 grown old in the space of a few days, 
 his little girl had become almost a 
 woman in thought and feeling during 
 the same lapse of time. She did not 
 play any more. Her mind was inces- 
 santly going over the past, or forming 
 plans for the future, with an intense 
 imaginative power which hastened in 
 some respects the development of her 
 character. The scenes she had gone 
 
 through; the memories they had left 
 behind them ; the sight of her father's 
 enfeebled frame, and of the anxious 
 looks her mother bent upon him ; the 
 uncertainty in which Ontara's fate was 
 involved, had a depressing effect on 
 her affectionate and highly sensitive 
 temperament. It was an abrupt tran- 
 sition from a life as joyous and as free 
 as a child had ever led, to one too full 
 of cares and conflicting feelings for one 
 so young and so naturally thoughtful. 
 As her spirits did not revive after their 
 arrival at New Orleans, her parents 
 resolved to place her for a while at the 
 school of the Ursuline Convent, in the 
 hope that regular habits of study and 
 the society of girls of her own age 
 would dissipate the depressing effects 
 of the scenes she had witnessed. The 
 results of this experiment were not at 
 first very successful. 
 
 OHAPTEE IY. 
 
 In the cruel fire of sorrow 
 
 Cast thy heart, do not faint or wall, 
 
 Let thy hand be firm and steady, 
 
 Do not let thy spirits quail. 
 
 But wait till the time is over, 
 
 And take thy heart again ; 
 
 For as gold is tried by fire, 
 
 So a heart must bo tried by pain. 
 
 Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 A thousand thoughts of all things dear, 
 Like shadows o'er me sweep ; 
 I leave my sunny childhood here ; 
 Oh I therefore, let me weep. 
 
 Jfrt. Neman*. 
 
 ABOUT three months after the events 
 related in the last chapter, a number of 
 girls of various ages were playing 
 amongst orange trees of the garden of 
 the Ursuline' Convent, with all the 
 vivacity belonging to youth and the 
 
 French character. They had just ob- 
 tained a holiday in honour of the news 
 which had reached New Orleans, of the 
 final suppression of the Natchcs insur- 
 rection by a body of French troops, and 
 their patriotic exultation was at its 
 
154 
 
 TOO STEANGE NOT TO BE TEUE. 
 
 height. A handsome, clever-looking 
 girl of fifteen jumped upon a bench, 
 under a banana tree, and began to 
 harangue the crowd which gathered 
 round her. Ernilie de Beauregard was 
 a great favourite in the school, and be- 
 fore she opened her mouth the girls 
 clapped their hands, and then cried out 
 "Silence!" 
 
 "Mesdemoiselles ! " she began, "let 
 your French hearts rejoice ! Your coun- 
 trymen have gained a glorious victory ! 
 The royal flag, the white lilies of 
 France, floats over the ruins of the city 
 of the Sun." A round of applause sa- 
 luted this exordium. The orator, 
 warmed - by success, went on. " The 
 frustrated enemy bites the dust. They 
 dared to kill Frenchmen; but now 
 vengeance has overtaken them, and 
 the rivers run with their blood." 
 
 "That was in our historical lesson 
 this morning," whispered Julie d'Arta- 
 ban to Eose Perrier. 
 
 "Never mind. Hold your tongue," 
 answered the governor's daughter. 
 " It is very fine." 
 
 " The houses of those monsters are 
 a prey to the flames not a corn-field 
 or an orange garden remains in the 
 plain where French blood has been 
 spilt. These Indians are all as cruel 
 as wild beasts, but now they are hunt- 
 ed down without mercy. Their princes, 
 the Children of the Sun, as they call 
 themselves, are all slain or sold away 
 as slaves. Not one of their dark visages 
 will ever be* seen again in the land of 
 their birth." 
 
 This was too much for one of the 
 audience. There was a sudden rush 
 to the bench. Mina d'Auban, with 
 flashing eyes and crimson cheeks, had 
 seized and overturned it, and the orator 
 had fallen full length on the grass. 
 This assault naturally enough made 
 Mdlle. de Beauregard very angry, and 
 her friends and admirers still more so. 
 Cries of " You naughty girl ! " " You 
 
 wicked Indian princess ! " (this was 
 Mina's nickname in the school), re- 
 sounded on every side. 
 
 " Fi done ! Mademoiselle," exclaim- 
 ed Julie d'Artaban ; and Eose Perrier, 
 who had high ideas of administrative 
 justice, ran to call Sister Gertrude, the 
 mistress of the class. 
 
 The placid-looking nun found Mina 
 crying in the midst of her excited and 
 indignant companions, who all bore 
 witness to the outrage she had com- 
 mitted. 
 
 " She pushed Emilie down because 
 she was telling us the good news that 
 the French have won agreat victory." 
 
 " It is impossible to play with Mad- 
 emoiselle d'Auban," said another. She 
 flies into a passion if we say we like 
 our own country people better than 
 Indians and negroes." 
 
 " She said all the Indians are mon- 
 sters," said Mina, sobbing; "and I 
 think she is a monster herself to say 
 so. Some of them are very good bet- 
 ter than white people." There was a 
 general burst of laughter, which in- 
 creased her exasperation, and she pas- 
 sionately exclaimed, "I hate white 
 people ! " 
 
 "Come with me, my child," said 
 Sister Gertrude; "you do not know 
 what you are saying. You must not 
 remain with your companions if you 
 cannot control your temper. Go and 
 sit in the school-room alone for an 
 hour, and I will speak to you after- 
 wards." 
 
 Poor Mina's heart was bursting with 
 grief and indignation ; and her con- 
 science also reproached her for her vio- 
 lence. She could not bring herself to 
 forgive her companions, or to feel at 
 peace with them. This conflict had 
 been going on ever since she had been 
 at school. The separation from her 
 parents had been a hard trial. They 
 had thought that the companionship 
 of French children would divert her 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 155 
 
 mind from painful thoughts, and over- 
 come her determined predilection for 
 the Indians. But they had not calcu- 
 lated on the effect produced upon her 
 by the unmitigated abhorrence her play- 
 mates expressed for the people she so 
 dearly loved. Their hatred made no 
 distinction between the treacherous 
 Natches and the good Illinois Chris- 
 tians ; and a rankling sense of injustice 
 kept up her irritation. It was, per- 
 haps, as natural that these girls, most 
 of whom had lost friends and relations 
 in the insurrection, should feel an an- 
 tipathy for the Indians, as that Mina, 
 with all .her recollections of St. Agathe, 
 and her gratitude and affection for 
 Ontara and for Pearl Feather, should 
 resent its expression. 
 
 But the result was, that instead of 
 diminishing her overweening partiali- 
 ty for the land of her birth and its 
 native inhabitants, her residence at 
 school had hitherto only served to in- 
 crease it. She also sadly missed the 
 freedom of her earlier years. She was 
 often in disgrace for breaches of disci- 
 pline. The confinement of the class- 
 room was trying to her ; and she com- 
 mitted faults of a peculiar nature, such 
 as taking off her stockings in order to 
 cross barefooted the little stream which 
 ran through the garden, and climbing 
 up the trees to get a glimpse of the sea, 
 the sight of which reminded her of the 
 green waving fields of her home. 
 
 When Sister Gertrude entered the 
 school-room she found her at. first silent 
 and sad, but by degrees her gentle 
 manner and soothing words drew from 
 the overburthened heart of the poor 
 child the expression of her feelings; 
 she understood them, and while blam- 
 ing her violence, she made allowance 
 for the provocation, and showed sym- 
 pathy in the trial she was enduring. 
 It was not only at school that Mina's 
 sensitive nature was wounded by the 
 absence of such sympathy : her father 
 
 and mother had Buffered so terribly 
 during the days of her captivity, and 
 of his absence, that they involuntarily 
 shrunk from every thing which remind- 
 ed them of that time. They would 
 have made every effort and every sacri- 
 fice in their power for the sake of the 
 young Indian who had protected their 
 child, and prayed daily for the brave 
 man who had died to save her. But 
 the mention of their names recalled 
 such terrible scenes that they instinct- 
 ively recoiled from it. Mina perceived 
 this without quite understanding it. 
 She had the quick tact to feel that 
 though she was never told not to speak 
 of them, the subject was evidently not 
 a welcome one ; and nobody could have 
 guessed how much the child suffered 
 from this tacit prohibition. St. Agathe, 
 too, was not often alluded to by her 
 parents. When she spoke of that be- 
 loved place, her mother looked sad and 
 anxious. She watched her husband's 
 looks with daily increasing anxiety. 
 Yearnings for his native country, the 
 home-sickness which sometimes so sud- 
 denly seizes exiles, joined to the early 
 stages of a disease brought on by vio- 
 lent bodily exertions and mental anxie- 
 ty, had greatly affected Colonel d'Au- 
 ban's spirits, and Mina could not pour 
 forth her thoughts in his presence with 
 the same freedom she had been used to 
 do. Nothing had been discovered as 
 to Ontara's fate. Every inquiry had 
 been made by d'Auban regarding the 
 royal family of the Natches. He ascer- 
 tained what had become of all its mem- 
 bers except the two young men, Ontara 
 and Osseo. They had either perished 
 or taken refuge amongst some of the 
 more distant tribes. A reward was 
 promised for their capture, as it was 
 deemed dangerous to allow any of the 
 relatives of the great Sun to remain at 
 liberty. But, at his friends' earnest 
 entreaty, the governor gave orders, that 
 if Ontara was arrested, he should be 
 
156 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 treated with kindness and instantly 
 brought to New Orleans. 
 
 It was a great consolation to Mina 
 to relate all her story to Sister Ger- 
 trude on the day when matters had 
 arrived at a crisis between her and her 
 companions. 
 
 " You see, dear sister," she said, " I 
 am an Indian girl, though my skin is 
 white. I was born in the Illinois ; and 
 I only wish I was brown, and had black 
 eyes and hair like my own people." 
 
 "But, my dear, that is not right. 
 You are a Creole, not an Indian. Your 
 parents are French, and you ought to 
 be glad that you are like them." 
 
 " And 'so I should be, sister, if the 
 white girl loved the Indians ; but they 
 hate them, and I then want them to 
 hate me also." 
 
 " But what a shocking word that is 
 for Christians to use ! I do not think 
 your companions really hate these poor 
 people. I am sure I hope not, for we 
 are going to receive here to-morrow six 
 little native orphan girls whose parents 
 were killed in the insurrection. They 
 were to have been sold as slaves, but 
 our good mother begged them of the 
 Company, and we are going to bring 
 them up as Christians. This evening, 
 after night prayers, I shall say a few 
 words to our children, and tell them 
 that for the love of Christ they should 
 welcome and cherish these little out- 
 casts. But Mina, my child, you should 
 also remember that Anna Mirepoix's 
 father, and Jeanne Castel's brother, and 
 Virginia d'Aumont's uncle, have all 
 died by the hand of the red men ; and 
 when they say things which make you 
 angry, ask yourself what you would 
 have felt if your father had been mur- 
 dered and your mother burnt to death 
 in the city of the Natches." 
 
 Mina threw herself into Sister Ger- 
 trude's arms, and shed tears of repent- 
 ance for her fault, and of joy that the 
 little brown orphans were coming to a 
 
 sheltering roof. From that day a" new 
 era began in her school life. The nuns 
 had rightly judged that the best way 
 of softening their pupils' feelings tow- 
 ards the unfortunate natives was to 
 appeal to their pity, and enlist their 
 sympathy in behalf of the orphans. 
 The experiment proved successful. A 
 few days after the one on which Emilie 
 de Beauregard had tumbled off the 
 bench in the midst of her harangue, 
 she was sitting upon it with a brown 
 baby on her lap, whilst Mina, kneeling 
 before her, was amusing it with a bunch 
 of feathers. Rose Perrier and Julie 
 d'Artaban were quarrelling for the pos- 
 session of another. All the girls were 
 making Mina teach them Indian words, 
 that they might know how to talk to 
 the little savages, who became quite the 
 fashion in the school. As to Mina, she 
 was a mother to them all; the tiny 
 creatures clung to her with an instinct- 
 ive affection. During her lessons they 
 would sit silent and motionless at her 
 feet, with the patience which even in 
 childhood belongs to their race, and 
 followed her about the garden in the 
 hours of recreation like a pack of little 
 dogs. Every sweetmeat given to her 
 was made over to them, and the only 
 presents she valued were clothes or toys 
 for her infant charges. Her health and 
 spirits rapidly improved under this 
 change of circumstances. She grew 
 very fast, and was not very strong ; but 
 her colour returned, and bright smiles 
 were again seen on her lovely face. 
 
 There are persons whose destiny it 
 seems to have no lasting abode on 
 earth; scattered workers, may be, or 
 busy idlers, who, during the whole 
 course of their lives, pass from one 
 place to another, as if the wanderer's 
 doom had been pronounced upon them. 
 The place of their birth knows them 
 no more. The homes of their child- 
 hood, the haunts of their youth, they 
 never revisit. Every local attachment 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 they form is blighted in the bud. The 
 curtain drops on each successive scene 
 of their pilgrimage, and^rm is stamped 
 on almost every page of their existence. 
 Some call this a strange fatality ; 
 others see in it, in particular instances, 
 the hand of God's Providence training 
 particular souls to detachment and self- 
 sacrifice. " Le Chretien est-il d'aucun 
 lieu ? " asks Emilie de Guerin, who was 
 a genius, and perhaps a saint too, with- 
 out knowing it. 
 
 Thoughts such as these, though 
 scarcely put into shape, but vaguely 
 floating through the mind, crossed 
 Madame d'Auban, as she sat one even- 
 ing planning with her husband the 
 future course of their lives. It was 
 almost determined between them that 
 they should go to France. Many a 
 sleepless night, many an hour of anxious 
 thought, had she spent before making 
 up her mind to propose this journey. 
 It had, however, become evident that 
 his illness was increasing, and that the 
 best medical treatment could alone 
 hold out a prospect of recovery. The 
 physicians at New Orleans had pro- 
 nounced that, within a few months, he 
 would have to undergo an operation, 
 and she could not endure the thoughts 
 of trusting to the unskilful colonial 
 surgeons. It seemed but too probable 
 that he would not henceforward be 
 equal to the labours and fatigue of a 
 planter's existence; and the climate 
 of Louisiana was daily reducing his 
 strength and increasing his sufferings. 
 She did not long hesitate, but with a 
 cheerful smile proposed to him to sell 
 the concessions, to part with St. 
 Agathe ! They had much increased in 
 value during the last ten years, and 
 their sale would realize a sum sufficient 
 to insure them a small income. It was 
 an effort and a sacrifice. St. Agathe 
 was connected with the only happy 
 period of her life. Her youth had 
 revived in that beloved spot. There 
 
 she had known the perfection of domes- 
 tic happiness there she had been blest 
 as a wife and a mother, and almost 
 worshipped by all about her. She had 
 walked the earth with her head erect, 
 her voice undisguised, and her heart at 
 rest. No fears, no misgivings, had dis- 
 turbed her sunny hours, or marred her 
 nightly rest in its green shades and 
 amidst its simple inhabitants. Since 
 her arrival at New Orleans, sudden 
 tremors had sometimes seized her at 
 the sight of persons whose faces she 
 fancied were familiar to her. Or, if a 
 stranger's eyes followed her in the 
 streets and this often happened, for 
 her beauty was more striking than it 
 had been even in youth; her move- 
 ments were so full of grace, and her 
 figure so majestic, that it was difficult 
 for her to pass unnoticed she hurried 
 on with a beating heart, or hastily 
 drew down her veil. Old heart-aches 
 had returned thoughts of the past 
 were oftener in her mind. She heard 
 the news of her sister's death in a 
 casual manner, and could not tell even 
 Mina of her grief. Her residence in 
 the French town was a foretaste of 
 what would henceforward be her lot 
 if St. Agathe was sold. It was delib- 
 erately closing the gates of her earthly 
 paradise ; but then she knew that what 
 had been for ten years a paradise could 
 be so no longer. Neither her husband 
 nor herself could ever forget what they 
 had gone through. There are associa- 
 tions which can never be cancelled. 
 The people, the language, even the 
 natural beauties of America, could not 
 be to them what they once were. No ; 
 it was not a sacrifice she was making 
 on second thoughts she became con- 
 scious of this; but it was setting tin- 
 seal to a doom which was already past 
 recall. 
 
 The news from Europe was also 
 preying more and more upon her iniml. 
 Two years had elapsed since notice of 
 
158 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the Czar Peter's death had reached the 
 colony ; and now intelligence had just 
 arrived of the Empress Catherine's 
 decease. D'Auban had heard this one 
 night at the governor's house, and had 
 hastened home to tell his wife. 
 
 She anxiously asked, " And what of 
 my son ? " 
 
 "He has been proclaimed emperor, 
 and Mentzchikoff has taken charge of 
 his person and of the reins of govern- 
 ment." 
 
 " Ah ! I now understand why Cath- 
 erine left him the crown, rather than 
 to Anna Ivanovna. My poor child ! 
 in the hands of such men as Mentzchi- 
 koff and the Narishkins, what will be- 
 come of him ? " 
 
 " Was nothing more said ? " 
 
 " No, that was all." 
 
 Madame d'Auban's lip quivered ; 
 and, gathering up her work, she has- 
 tened to a terrace which commanded a 
 view of the sea she felt a wish to be 
 alone, to commune with herself on the 
 news she had just heard ; even her hus- 
 band's presence was irksome at that 
 moment. The forsaken child was 
 uppermost in her mind ; the change in 
 his fate brought before her all kinds of 
 new thoughts. He was now an empe- 
 ror, a czar, that young boy whose face 
 she so longed to see. She fancied the 
 shouts of the people when he was pro- 
 claimed the cries of " Long live Peter 
 the Second ! " They seemed to ring 
 in her ears as the waves broke gently 
 on the shore ; and then she wondered 
 if he ever thought of his mother ; if he 
 ever noticed her picture ; and whether 
 that picture was hanging in the same 
 place as it used to do, above the couch 
 where she was sitting on the day when 
 the baby of a year old had been brought 
 to see her for the last time. Her name 
 was on the frame, Charlotte of Bruns- 
 wick Wolfenbuttel, born in 1696. Had 
 they engraved on it the day of her 
 death? "He sees my picture," she 
 
 murmured; "and when he goes to 
 church, he sees my tomb. Does he 
 ever see me in his dreams ? I have some- 
 times dreamt of him very distinctly, 
 and have awoke just as he was going 
 to speak to me. Oh, my boy emperor, 
 my young czar, my crowned child, 
 would not you, perhaps, give half your 
 empire to have a mother, on whose 
 bosom you might lay your fair young 
 head, in whose arms you might find 
 refuge from bad men and secret foes ? 
 And why should we not meet again ? 
 Why should there be an impassable 
 gulph between us, now that the czar is 
 dead and the empress also, and that 
 my son, my own son, reigns in their 
 stead?" As these thoughts passed 
 through her mind, an ardent desire to 
 return to Europe took possession of 
 her ; not that she formed any plan of 
 regaining her position; not that she 
 did not shudder at the thought of 
 disclosing her existence, and at the 
 dangers and misery to her husband 
 and herself which such a step might 
 involve in that old world, which, like 
 M. de Talleyrand, thought mistakes 
 worse than crimes, and mesalliances 
 more degrading than sin. She would 
 have died sooner than conceal her 
 marriage; but secretly, perhaps, she 
 might venture to approach her son. 
 If the Countess de Konigsmark was 
 still alive it was two years now since 
 she had heard from her some com- 
 munication might be made to the 
 young emperor, which would reestab- 
 lish her, not near his throne, indeed, 
 but as a living mother in his heart. 
 
 She spoke to her husband of their 
 vague thoughts and hopes, of the two- 
 fold reasons she now had to urge their 
 return to France, and their decision 
 was at last taken. D'Auban had doubt- 
 ed a long time ; he had mistrusted his 
 own intense longing to revisit his own 
 country, and had felt afraid for his 
 wife of a return to Europe ; but an 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 159 
 
 accidental circumstance which occurred 
 at that time, but which he kept from 
 her knowledge, hastened his acquies- 
 cence. He had never mentioned to her 
 the orders which had been sent out 
 from Europe, for the apprehension of 
 persons suspected of the robbery of her 
 own jewels. The reports which had 
 been circulated regarding M. de Cham- 
 belle and herself had apparently died 
 away since his death and her marriage, 
 but he had never felt perfectly easy on 
 the subject, and about this time he 
 met in the streets Reinhart, the very 
 man who had been most active in 
 spreading them. The next day he 
 saw him hovering near his house, as if 
 watching its inmates. This circum- 
 stance determined him to leave the 
 colony. A purchaser was found for 
 the United Concessions, and St. Agathe 
 was sold. They agreed to transmit to 
 Paris the sum thus realized, and to pro- 
 ceed to France by the next vessel which 
 should sail from New Orleans. Their 
 intention was to spend there the time 
 necessary for the treatment of his mala- 
 dy, and, when his health was reestab- 
 lished, to seek for a post under gov- 
 ernment in some of the dependencies 
 of France. The services he had ren- 
 dered during the insurrection entitled 
 him, he thought, to such an appoint- 
 ment ; and he had friends who, he 
 hoped, would lend him their assistance 
 in advancing his claims. She nursed 
 besides many a romantic vision, many 
 a dream of a journey to Russia and a 
 secret interview with her son; but 
 these were silently indulged and cher- 
 ished, not even her husband knew how 
 much she built upon them. 
 
 It was with more than childish grief 
 that Mina fixed her eyes on the coasts 
 of America, as the "Ville de Paris" 
 heaved her anchor, and the wind from 
 the shore wafted the perfume of the 
 orange flower from the gardens of the 
 French colonists. Iler mother sighed 
 
 as she saw the tears which filled her 
 eyes, and sorrowfully asked herself if 
 her daughter was destined to te always, 
 like herself, a wanderer on the face of 
 the earth. 
 
 "A year, mamma, is not that what 
 you said ? " whispered Mina, trying to 
 smile. "A year, and then we shall 
 return to St. Agathe?" 
 
 Madame d'Auban stroked her cheek 
 without answering. She wished to 
 keep from her the knowledge of the 
 sale of St. Agathe, till the sight of other 
 countries and the awakening of other 
 interests had diminished the vividness 
 of her recollections. 
 
 " Papa will be quite well in a year, 
 and then we can go back; and what 
 joy there will be in the Mission when 
 we arrive ! They will all come out to 
 meet us with garlands and with songs, 
 as they used to do when dear Father 
 Maret and the hunters returned from 
 the forests. We shall be so happy ! " 
 
 She was hoping against hope, poor 
 child. There was in her mind a sus- 
 picion of the truth, and she spoke in 
 this way in order to be reassured. When 
 she saw her mother did not answer, she 
 slipped away and sat down alone in 
 another part of the vessel. Her father 
 went to look for her ; she threw herself 
 into his arms, hid her face in his breast, 
 and wept 
 
 Like a slight young tree, that throws 
 The weight of rain from its drooping boughs. 
 
 But when she raised her head again, 
 
 The cloud on her soul that lay, 
 Had melted in glittering drops away. 
 
 She had conquered her grief and glad- 
 dened his heart with one of her radiant 
 smiles. The spirit which had made 
 her, from a baby, a ruler among her 
 companions, had been, during the lost 
 two years, trained and turned in another 
 direction. The trials of her school-life 
 had taught her to rule herself. 
 
 The arrival at a place we have not 
 seen for many years, the sight of objects 
 
160 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 familiar to us in our youth of things 
 we recollect, and of others which have 
 changed the aspect of the picture im- 
 printed in our memory, has generally 
 something melancholy in it sometimes 
 only a pleasing sadness, sometimes a 
 heavy gloom. When it is a quiet coun- 
 try landscape we gaze on, or a fine ex- 
 tensive view of sea and land, or a moun- 
 tainous region half-way between us and 
 the sky such reminiscences are far less 
 depressing than when they are con- 
 nected with the busy haunts of men, 
 the great thoroughfares of life. In a 
 great city, when you enter a hotel and 
 have nothing to do but to sit down and 
 think, when every sight and sound is 
 at once familiar and strange, when for 
 many a long hour you are alone in the 
 midst of an ever-rolling tide of human 
 beings, the feeling of solitude is pain- 
 fully oppressive : there is not a book 
 on your table ; no one knocks at your 
 door ; the postman brings you no let- 
 ter; carriages roll in the street, but 
 they do not stop ; you mechanically 
 listen to the increasing and decreasing 
 noise as they approach, go by, and 
 recede; you go to the window and 
 watch the passengers, all intent upon 
 something, and feel as if you, alone in 
 the world, had nothing to do, and were 
 stranded for the time being on the 
 shore of the great stream of human 
 life. 
 
 M. and Madame d'Auban experienced 
 this very powerfully on the day when 
 they took up their residence in a small 
 lodging which a friend had engaged 
 for them in one of the old-fashioned 
 streets of the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 To be once more in Paris, and to be 
 there together, seemed so extraordinary. 
 The commonplace aspect of every thing 
 about them was in itself singular. D'Au- 
 ban was very tired with the long jour- 
 ney, and so was Mina. He sat down 
 near the window and fell into a fit of 
 musing. Mina placed herself on a stool 
 
 at his feet and watched with a frown- 
 ing countenance the carriages and foot- 
 passengers ; then she took out her pock- 
 et-book and wrote in it the following 
 remarks : "August 5th, 1730. We are 
 just arrived at Paris. It is a very ngly, 
 melancholy place *iiot at all like the 
 Illinois or Louisiana ; it is like a great 
 forest of houses. Men have made this 
 forest, and Almighty God the great 
 forests of the new world ; I like best 
 Almighty God's work. Papa and mam- 
 ma do not look happy ; and I do not 
 like France. I do not agree with Mary 
 Queen of Scots, who said, ' Adieu, plai- 
 sant pays de France.' I say, with a 
 deep sigh, ' Bonjour, triste pays de 
 France.' She had never seen the new 
 beautiful France where I was born 
 where I used to lie down on the grass 
 under the pine-groves, watching the 
 sunshine through the green branches 
 where every one was kind to us. I 
 want to go back." . . . The pencil 
 dropped from the young girl's hand, 
 and her head rested against her father's 
 knee. She had fallen asleep. He 
 picked up the pocket-book and read 
 what she had written. A rather sad 
 smile crossed his lips ; then taking his 
 daughter in his arms, he carried her 
 into the back room and laid her on the 
 bed without awaking her. 
 
 Madame d'Auban, meanwhile, was 
 taking off her travelling dress and un- 
 packing her things. Once, in passing 
 before a looking-glass, she stopped and 
 looked attentively at her own face. It 
 was still a very beautiful one, and the 
 expression of her matchless eyes was as 
 lovely as ever but of that she could 
 not judge. It struck her that she looked 
 much older, and that no one who had 
 known her in former days would be the 
 least likely to recognize her. " How 
 foolish I am," she thought, " to be al- 
 ways so afraid of seeing people ! I will 
 try to feel and to do like others ; to 
 shake off my nervousness, and make 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 161 
 
 acquaintance with my husband's friends. 
 If they ask me what my maiden name 
 was, what shall I say ? " She smiled to 
 herself, and said, half aloud, "Mdlle. 
 Desillinois." 
 
 When she went into the sitting-room, 
 her husband raised his head languidly 
 and said " I wonder, after all, why we 
 i came here." 
 
 She looked at him anxiously, and 
 sitting down by his side, answered, 
 " Because I would come ; because I care 
 more for your health than for any thing 
 else on earth. O my own ! my own ! " 
 she exclaimed with passionate tender- 
 ness ; " my beloved one ! friend to more 
 than human friendship true ! what, 
 without you, would life be to me ? " 
 
 "No, no," d'Auban replied with a 
 troubled look, and speaking in an agi- 
 tated manner. "I ought not to have 
 married you. I should have insisted 
 on restoring you to your kindred." 
 
 " How can you speak in that way ? 
 it was impossible," said his wife, half 
 (impatiently. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Selfish passion 
 often deceives us, and happiness hardens 
 tthe heart. During all our years of 
 bliss it never occurred to me that I had 
 dealt unjustly by you ; but since I have 
 been ill, and have seen you wearing 
 yourself out in nursing me, and since 
 the horrible dangers you ran two years 
 ago, a terrible self-reproach pursues me ; 
 it is that, as much as the climate, that 
 (has made me ill. . . ." 
 
 "And you let this go on without 
 telling me that you had such a wrong, 
 such a foolish thought! O Henri, I 
 can hardly forgive you. . . ." 
 
 "What was the use of speaking? 
 Have I not bound you to me by irre- 
 vocable ties ? Have I not irreparably, 
 injured you? No, when every thing 
 about you was bright and beautiful, 
 and I could spend every hour in work- 
 ing and in planning for your happi- 
 ness; when every one who came near 
 11 
 
 you loved you and was kind as that 
 dear child wrote in her journal a mo- 
 ment ago it did not appear to me in 
 that light. I did not regret for you 
 the loss of a position which, but for 
 me, you might yet regain. But here, 
 in this mean lodging, where no one 
 notices your arrival or gives you a 
 welcome ; you, who would once have 
 been lodged in a palace and had 
 princes and nobles at your feet ; here, 
 where I foresee what you may have to 
 suffer with and for me .... Oh, my 
 dear heart, it is more than I can en- 
 dure. . . ." 
 
 His wife laid her hand on his, and 
 there was a tone of indignant tender- 
 ness in her voice as she replied, 
 " Henri, banish, crush such thoughts 
 as you would an unworthy temptation ! 
 They pain, they wrong me. What 
 next to faith in Him is God's best gift 
 to a woman ? Is it not the love of a 
 noble heart ? To you I owe every joy 
 I have known on earth, and under Him 
 every hope of heaven. You have 
 taught, consoled, instructed, and guid- 
 ed me. You saved my life, alas ! at 
 what a cost He knows, and so do L 
 What robbed you of your strength? 
 what ruined your health? How can 
 you talk to me of my kindred, of pal- 
 aces and princes ? Henri, arc you not 
 the light of my eyes, the beloved of my 
 heart, dearer and better to me than ten 
 sons ? O God, forgive me 1 " she pas- 
 sionately exclaimed, falling on her 
 knees ; " forgive me if I have loved one ' 
 of Thy creatures too much if in my 
 happiness I have not thought enough 
 of my poor boy. If even now poverty, 
 suffering with my husband is joy com- 
 pared to the brightest fate on earth 
 without him. O Henri 1 " she said, 
 turning to him again, " you must have 
 little known of ray love to speak as 
 you did just now. Never again say 
 you have wronged me ; I cannot bear it." 
 
 D'Auban was deeply moved, and 
 
162 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 seized her hand. "Forgive me, my 
 love, forgive me," lie cried. "I did 
 not mean thus to agitate you ; but the 
 wild thought did pass through my 
 mind before you spoke that even now 
 I ought to run the risk of being parted 
 from you that I ought to make your 
 name and position known, and to re- 
 linquish the offer; yes, I thought it 
 might be my duty, a blessing I do not 
 deserve." 
 
 " What words are these, Henri ? what 
 evil spirit has whispered this accursed 
 thought in my husband's ear ? It did 
 not reach your heart by my own I 
 know it did not. O hated France! 
 detested Europe ! poisonous air of an 
 old corrupted world ! Sooner had we 
 both died by the hands of the Natches, 
 sooner perished on the shores where 
 we first met and first loved, than that 
 you should deem it possible we should 
 part. Listen to me, Henri. If in the 
 first days of our happiness, when there 
 was not a gray hair on your head, 
 when your arm was so strong that you 
 could carry me like an infant over the 
 streams of St. Agathe, I should have 
 refused to separate from you even for 
 the sake of my son, or for any other af- 
 fection or interest in the world, do you 
 think I would do so now, when your 
 strength has been spent for me, and 
 that during twelve blessed years I have 
 learnt every day to love you more? 
 Do you not remember that that God, 
 the God whom you have taught me to 
 know and serve, has said that those 
 whom He has joined together men may 
 never sunder ? But we have been talk- 
 ing like two foolish creatures you to 
 frighten me so uselessly, and I to take 
 it to heart and answer you seriously." 
 
 " Well," said d'Auban, with a half- 
 sad, half-pleased smile, "I believe it 
 was a fit of insanity ; and yet " 
 
 "A good night's rest will restore 
 your senses, dearest heart ; and to-mor- 
 row you must go and see your friends 
 
 the d'Orgevilles, and prepare to intrc 
 duce to them your wife ; and we mus 
 find out who is the best physician w 
 can consult, and then begin to see ; 
 little of this wonderful city. Mina 
 and I too indeed, will stare at ever 
 thing like savages. I must also lean 
 a little French housekeeping. Ou 
 hostess will put me in the way of it 
 She has promised to show us the wa; 
 to St. Sulpice to-morrow morning 
 You must lie in bed and rest. Bu 
 when once Mina has been into a church 
 she will feel at home in Paris, and no 
 consider it quite such an uncouth plao 
 as she does to-day." 
 
 D'Auban smiled more gaily, and dui 
 ing the rest of the evening watche( 
 her light and graceful movements a 
 she passed from one room to the other 
 unpacking their clothes and books, am 
 gradually giving a more cheerful lool 
 to the dingy little apartment. Hi 
 thought she looked so like a princess 
 that it seemed to him difficult thi 
 world should not recognize the imprin 
 of royalty on her fair brow and gracefu 
 form. 
 
 The next day he went to the H6te 
 d'Orgeville, and was shown into th< 
 same salon where, so many years ago 
 he had spent hour after hour. Scarce 
 ly an article of furniture had beer 
 moved from the place in which h< 
 remembered it. The red velvet sofas 
 and high-backed chairs, and the fau 
 teuil where the mistress of the house 
 used to sit when she received company 
 of an evening; the antique cabinets 
 with folding doors, and the etageres 
 loaded with china; the portraits or 
 the walls every thing was looking jusl 
 as it did on the night when he had 
 conversed about emigration with M. d< 
 Mesme and M. Maret, and for the firsl 
 time thought seriously of going to 
 America. 
 
 When Madame d'Orgeville came into 
 the room, he perceived that her face, if 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 163 
 
 not her furniture, bore witness to the 
 lapse of years. Her hair had turned 
 white, and rouge supplied the place 
 of her former bloom. Nothing could 
 be more cordial than her greeting. 
 
 " Ah ! my dear colonel," she ex- 
 claimed, seizing both his hands, " how 
 charmed I am to see you 1 What cen- 
 ituries it is since we have met ! and how 
 imany things have happened 1 But you 
 are not looking well ? " 
 
 "I am very far from well," he an- 
 *wered. " We colonists go in search of 
 fortune, madame, and often lose health, 
 
 ic greater blessing of the two." 
 
 " And have you made your fortune ? " 
 
 " Not any thing to boast of a liveli- 
 my dear friend, nothing more. 
 Natches' insurrection depreciated 
 value of property in New France 
 the time I was obliged to sell. As 
 as I get well, I intend to try and 
 employment in the colonies if 
 ible in the Antilles." 
 
 " You do not mean, then, to return to 
 {Louisiana ? " 
 
 " No, madame, not if I can help 
 it." 
 
 " I am not surprised at that, after all 
 you went through, and the terrible 
 scenes you witnessed, your wife and 
 child so nearly perishing, and your 
 arriving only just in time to rescue 
 them and the other captives. I assure 
 jfou it was much spoken of at the time, 
 m<l you are considered quite a hero. 
 |So many people will be wanting to see 
 you, I expect you will be quite the 
 fashion. M. Maret showed us the in- 
 teresting account you wrote to him of 
 brother's death. By the way, you 
 Isrill meet him if you come here this 
 evening. He may be of use to you 
 iljout the appointment you want. He 
 s in high favour at present with mon- 
 ueur le prince." 
 
 D'Auban could scarcely refrain from 
 mailing it was so exactly the same 
 ihing over again, as in past years. Be- 
 
 fore he had time to answer, Madame 
 d'Orgeville went on : 
 
 " And now tell me about your mar- 
 riage. Madame d'Auban is French, I 
 suppose ? " 
 
 " Her mother was a German. Her 
 father's name was M. de Chambelle. 
 I suppose you never heard of the fam- 
 ily ; but I assure you that she is une 
 demoiselle de tres-bonne maison." 
 
 " And a good parti, I hope." 
 
 " She brought me, as her dower, a 
 concession of some importance, which, 
 had my health allowed me to remain in 
 America, might have proved valuable ; 
 but we sold every thing before leaving 
 America." 
 
 " And you have a daughter ? " 
 
 " Yes, a little Creole of twelve years 
 old, who looks at least fifteen. I hope 
 you will let me introduce her to you." 
 
 "Most willingly. And now that I 
 think of it, my carriage is at the door. 
 Allow me to reconduct you to your 
 home, and then I may have, perhaps, 
 at once the pleasure of making Mad- 
 ame d'Auban's acquaintance." 
 
 D'Auban assented, for he thought 
 that the sooner his wife got over the 
 nervousness she felt at the sight of 
 strangers the better it would be, and 
 his intimate friends she must needs 
 see during her stay in Paris. Madame 
 d'Orgeville wished to show her old 
 friend every kindness, but she was also 
 very curious to see his wife. Some of 
 her acquaintances, who had been at 
 New Orleans, had spoken in terms of 
 admiration of her grace and beauty ; 
 but she did not trust to their taste, and 
 was anxious to judge for herself before 
 inviting her to her house. 
 
 She was taken by surprise, not so 
 much by Madame d'Auban's beauty, as 
 by the singular distinction of her man- 
 ner, and the pure and refined French 
 which' she spoke. With the freedom 
 of Parisian manners, and the privilege 
 which people who are at the head of a 
 
164 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 
 coterie sometimes assume, of saying 
 whatever comes into their head, she 
 exclaimed, in the midst of her conver- 
 sation with her, " Good heavens ! how 
 handsome you are, madame, and what 
 perfect French you speak ! Quite the 
 language of the Court, with only a 
 shade of German accent. And your 
 manners, your voice, your whole ap- 
 pearance I I assure you I should have 
 thought you had always lived in 
 Paris." 
 
 Madame d'Auban smiled ; but Mina, 
 who was being led into the room at 
 that moment by her father, heard Mad- 
 ame d'Orgeville's words, and deeply 
 resented them. "Why should not 
 mamma be beautiful ? " she thought, 
 "and why should she not be perfect 
 in every way, though she has not lived 
 in this odious Paris ? " Mina's face 
 was one of those which a frown be- 
 comes almost as much as a smile, and 
 when, after kissing her on both cheeks, 
 Madame d'Orgeville called her a charm- 
 ing creole, the indignant look which 
 she put on made her look so pretty, 
 that that lady, during the rest of her 
 visit, could hardly take her eyes off 
 her. " She is quite as pretty as Mad- 
 ame de Prie," she thought, " and with 
 an expression of purity and innocence 
 such as I have never yet seen. That 
 face will make her fortune, if it does 
 not prove her ruin. I am rather glad 
 my daughters are not so strikingly 
 beautiful. I believe the safest thing 
 for a woman is to be tolerably good- 
 looking, and have a good dowery." 
 Whilst these reflections were passing 
 through her mind she was, with that 
 wonderful power some people possess 
 of being engrossed with two subjects 
 at once, most earnestly recommending 
 to Madame d'Auban a physician of the 
 name of Lenoir, who, she assured her, 
 was one of the first medical men in 
 Paris. She ended by inviting them all 
 to dinner for the next day, and pro- 
 
 posed that Mina should spend the 
 afternoon with her daughters and some 
 of their friends. 
 
 That afternoon proved a beautiful 
 one. The weather was warm without 
 being hot, the sun shining brightly, and 
 the sky cloudless. The garden of the 
 Hotel d'Orgeville was full of autumnal 
 flowers, choice roses and China asters. 
 The trees were beginning to put on 
 their brown and red colouring, and the 
 grass plot in the centre was studded 
 with buttercups and daisies. 
 
 Mina, who for months had not seen 
 a garden, and scarcely a flower, was in 
 ecstasies. The wearisome sea voyage 
 had been succeeded by the journey to 
 Paris in a close diligence, and two days 
 in the entresol of the Rue des Saints 
 Peres. If she had been alone, her de- 
 light would have been unbounded. As 
 it was, she could not resist taking a run 
 across the grass, and timidly asking 
 Julie d'Orgeville if she might gather 
 some buttercups a permission which 
 was graciously granted, with a rather 
 supercilious smile, for Mdlle. d'Auban 
 was half a head taller than Mdlle. Julie, 
 and for a girl of that height she deemed 
 it rather a childish amusement. The 
 young ladies sat down on a semicirculai 
 stone bench at the end of an alley of 
 plane-trees, and began to converse in 
 an undertone, which gradually rose to 
 a higher key, as the subjects under dis- 
 cussion became more interesting. A 
 little girl of ten years of age asked whal 
 they were going to play at. 
 
 Mademoiselle d'Orgeville said, "We 
 most of us prefer conversation ; but you 
 may, if you like, propose to the youngei 
 part of the society to play at ladies." 
 
 " What will she do ? " said the leadei 
 of the younger ones, pointing to Minaj 
 
 " What would you like best, Mdlle 
 d'Auban?" asked Julie, with greai 
 civility. 
 
 " "What do you do when you play a 
 ladies V' inquired the latter, raising 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 165 
 
 her large blue eyes from the flowers she 
 had on her knees. 
 
 " Oh, one is Madame la Duchesse, and 
 another Madame la Princesse, and 
 another Madame la Marquise, and so 
 on." 
 
 " Then one, you know, has Us grandes 
 entrees at Court," cried a little girl. 
 
 " And the duchesses have tabourets," 
 said another. 
 
 " And then we stand at the door of 
 the arbour, and pretend it is the queen's 
 dressing-room ; and we go in according 
 >o our ranks and stand by her Majesty ; 
 and Madame la Duchesse hands her 
 aer shift, if there is no one of higher 
 rank in the room; but if one of the 
 princesses comes in, she, of course, gives 
 t up to her. . . ." 
 
 " Which is to be the queen ? " asked 
 Mina, looking round the circle. 
 
 " We always draw lots for that. By 
 the way, do you know, mesdemoiselles, 
 that my mother says that yesterday, at 
 the funeral of the Princesse de Conti, 
 Madame la Duchesse de Boufflers pushed 
 y, and would not let Mademoiselle de 
 llermont sprinkle the corpse before she 
 lad done so herself. But she had all 
 the trouble in the world to prevent it." 
 
 " But my papa says that it is quite 
 ridiculous to suppose that duchesses 
 lave that right." 
 
 " Then your papa is mistaken, made- 
 moiselle. And if I play at going to 
 'ourt to-day, I shall be Madame de 
 Boufflers, and nothing shall induce me 
 to yield up that point." 
 
 " Well, all I know is that I went to 
 see Mdlle. de St. Simon yesterday, and 
 that she says the pretensions of the 
 Duchesse de Boufflers are quite shock- 
 ing, and that she should never have 
 taken precedency of Mademoiselle de 
 lennont, who was representing the 
 Queen." 
 
 " Who cares what that ugly girl says ? 
 She is like a note of interrogation a 
 ittle crooked thing, always asking 
 
 questions,^ laying down the law like 
 the cross old duke her father." 
 
 " Would you like to be the queen, 
 Mademoiselle d'Auban? You may if 
 you like," said the leader of the youth- 
 ful band. 
 
 "No, thank you," answered Mina; 
 " I should not know how to behave." 
 She thought of her grassy throne, and 
 her sable courtiers who used to call her 
 their chief, in the green prairies far 
 away; but that was not like playing 
 at being the queen of France, and she 
 said she should like better to stay where 
 she was, and to tie up her buttercups. 
 
 An animated conversation was carried 
 on by the elder girls, which chiefly 
 related to their various prospects, and 
 the intentions of their parents with re- 
 gard to their establishment in life. 
 Some were already engaged to be mar- 
 ried, though they had never seen their 
 future husbands. Some were to be 
 married as soon as a suitable alliance 
 could be found for them. Some hoped, 
 and some feared, they might have to 
 go into religion. They talked of the 
 good luck of one of their friends, who 
 had become the wife of a gentleman 
 whose position at Court would enable 
 her to take precedency of her sister, 
 who had wedded, the year before, a 
 wealthy jurisconsulte, a cousin of the 
 Messieurs Paris. One young lady they 
 mentioned, Alice le Pelletier, was act- 
 ually about to be married to the son 
 of a due et pair. " But then, you know, 
 she is immensely rich," said Julie 
 d'Orgeville, "and her mother was a 
 Beaufort. Do your parents intend to 
 marry you in France, Mademoiselle 
 d'Auban?" she asked of Mina, who 
 answered with simplicity 
 
 " I don't think they mean to marry 
 me at all." 
 
 " Are you, then, going into religion ? " 
 
 " I have never thought of it," Mina 
 said. " 
 
 " I suppose you have thought of very 
 
166 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 little yet, my dear, but playthings and 
 sweetmeats," said Julie, good-humour- 
 edly, but in rather a contemptuous 
 manner. 
 
 Mina blushed, but made no reply. 
 How little the elder girl knew of the 
 depths of thought and feeling in the 
 soul of that child, who had gone through 
 more emotions, and waged more inward 
 battles, and exercised more virtues al- 
 ready, than she had ever dreamt of in 
 her limited sphere of thought and ac- 
 tion ! Julie d'Orgeville was not without 
 amiable qualities, and her principles 
 were good ; so were those of many of 
 the young girls gathered together on 
 that occasion. Some of them event- 
 ually became excellent wives and 
 mothers, and exemplary fervent nuns. 
 But they were impregnated for the 
 time with the levity and the prejudices 
 of the worldly society to which they 
 belonged, and reflected in a childish 
 form the aspect it presented. 
 
 Mina felt miserably at a loss in their 
 company. They were neither like wo- 
 men nor like children. She could not 
 reach high enough, or descend low 
 enough, to be on a level with them ; 
 hers had been such a totally different 
 training. Crime and virtue, innocence 
 and guilt, are perhaps less strange to 
 each other, as far as sympathy goes, 
 than worldliness and unworldliness. 
 Erring souls sometimes appreciate 
 goodness. Where there is guilt there 
 is often remorse, and remorse is feeling. 
 But the worshippers of rank, fashion, 
 and wealth look with a comfortable 
 sense of superiority on those who do 
 not adore the same idols as themselves. 
 A worldly child sounds like a singular 
 anomaly, but the thing exists, and the 
 principles of worldliness are never so 
 broadly displayed as in such cases; 
 for childhood is consistent ; thoughts, 
 words, and actions are all in accord- 
 ance. Plausibility is the growth of a 
 inore advanced period of life ; a slowly- 
 
 acquired quality which it requires time 
 to mature. 
 
 Mina's parents felt in some ways as 
 little at home in the salon of the Hotel 
 d'Orgeville as she did in the school- 
 room. After so long an absence they 
 were not conversant with the state of 
 parties such as it existed at that time 
 in Paris, or with the intrigues which 
 were carried on in the court and in 
 the town. The tone of society often 
 astonished them. People who were 
 reckoned good said very strange things 
 in those days, and allowed themselves 
 an extraordinary latitude of thought 
 and speech. D'Auban had left Paris 
 at the end of the reign of Louis XIY. 
 The whole period of the Regency had 
 gone by during his absence, and im- 
 pressed on French society dire traces 
 of its influence. His wife had witnessed 
 in Russia crime and brutality, degrad- 
 ing vices and coarse buffoonery, but 
 the polished iniquity, the ruthless levity 
 of Parisian manners was new to her. 
 They were also no doubt changed them- 
 selves by the solitary earnest lives they 
 had led, by the holy joys and sacred 
 sorrows they had experienced, and felt 
 more deeply than others would have 
 done the pain of witnessing the increas- 
 ing immorality and irreligion of the 
 higher classes of French society; of 
 hearing the praises of vile miscreants 
 and poisonous writings from the lips 
 of men who still believed in Christian- 
 ity, who went through the forms of 
 religion, and summoned priests to their 
 deathbeds ; of watching the rising tide 
 of corruption which was to widen &nd 
 deepen for fifty years till the founda- 
 tions of the throne and the altar fell 
 to the ground, and the deluge of the 
 revolution swept away every landmark. 
 The epoch in question was indeed the 
 beginning of that terrible end, and 
 more trying perhaps to the true of 
 heart than the fatal consummation 
 which, with all its horrors and its 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 167 
 
 sufferings, gave evidence of the faith 
 and goodness latent in many of those 
 who had sported on the brink of the 
 I precipice, but when it opened under 
 I their feet became martyrs or heroes. 
 
 The 18th century is a sad picture to 
 look back upon, but in the midst of 
 all its sin and growing unbelief what 
 redeeming instances of virtue and 
 purity mark the pages of its history ! 
 Where can more admirable models be 
 found of true and undefiled religion 
 than in the wife, the son, and the 
 daughter of Louis XV. ? In the same 
 palace, under the same roof as Madame 
 de Pompadour, Marie Leckzinska, the 
 Dauphin, his Saxon wife, and Mesdames 
 de France served God and loved the 
 poor with a humble fidelity and patient 
 perseverance which surprise us when 
 we read their biographies and remem- 
 ber the age and the Court in which 
 their lot was cast. 
 
 At the time when Madame d'Auban 
 was in Paris, the young king of France 
 was still devoted to his wife. With 
 an open brow and a bright smile he 
 would say, when another woman's 
 beauty was insidiously commended in 
 his presence, " She is not, I am certain^ 
 as handsome as the queen." So he 
 thought and felt as long as the wicked- 
 ness of his courtiers and their vile 
 instruments had not seduced him from 
 his allegiance to his gentle wife. But 
 they laid their plans with consummate 
 skill. They carried them on with 
 diabolical art ; they took advantage of 
 his weakness ; step by step they drag- 
 ged him down into the abyss of deg- 
 radation in which his latter years 
 were sunk. They turned the idol of 
 his people, the well-beloved of a great 
 nation, into the abject slave of Madame 
 Dubarry, the mark of a withering 
 scorn, the disgrace of a polluted throne. 
 
 Is there a greater sin, one that cries 
 more loudly to heaven for vengeance, 
 than the cold-blooded, deliberate de- 
 
 sign of ruining the happiness and 
 poisoning the peace of those whose 
 own souls are not only at stake, but 
 whose example may influence thou- 
 sands for good or for evil ? Who can 
 foresee the consequences of such guilt, 
 if successful ? Who can say that the 
 crimes of the French Revolution, the 
 murder of an innocent king, the more 
 than murder of his consort and his 
 sister, the tortures of his hapless child, 
 will not be laid on the Day of Judg- 
 ment at the door of those who con- 
 spired to ruin the domestic happiness 
 of Louis XV., and to drag him down 
 to the level of their own ignominy? 
 God forgive them ; though we can 
 scarcely add, "They knew not what 
 they did!" 
 
 Thoughts akin to these were in Mad- 
 ame d'Auban's mind, and made her 
 woman's heart throb with indignation 
 when she heard one day in Madame 
 d'Orgeville's salon, a ^roup of men 
 and women of the world turning into 
 ridicule the king's affection for the 
 queen, and predicting, with exultation, 
 that, thanks to the manoeuvres of the 
 Dues d'Epernon and de Gesore, and 
 the dawning charms of Madame de 
 Mailly, it would not be of long dura- 
 tion. She had known the pangs of 
 desertion, the anguish which hides 
 itself under forced smiles, the utter 
 helplessness of an injured wife, more 
 helpless on or near a throne than in a 
 cottage, because her sufferings are 
 watched an.d her tears counted. 
 
 " Poor queen," she inwardly exclaim- 
 ed, " poor Marie Leckzinska I If a man 
 stabbed thee to the heart he would be 
 broken on a wheel; but how many 
 assassins there are who arc not punished 
 in this world ! " Monsieur Maret was 
 sitting by her at that moment; she 
 said a word or two which showed on 
 what subject her thoughts were run- 
 ning. " But would it have been possi- 
 ble to expect," he answered, "that the 
 
168 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 queen should go through life without 
 some great sufferings? Is there not 
 always some striking compensation to 
 be looked for in the destiny of a per- 
 son who has been singularly favoured 
 by fortune ? Picture to yourself, if you 
 can, madame, a more unexampled in- 
 stance of good luck than hers." 
 
 " It remains to be seen," said Mad- 
 ame d'Auban, " if, after all, her unfore- 
 seen elevation to the throne proves so 
 great a blessing. But explain to me, 
 sir, how it happened that the penniless 
 daughter of a dethroned sovereign 
 should have become the bride of Louis 
 XV." 
 
 "The Due de Bourbon, or rather 
 Madame de Prie, who rules in his 
 name, considered that the future queen 
 might prove a dangerous element of 
 opposition to his ministry if he did not 
 secure her allegiance to him by the tie 
 of gratitude. And so they bethought 
 themselves of the daughter of King 
 Stanislaus, whom the regent had per- 
 mitted out of charity to inhabit an old 
 mansion half in ruins in Weissenburg. 
 Conceive the moment when this poor 
 king opened the Due de Bourbon's 
 letter, perhaps fearing an order to leave 
 France within twenty-four hours, and 
 then found it contained a proposal of 
 marriage from the King of France to 
 his daughter ! From the King of 
 France ! who had just sent back an in- 
 fanta, and for the sake of whose alliance 
 every monarch in Europe would have 
 given one of his fairest provinces. I 
 wonder he did not die of joy ! " 
 
 " I wonder what she felt," ejaculated 
 Madame d'Auban, who was thinking 
 of the day when her own father had 
 said to her, " My daughter, I wish you 
 joy. The Czar Peter has chosen you 
 from amongst thirteen German prin- 
 cesses to be the Czarovitch's bride." 
 
 " The Due d'Antin has told us that 
 Stanislaus went straight into the room 
 where his wife and daughter were 
 
 mending their linen, and said, * Let us 
 kneel down and thank God.' 'O 
 dear father!' the princess exclaimed, 
 'are you restored to the throne of 
 Poland?' 'No, my daughter; it is 
 something better than that. You are 
 Queen of France.' She had just been 
 refused by the Duke of Baden ! D'An- 
 tin went to Strasburg with the Due 
 de Beauvilliers to compliment the bride. 
 He had to make a speech and he com- 
 mitted a comical blunder, an egregious 
 one for such a courtier ! In his address 
 to the Princess he said that M. le Due 
 might have chosen a Queen of France 
 amongst his own sisters, but virtue was 
 what he was seeking for, and he knew 
 where to look for it. Mdlle. de Cler- 
 mont, who is mistress of the Princess's 
 household, was standing behind her 
 chair, and whispered to the person 
 next to her, 'What does M. d'Antin 
 take us for, my sisters and myself ? ' " 
 
 Madame d'Auban smiled, and was 
 going to make some observation in re- 
 ply, when the door was thrown open 
 and his Excellency the Russian Ambas- 
 sador was announced. 
 
 D'Auban had ascertained that the 
 persons composing the Russian Em- 
 bassy at Paris had none of them been 
 at St. Petersburgh at the time when 
 they could have seen his wife. Still 
 he looked towards her with uneasiness 
 when Prince Kourakin came in. He 
 saw her colour at the first moment, 
 and then turn very pale. There were 
 not many persons in the room. When 
 the ambassador had paid his compli- 
 ments to the mistress of the house, the 
 conversation became general. 
 
 M. d'Orgeville asked if there was 
 any news. 
 
 "Great news from my court," said 
 Prince Kourakin. "I have just re- 
 ceived despatches containing the an- 
 nouncement of a coup d'etat at St. 
 Petersburgh." 
 
 "What! what!" exclaimed several 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 160 
 
 persons, amongst whom was d'Auban, 
 who saw his wife's eyes fixed upon 
 Prince Kourakin with intense anxiety. 
 
 " Mentzchikoff is overthrown and on 
 his way to Siberia ! " 
 
 " Incredible ! wonderful ! " cried 
 Madame d'Orgeville. "What an im- 
 portant event 1 Whose doing is it ? 
 
 "Our Imperial Master's. Mentzchi- 
 koff had, as you know, betrothed him 
 to his own daughter and kept him in 
 a state of absolute subjection. The 
 Czar could not walk, or ride, or eat, or 
 speak but by the orders of his minister. 
 This was carried on a little too far and 
 a little too long. It is not safe to bully 
 a lion's whelp. You cannot foresee 
 the moment when he will find out he 
 is a lion." 
 
 " And he has done so now ! " said 
 M. Maret. 
 
 " With a vengeance ; he has roared 
 to some effect, too." 
 
 " I am delighted to heaj it," cried 
 Madame d'Orgeville. " You must for- 
 give me, my dear ambassador, but I 
 could never get over the pastry-cook's 
 elevation ; the cakes stuck in my 
 throat." 
 
 Kourakin shrugged his shoulders 
 and took snuff. " I might say the same 
 if the poor man was not now in dis- 
 grace. One does not like to speak ill 
 of the fallen." 
 
 " Then, why did he not say so when 
 the poor man was on his legs ? " whis- 
 pered M. Muret to Madame d'Auban, 
 who did not hear him, and was breath- 
 lessly watching for Kourakin's next 
 words, and trembling lest the subject 
 should drop. But everybody wished 
 to hear the details of the minister's 
 fall, and he said, "You remember 
 Dolgorouki? He was here with the 
 Czar Peter some years ago. His son 
 and the little Princess Elizabeth were 
 the czar's only playfellows. Young 
 Dolgorouki always slept in his room, 
 and took every occasion to excite his 
 
 young sovereign's resentment against 
 Mentzchikoff. On the 5th of last month 
 he was staying with him at Peterhoff. 
 There he received orders from his fa- 
 ther to persuade the czar to jump out 
 of the window in the night, and make 
 his way to a spot where an escort was 
 to be in readiness to conduct him to 
 St. Petersburg!! ; every thing was pre- 
 pared in the city for an outbreak 
 against the minister. The young mon- 
 arch was nothing loth, and reached 
 the capital in safety. Once there the 
 imperial guard, the army, and the peo- 
 ple, excited by the Dolgoroukis, gath- 
 ered round the prince, with loud 
 cries of ' Long live the Czar ! ' ' Long 
 live Peter the Second!' 'Down with 
 Mentzchikoff!' and by the time the 
 minister heard of the plot, his cause 
 was hopeless, and his banishment 
 decreed. By this time he must be 
 moralizing at Yakouska, unless he has 
 died on the way of grief and spite. It 
 is supposed the czar will marry the 
 sister of young Dolgorouki." 
 
 " This is a most interesting episode," 
 observed one lady. "And I know 
 nothing to be compared to it in sudden- 
 ness, since poor M. Fouquet's disgrace." 
 
 "M. de Frejus narrowly escaped a 
 similar fate," said M. Maret. 
 
 " Ah ! the wily churchman," cried 
 Kourakin, " took quite a different line 
 with his royal pupil than . . ." 
 
 "The pastry-cook with his," inter- 
 rupted Madame d'Orgeville; "and it 
 has certainly answered better." 
 
 " For my part," said the Russian am- 
 bassador, a little nettled, " I like better 
 to see a young monarch dismiss an ar- 
 rogant minister, than cry over the loss 
 of a favourite tutor like a child after 
 its nurse." 
 
 A few more remarks were made, and 
 then the conversation turned to otlu r 
 topics. When M. d'Auban, his wife, 
 and his little girl returned home that 
 night, they all looked ill and tired. 
 
170 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Madame d'Auban could not sleep that 
 night, or if she closed her eyes a mo- 
 ment, her dreams were agitating. 
 Waking and sleeping she kept revisit- 
 ing the land where her son was reign- 
 ing, and picturing to herself what had 
 recently taken place in those scenes 
 she knew so well : at Peterhoff, the im- 
 perial boy leaping out of the window 
 in the darkness of the night; in St. 
 Petersbnrgh, the people hailing him 
 like a rescued captive. She felt proud 
 of the energy he had shown. She was 
 glad he had escaped from an unworthy 
 thraldom, but how would he use his 
 liberty, and how wield the fatal sceptre 
 of irresponsible power? Haunted by 
 visions of tortured criminals, of barbar- 
 ous executions and degrading buffoon- 
 eries, she shuddered at the thought of 
 her son in the midst of such a court, 
 and growing familiar with vice and 
 cruelty, till, her mother's heart could 
 scarcely endure the anguish. She rose 
 from her sleepless bed to pray that she 
 might soon force her way to his side, 
 and speak to him, if it was only once, 
 of justice and of mercy, of God and of 
 eternity. During those hours of the 
 night when one idea engrosses the 
 mind with all-absorbing power, it 
 seemed to her as if she must set out for 
 Russia the very next day. Wild pro- 
 jects of revealing her existence to the 
 King of France or Prince Kourakin 
 flitted through her brain, but they van- 
 ished with the morning light. She had 
 already ascertained that the Countess de 
 Konigsmark had died a short time ago, 
 after a lingering illness of nearly two 
 years, which latter circumstance ac- 
 counted for her silence since the death of 
 the Czar Peter. Of the two other persons 
 who had been concerned in the plot 
 for her escape, she had no means of 
 hearing. Their obscure situation made 
 it more difficult to ascertain what had 
 become of them. But her anxiety on 
 this point was superseded, and all idea 
 
 of leaving Paris put an end to for a 
 time, by her husband's increasing ill- 
 ness. 
 
 For many succeeding weeks she haci 
 but one thought and one care. Dr. Le- 
 noir was called in. He proved to be a 
 relative of Madame d'Auban's fellow- 
 captive in Louisiana, and had heard of 
 her kindness to the poor foolish creature, 
 as he disrespectfully called his brother's 
 widow. Colonel d'Auban's case, he 
 said, required profound repose of body 
 and mind. His strength was to be sus- 
 tained by every possible means, and 
 every thing agitating or painful as far as 
 possible kept from him. Under favour- 
 able circumstances he would venture 
 to predict a complete recovery, other- 
 wise he would not be answerable for 
 his life. This was the opinion he pri- 
 vately gave to Madame d'Auban. The 
 treatment would probably last about 
 four months good air and a cheerful 
 situation, w;thin reach of his own daily 
 visits, he deemed indispensable. 
 
 When he had left the room, Madame 
 d'Auban collected her thoughts and 
 made her calculations. There would 
 not be, at present, any question of their 
 going into society; and this she was 
 glad of, except for one reason she 
 might lose the chance of hearing news 
 from Russia ; but still she hoped that 
 this loss might be supplied by the visits 
 at home of a few intimate friends. 
 Mina should continue to go to the H6tel 
 d'Orgeville, in order to acquire, in the 
 society of the young people she met 
 there, the manners of her own country. 
 The next thing to be considered was 
 the removal to another house ; and now 
 came the question of means. This wa 
 the first time in her life that she had 
 had to face that vulgar difficulty. He 
 own and her husband's money hac 
 been embarked in their concessions 
 The forced sale of their property hac 
 been disadvantageous ; and the capita 
 they remained possessed of supplied 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 m 
 
 very limited income. On the other 
 hand, airy and comfortable apartments 
 in Paris were expensive, and so would 
 be Dr. Lenoir's attendance. 
 
 For the first time, Madame d'Auban 
 felt to care for riches. For the first 
 time she became acquainted with the 
 sting of poverty. She looked at her 
 husband, remembered the physician's 
 words, and mentally resolved that, with 
 God's blessing, no care, no anxiety, 
 should impede his recovery that she 
 alone would bear the burden of solici- 
 tude. In a playful manner, with gen- 
 tleness and tact, she told him what the 
 doctor had said, and demanded, in a 
 smiling but urgent manner, the entire 
 control and management of their ex- 
 penses. 
 
 " My dear heart," he said, fondly 
 kissing her hand, " what do you know 
 of business? How can you manage 
 the affairs of a poor gentilhomme ? " 
 
 " Better, perhaps, than you imagine, 
 M. d'Auban. Nay, for once," she said, 
 with a graceful dignity which became 
 her well, "I will assert a woman's, a 
 princess's, right to have her own way. 
 Leave every thing to me, dearest Henri. 
 I will it as a wife ; I claim it, too." 
 
 " By your divine right to rule over 
 the heart and will of your husband, I 
 suppose. But, my beloved one, I can- 
 not suffer that dear head, which ought 
 to have worn a crown, to ache over 
 accounts." 
 
 She laid her finger on his lips, and, 
 by loving words and caresses, put an 
 end to his remonstrances. 
 
 Two days afterwards a cheerful, pretty 
 apartment in the quartier du Louvre 
 was engaged ; the invalid's couch placed 
 near a window commanding a view of 
 the Seine, the Isle de Paris, and the old 
 towers of Notre Dame. Books lent by 
 various friends were laid on the table 
 near him; and every morning Mina 
 brought in bright-coloured flowers to 
 make the room look gay. She bought 
 
 them at the March6 aux Fleure, as she 
 walked home from an early mass. M. 
 Lenoir came every day ; his conversation 
 entertained his patient, whilst his reme- 
 dies improved his health. Old friends 
 now and then called of an evening; 
 and all who came into that little sanc- 
 tuary of peace and love were charmed 
 with Madame d'Auban. A good-na- 
 tured curiosity was felt about her. Every 
 one wondered that so refined and agree- 
 able a person had been met with in a 
 remote colony. Full of intelligence, 
 and of the best sort of cleverness for a 
 woman that of appreciating the talents 
 and wit of others she knew how to 
 promote conversation, without joining 
 very much in it herself. Her very 
 speaking eyes answered, questioned, 
 applauded, or remonstrated ; and gave 
 continual evidence of her interest in 
 what others were saying. People were 
 often astonished to find that a person 
 who spoke so little could be such a 
 pleasant member of society. They little 
 knew how hard it was^ at times to keep 
 the appearance of cheerfulness how 
 anxiously she was listening for any word 
 which might refer to Russia! seldom 
 daring to ask a direct question, and 
 never looking into a newspaper without 
 a beating heart. 
 
 She would sometimes mention her 
 son to her husband, in a casual manner 
 and without any appearance of emotion, 
 that he might not think she was pining 
 for the moment when he could accom- 
 pany her to St. Petersburgh a scheme 
 long cherished and which she was 
 more bent upon than ever, since she 
 had heard of the young monarch's 
 emancipation. It seemed to her as if 
 she now might find means of approach- 
 ing him of telling him, and no one 
 else, the secret of her lift of whisper- 
 ing words of counsel and warning, even 
 as if a departed mother had risen from 
 her grave to haunt him with her love. 
 Dreams they were, wild hopeless dreams. 
 
172 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 perhaps, but to her they did not seem 
 so. And the while she had made the 
 sacrifice of the only means she had of 
 performing this journey. The only val- 
 uable possession she had retained was 
 the locket, with the czar's picture set 
 in diamonds ; those diamonds she had 
 always intended to sell for this purpose, 
 but she had parted with them now. 
 The sum thus obtained had been part- 
 ly employed in meeting the expenses 
 of her husband's illness, and the 
 rest she retained for any future emer- 
 gency of the same kind. "When he 
 had asked her how she was able 
 to manage so well with such limited 
 resources,- she had answered that 
 she had disposed of trifles she had 
 no use for. It never occurred to 
 him that she had parted with those 
 diamonds. 
 Now and then news accidentally 
 
 reached her of the land where her son 
 reigned. Since the death of the Coun- 
 tess of Kouigsmark she had no chance 
 of direct information; but some one 
 said one day that the Empress Eudoxia 
 had been recalled to court by her grand- 
 son ; and another time she read in the 
 " Mercure de France " that the Princess 
 Mentzchikoff had died of a broken 
 heart, on her way to Siberia; she 
 sighed, for this poor woman had been 
 kind to her once. And when she 
 heard of her son's approaching nuptials 
 with the Princess Dolgorouki, she 
 breathed a fervent prayer that his 
 marriage might be more blest than 
 hers with his father. And the days 
 went by, apparently like one another, 
 though so full to her of hope, fear, and 
 agitations, and at last there came one 
 which had a great influence over her 
 future fate. 
 
 CHAPTEK Y. 
 
 Qui survient ? Dame belle et fiere 
 Son carrosse au galop conduit, 
 
 Jette a 1'autre un not de poussiere 
 Et 1'accrochant fait rire et fait. 
 
 Beranger. 
 
 For I saw her, as I thought, dead, 
 
 And have in vain said 
 
 Many a prayer upon her grave. 
 
 ShaJcspeare. 
 
 SOME months after their change of 
 abode, in the afternoon of a day warm 
 as early spring days are wont to be in 
 Paris, Madame d'Auban was walking 
 with her daughter in the Tuileries 
 gardens. The horse-chestnut trees of 
 the central alley were putting forth 
 their tender leaves, and the orange trees 
 were lining the terrace which overlooks 
 the Seine. The sun was shining full on 
 
 the windows of the palace, the whole 
 facade was blazing with light. What 
 tragedies have been enacted since that 
 time in the ancient fortress of the French 
 kings, in sight of the green bowers the 
 fountains and flowers of those beautiful 
 gardens ! "What lives and what deaths, 
 what crimes and what sorrows, have 
 stamped bitter memories on their match- 
 less loveliness ! And still through every 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 173 
 
 change of time and of doom, the horse- 
 chestnuts put out their spiral blossoms 
 and drop their shining fruit ; and lovers 
 whisper, and children play, and politi- 
 cians talk, and men laugh and scheme 
 in their shade, whether over the time- 
 honoured dome of the old palace floats 
 the spotless fleur-de-lis or the glorious 
 tri-color. 
 
 Many a graceful picture of Boch6 or 
 Vanloo might give an idea of the aspect 
 of the Tuileries gardens on the day we 
 are speaking of. Groups of fashionable 
 loungers were sauntering up and down ; 
 the effect produced by their variegated 
 dresses, their painted fans, their col- 
 oured parasols, and the gorgeous liv- 
 eries of their servants, somewhat re- 
 sembled that of the beds in the par- 
 terre, where tulips and sequinettes, 
 anemones, crocuses and jonquils, were 
 displaying their various hues in bright 
 confusion. The reader of the foregoing 
 pages may, perhaps, also picture to him- 
 self the mother and child, who hastily 
 withdrawing themselves from the more 
 fashionable part of the garden, seated 
 themselves on a bench in the recess 
 formed by the walls of the orangery. 
 There was certainly something very dif- 
 ferent in their appearance from that of 
 other people. They were not dressed in 
 the height of the fashion. In dress and 
 in manner there was a distinguished 
 simplicity, a careless but graceful negli- 
 gence of effect, which would have at- 
 tracted the attention of a careful ob- 
 server, but passed unobserved in a 
 crowd. Madame d'Auban's pale blue 
 eyes were as soft and lovely as ever, 
 and her features were still very beauti- 
 ful; but during the last few months 
 she had grown to look much older ; a 
 few gray hairs began to show them- 
 selves in her golden tresses. But as to 
 Mina, Wilhelmina as she was now 
 oftener called, there was no doubt as to 
 ' her beauty. Nobody could have seen 
 and not been struck by it. If she had 
 
 stood in the midst of the fine ladies of 
 the central alley, and challenged their 
 notice, they might, indeed, have lifted 
 up their eyebrows with a supercilious 
 stare, and fluttering their fans declared, 
 with affected indifference, that the lit- 
 tle Creole was tolerable enough ; but in 
 their secret hearts each would have 
 hoped that the eyes she herself wished 
 to attract might never rest on the, face 
 of this young stranger. Though Mina 
 was only in her thirteenth year, she 
 looked fifteen or sixteen; and her 
 beauty was that of early girlhood 
 rather than of childhood. The mind 
 which spoke in her countenance was 
 matured, also, beyond her age. The 
 life she had led in her earlier years had 
 strengthened and developed her frame, 
 and the climate of Louisiana had pre- 
 maturely hastened her growth. She 
 was not as strong now as in her native 
 Illinois; her complexion was more 
 delicate, and there was a darker shade 
 under her eyes than that of the black 
 eyelashes which fringed them. But 
 many of the ladies of the court would 
 have given the most costly pearl in 
 their necklace, or the brightest stone 
 in their coronals, for her dark blue 
 and most expressive eyes for her 
 swanlike neck, or her features, chis- 
 elled like the fairest gem of Grecian 
 art. 
 
 " I think papa is getting a great deal 
 better now, dearest mother," Mina said, 
 as she unfolded a piece of embroidery, 
 on which her slender fingers were soon 
 busily employed. 
 
 " He is, indeed, much better. M. Le- 
 noir's treatment has perfectly succeeded, 
 and now he is of opinion that change 
 of air will greatly contribute to his 
 complete recovery." 
 
 " Oh, how delightful 1 Then we shall 
 leave Paris. Where shall wo go ? " 
 
 " My dear child, we do not mean to 
 take you with us. Madame d'Orgc v i 1 1 u 
 has kindly invited you to spend the 
 
174 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 time of our absence with her daugh- 
 ters." 
 
 Mina frowned, and, hiding her face 
 in her hands, did not answer. 
 
 " You have many things to learn, my 
 child, and you may never have such an 
 opportunity again. I would not will- 
 ingly cut short the time of your resi- 
 dence in Paris. The lessons you are 
 taking now, from first-rate masters, are 
 of the greatest advantage." 
 
 Mina sighed. " Could I not go to 
 school in some convent ? " 
 
 "Do you dislike Mesdemoiselles 
 d'Orgeville?" 
 
 " I like Julie pretty well, and Oriane 
 very much ; but I cannot indeed, 
 mamma, I cannot feel happy with 
 them, as I used to do with Therese, 
 Rose, and Agnes." 
 
 There was a slight tone of irritation 
 in Madame d'Auban's manner as she 
 answered, "That part of your life is 
 past, Mina ; it is of no use to be always 
 dwelling upon it, and nursing vain re- 
 grets. You are French, and it is not 
 your destiny, my child, to live with 
 Indians." 
 
 " I cannot feel French, mother ! I 
 cannot think or speak as they do. The 
 girls here do not understand me. They 
 do not care for the sky, or the trees, or 
 the sunset clouds. Ontara and I used 
 to talk of what the rivers whisper as 
 they run by, and of the voices in the 
 pine-trees. We knew what every flow- 
 er said. I showed him one day a pas- 
 sion flower, and I told him that it was 
 the flower of the Christians' prayer; 
 that the cross and the crown of thorns, 
 the spear and the nails, were in its bo- 
 som, and that that was why I loved it 
 so much ; and he pointed to a sun-flow- 
 er, and said, * This is the flower of the 
 Natches' prayer. It worships the sun, 
 as we do. Every day it turns to him 
 as he sets the same look which it turn- 
 ed to him when he rose.' 
 
 " But, my Mina, Ontara is a heathen. 
 
 How could you have felt so much sym- 
 pathy with one who does not believe 
 in Jesus Christ ? " 
 
 Mina mused for a moment. She was 
 putting to herself the same question. 
 "Mother, Ontara will be a Christian 
 one day. He promised me never to 
 part with his crucifix, and to say every 
 day a prayer I taught him. Mother, 
 Ontara will love our Lord one day ; he 
 loves the Great Spirit now much more 
 than many of the French Christians 
 do." 
 
 "Do not say 'the Great Spirit,' 
 Mina. You must leave off talking like 
 the Indians." 
 
 "I will say 'the Good God,' said 
 Mina, gently. " But, mother, some of 
 the people here speak of the Supreme 
 Being. Are they heathens ? " 
 
 " Not much better than heathens, I 
 am afraid/' said Madame d'Auban 
 with a sigh. She looked anxiously at 
 her daughter. A fear was perhaps 
 crossing her mind lest her sweet wild- 
 flower should lose its fragrance in the 
 hothouse of a Parisian schoolroom. 
 
 " Where are you and my father go- 
 ing ? " asked Mina, after a pause. 
 
 " To Brittany ; he wishes to see his 
 native place again before leaving 
 France, perhaps for ever." 
 
 Madame d'Auban did not add that 
 this was to be but the first step of a 
 long journey, the accomplishment of 
 which was her long-cherished hope. 
 
 " Mother, where is your native place ? " 
 This was timidly said ; Mina was con- 
 scious that there was something mys- 
 terious in her mother's fate. Many 
 little circumstances had led her to 
 suspect it besides the prayers they 
 daily said in secret for her unknown 
 brother. She had never ventured 
 before to put a direct question to 
 her on the subject. There was a trou- 
 bled look in her mother's face as she 
 answered 
 
 " Your fate and mine, my daughter, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 175 
 
 may be similar, I think, in one respect. 
 Neither of us will probably ever visit 
 again the place of our birth : but you 
 may speak of yours ; I can never men- 
 tion mine." 
 
 Mina seized her mother's hand. " I 
 am so sorry 1 " she said, tenderly kissing 
 it. "It is so sad never to speak of 
 what we love ! " 
 
 A sudden thought seemed to occur 
 to Madame d'Auban. "Mina," she 
 said, " if in after years, perhaps when I 
 am dead, it should ever come into your 
 mind that, where so much concealment 
 was necessary, there may have been 
 guilt, remember what I now say to 
 you. Never dream for a moment, my 
 child, that there was aught to be 
 ashamed of in your mother's life ; keep 
 in mind this solemn assurance, given 
 at the eve of our first separation. You 
 cannot understand its full meaning now, 
 but you will hereafter. Your mother's 
 history is an extraordinary one, but no 
 disgrace is attached to it. These words 
 must remain buried in your heart, my 
 daughter. Question me not, nor others, 
 on this subject ; we will not revert to it 
 again." 
 
 Mina again kissed her mother, and 
 then said, "Is there the least chance, 
 mamma, that the appointment papa 
 hopes to obtain will be in the New 
 France?" 
 
 " Not the least chance of it banish 
 all such hope from your mind, Mina. 
 If a post was offered him on the con- 
 tinent of America, he would decline it. 
 He does not wish, and I would not for 
 the world that he returned to a country 
 wlicre he has suffered so much. The 
 effects of that terrible time are only 
 now disappearing. I always observed 
 at New Orleans that the sight of an In- 
 dian made him shudder." 
 
 The blood rushed to Mina's cheeks 
 and suffused her temples; her heart 
 beat with violence. " And yet Ontara 
 saved his life and mine, and Pearl Feath- 
 
 er died for us!" she passionately ex- 
 claimed ; and, rushing forward a little 
 way beyond the bench, she stood still, 
 battling down the vehement feelings 
 her mother's words had awakened. In 
 a few instants she returned, and, throw- 
 ing her arms round her mother's neck, 
 whispered, "Dearest, dearest papa, I 
 know how much he suffered, and he is 
 so good ; but, oh, mother, some of my 
 Indian brothers are good too 1 " 
 
 Just as the young girl was giving 
 way to this burst of feeling, the quiet 
 corner where her mother and herself 
 were sitting was invaded by a number 
 of smartly-dressed persons, who formed 
 themselves in a group just opposite to 
 them. They were discussing with great 
 eagerness something that was going on 
 or about to take place, and which evi- 
 dently excited interest and amusement. 
 In the centre of this assemblage stood 
 a lady of unusual height, whose features 
 were strikingly handsome. She was 
 dressed in the extreme of fashion ; spoke 
 in a loud, ringing, but not unharmo- 
 nious voice, and seemed to command 
 the attention and admiration of the 
 bystanders. The expression of her 
 countenance varied every moment; 
 sometimes wild merriment gleamed in 
 her black eyes, and arch, mischievous 
 smiles played on her lips, or a look of 
 defiant resolution compressed them 
 tightly together. At moments, a sweet 
 and almost melancholy shade of thought 
 overcast that sparkling brilliancy ; she 
 talked a great deal, and gesticulated 
 incessantly. 
 
 " Does the great trial of strength 
 really come off to-day ? " asked one of 
 the gentlemen who crowded round her. 
 "You have made a bold challenge. 
 Mademoiselle, and I fear your backers 
 will have to pay the costs." 
 
 " Bah ! " she said, laughing. " Even 
 defeat in this case will be honourable. 
 And so much the worse for those who 
 have been rash enough to stake their 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 fortunes on the strength of my wrist ! 
 A slender one, gentlemen," she added, 
 showing a well-shaped and very white 
 hand. 
 
 "Does your antagonist furnish the 
 plate?" 
 
 " Of course he does." 
 
 " My dear," said one of the ladies, 
 " I am afraid you will be conquered. 
 I know you bend five-franc pieces like 
 wafers, but a silver plate ! You have 
 never yet attempted that." 
 
 " I could not afford i.t." There was 
 a general burst of laughter. 
 
 " Mademoiselle grown economical ! 
 Wonders will never cease ! " 
 
 "Perhaps not," said the lady, and 
 the thoughtful, mournful look came 
 into her face, but in a second she was 
 laughing again at her own thoughts, 
 apparently. "I could amuse you all 
 very much," she said, " by relating my 
 adventures since we last met here." 
 
 " It has been reported that you had 
 left Paris, but nobody could tell where 
 you were gone," said one of the gen- 
 tlemen. 
 
 "I dare say not. Well, I went to 
 the dull little capital of a foolish little 
 kingdom. Guess now where I went." 
 
 " I should never have guessed," said 
 another gentleman, " that Mademoiselle 
 Gaultier would have sought dulness 
 under any form. There is no affinity 
 between her and dulness." 
 
 " I did not find Stutgard at all dull. 
 On the contrary, the twenty-four hours 
 I spent there were exceedingly lively." 
 
 " And what in the name of patience 
 took you there, my dear ? " asked the 
 same lady who had spoken before. 
 
 " Well, if you wish to hear the story, 
 here it is. His Royal Highness of Wur- 
 temburg and I were great friends all 
 last winter. He is, as you know, a pa- 
 tron of the stage writes plays himself 
 bad ones but that is neither here nor 
 there. He had often invited me to visit 
 his duchy ; so last week, as the weather 
 
 was fine, and Paris not particularly 
 amusing, I took it into my head to go. 
 I travelled day and night, with only 
 one servant. Oh, dear, what beautiful 
 nights they were! I wonder if you 
 Parisians have ever thought of looking 
 at the stars ? I assure you it is very 
 worth while. At the end of four days 
 I arrived at the Konig's Hof, and wrote 
 to my royal friend to announce my ar- 
 rival. He had the condescension to 
 call upon me on the same day, and was 
 all bows and smiles and compliments ; 
 but when I spoke of paying him my 
 respects at the palace on the morrow, I 
 noticed a visible embarrassment on the 
 Grand-ducal countenance. He said 
 there was no occasion to fatigue myself 
 so soon after my journey ah! ah! do 
 I look like a person easily fatigued ? 
 and that he would send his chamberlain 
 the next day to inquire after my health. 
 And the chamberlain came, and, what 
 was -more extraordinary, the chamber- 
 lain told the truth ! It appeared that 
 his Royal Highness, good soul, had be- 
 trayed imprudent marks of satisfaction 
 on hearing of my arrival, and had given 
 orders that I should be forthwith in- 
 vited to dine at the palace. But it was 
 not to be. The noble and high and 
 mighty and virtuous Countess d'Erns- 
 thumer, a Wurtemburgian Madame 
 de Maintenon a left-handed, morgan- 
 atic sort of divinity, presiding over the 
 decorum and morality of the pompous 
 little court, had decreed otherwise. She 
 raised a tremendous outcry, and pro- 
 tested against such an honour being 
 paid to Mademoiselle Gaultier, pre- 
 miere actrice du Theatre Francais. And 
 the veto took effect." 
 
 " Too bad ! " " Too insolent ! " " In- 
 tolerable ! " " Impertinent ! " exclaimed 
 the listeners, in different keys. 
 
 "What did you say^to that wretched 
 chamberlain ? " 
 
 "I asked if the excellent countess 
 enjoyed good health." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 177 
 
 " Goqd heavens ! my dear," exclaim- 
 *ed one of the ladies, "you were not 
 I going to poison her ? " 
 
 " No ; I am too much afraid of hell ; 
 and besides, it would not have been 
 \ half such fun as what I did do." 
 
 " And what on earth was that ? " 
 p cried the audience. . 
 
 " Well, I took a drive the next day." 
 
 "Is that all?" 
 
 " I drove myself, of course, as I do 
 here. Mine host of the Konig's Hof, 
 whose good graces I had won by florins 
 and civil speeches, lent me a charming 
 pair of unbroken horses, which I order- 
 ed to be harnessed to a light phaeton, 
 tt had rained all night, and the ground 
 was delightfully soft and muddy. My 
 Eriend the chamberlain had kindly in- 
 formed me at what hour I might have 
 the pleasure of seeing all the beau monde 
 of Stutgard parading up and down the 
 promenade. Was not that a treat for 
 a stranger from Paris? The Countess 
 d'Ernsthumer, he said, always took a 
 drive between one and two in her open 
 carriage and four. I managed my wild 
 steeds to perfection ; we raced up and 
 down the alleys, scattering mud in 
 very direction. I kept them pretty 
 well in hand till we came in sight of 
 the morganatic equipage. 'Tis not to 
 be described how frantic they then 
 became how they reared and plunged, 
 and ended by running against its left 
 wheel, and sending it right over on its 
 side gently enough, too I The good 
 German horses stood stock-still, and 
 the ladies fell one upon another in the 
 mud, like so many pillows in silk and 
 muslin cases." 
 
 "Well done!" "Well done!" "Bra- 
 TO, Madlle. Gaultier ! " re-echoed in the 
 circle. 
 
 "Ay, but mind you, nobody cried 
 ' bravo ' on the promenade at Stut- 
 Igard (and the Germans can work them- 
 selves up into a fury if you give them 
 time) ; so there was no time to lose, and 
 12 
 
 I drove like the wind to my Konig's 
 Hof, where a post-chaise and four was 
 waiting for me. We flew rather than 
 galloped to the frontier. The postboys 
 had never before been promised so 
 much Trinkgeld. Once on the French 
 side of the river, I stood up in the car- 
 riage, shook my glove in defiance, and 
 then flung it into the Rhine. In four 
 more days and nights I travelled back 
 to Paris, the only place fit for human 
 beings to live in." 
 
 " What did the Grand Duke think ? " 
 somebody said. 
 
 " Oh ! I had a letter this morning 
 describing the storm in a puddle which 
 ensued. I was to have been thrown 
 into prison. Ah ! ah ! The journey 
 back was delightful. We had all sorts 
 of adventures, and ran a thousand 
 risks, Constant and I. We were nearly 
 murdered in a cut-throat-looking inn." 
 
 " Have you never known what it is 
 to be frightened, Mademoiselle Gaul- 
 tier ? " a lady asked. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, Madame, I am 
 terribly afraid of the least pain ; the 
 prick of a needle makes me faint, and 
 a hard bed cry. Mais que voulez- 
 vous ? excitement is every thing." 
 
 Just then there was a stir amongst 
 the bystanders. A man of high stature 
 and noble appearance had joined the 
 assemblage, and was standing opposite 
 Mademoiselle Gaultier, with his back 
 to Madame d'Auban and her daughter. 
 
 " Ah, Monsieur le Comte ! " the act- 
 ress gaily exclaimed, "I was begin- 
 ning to think you had forgotten my 
 challenge." 
 
 The person she thus addressed an- 
 swered, with a smile : " You are not 
 content with one defeat, fair lady ; you 
 must needs seek another. So be it 
 then. On the last occasion when we 
 tried the strength of our wrists, you 
 forfeited to me the rose which Zaire 
 had worn on the preceding evening. 
 I am grown more ambitious now, and 
 
178 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 if I win I shall ask for the fellow of the 
 glove which the free German Rhine is 
 carrying to the sea." 
 
 " Ah ! you have heard of my adven- 
 tures, Monsieur le Comte ? Are you 
 not afraid of measuring your strength 
 with so ntalignant an enemy ? " 
 
 "Very much afraid," answered the 
 stranger, with a smile. " But faint 
 heart never won or vanquished fair 
 lady ; so I must needs keep up my 
 courage by all the inducements in my 
 power. Here are two silver plates : 
 bent or unbent, they remain yours after 
 the trial ; and if I win, then I claim 
 the champion's glove." 
 
 "Very well," said Mademoiselle 
 Gaultier. " Give me a plate." 
 
 It was handed to her. She took it 
 up with a half-confident, half-doubtful 
 look, colouring with eagerness, and 
 smiling as if anticipating a triumph. 
 Then laying it down again, she began 
 by bending with her fingers, slender 
 and thin, but as strong as steel, a five- 
 franc piece, which she rolled as if it 
 had been a wafer.. Everybody ap- 
 plauded. 
 
 " Now for the great attempt ! " she 
 said ; and the eyes of all present were 
 fixed upon her as she again took up the 
 silver plate. 
 
 Madame d'Auban and Mina were 
 watching her like the rest. There was 
 something irresistibly attractive in the 
 good-humoured wilfulness of her hand- 
 some face. 
 
 "Nobody has ever conquered me," 
 she said, overlooking, with feminine in- 
 consistency, her recent defeat. 
 
 When a woman wills something, and 
 that something is a triumph of some 
 kind, how resolved she is upon it ! 
 The colour deepened visibly under the 
 rouge on her cheeks. She bent the 
 whole strength of her fingers, of her 
 arm, of her whole frame on the plate, 
 which would not yield to that desper- 
 ate pressure. Her lips were firmly and 
 
 tightly compressed; the veins in her 
 forehead swelled. She turned pale 
 with the prolonged effort. "Aliens! 
 I am beat," she cried, vexed and yet 
 laughing. "I don't believe you can 
 bend it, Monsieur le Comte." 
 
 The stranger bowed, took it up, and 
 with a scarcely perceptible effort rolled 
 it up like a piece of parchment. 
 
 " Bravo ! " exclaimed the lady, with 
 frank good humour, and pulling off her 
 glove she presented it to her antagonist 
 with a graceful curtsey. " To have en- 
 tered the lists with such an adversary 
 is in itself an honour, and to be de- 
 feated by him more glorious than to 
 conquer a meaner foe. And yet," she 
 added, laughing, " it is pitiful not to 
 be able any more to boast that what 
 anybody else has done one can also 
 do." 
 
 Her cortege accompanied her as she 
 moved away, and no one remained in 
 that part of the garden but Madame 
 d'Auban and Mina and Madlle. Gaul- 
 tier's antagonist, who suddenly turned 
 round and sat down at the farthest end 
 of the bench where they were seated. 
 He took out a parcel of letters from his 
 pocket and began to read them, with- 
 out paying any attention to his neigh- 
 bours. Mina had been much amused 
 with the scene she had witnessed. 
 
 " Is not that gentleman wonderfully 
 strong, mamma ?" she said in French. 
 
 " Speak German," whispered her 
 mother, glancing at the stranger. 
 
 " The lady is also very strong," Mina 
 said in that language, " and she is very 
 handsome too. Do you think she looks 
 good, mamma ? " 
 
 The gentleman at the end of the 
 bench evidently understood German, 
 for he turned round, amused at Mina's 
 question, and looked at her with curi- 
 osity first and then with unmistakable 
 admiration. But he soon resumed his 
 reading. 
 
 " I think her manners are too bold, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 170 
 
 but there is something prepossessing in 
 her countenance," was Madame d'Au- 
 ban's answer to her daughter's remark. 
 
 " Yes, mamma; I see what you mean 
 about her being too bold, but I am glad 
 you like her face. I do." 
 
 " She is an actress not a person in 
 society." 
 
 " An actress ! I wonder if she acts 
 as well as Pouponne?" 
 
 " Who is Pouponne, my dear ? " 
 
 " Madame de Simiane's grand-daugh- 
 ter, mamma. She came tUe other day 
 to see Julie and Oriane, and she told 
 us that at her school they were going 
 to act Athalie, and that she was going 
 to be the Queen. M. d'Hericourt had 
 been teaching her when to stand and 
 to sit down, and to put out her hand, 
 i and to look up to heaven. She repeated 
 I to us her part; you can't think how 
 i well she did it, mamma; especially 
 I that bit when Athalie says : 
 
 1 Ou scrais-je aujourd'hui si domptant ma faiblcsse 
 Je n'eusse d'une mere etouffo la tendresse ? " 
 
 " Hush, darling ! " said her mother, 
 
 id an expression of pain passed over 
 Iher face. 
 
 Mina perceived it, and, hastening to 
 [change the subject, exclaimed, "I wish 
 KI was a queen ! Not a make-believe one, 
 pbut a queen in good earnest." 
 
 " What can make you wish for such 
 
 fate, Mina?" 
 
 " I would then fit out an immense 
 ahip and return to America, and on the 
 of the hill where Eagle-eye used to 
 me I would build a cathedral as 
 as Notre Dame, which would be 
 
 le wonder of the New World." 
 
 Do you fancy that kings and queens 
 lure free agents, my child ; or, that they 
 [are happier than other people ? " 
 
 "Everybody says happy as a king 
 lor a queen. Julie says, she should be 
 las happy as a queen if she married 
 [somebody about the Court, and was 
 
 ivited to Marly." 
 
 " Those who use that form of speech 
 
 have never known what anguish often 
 wrings the hearts of those they foolishly 
 envy." 
 
 Mina laid her head in a caressing 
 manner against her mother's shoulder, 
 and looking up into her face said, " But 
 how do you know what they suffer, 
 sweetest mother? You have never 
 lived in a palace." 
 
 Madame d'Auban pushed back the 
 curls from her daughter's forehead, and, 
 pressing her lips upon it, murmured, 
 " Take my word for it, Mina, there is 
 sometimes no slavery more galling than 
 that of royalty, and no more melancholy 
 prison than a palace. The hardest of 
 all chains are often invisible ; and many 
 a heart breaks in silence on or near a 
 throne." 
 
 These last words, uttered with some 
 emotion, and in a rather louder voice 
 than that in which Madame d'Auban 
 had hitherto spoken, caused the stran- 
 ger, who had now finished reading his 
 letters, to bend forward and endeavour 
 to catch a glimpse of her face; but, 
 not succeeding, he collected his papers 
 and walked away. As he passed before 
 Madame d'Auban he looked hard at 
 her, and in a few minutes turned back 
 again and fixed his eyes earnestly upon 
 her. She remarked it, and for the first 
 time she also caught sight of his features, 
 and felt at once that they were not un- 
 known to her. 
 
 " Put up your work, darling," she 
 hurriedly said. " It is time to go." 
 
 44 Qh, do let us stay a little longer, 
 dearest mamma 1 It is so pleasant now 
 under the trees." 
 
 No, no ; make haste, Mina." 
 
 For the third time the stranger turned 
 back, and this time he stopped opposite 
 to them. Madame d'Auban's eyes met 
 his eager glance, and every trace of 
 colour vanished from her check. She 
 remained motionless and cold as any 
 of the stone statues about her. The 
 stranger pronounced a single word, 
 
180 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "Madame!" There was wonder, re- 
 spect, and a tacit inquiry in the tone 
 with which it was uttered. In the ears 
 of her to whom it was addressed, it 
 sounded like a voice from another world ; 
 for that stranger and herself had been 
 friends in early youth almost like a 
 brother had that man been to her ; and 
 at sight of him thoughts of her family, 
 and home, and old associations were 
 rushing upon her with indescribable 
 might. 
 
 " The Comte de Saxe," she murmured. 
 The name died away on her lips, but 
 she could not repress the choking and 
 blinding tears which would flow in 
 spite of all her efforts. 
 
 " Dear companion of my childhood," 
 the Count began, in a low and rapid 
 tone " friend of my earlier days, do 
 my senses beguile me, or do I, indeed, 
 behold you again ? Oh, madame, what 
 does this mean ? What miracle has 
 raised you from an untimely grave? 
 For God's sake, explain to me this 
 mystery ! " 
 
 Madame d'Auban made a strong ef- 
 fort to rise, and leaning on Mina she 
 turned away. " It is a mistake," she 
 faintly said, and tried to walk on. But 
 the Count seized her hand and exclaim- 
 ed 
 
 "It is your voice, as well as your 
 face! It is yourself ! You cannot de- 
 ceive me ! " 
 
 " Let go my mother's hand," cried 
 Mina. with the air of a young chieftain- 
 ess. " You make her weep. Begone ! " 
 
 Without heeding her, the Count con- 
 tinued "Good God! madame! cannot 
 you trust me ? Have you the heart to 
 treat me as a stranger ? " 
 
 She had struggled for composure, and 
 partly regained it. A thousand rapid 
 thoughts and fears had passed through 
 her mind. In those days of irrespon- 
 sible power in sovereigns, and with the 
 strong abhorrence of mesalliances in 
 royal families, there was more ground 
 
 for her apprehensions than can be easily 
 conceived in the present day. In a 
 steadier tone she said " This is some 
 singular misapprehension, sir. I have 
 been ill, and was overcome by the sud- 
 denness of your strange address. Some 
 accidental resemblance, I suppose " 
 
 "Resemblance!" cried the Count, 
 impatiently. " But be it so, madame, 
 if such is your will. My respect is as 
 unbounded as my attachment is pro- 
 found. Far be it from me to intrude 
 upon you. Your simplest wish is as 
 much a law to me now as when at your 
 father's" 
 
 " Hush ! for God's sake hush ! " The 
 words burst from Madame d'Auban's 
 lips, as she glanced at Mina, and, before 
 she had time to recall them, she felt 
 that she had tacitly acknowledged what 
 she meant to hide. A crimson hue 
 overspread her face. 
 
 " Your daughter ? " said the Count 
 de Saxe, glancing admiringly at Mina, 
 who was frowning at the audacious 
 stranger. " And her name is ? " 
 
 " Wilhelmina d'Auban," cried the 
 young girl ; " and I wish some of my 
 brave Indians were here to drive you 
 away." 
 
 " Ah ! madame, we have both mourn- 
 ed," said the Count " both wept over 
 the loss of another Wilhelmina." 
 
 Madame d'Auban burst into tears. 
 
 " Do sit down again," cried the 
 Count de Saxe; and she did so, forj 
 her limbs were trembling, so that she i 
 could hardly stand. He stood for a 
 moment gazing upon her with an ex- 
 pression in which anxiety, curiosity, 
 and sympathy were all combined.] 
 Mina looked from one to the other 
 with a perplexed and anxious counte-j 
 nance. At last, in a tone of deep feel-l 
 ing, he said " I know not whether to 
 go or to stay. I scarcely know how to 
 address you, madame. - Would to God 
 you would speak to me one word only 1 ! 
 Tell me, I am not mad ! " 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 181 
 
 Madame d'Auban raised her tearful 
 eyes, and looked at him with that pe- 
 culiar expression which had made the 
 Princess Charlotte of Wolfenbuttel the 
 object of his boyish worship, and she 
 answered in a tremulous voice, " She 
 whom you think you see is indeed 
 dead dead to kindred, to friends, to 
 that world in which she once lived. 
 Do not disturb the peace of her grave. 
 Forget the stranger you have met to- 
 day." 
 
 "Could I ever think of you as a 
 stranger ? " 
 
 " Think of me as you please ! But, 
 oh, M. de Saxe, be kind, be generous, 
 and do not by a fatal curiosity ruin 
 happiness which hangs on a thread ! " 
 
 " You are happy, then ? " 
 
 Madame d'Auban glanced at her 
 daughter, and bowed her head in 
 assent. 
 
 " Heaven forbid I should cause you 
 a moment's uneasiness! I will, of 
 course, forbear from any inquiries that 
 may pain you or endanger your peace ; 
 but may I not come and see you? 
 Will you not give me the explanation 
 of what an hour hence will seem to me 
 an incredible dream ? " 
 
 "M. de Saxe, if you will give me 
 your word of honour that you will be 
 silent as the grave, ay, as the grave it- 
 
 self, as to this meeting, I will write in 
 three months' time, and explain to you 
 this mystery. I may then have a fa- 
 vour to ask of you." 
 
 "I promise I swear," eagerly cried 
 the Comte de Saxe ; " but if at the end 
 of three months I do not hear from you, 
 I shall think it my duty to inform the 
 King, my master, of your existence." 
 
 " In three months ? So be it. But 
 if I live, you will hear from me before 
 that time. You promise that you will 
 not follow me now, or seek to discover 
 my abode ? " 
 
 " I promise," answered the Count. 
 " But if during that interval you should 
 need the aid of a strong arm and a de- 
 voted heart, think, madame, of Maurice 
 of Saxony. I suppose I must not ask 
 for one word of kind farewell ? " 
 
 Madame d'Auban held out her hand, 
 which he kissed with profound respect. 
 " Farewell, and Heaven bless you, Mau- 
 rice," she said in a trembling voice. 
 
 When the mother and daughter had 
 disappeared, the Comte de Saxe stood 
 some time in the same place, musing 
 on this extraordinary meeting with one 
 whom for years he had thought of as 
 dead.- "If I am not more mad than 
 any madman in Bicetre," he inwardly 
 exclaimed, " truth is stranger than the 
 wildest fiction." 
 
182 
 
 TOO STKANQE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 If I could see him it were well with me. 
 
 Coleridge's WalUnstein. 
 
 There came an eve of festal hours 
 Eich music filled that garden's bowers ; 
 Lamps that from flowering branches hung, 
 On sparks of dew soft colour flung ; 
 And bright forms glanced a fairy show 
 Under the blossoms to and fro. 
 
 But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng 
 Seemed reckless all of dance and song ; 
 He was a youth of dusky mien, 
 Whereon the Indian sun had been, 
 Of crested brow and long black hair, 
 A stranger, like the palm-tree, there. 
 
 Mrs. ITemans. 
 
 But though this mayden tender were of age, 
 
 Yet in the brest of her virginite 
 
 Ther was enclosed rype and sad corrage. 
 
 A FEW days after the occurrence re- 
 lated in the last chapter, Madame d' Au- 
 ban and her husband left Paris for Brit- 
 tany. Hopes had been held out to 
 him of an appointment in the Isle de 
 Bourbon, but some weeks were to 
 elapse before he could receive a deci- 
 sive answer. In the mean time he 
 wished to sell a small property he 
 had in Brittany, and proposed to em- 
 ploy the fund it would fetch in carry- 
 ing out his wife's project of a journey 
 to St. Petersburgh. He knew it to be 
 a wild, possibly a dangerous, scheme, 
 and deemed it very improbable that 
 the results would be satisfactory to her 
 maternal feelings; but he had prom- 
 ised when he married her not to put 
 any obstacles in the way of her seeking 
 to see her son ; and on the eve of what 
 would, most likely, be a final departure 
 from Europe, he felt it right to allow 
 her the chance of looking once more 
 on her boy's face, even though she 
 might not gain admittance to the 
 young sovereign's presence in any of 
 
 Chaucer. 
 
 the thousand ways she was always de- 
 vising. Her meeting with the Comte 
 de Saxe had proved that she was not 
 so much altered in appearance as she 
 fancied, but it would be easy in St. 
 Petersburgh to put on such a disguise 
 as would effectually prevent any chance 
 of recognition; and on some public 
 occasion, at all events, she might feast 
 her eyes on the features memory so 
 faintly retraced and imagination so 
 often pictured. 
 
 It was on a beautiful morning in 
 May, that after leaving Mina, not with- 
 out many anxious thoughts, at the 
 Hotel d'Orgeville, they drove away 
 from Paris in a diligence, along one 
 of those old-fashioned chaussees, bor- 
 dered on both sides by elms, and fields 
 intersected with rows of apple trees. 
 White fleecy clouds were careering 
 over the calm bright sky, and the con- 
 ducteur whistled the tune of the " Bon 
 roi Dagobert," as, amidst clouds of 
 dust, they rolled on towards the north- 
 ern coast. On the evening of the third 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 183 
 
 day they reached Colonel d'Auban's 
 native place. Once again he looked 
 on the well-known coast, its rocky 
 islets and overhanging cliffs. He heard 
 the osprey's cry, the sound of the waves 
 receding on the stony beach of Keir 
 Anna, and the bells of the little chapel 
 built by the sailors in honour of Mary, 
 Star of the Sea. The scent of the 
 clover fields, mixing with the briny 
 smell of the ocean, came floating on 
 the breeze. It seemed to breathe new 
 life into his frame ; under the roof of 
 the little Breton inn for the first time 
 for nearly three years he slept without 
 dreaming of Red Indians and mur- 
 dered women. The few days they 
 spent in this obscure village seemed 
 to do him all and even more than the 
 good which the doctor had anticipated 
 from a change of scene and air. His 
 wife sat by his side on the sea shore, 
 or wandered with him through the 
 fragrant lanes around the old manor 
 house where he was born. Spring was 
 in its full beauty, and as they inhaled 
 the fresh sea breezes, and trod on the 
 soft herbage of the perfumed down, a 
 repose stole over his mind and a 
 strength returned to his limbs, such 
 as he had never hoped again to feel. 
 For both of them it was a blessed 
 breathing-time. They felt it to be so, 
 and turned back with many a wistful 
 look towards the little village on the 
 shore, whilst they slowly ascended, in 
 advance of the diligence, the first hill 
 on the road to Havre, beyond which 
 they were to lose sight of it. 
 
 Havre, with its crowded streets, its 
 noisy quays, and the forests of masts in 
 its busy port, formed a striking con- 
 trast to the peaceful spot they had just 
 left. On their way to the hotel which 
 they had written to for lodgings, they 
 stopped at an office to inquire about 
 the vessel in which they intended to 
 sail for St. Petersburg!!. It was ex- 
 pected to heave anchor in two days; 
 
 and d'Auban said he would return on 
 the following morning to make final 
 arrangements about their berths. At 
 the hotel they hoped to find letters 
 from Paris, and were not disappoint- 
 ed; on the table of the little parlour 
 they were shown into, two or three were 
 lying. 
 
 " Oh, there is one from our Mina," 
 cried Madame d'Auban, her eyes spark- 
 ling with delight. She sat down and 
 opened it." 
 
 "Read to me what that darling 
 writes," he said, with a bright smile ; 
 and seating himself opposite to her, 
 he leant his head on his hands and 
 listened. 
 
 This was Mina's letter : 
 
 " Dearest Mamma and dearest Papa, 
 I am so happy 1 When you went away, 
 I thought I should not have a moment's 
 happiness during your absence, but a 
 great joy has come to me since, which 
 has been like a burst of sunshine in a 
 dark sky, for I was very lonely, and felt 
 very miserable in this great Paris with- 
 out you. My heart is even now very 
 sad at times, but I no longer feel lonely. 
 My brother is come. My dear brother 
 Ontara is in Paris. O mother, I could 
 not close my eyes with joy. I could do 
 nothing all the night after I heard it, 
 but thank God, and long for the next 
 day. I was to see him the next day. 
 I have seen him, and he is as good and 
 as handsome, and loves his sister Mina 
 as much as ever. He wishes to be a 
 Christian, and I am to go every day 
 with Madame Maret to the Bishop's 
 house to translate the instructions he 
 will give him before he is baptized. 
 Nobody but me could make him under- 
 stand. He speaks only a few words of 
 French. M. Maret said he would write 
 to you all about it. He has bought 
 him from the government. What right 
 has the government to sell men, and to 
 make slaves of princes ? But M. Maret 
 will give him his liberty. He told me 
 
184 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 so last night. It is the old Sachem's 
 crucifix which brought it all about. 
 Ontara's conversion I mean. We sat 
 together looking at it, and I cried with 
 a joy that was like pain, it went so 
 deeply through my heart. Ontara did 
 not shed tears, because Indians never 
 weep, but he said words strong as the 
 wind and hot as fire about the Chris- 
 tian prayer. And when I was told to 
 ask him what he wished most to see in 
 Paris, he answered : * The house of 
 God the home of the Great Spirit.' 
 I have not time to write much more. 
 Madame Maret has sent her carriage 
 to fetch me. Dearest mamma, at the 
 Hotel de Senac, where I saw my brother 
 Ontara, I met the gentleman who bent 
 the silver plate. He was very kind, 
 and talked to me a long time. Papa 
 told me to write some news, but I 
 don't think I know any. I have told 
 you the good news which makes me so 
 happy. Every thing else seems stupid. 
 I heard somebody say last night that 
 the Princesse des Ursins is very ill, and 
 that the young Czar of Russia "... 
 the letter fell from the mother's hand 
 her husband seized it ... "that 
 the young Czar of Russia has just died 
 of the small-pox. Give a hundred 
 kisses to dearest papa. Oh that I could 
 hold you both in my arms. Do come 
 back soon to your own Mina. I am 
 very happy with my dear brother, but 
 can never be quite happy whilst you 
 are both away from me. Your loving 
 and dutiful daughter, 
 
 " WlLHELMINA D'AlJBAN." 
 
 This was a terrible letter for a moth- 
 er to receive I The blow was a sudden 
 one, and the manner of it horribly pain- 
 ful. The affection her daughter ex- 
 pressed for the stranger she called her 
 brother, the joyful tone in which she 
 wrote, filled her heart with a feeling 
 which was almost like resentment. " O ! 
 that you had let me tell her," she cried. 
 
 " It is too dreadful that his sister 
 . . . ." Then she hid her face in her 
 hands, and said no more. 
 
 It was a very bitter grief. " It may 
 not be true, dearest," said her hus- 
 band ; and he went to enquire at the 
 Russian consulate. 
 
 She never doubted that it was true. 
 There had always been in her mind a 
 misgiving that she should not see again 
 the royal child whom she had left in 
 its cradle. Now the intervening years 
 seemed as nothing. The young mon- 
 arch dying in the flower of his age, 
 rose before her as the baby of those by- 
 gone days. She scarcely noticed d'Au- 
 ban's return, or the words of pity and 
 sympathy which he addressed to her. 
 For some hours she could not weep or 
 speak, but went into a church and 
 prayed that the hard dull feeling at 
 her heart might melt. At last softer 
 emotions rose, and her tears flowed. It 
 was a kind of sorrow which had its 
 peculiar bitterness, and its peculiar 
 consolations. Now she felt disen- 
 gaged from the single tie which had 
 bound her to the past. Her son seem- 
 ed in some ways nearer to her in the 
 invisible world, where her prayers 
 might help him, than on the far-off 
 throne she had not dared to approach. 
 By degrees a peaceful sadness stole over 
 her a sense of rest. She could dis- 
 cern mercy in the blow which had re- 
 moved him from a scene of so much 
 strife and temptation. 
 
 When she had arrived at Havre her 
 feelings had been very much excited. 
 Looking at the billowy sea, on which 
 she was soon to embark, it seemed as 
 if all its waves and storms had gone 
 over her. 
 
 The fitful lights, the transient gleams, 
 reflected in its bosom from a tempes- 
 tuous sky and a clouded sunset, pic- 
 tured the agitation in her breast. Now 
 all was calm as a waveless sea. Death's 
 subduing power had hushed those bil- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 185 
 
 lows to rest. Many a doubt was solv- 
 ed by its cold hand, and she who had 
 so eagerly and yet* so fearfully looked 
 forward to that strange journey, now 
 prepared to retrace her steps with a 
 sadder but a more tranquil heart. 
 
 " How glad you must now be," she 
 said to her husband, " to have yielded 
 to my wild wish. Another day and I 
 should have been on my way to St. 
 Petersburgh 1 How strange it seems ! 
 No outward change in my life, and yet 
 so great a one in my hidden existence. 
 Was there ever, I wonder, so extraordi- 
 nary a fate as mine ? " 
 
 As she said this, her eye rested on 
 Mina's letter, which had remained on 
 the table, and she exclaimed, "Take it 
 away. I cannot bear the sight of it." 
 
 D'Auban was grieved about this let- 
 ter. Of course, their beloved child was 
 not to blame in writing as she had done, 
 and the outpouring of her feelings of 
 joy was as natural as the feeling itself. 
 But her parents found it difficult to 
 sympathize at that moment with the 
 happiness she expressed at Outara's 
 arrival in Paris. They were very glad 
 of the young Indian chiefs safety, and 
 thankful for his conversion. It would 
 have been easier for them to rejoice at 
 the news, if it had not been coupled 
 with the actual announcement of her 
 unknown brother's death. Both felt 
 how immense was the debt of grati- 
 tude they owed to the Natches youth, 
 and that they were on every account 
 bound to welcome him as a son. They 
 did not like to acknowledge, even to 
 themselves, the involuntary feeling of 
 regret that Mina should have met with 
 him again, under circumstances likely to 
 increase and excite to the uttermost her 
 interest and sympathy. They wanted 
 her to be a little more like other girls, 
 without losing any of her goodness or 
 her charm. Perhaps they wanted what 
 was not possible. At all events, the 
 romance and tenderness of her nature, 
 
 joined to a simplicity which baffled 
 all attempts to make her see things in 
 a conventional light, made it probable 
 that she would attach herself more 
 than ever to her adopted brother ; and 
 would behave to him in Paris with the 
 same innocent and affectionate famili- 
 arity which had existed between them 
 in the days of her captivity. The tie 
 which had been formed between them 
 when his protection had been all im- 
 portant, and the faithful way in which 
 he had fulfilled the trust reposed in him, 
 had made the strongest impression on 
 her heart and her imagination. Mad- 
 ame d'Auban knew her daughter's dis- 
 position, and the impassioned gratitude 
 she bore to her young deliverer, who 
 had three times acted by her the part 
 of a guardian angel. Not for the world 
 would she have checked that feeling ; 
 or been untrue, herself, to those senti- 
 ments of gratitude ; but she was, never- 
 theless, anxious. The position was a 
 peculiar one, and Mina might surprise 
 those about her by the exhibition of 
 feelings they would not understand. 
 She longed to reach Paris, and hasten 
 their departure from a country whence 
 she could now carry away with her 
 every thing she had left to care for on 
 earth. 
 
 On the evening which Mina had al- 
 luded to in her letter to her parents, 
 there had been, as was usual at the 
 Hotel d'Orgeville, visitors in the even- 
 ing. She was sitting, with the young 
 ladies of the family and their govern- 
 ess, at a table in one part of the room, 
 at some distance from the circle which 
 surrounded the mistress of the house. 
 There was one person who generally 
 managed to seat himself by the side of 
 the little Creole, and to engage her in 
 conversation. This was M. Maret, the 
 brother of Father Maret, whom she 
 had so much loved, and about whom 
 he had always something to ask, and 
 she something to tell. Every detail of 
 
186 
 
 TOO STKANGE NOT TO BE TKUE* 
 
 his apostolic life at the Illinois inter- 
 ested him ; and he never wearied of 
 hearing her relate the story of the last 
 journey he had made with her parents 
 and herself, and of the way in which 
 he had employed the hours which pre- 
 ceded his tragical death. She had 
 often mentioned to him his visit to the 
 old dying sachem ; and how, with his 
 last breath, he had recommended On- 
 tara to her father. And this led them 
 often to talk of Ontara. She told him 
 how good and generous he was ; how he 
 had been a friend in the hour of need 
 to her mother and herself; and that he 
 preserved a touching reverence for the 
 black robe who had been kind to his 
 adopted father, the old sachem Outalis- 
 si. D'Auban had confirmed all his 
 daughter's statements as to the merits 
 of the young Indian chief; and had 
 begged M. Maret, if any intelligence 
 as to his fate ever reached the Govern- 
 ment, to use all his influence in obtain- 
 ing for him the most favourable treat- 
 ment. He had spoken to the same ef- 
 fect to the Minister of the Colonies, 
 and never omitted an opportunity of 
 discharging this debt of gratitude. 
 
 On the evening already referred to, 
 M. Maret had just returned from a 
 journey to the south of France. As he 
 entered the salon of the Hotel d'Orge- 
 ville, there was a look of satisfaction 
 in his countenance, mixed with a lit- 
 tle self-complacency. After paying his 
 compliments to Madame d'Orgeville 
 and bowing to the rest of the company, 
 he said, as he seated himself by that 
 lady's side, "I hastened, madam, to 
 pay my respects to you ; but my visit 
 must, I fear, be a short one, for I have 
 a guest at home to whose entertainment 
 I must devote myself." 
 
 "A personage of distinction, I doubt 
 not ? " said Madame d'Orgeville. 
 
 " I think," answered M. Maret, glanc- 
 ing round the room and fixing his eyes 
 on Mina, " that I may venture to reply 
 
 in the affirmative. My guest is of 
 princely birth." 
 
 " A prince ! " cried two or three 
 ladies at once. " A French or a for- 
 eign prince ? " 
 
 " A foreigner, mesdames." 
 
 " The pretender, perhaps ? " suggested 
 one of the gentlemen. 
 
 " The King of England, you mean ? ' 
 cried an elderly lady, who had been 
 about the Court of St. Germain. 
 
 " No ; I had the honour of meeting 
 that royal individual at the Due de Lau- 
 zun's house some years ago, when he 
 was at Passy. But he is not the person 
 alluded to." 
 
 " A foreigner ! " ejaculated Madame 
 d'Orgeville. "You must really give 
 us a hint. Is he German or Italian? 
 Catholic or Protestant ? " 
 
 " Neither, Madame." 
 
 "Heavens! Is he a Turk?" cried 
 Mdlle. Bachelier, the governess. 
 
 " My young guest, mesdames, is the 
 scion of a royal race ; the last remain- 
 ing descendant of the Children of the 
 Sun." 
 
 Mina started up, much to the surprise 
 of her companions, clasped her hands 
 together, and, breathless with surprise 
 and agitation, gasped out the words 
 " My brother Ontara ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the young prince Ontara," 
 answered the Prince de Conde's secre- 
 tary, rubbing his hands with delight, 
 "Mesdames, this noble Indian aided 
 the escape of our friend M. le Colonel 
 d'Auban, and was the friend and pro- . 
 tector of his wife and daughter during 
 their captivity." 
 
 " And he adopted me as his sister," 
 said Mina, her eyes filling with tears. 
 " After the destruction of the Natchea 
 and the slaughter of their royal fam- 
 ily," M. Maret went on to say, " he and 
 another young man who had also 
 escaped the vengeance of our troops, 
 took refuge amidst a neighbouring 
 tribe, and lived there in concealment. 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 187 
 
 There was a Christian Mission in that 
 neighbourhood, and he used to visit 
 the black robe." " Oh, I am so glad ! " 
 ejaculated Mina, whose head was bent 
 forward and whose eyes seemed to 
 dilate with the intentness of her inter- 
 est. " Some fanatical Indians accused 
 him of a leaning towards the French- 
 men's prayer, and either on that account 
 or to gain the reward promised by the 
 Government, betrayed him to the French 
 authorities. He and his companion 
 were carried in chains to New Orleans. 
 M. Perrier ordered them to be well 
 treated and sent to France, where the 
 Government would then ultimately de- 
 cide their fate. They were to be sold 
 as slaves on their arrival, unless any 
 special orders to the contrary had been 
 received. I happened to be at Mar- 
 seilles when they landed, and offered 
 to purchase Ontara in order to take him 
 away with me at once. This was agreed 
 to under reserve, and thus he became 
 my slave." 
 
 A shade, dark as a thunder-cloud, 
 rose on Mina's speaking face. " But I 
 need hardly add only -in name, and 
 to enable me to receive into my home 
 a son the youth to whom my 
 martyred brother's last thought was 
 given." 
 
 There was a general murmur of sym- 
 pathy ; and as to Mina, she could not 
 any longer sit still. Darting across the 
 room she seized his hand in both hers, 
 and in the fulness of her heart, ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 4 ' I love you dearly, M. Maret. May 
 the good God reward you." He made 
 room for her on the couch, and she sat 
 down by his side, hanging down her 
 lovely head, for she felt as if she had 
 been too bold, but not letting go his 
 hand. 
 
 "I was immensely struck," he went 
 on to say, " with Ontara's appearance 
 and manners. He is singularly gentle 
 and pleasing, and shows great intelli- 
 
 gence, although he knows as yet but a 
 very few words of French. I contrived 
 to make him understand that I was the 
 brother of the black robe of the Illi- 
 nois who was killed at the Natches. 
 The Indian words I have learnt from 
 you, Mademoiselle Mina, were of great 
 use to me. His face lighted up imme- 
 diately; and, half by words half by 
 signs, he expressed that he remembered 
 that black robe, and would love me be- 
 cause I was his brother. I then men- 
 tioned your name, Mademoiselle Hina, 
 and I wish every lady here could have 
 seen him at that moment. Mesdames ) 
 it would have made the fortune of one 
 of our best actors to have caught that 
 expression. It was emotion, but an 
 emotion that rose from the soul into 
 the eyes, if I may so speak, without 
 stirring a muscle of the calm immova- 
 ble countenance. I felt as if I could 
 hear his heart beat, but his features did 
 not move. He drew a little crucifix 
 from his breast,and pressed it to his lips." 
 
 "We both kissed it in the forest 
 where we parted," said the girl, in a 
 low voice. " I knew he would always 
 keep it. What was the other Indian's 
 name,M. Maret?" 
 
 " Osseo." 
 
 " Oh 1 I knew him," Mina exclaimed, 
 and shuddered. 
 
 "He has escaped," said M. Maret. 
 " The very night they disembarked he 
 got away from the lodging where they 
 were; and when we left Marseilles 
 nothing had been heard of him." 
 
 " When shall I see Ontara, dear M. 
 Maret?" 
 
 " If Madame d'Orgeville will permit 
 it, I will bring him here to-morrow." 
 
 " Permit it ! " exclaimed that lady. 
 "I shall be quite delighted to make 
 acquaintance with the young Indian 
 prince. My rooms will scarcely hold 
 all the friends who will wish to be 
 present on the occasion of his first in- 
 troduction into French society." 
 
188 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "How interesting it will be," said 
 one -lady to another, "to witness the 
 meeting between the lovely Creole and 
 her deliverer ? " 
 
 Mina thought it very long to wait till 
 the next evening, but did not venture 
 to say so. As M. Maret was going 
 away, she asked Madame d'Orgeville 
 if she might take a sprig of jessamine 
 out of a nosegay on the table, and giv- 
 ing it to him, she said : 
 
 "Will you tell Ontara that Mina 
 sends him this flower. In the language 
 we used to speak together, it means, 
 ' I love you with all my heart.' " 
 
 Mdlle. Bachelier lifted up her eyes, 
 and shrugged her shoulders, as much 
 as to say, " Thank Heaven that girl is 
 no pupil of mine ! " or, in familiar 
 English, "Who ever witnessed such 
 behaviour ? " and it was probable no- 
 body ever had, in the only world Mdlle. 
 Bachelier was acquainted with, seen any 
 thing at all like it. 
 
 Mina's simplicity was too perfect to 
 be easily understood. Some of Mad- 
 ame d'Orgeville's visitors, who belonged 
 to the school which influenced through 
 its different phases the tone of French 
 literature, from Rousseau to Bernardin 
 de St. Pierre and Chateaubriand, en- 
 chanted with the beauty and naivete of 
 Mina d'Auban, extolled her sensibility, 
 and raised her to the rank of a heroine 
 of romance. The prudent governess, 
 and the sentimental ladies, were both 
 mistaken in the estimate of her charac- 
 ter. She was neither bold nor roman- 
 tic. She had been brought up under 
 peculiar circumstances, amidst peculiar 
 scenes, in a remote country. She had 
 strong feelings, and what she strongly 
 felt she expressed without disguise. 
 Her figurative imaginative manner of 
 speaking was just as natural to her as the 
 conventional language of a French draw- 
 ing-room was to her companions. The 
 wish to attract notice or to excite admi- 
 ration had never even crossed her mind. 
 
 Changeful and faint was her fair cheek's hue, 
 Though clear as a flower which the light 
 
 looks through, 
 
 And the glance of her dark, deep, azure eye, 
 For the aspect of girlhood at times too high. 
 
 On the following morning, M. Maret 
 called on Madame d'Orgeville to inform 
 her that Madame de Senac greatly de- 
 sired to induce her instead of receiving 
 the Natches prince at her own house 
 to accept an invitation to the soiree 
 she was to give that evening, and to 
 meet him there instead. Several dis- 
 tinguished personages of the court and 
 the town, as well as some of the most 
 eminent members of the Paris clergy, 
 had intimated their intention of hon- 
 ouring her with their company. 
 
 " It would be a most brilliant re- 
 union," M. Maret observed, with evident 
 satisfaction. 
 
 If this excellent man had a weakness, 
 it was the love of a little innocent dis- 
 play. Madame d'Orgeville was very 
 gracious, and yielded with a good grace 
 her prior right to the visit of the Indian 
 chief. Though a little disappointed at 
 having to put off the party she had in- 
 tended to assemble on this occasion, 
 she was pleased at being invited to the 
 Hotel de S6nac, the society of which 
 was more decidedly aristocratic than 
 her own. 
 
 Madame de Senac was a widow, rich, 
 amiable, and accomplished ; her morals 
 as unexceptionable as her character was 
 unimpeachable. Having married a man 
 of high rank, she had the entrees at 
 court; but her own family belonging 
 to the parliamentary noblesse, she was 
 also connected with the financial world 
 of that day, and her salon was a neutral 
 territory, in which persons of various 
 ranks and various parties met oftener 
 than at any other house in Paris. Pious 
 and learned ecclesiastics sometimes at- 
 tended her receptions, as well as literary 
 and worldly abbes. Courtiers and men 
 of letters, bankers and princes, honoured 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 180 
 
 her with their company. There were 
 certain lingering traditions of the H6tel 
 de Rambouillet in the tone of her more 
 intimate society a refinement which 
 was beginning to be lost sight of since 
 the days of the regency. But if some 
 of her habitues maintained the noble 
 dignity of language and of manners 
 which prevailed in Madame de Main- 
 tenon's boudoir, others were beginning 
 to indulge in the false sentimentality 
 and pedantic free-thinking of the eigh- 
 teenth century. 
 
 Madame d'Orgeville's satisfaction at 
 the prospect of her first appearance in 
 this new scene of fashion, was greatly 
 increased by Madame dc Senac's press- 
 ing request that she would bring with 
 her Colonel d'Auban's daughter. She 
 foresaw that Mina's beauty, and the tie 
 between her and the young prince, who 
 would have been called in our days the 
 lion of the evening, would attract con- 
 siderable notice; and she spared no 
 pains to dress her in the most becoming 
 manner, which she had taste enough to 
 see was as simply as possible, with just 
 enough of peculiarity as served to recall 
 that, notwithstanding her height, she 
 was still almost a child, and that she 
 had been born under a transatlantic 
 sky. 
 
 The apartments of the H6tel de S6nac 
 were brilliantly lighted that evening, 
 and coloured lamps hung amidst the 
 foliage of its spacious garden. At an 
 early hour, numbers of persons arrived, 
 all anxious to witness the introduction 
 of a native of a new and, to them, 
 utterly unknown world, into a Paris- 
 ian drawing-room. The Indian chief 
 was an object of curiosity to men of 
 science, of letters, and of piety ; all such 
 were, for different reasons, curious to 
 watch the effects which a first sight of 
 European civilized society would have 
 on the young Natches. 
 
 When M. and Madame d'Orgeville 
 arrived, the principal room was almost 
 
 full. When it became known that the 
 young girl who accompanied them had 
 been present at the first fearful scenes 
 of the insurrection, and owed her life 
 to the protection of the Indian youth 
 now in Paris, the wish to sec and t> 
 speak to her became general. As much 
 of her story as was briefly related by 
 the mistress of the house flew from 
 mouth to mouth, quite a rush was made 
 to the part of the room where she was 
 sitting, quite unconscious of the atten- 
 tion she excited, and only longing for 
 the moment of Ontara's arrival. 
 
 " Did you ever see so lovely a crea- 
 ture ? " said the Due d'Epernon to the 
 Comte de Courtray. 
 
 " Better worth notice, I should say, 
 than the Red Indian we are come to 
 see," answered the Count. 
 
 " Can you believe she is not yet tliir- 
 teen years old ? " 
 
 " She looks sixteen, if not seventeen," 
 
 "What is her name?" 
 
 " D'Orban or d'Auban." 
 
 " There was a colonel of that name 
 who rescued a number of French cap- 
 tives from a tribe of savages." 
 
 "Exactly so; and this girl is his 
 daughter." 
 
 " She will not- be long on his hands, 
 if beauty achieves fortune. What eyes I 
 What a smile ! The world will be at 
 her feet some day." 
 
 A celebrated linguist, who had been 
 studying a vocabulary of Indian words 
 compiled by a missionary, in order to 
 frame a compliment to the Natches 
 prince, requested the favour of an in- 
 troduction to Mina. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, do you speak the 
 Natches language?" he asked. "II 
 so, will you have the kindness to in- 
 struct me how to pronounce this sen- 
 tence ? " Others crowding around her. 
 begged to hear from her own lips the 
 story of her captivity and her escape. 
 Madame d'Orgcvi lie, enchanted at find- 
 ing herself, by means of her young com- 
 
190 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 panion, a centre of attraction, desired 
 Mina to comply with the request, and 
 relate all she had witnessed of the 
 Natches insurrection. She coloured, 
 and her voice trembled a little, as, 
 turning to her protectress, she said, 
 " Where shall I begin ? " 
 
 " With your arrival at the Indian 
 city, on the eve of the massacre, my 
 love." 
 
 The first words the child spoke in 
 her sweet, musical, and slightly tremu- 
 lous voice, arrested every one's atten- 
 tion. She ceased to feel shy when once 
 she had begun. It would make every- 
 body love Ontara, she thought, to hear 
 how good he had been to the white y 
 captives ; and to speak of the scenes so 
 indelibly impressed on her mind, but 
 which she never mentioned in her home, 
 was a relief to her pent-up feelings. 
 And so she told her simple, thrilling 
 tale with such pathos and such natural 
 eloquence, and her countenance lighted 
 up with such a wonderful animation, 
 that soon every sound was hushed in 
 the crowded room, and every eye was 
 fixed upon her speaking face. She 
 described the death of the priest at the 
 altar ; the massacre which ensued ; her 
 father's escape ; her mother's anguish ; 
 Ontara's generous friendship ; his adop- 
 tion of her as his, sister; their affection 
 for each other ; their flight through the 
 forest where the captives were doomed 
 to death ; her father's return at the 
 head of the brave Choktaws ; the rescue 
 of the French prisoners ; the struggle 
 between Pearl Feather and "Osseo ; On- 
 tara's arrival; Pearl Feather's death, 
 and her final deliverance. Sometimes 
 her cheeks glowed with enthusiasm, 
 sometimes her voice trembled with ex- 
 citement. Tears streamed down her 
 face without marring its loveliness; 
 and when she spoke of the beautiful 
 land in which these wild scenes had 
 been enacted, there was a mournful, 
 impassioned tenderness in her expres- 
 
 sions and in the tone of her voice, which 
 thrilled the bosoms of her auditors, and 
 lingered in their ears, even when she 
 had finished speaking, like the notes 
 of some exquisite music. Many an eye 
 which had long ceased to weep was 
 moistened that day ; and hearts which 
 had forgotten what it is to feel, were 
 conscious of an unwonted emotion. 
 
 Soon after Mina had ended her re- 
 cital, whilst she was answering the 
 many questions which were addressed 
 to her, a servant came up to Madame 
 de Senac, and told her M. Maret and 
 the Indian prince were arrived. She 
 went to meet them, and when they en- 
 tered the room, all eyes now turned on 
 the stranger. The greatest curiosity 
 was felt as to the way in which two 
 young creatures would meet, who were 
 bound to one another by so singular a 
 tie; who had parted in a primeval 
 forest amidst danger and death, and 
 now stood face to face in a Paris draw- 
 ing-room, under the eyes of a set of 
 worldly men and women. Well, the 
 refined, well-bred society was taken by 
 surprise. They were prepared to wit- 
 ness an interesting scene ; they did not 
 expect to be touched to the bottom of 
 their hearts. The moment Ontara ap- 
 peared, Mina ran to him, threw her 
 arms around his neck, and kissed his 
 cheek. He started, his frame quivered, 
 his eyes, which had been bent on the 
 ground, were suddenly raised. Step- 
 ping back, he seized Mina, held her at 
 arm's length, and gazed^on her face 
 with an intensity which seemed to 
 pierce through her features to her very 
 soul. In that long fixed gaze there 
 was reminiscence, and joy, and eager 
 questioning. At last, in his own 
 tongue, he said, " Sister of my adop- 
 tion, have you forgotten our language ? 
 Have you forgotten the land that was 
 a garden of delight before the white 
 man had set his foot upon it ? " 
 
 " I have forgotten nothing, my broth- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 191 
 
 er ; nothing," cried Mina, her eyes fill- 
 ing with tears. 
 
 " Not your promise ? " he eagerly ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 "No; nothing," she repeated. "I 
 remember every word we have spoken 
 together." 
 
 " And I, too, have not forgotten my 
 promise," said the Indian, and he drew 
 the sachem's crucifix from his bosom. 
 
 By this time a crowd had gathered 
 round them, and Madame d'Orgeville, 
 stepping forward, took Mina by the 
 hand and made her sit down again by 
 her side. The little hand was cold and 
 trembling, and the child's heart for 
 it was, after all, still a child's heart 
 was beating too fast for its strength. 
 When Ontara had asked her if she re- 
 membered her promise, she had unhesi- 
 tatingly replied that she did, for it was 
 the truth. But since she had been in 
 France, and had become acquainted 
 with other girls, she had begun to un- 
 derstand why her mother had been vex- 
 ed and almost angry with, her for hav- 
 ing promised Ontara never to marry 
 a white man. In the midst of her joy 
 at his return, she felt a vague misgiv- 
 ing that her parents would not be as 
 glad as herself to see him, and this sore- 
 ly troubled her. 
 
 Meanwhile several persons were en- 
 deavouring to converse with Ontara, 
 partly by means of signs, partly by 
 means of the few French words he 
 had learnt. Everybody was attracted 
 by his appearance. He had grown 
 very much during the two last years. 
 His regular features; his fine melan- 
 choly eyes ; the rich olive of his com- 
 plexion, had all the beauty of which 
 his race are sometimes possessed; 
 and Mina, perfectly accustomed to the 
 colour of the red men, and who saw in 
 his dress, changed in many respects, but 
 not altogether altered since his arrival 
 in Europe, a reminiscence of the happy 
 days of her childhood, thought there 
 
 could not be on earth a handsomer 
 form and face than that of her adopted 
 brother. There were traces of sorrow 
 and of Buffering, as well as of stern 
 endurance, on his brow. His keen, 
 intelligent countenance betokened in- 
 tellectual power. To the voluble 
 speeches and compliments addressed 
 to him, he answered : 
 
 " Your words arc good," or, " It is 
 well," or "Ontara thanks you;" that 
 was almost all he could say in French. 
 
 "My sweet love," said Madame de 
 Senac to Mina, " some of these gentle- 
 men wish you to ask your Indian 
 brother what he most wishes to see in 
 Paris. They would gladly act as his 
 guides, and conduct him to the king's 
 palace, or the picture galleries, or the 
 shops, or the public gardens. Find out, 
 my dear, what would interest him-most." 
 
 Mina went up to Ontara, and after 
 speaking a few words with him, turned 
 round to the company. "My brother 
 says that his father and his brethren 
 are no more, and their palaces de- 
 stroyed. He cares not to see the pal- 
 ace of the French chief. The beauti- 
 ful gardens of his native village are 
 uprooted, and he does not wish to 
 look on the gardens of the great French 
 village. His kinsmen are bondsmen; 
 chains are on their hands, and the 
 iron of those chains has entered 
 into his soul. He has nothing to buy 
 in the white man's cabins. He says 
 there is only one place for the slave, 
 the exile, the sad in heart, and it is 
 there he wishes to go. To the home 
 of the Great Spirit : to the Temple of 
 the Christian prayer." 
 
 Minn's eyes overflowed as she trans- 
 lated Ontara 's words. 
 
 The Bishop of Auxerre stepped for- 
 ward and said to Mina, " Ask him if he 
 wishes to be made a Christian." 
 
 She did so, and again rendered his 
 answer into French. " The Christian's 
 God was once sold as a slave. He had 
 
192 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 no cabin of his own. He was an exile 
 from his home in the skies. The sun is 
 a bright and beautiful god, far away 
 above our heads, but I do not care for 
 him now. This God (and he touched 
 the crucifix in his bosom) is the God 
 of the mourner ; the redeemer of the 
 captive." 
 
 The pathos of this speech struck the 
 men and women of the world who 
 heard it. If there were present philos- 
 ophers of the new school, inclined to 
 scoff at the homage paid to the God of 
 sufferers the God made man they 
 were in the minority, and did not ven- 
 ture openly to sneer. 
 
 M. de Caylus laid his hand on Mina's 
 shoulder, and said, " My child, tell the 
 young chief that I will myself take him 
 to-morrow to our great Christian tem- 
 ple, the cathedral of N6tre Dame ; and 
 that I shall be happy to instruct him, 
 and to prepare him for baptism." 
 
 Mina conveyed the bishop's message 
 to Ontara, who answered something 
 that made her smile. The bishop de- 
 sired to know what he had said. 
 " Monseigneur, Ontara says you are not 
 a black robe ; and that it is the religion 
 of the black robes he believes in." 
 
 M. d'Auxerre laughed. " Tell him," 
 he said, " that though I wear purple, I 
 believe and teach the same religion as 
 the black robes ; that we are sheep of 
 the same flock, if not birds of the same 
 feather." 
 
 Mina exchanged a few words with 
 Ontara, and then, turning to the bishop, 
 said, " Monseigneur, I have told him 
 that you are one of the chief shepherds 
 of the flock, and he says it is well, and 
 that your words are good." 
 
 M. de Caylus smiled, and said to M. 
 Maret, "I will call in my carriage to- 
 morrow, and take your young friend to 
 N6tre Dame. It is becoming that his 
 wish should be fulfilled, and that the 
 time-honoured walls of our old cathe- 
 dral should witness his first act of 
 
 homage at the foot of a Christian 
 altar." Then, turning to Madame 
 d'Orgeville, he added, "Madame, I 
 understand that this young lady re- 
 mains under your care during her par- 
 ents' absence. Will you permit her to 
 act as interpreter between my neophyte 
 and me ? " 
 
 A courteous reply was given, and M. ! 
 Maret proposed that his wife should 
 call every day for Mina, and take her to 
 M. d'Auxerre's hotel. 
 
 The bishop thanked him, and said to 
 Mina, " You will go through a course 
 of theology, Mademoiselle ; and whilst 
 teaching your deliverer you will your- 
 self acquire knowledge." 
 
 Mina answered by a request which 
 she made in a low voice. " Monseig- 
 neur, may Ontara and I make our first 
 communion together ?" 
 
 " I hope so, my child," the bishop 
 kindly replied; and then he went to 
 pay his compliments to some of the 
 great people in the room. 
 
 Madame de Senac had conducted 
 Ontara into her picture gallery, and 
 Mina was following them with her 
 eyes, when her attention was arrested 
 by a tall man in uniform, whom she 
 felt sure she had seen somewhere be- 
 fore, and the next moment she remem- 
 bered it was the gentleman who had 
 spoken to her mother in the Tuileries 
 gardens. She whispered to Madame 
 d'Orgeville: 
 
 " Madame, what is the name of that 
 tall officer in the doorway ? " 
 
 " He is a general, my dear, and one 
 of the bravest in the French army the 
 Count Maurice de Saxe." 
 
 " Ah ! " thought Mina, " he said to 
 mamma, ' Where can you find a truer 
 friend than Maurice of Saxony ? ' " and 
 then other things he had said came 
 back to her mind : " Have we not wept 
 over the death of another Wilhelmi- ; 
 na?" and, "Dear companion of my 
 early days ! " and.she mused over these 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 198 
 
 itences, and wondered if the count 
 ild know her again, and perhaps 
 ik to her. She could hardly fancy 
 khat he had been her mother's play- 
 fellow that they had gathered flowers 
 id built reed huts, or ran races to- 
 jther, in their childhood. She wished 
 le would roll up another silver plate, 
 lat Ontara might see it. 
 " Have you seen the wonder of the 
 jvening, M. le Comte ? " said a pretty 
 'oman, dressed in the extreme of the 
 (fashion, to M. de Saxe. 
 
 "Not the Red Indian, madame, if 
 u mean him." 
 
 " No ; I mean something infinitely 
 ore attractive. A lovely Creole a 
 ere child, but a perfect beauty. Your 
 jyes will be much better employed in 
 king at her than at the savage." 
 " I am quite satisfied with their pres- 
 t employment," answered the count, 
 ith a smile. 
 
 " Oh, but I really wish you to see this 
 ;on. Her meeting with the Indian 
 the prettiest thing imaginable. I 
 fcvould not have missed it for all the 
 orld. Such vivacity ; such charming 
 nsibility; and then such eyes! But 
 there she is, on the sofa near the win- 
 dow." 
 
 "That girl," exclaimed the count, 
 ' that young girl in white, with a single 
 se in her hair ? Who is she ? Who 
 she with?" 
 
 " With Madame d'Orgeville, the wife 
 f the President des Comptes." 
 " That lady in green, do you know 
 er, madame ? May I ask you to intro- 
 duce me ? " 
 
 While the count was speaking he did 
 t take his eyes off Mina. 
 
 Ah ! M. le Comte ! Have you 
 lien in love already ? " exclaimed the 
 ,dy. "Is she not charming? But 
 ow old those Creoles look ! I hope 
 sy have gray hairs at thirty, or it 
 uld not be fair upon us who were 
 .ts at that young lady's age." 
 13 
 
 So saying the lady led the way across 
 the room, and introduced M. de Saxe 
 to Madame d'Orgeville. He bowed, 
 and looking towards Mina, said : 
 
 " Mademoiselle is your daughter, 
 madame ? " 
 
 " O ! no, M. le Comte. My daughters 
 are too young to go into society." 
 
 " Aye, indeed 1 I thought you were 
 too young, madame, to be that young 
 lady's mother." 
 
 " Pardon ! M. le Comte. My daugh- 
 ters are both older than Mademoiselle 
 d'Auban ; but she was invited here to- 
 night to meet the Indian chief, whose 
 only acquaintance she is in what we 
 must henceforward call the old world. 
 It is a curious history, M. de Saxe. This 
 young Natches saved her and her father 
 at the time of the insurrection." 
 
 " You don't say so ! " exclaimed the 
 count, seating himself by the side of 
 Mina. " O, mademoiselle, do tell me 
 all about it. I like of all things excit- 
 ing stories; next to fighting a battle, 
 the best thing is to hear of one." 
 
 " Is it true, M. de Saxe," said a lady 
 who was sitting on the other side of 
 the count, "that a troupe of actors 
 always accompany you in your cam- 
 paigns, and that, on a recent occasion, 
 notice was given in the playbills that 
 there would be no performance the next 
 day on account of the battle M. le Comte 
 de Saxe intended to give?" 
 
 " Perfectly true, madame," answered 
 the count ; " but though I am passion- 
 ately fond of the play, I am not sorry 
 sometimes to escape a theatrical per- 
 formance." 
 
 And withdrawing his chair he turned 
 again to the little girl on his left. The 
 bystanders smiled, for, though the lady 
 had never appeared on the stage, she 
 had the reputation of being a consum- 
 mate actress. M. de Saxe drew Mina 
 into conversation, and made her repeat 
 to him the story she had already told 
 that evening. When she spoke of her 
 
194 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 father, and the rescue of the pnsoners, 
 he said : 
 
 " I remember hearing at the time of 
 Colonel d'Auban's gallant conduct. I 
 wish you joy, mademoiselle. You have 
 a brave man for your father. Will you 
 tell him, when he returns to Paris, that 
 the Comte de Saxe would be proud to 
 make his acquaintance ? " 
 
 Mina coloured with pleasure. " My 
 father and mother are in Brittany," she 
 said. 
 
 " Ah ! and when do they come 
 back?" 
 
 " I don't know," she answered, rather 
 sadly. 
 
 The expression of her face put him 
 so powerfully in mind of her mother at 
 her age, that he could scarcely help 
 saying so. 
 
 " You have been already a great trav- 
 eller, Mademoiselle "Wilhelmina. Should 
 you not like to see some of the great 
 cities of Europe ? " 
 
 "I should like very much to see 
 Rome, and Venice, and Madrid," she 
 answered. 
 
 " And St. Petersburgh, would you not 
 like to go there ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; it must be so very cold." 
 
 " I'll try again," thought the count. 
 
 " Have you heard of the death of the 
 Czar, Mademoiselle Mina ? " 
 
 " I heard he was dead a moment ago. 
 Somebody said so just before you came 
 in. Was he not very young ? " 
 
 "Very young; and he has left no 
 brother to succeed him. Have you a 
 brother, Mademoiselle' Wilhelmina ? " 
 
 She blushed very much, and answer- 
 ed, " Ontara is my adopted brother. 
 When my mother was afraid Osseo 
 would drag me away from her, Ontara 
 adopted me as his sister, after the man- 
 ner of the Indians." 
 
 " I have heard that they consider the 
 tie of adoption as sacred as that of 
 blood. And so you have no real broth- 
 ers and sisters? Neither have I; but 
 
 when I was young I had a playfellow 
 who was very like you." 
 
 " And did you love her very much ? " 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 " And is that little girl dead ? " 
 
 " I thought she was for a long time, 
 but I now believe she is still alive. 
 But I am afraid we shall never have 
 any more happy hours together. We 
 can never be children again. Our early 
 years, Mademoiselle Mina, are the hap- 
 piest in our lives." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Mina, pensively. 
 " I don't think I shall ever be so happy 
 as I was at St. Agathe." 
 
 " Where is St. Agathe ? " 
 
 " On the banks of the great Indian 
 River in the Illinois. It is the most 
 beautiful place in the world." 
 
 " More beautiful than Paris, or Ver- 
 sailles, or St. Cloud ?" 
 
 Mina shrugged her shoulders in a 
 contemptuous manner, which infinitely 
 amazed the count. 
 
 " Were you born in America, Made- 
 moiselle Wilhelmina ? " 
 
 "Yes; at St. Agathe, and I lived 
 there till I was nine years old. But it 
 is sold to strangers, and I shall never 
 see it again." 
 
 " Did your mother love it as much 
 as you did ? " 
 
 " She loved it very much, but she 
 never talks of it now.. My father was 
 so ill after the Natches' insurrection 
 that she does not wish to live amongst 
 Indians. I do not think she herself 
 would mind it." 
 
 " Do your parents intend to remain 
 in Paris ? " 
 
 " O no ; my father is trying to get 
 an appointment in the West India 
 islands." 
 
 At that moment the conversation be- 
 tween the Comte de Saxe and the] 
 young girl was interrupted. M. and 
 Madame d'Orgeville were going away. 
 Lookers-on had wondered at the ear- 
 nest manner in which the count had 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 195 
 
 peen conversing with her. She said 
 'good bye" to him in a confiding, 
 riendly manner, which seemed, for 
 ome reason or other, to affect him. 
 le kissed her hand with a respectful 
 ienderness which puzzled the lady who 
 lad vainly tried to attract his atten- 
 ion. She wondered how he could find 
 amusement in talking so long to a 
 >retty child. When Mina was gone, 
 le remained some time in the same 
 >lace buried in thought. Did she or 
 lid she not know who her mother was ? 
 That was what he could not make out. 
 She seemed quite indifferent about the 
 leath of Peter the Second, but tad 
 ecmed agitated when he asked if she 
 lad a brother. He resolved to call in 
 i few days at Madame d'Orgeville's, 
 nd to sift the mystery. 
 
 During the following week Mina was 
 aken every day by Madame Maret to 
 he Bishop of Auxerre's house, near 
 he church of St. Sulspice. There she 
 net Ontara ; and it was a curious thing, 
 n the midst of the Paris of that day, 
 o see a girl and a youth, both totally 
 macquainted with the world, in the 
 ttidst ff which they had been suddenly 
 hrown together, engaged, the one in 
 teaching, the other in learning, the 
 Christian religion. The group in Mon- 
 eigneur d' Auxerre's study would have 
 paade an admirable subject for a pic- 
 Aire. The gray-haired bishop looking 
 Kindly on the two young creatures at 
 us feet. The dark-haired, olive-colour- 
 id youth, with his eyes fixed on the fair 
 girl, who, half sitting, half kneeling, 
 ier hands clasped together and her 
 wul shining through her face, translat- 
 sd the prelate's instructions, and by 
 gestures and looks, as well as words, 
 transmitted to him their meaning. It 
 s a labour of love. The bishop had 
 laid something to the effect that Ontara 
 vould prove hereafter the future teach- 
 er of his dispersed countrymen, and 
 ihe seized on the hope with enthusiasm. 
 
 He would not, she felt sure, live for 
 himself alone. He would carry to his 
 unhappy brethren the religion which 
 hallows suffering, and can ennoble even 
 the condition of a slave. His words 
 would one day enlighten the Children 
 of the Sun now sunk in the depths of a 
 two-fold darkness. High and pure 
 were the teachings of her guileless lips, 
 and deeply did they sink into the heart 
 of the young Indian. The aged man 
 could scarcely restrain his tears as he 
 looked on these children of different 
 races, borji under the same sky and en- 
 dowed with such kindred natures. 
 "Out of the mouths of babes and 
 sucklings hast Thou ordained strength," 
 he often thought, as Mina spoke and 
 Ontara hearkened to her words. 
 
 Sometimes he was called out of the 
 room on business, and then the brother 
 and the sister stood at the window 
 looking on the Luxembourg gardens, 
 on the fountains and the lilacs; and 
 talked of the grand forests and the 
 waterfalls, the purple fields and fiery 
 blossoms of their own land, their hearts 
 throbbing with the pleasure and the 
 pain of remembrance. These were On- 
 tara's only bright hours in the city of 
 the white men. The bishop's house 
 appeared an oasis in what was to him 
 a desert. The religious instructions he 
 received there, the gradual enlight- 
 enment of his mind, the innocent affec- 
 tion of his adopted sister the only tie 
 he had in the world gradually healed 
 the bleeding wounds of his soul. In 
 the afternoon, M. and Madame Maret 
 took him to see all the sights of the 
 capital ; and in the evening they some- 
 times conducted him to places of pub- 
 lic entertainment. But amusements 
 and shows of any description had not 
 the least attraction for him. Nothing 
 pleased his eye except the beauties of 
 nature. He was perfectly indifferent 
 to art in all its shapes. But his quick 
 intellect discerned the practical uses of 
 
196 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 mechanical inventions, and examined 
 with interest the wonders of physical 
 science. Many a plan Mina and he laid 
 together ; many a castle they built in 
 the wilderness to which their thoughts 
 were ever turning. A temple more 
 grand than Notre Dame itself was one 
 day to rise in an American forest, and 
 many black robes were to dwell there, 
 and a great Christian city to rise around^ 
 it. Mina and her parents would come 
 and live in the new City of the Sun, 
 and the black robe would join their 
 hands before the Christian altar, and 
 Ontara become the son of the white 
 chief. Mina used always to shake her 
 head when the closing scene of this 
 vision was drawn. She knew now that 
 French girls did not choose themselves 
 whom they would marry, and she re- 
 membered her mother's saying that she 
 must never marry an Indian. Then 
 she wondered if his being a Christian 
 would make a difference. And then 
 the thought that the sight of one of his 
 race made her father shudder, gave her 
 exquisite pain. She felt as if her heart 
 would break if her parents greeted him 
 coldly. 
 
 They arrived in Paris about three 
 weeks after the eventful evening at the 
 H6tel de Senac. Madame d'Auban 
 had been taken ill the day after her 
 daughter's letter had so abruptly an- 
 nounced to her her son's death. She had 
 been forcedto stay some time at Havre, 
 and then to travel by slow journeys. 
 Her greatest desire now was, as has 
 been said, to leave France, to break off 
 all old associations, and carry Mina 
 away to some place where they might 
 begin life afresh. A vague disquietude 
 stole over her as she noticed on her 
 arrival the ever increasing loveliness, 
 but very delicate appearance, of her 
 daughter. The peculiar light in her eyes 
 was more vivid than usual ; there was a 
 spiritual beauty in her face which is sel- 
 dom seen in persons of strong health : 
 
 The body tasked, the fine mind overwrought, 
 With something faint and fragile in the whole, 
 As though 'twere but a lamp to hold a soul. 
 Mrs. Norton. 
 
 That night, bending over her bed, her 
 mother whispered to her, " My beloved 
 child, henceforth pray for the repose 
 of your brother's soul ; God has taken 
 him out of this world . . ." Tears 
 choked her utterance. 
 
 Mina threw her arms around her 
 neck and murmured, " O mother, may 
 he rest in peace." Thoughts of that 
 buried brother often haunted Mina in 
 future years. Her father was right 
 wh$n he had wished her not to know 
 any thing of the secret which was never 
 to be actually disclosed to her. Mys- 
 teries always throw a shade over the 
 sunny days of youth. 
 
 Mina had sat between her parents on 
 the evening of their arrival, gazing first 
 on the one and then on the other with 
 the deepest tenderness. She told them 
 Ontara had been baptized that morn- 
 ing. It was in the Church of St. Sul- 
 spice that the ceremony had taken 
 place. The world had crowded to 
 witness a novel sight ; the cacred build- 
 ing was filled with courtiers and wo- 
 men of fashion. Spy-glasses were 
 raised, whispers exchanged, questions 
 asked and answered round Mina d'Au- 
 ban, but she heeded them not. " Her 
 eyes were with her heart," and both 
 were bent on the youth for whom she 
 had so long and so ardently prayed. 
 She was kneeling near the pulpit from 
 which the Bishop of Auxerre had been 
 preaching, and was so absorbed in her 
 devotions that, after the whole ceremony 
 was over, she did not notice that Mad- 
 ame d'Orgeville had gone into the sa- 
 cristy to speak to him, and that every 
 one had left the church except one lady, 
 who came up to her and touched her 
 on the shoulder. She raised her head 
 and recognized Mademoiselle Gaultier, 
 whose eyes were, like her own, full of 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 197 
 
 They had been both deeply 
 in the midst of that careless 
 >wd. Wide apart as earth and heaven 
 the state of their souls at this 
 but both had felt what others 
 not felt. There was something in 
 | common between them, one was strug- 
 gling out of the depths, the other going 
 (forward in the brightness of early 
 lorning, but both following from afar 
 
 The banner with a strange device, 
 
 Excelsior. 
 
 "Pray for me," said the actress, 
 
 Unending unconsciously her knee as she 
 
 ipproached the young girl, and then 
 
 {disappearing before the latter had had 
 
 time to recover her surprise. 
 
 People often think themselves better 
 khan they are, but it also sometimes 
 ippens that they are taken by surprise 
 ;he other way. Madame d'Auban had 
 struggling ever since she had 
 of Ontara's arrival in Paris, to 
 iquer her involuntary coldness tow- 
 him. She was angry with herself 
 >r her ingratitude, and imagination 
 ing these misgivings she dread- 
 showing what she had persuaded 
 Of she felt. When Mina spoke of 
 there was something nervous and 
 >nstrained in her manner, which in- 
 | creased her daughter's sensitive appre- 
 insions. But when, on the following 
 ty, the young Indian suddenly enter- 
 fed the room, all feelings of coldness 
 I vanished at once from her mind. The 
 of her captivity rose again before 
 but with them the vivid remem- 
 ice of what that youth had done 
 her child and herself, and she clasp- 
 \ed him to her heart with a tenderness 
 fhtened by the reaction which had 
 place in her feelings. It was 
 time before she could master her 
 
 Mina's visits to the bishop contin- 
 but now her father went with her. 
 intimate knowledge of the Indian 
 iguage enabled him to assume the 
 
 task she had hitherto performed, and 
 M. d'Auxerre in a few days confided 
 to him the care of Ontara's instruction. 
 He came every night to their lodgings, 
 studied with Colonel d'Auban, and 
 read with Mina. These were his hap- 
 py hours. He began to understand the 
 enjoyment of domestic life the bless- 
 ings of the Christian idea of home. 
 His affection for Mina was unbounded. 
 One day he said to her : 
 
 " You are all things in one to me : 
 my angel, for you pray for me; my 
 teacher, for you instruct me ; my sister, 
 for you love me ; my child, for I once 
 carried you in my arms ; and one day, 
 when I have learnt all the white men 
 can teach, you will be my wife, and 
 we shall live in our own land in a pal- 
 ace covered with roses, on the shores 
 of the beautiful river." 
 
 Mina did not believe in this palace 
 in the new world, but she left off say- 
 ing so when she saw it vexed Ontara ; 
 and she was happy to see her parents 
 so kind to him. She was no longer 
 anxious to leave Paris. There did not 
 seem any immediate prospect of it. 
 Solicitation is weary work ; day after 
 day d'Auban was disappointed of the 
 answer he was expecting. Two out of 
 the three months, at the end of which 
 his wife had promised to communicate 
 with the Comte de Saxe, had already 
 elapsed. Mina related to her the con- 
 versation she had had with him at Mad- 
 ame de Senac's. Sometimes she thought 
 of disclosing to him her secret, and ob- 
 taining his assistance in forwarding 
 her husband's appointment; but as 
 soon as the idea took the form of a res- 
 olution, it caused her indescribable ap- 
 prehension. It had always been in her 
 nature to meet with courage inevitable 
 evils, but decisions frightened her. 
 She intensely wished to leave France, 
 and only to send him her promised 
 letter when the sea would be rolling 
 between them. Every morning she 
 
198 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 awoke with the hope that that day 
 would be the last of tedious sus- 
 pense. 
 
 One evening at dusk, as d'Auban was 
 walking up the stairs of the house where 
 they lodged, he met somebody coming 
 down, who took off his hat and passed 
 on. He could not see who it was, but 
 his servant Antoine, who was in the 
 ante-room of their apartments, told him 
 it was the German, Reinhart. He had 
 been talking, he said, to the people of 
 the house, and he had seen him go in 
 and out two or three times. D'Auban 
 was much disturbed at this intelligence. 
 He had -heard, since he was in Paris, 
 that this man was a spy, and in the pay 
 of whatever governments chose to em- 
 ploy him. He did not at all like his 
 having traced them. Whether he was 
 still seeking evidence about the jewels, 
 or was on the scent of a still more im- 
 portant discovery, in both cases he 
 dreaded the consequences, and began 
 to consider if it would not be desirable 
 to leave Paris at once, or at least to 
 send his wife to some place where she 
 would be out of this man's way. One 
 measure of prudence he thought it ne- 
 cessary to suggest to her : this was to 
 pack up and hide the jewels she still 
 
 " I have nothing now of any value," 
 she said. " Perhaps we had better sell 
 what there is. . . ." 
 
 " On no account," he exclaimed. 
 " That would be most imprudent. But, 
 my dearest, what do you mean by noth- 
 ing of value? Where is the locket, 
 with the czar's picture ? " 
 
 She smiled, and said, " I did not mean 
 to tell you, but as you ask about it, I 
 suppose you must needs be informed 
 that I parted with the diamonds last 
 September, when I wanted money to 
 pay the doctor and our lodgings in the 
 Rue du Louvre. Part of that sum I 
 still have in bank notes. What is the 
 matter?" she asked, alarmed at ob- 
 
 serving a look of annoyance in her 
 husband's face. 
 
 " Oh, my dearest love," he said, " why 
 did you not speak to me before you I 
 sold that locket ? " 
 
 " I did not sell the picture, Henri, 
 only the diamonds. You were ill, and 
 I was determined you should not be 
 troubled about money matters." 
 
 " I know. I see how it was. You 
 are an angel of goodness. But whom 
 did you sell them to ? " d'Auban asked, 
 trying not to seem anxious. 
 
 " To a dealer in diamonds, whose 
 direction I got from M. Lenoir, Wis- 
 bach, a German." 
 
 " Good heavens ! an agent of the 
 Russian Embassy. O, my own precious 
 one, you who thought to save me anx- 
 iety ! Well, but never mind. Do not 
 be unhappy. I have no doubt it is all 
 right." 
 
 " But what do you fear, Henri?" 
 
 " Why, my dearest, you know that 
 years ago in America there were inqui- 
 ries made and reports circulated about 
 your jewels having been stolen. And 
 if these diamonds should be recognized 
 and traced to you, no explanation can 
 be offered but the one. . ." 
 
 " O, but the picture was not seen. 
 Only the setting ; only the locket. . ." 
 
 " But, my dear heart, this man Wis- 
 bach has for years and years executed 
 all the orders for jewellery at the Im- 
 perial Court. I should not be surprised 
 if he had made that locket himself. 
 Do not be frightened. I only want you 
 to see the necessity of prudence. If 
 you will put the picture and the trink- 
 ets together, and seal them up in a box> 
 I will take the parcel to M. Maret, who 
 will, I know, take charge of it for me, 
 without. inquiring as to its contents." 
 
 Madame d'Auban, who had now be- 
 come a little nervous, went to fetch a 
 box out of her bedroom. She took out 
 of it the miniature, and a few chains 
 and broaches, and was just placing them 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 lit!) 
 
 a small case, whilst her husband was 
 ighting a candle, and looking for seal- 
 ng-wax, when they were startled by a 
 Bound of steps on the stairs. She had 
 scarcely time to thrust back all the 
 things into the large box, before two 
 men entered,and announcing themselves 
 as police agents, arrested them both. 
 One of them instantly began searching 
 the box and the drawers in the adjoin- 
 ing room. The picture and the trinkets 
 were of course discovered, and one of 
 the men nodded to the other, and said, 
 That's it." D'Auban was confounded 
 at the strangeness of their position. 
 Sis usual coolness and presence of mind 
 almost forsook him in this complicated 
 embarrassment. Under the weight of 
 so plausible an accusation and such 
 overwhelming evidence, the only de- 
 fence that could be set up would of 
 necessity appear an absurd invention, a 
 preposterous lie. It seemed to him 
 ncredible at that moment that he had 
 not more fully realized the danger 
 aanging over them from the possession 
 of those things. He felt stunned and 
 aewildered. There was no time to 
 confer with his wife on the steps they 
 should take, or the answers they should 
 give when separately examined, which 
 tie knew must follow. Would even his 
 own friends believe his story? They 
 tiad known him long and well, but her 
 scarcely at all. Sooner than give credit 
 to so improbable a story, they might 
 deem that he had been taken in by 
 an impostor. These thoughts passed 
 through his mind with the quickness 
 of lightning, for the whole scene did 
 not last more than two or three minutes. 
 He asked leave to write a few words to 
 M. d'Orgeville. This was refused, with 
 a hint that such a note might convey 
 instructions for removing other stolen 
 property. They scarcely allowed Mad- 
 ame d'Auban time to put up a change 
 of clothes, and to kiss her daughter. 
 She was taken too much by surprise to 
 
 be able to collect her thoughts. She 
 could only strain her to her breast 
 D'Auban called Antoine, who was stand- 
 ing pale and trembling at the door, and 
 said, " Take care of her. Take her to 
 the Hotel d'Orgeville. Tell them that 
 through some extraordinary mistake 
 we are accused of a crime, and thrown 
 into prison." 
 
 "No more talking, if you please," 
 said one of the police agents, and hur- 
 ried them down stairs. When Madame 
 d'Auban had reached the last step she 
 turned round to look at her daughter, 
 who was following her in silence ; too 
 agitated to speak, too terrified to weep. 
 
 " Mina 1 " she cried, as the carriage- 
 door closed upon her. What more she 
 said the young girl could not hear. 
 When it had disappeared she slowly 
 went up stairs again. Antoine was 
 frightened at her still composed look. 
 
 " Ah ! Mademoiselle Mina," he cried, 
 " for God's sake do not look so. You 
 make my heart ache. But I am sure it 
 is no wonder. To see monsieur and 
 madame go off in such company, and 
 to such a place, is enough to upset one. 
 I am ashamed of my country, that I 
 am. Let me get you some wine and 
 water, mademoiselle, you are nearly 
 fainting?" 
 
 " No, Antoine ; I am thinking," an- 
 swered the child, with her head resting 
 on her hands, and an expression of 
 intense thoughtfulness on her brow. 
 The colour gradually returned to her 
 cheeks, and she breathed a deep sigh. 
 When Antoine had brought her the 
 wine and water, she swallowed it, and 
 then said : 
 
 " Where are they gone, Antoine ? I 
 mean to what prison ? " 
 
 The utterance of that word loosened 
 the springs of sorrow, and Mina burst 
 into tears. Then poor old Antoine was 
 as anxious to stop her from crying, as 
 he had been before that she did not 
 cry. 
 
200 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " Where where ? " she sobbed, whilst 
 he stroked her hand, and kissed it. 
 
 " To the Conciergerie," he said, in a 
 low voice ; and then he added, " It is 
 all a great mistake. They will come 
 back very soon. But we must do as 
 your papa said, and go to the Hotel 
 d'Orgeville." 
 
 " No, Antoine, I ain not going there ; 
 not yet, I mean." 
 
 " And where are you then going, mad- 
 emoiselle ? " 
 
 " Do you know where the Comte de 
 Saxe lives ? " 
 
 "No, mademoiselle; but perhaps I 
 can find out. But why do you want to 
 know ? " 
 
 " Because I must see him immediate- 
 ly immediately, Antoine." 
 
 Antoine shook his head. " Monsieur 
 said I was to take you to the Hotel 
 d'Orgeville." 
 
 " I won't go there till I have seen the 
 Comte de Saxe. So it is no use asking 
 me, Antoine. Come with me, and we 
 will go and find out where he lives." 
 
 Antoine was so accustomed to do 
 whatever Mademoiselle Mina wished, 
 and so agitated with the scene he had 
 witnessed, that he was really more in 
 need of guidance than she was. So 
 he passively submitted ; and when she 
 had put on her hat and shawl he fol- 
 lowed her into the street. She then 
 stopped, and asked him, " Bo you think 
 M. Drouin, the bookseller, will know 
 where M. de Saxe lives ? " 
 
 " Most likely he may," Antoine an- 
 swered, and they walked there. 
 
 MT Drouin's shop was a large dark 
 warehouse in the Rue St. Sulspice, 
 where piles of volumes were ranged 
 in far-stretching recesses and appar- 
 ently inaccessible shelves. Mina tim- 
 idly approached the counter. A lady 
 was sitting with her back to the en- 
 trance door, and a pretty little boy of 
 six or seven years of age standing by 
 her. She was choosing a book for him. 
 
 " I don't want a book," said the 
 child ; " I want you to stay with me." 
 
 " Why, my good child," answered the 
 lady, in a voice Mina remembered to 
 having heard before, " I can't stay where 
 I am and be good, and if people are not 
 good they don't go to heaven ; and you 
 and I, Anselm, want to meet there some 
 day." 
 
 "I think you are very good," an- 
 swered the boy, in an aggrieved tone, 
 " you give me every thing I want." 
 
 At that moment, the lady heard Mina 
 ask the shopman if he could tell her 
 where the Comte de Saxe lived. She 
 turned round and their eyes met. 
 Mademoiselle Gaultier recognized the 
 young girl whose prayers she had asked 
 in the Church of St. Etienne du Mont ; 
 she made way for her with a courteous 
 smile. 
 
 " At the Hotel de Saxe, Rue du Palais 
 Royal," the shopman answered. 
 
 " Is it far from here ? " Mina anxious- 
 ly inquired, and when the man an- 
 swered, "pretty well," Mademoiselle 
 Gaultier caught the sound of a little 
 tremulous sigh. 
 
 " Excuse me," she said, in a kind 
 manner, to the young girl, " but do you 
 want to see the Comte de Saxe ? " 
 
 " O, yes ; very, very much," answered 
 Mina, " I must see him as soon as pos- 
 sible." 
 
 "Why must you see him?" said 
 Mademoiselle Gaultier, in a good- 
 humoured off-hand manner. 
 
 " Because he is the only person who 
 can help me." 
 
 Mademoiselle Gaultier felt in her 
 pocket for her purse. " Excuse me, my 
 dear, but is it any thing about which 
 money can be of use ? " 
 
 " No, no, thank you, it would not do 
 any good." Mina turned away and was 
 hurrying out of the shop. 
 
 " Stop a moment," cried Mademoi- 
 selle Gaultier, struck with the expres- 
 sion of her beautiful face. "If it is 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 201 
 
 deed important that you should see 
 
 e Comte de Saxe without delay, I can 
 e you to my house, where he dines to- 
 day. By the time you get to his hotel 
 will have left it." 
 
 She pointed to her carriage and said, 
 Get in." 
 
 Mina looked at Antoine, who was 
 standing by her. "I must see the 
 Comte de Saxe, Antoine." 
 
 " Then get in," repeated Mademoi- 
 selle Gaultier. 
 
 " Not without me," said the old man, 
 resolutely. 
 
 " Well, sit on the box then, and tell 
 the coachman to drive to the Rue de la 
 Michaudiere." 
 
 The little boy got in also, and they 
 drove off. The child began to cry bit- 
 terly. 
 
 "Come, come, Anselm. This will 
 never do. Men do not cry." 
 
 " But little boys do, and I must cry if 
 you go away." 
 
 "Nonsense, I never told you I was 
 going away. But you must go home to 
 your father, and he will send you to a 
 good school, where you will have plenty 
 of little boys to play with." 
 
 The child threw his arms round her 
 neck. 
 
 " There now," she said, when the 
 carriage stopped, "kiss me, and get 
 out." 
 
 She watched him into the house, and 
 then said, as if speaking to herself 
 rather than to Mina, " Ah, that comes 
 of doing a good action ; one never 
 knows what the end of it will be. 
 I took that child because it was moth- 
 erless, and his father was too poor 
 to keep him, and made a pet of it 
 when it was little, as if he had been 
 a puppy or a kitten. But when the 
 creature began to speak and to say its 
 prayers, and to ask me questions about 
 the good God, I did not like it." 
 
 " Why not ? " said Mina, looking at 
 her with astonishment. 
 
 "No, what could a person who 
 never prayed herself say to a child 
 like that?" 
 
 " Do you not pray ? I am sure you 
 did the day Ontara was baptized. Do 
 not you thank God for having made 
 you so beautiful, and so strong too?" 
 Mina added, remembering the scene in 
 the Tuileries Gardens. 
 
 It had never yet occurred to Made- 
 moiselle Gaultier to thank God for her 
 strength, but, some years afterwards, 
 she remembered Mina's words whilst 
 carrying an aged woman out of a house 
 that was on fire. She looked fixedly 
 at her now, and then murmured, " The 
 rest of my life will be too short to 
 thank Him, if. . . ." there she stopped, 
 and turning away, did not speak again 
 till they reached her house in the Rue 
 St. Maur. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the luxury 
 displayed in this abode. Lovely pic- 
 tures covered the walls, knick-knacks 
 of every sort adorned every corner of 
 it. Flowers in profusion, and little 
 mimic fountains throwing up scented 
 waters, perfumed the hall, and gave 
 each room an air de fete. Mademoi- 
 selle Gaultier conducted Mina into a 
 small boudoir within a dining room, 
 where a table, ornamented with a gild- 
 ed plateau and magnificent bouquets, 
 was laid for twenty guests. In an ad- 
 joining drawing-room several gentle- 
 men and ladies were already assembled, 
 who greeted its mistress in the gayest 
 manner. One of these guests was the 
 Comte de Saxe. When he saw Mina 
 with Mademoiselle Gaultier he started 
 back amazed, hesitated a moment, and 
 then rushed after them into the bou- 
 doir. 
 
 Before any one else had time to 
 speak, Mina cried out the instant she 
 saw him, "Oh, M. de Saxe, save my 
 mother." 
 
 " Will you leave us a moment ? " said 
 the count to Mademoiselle Gaultier. 
 
202 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 She turned round and saw that An- 
 toine had made good his entrance, and 
 was watching his young mistress like 
 a faithful dog. " Very well," she said, 
 and shut the door upon them. 
 
 " Now, my child," said the count, in 
 German, " what is the matter ? What 
 of your mother ? " 
 
 "She is in prison, and my father 
 also," cried Mina, wringing her hands. 
 
 "In prison. Good God! Why? 
 Where ? For debt ? " 
 
 " No," answered Mina, her cheeks as 
 red as fire, and her lip quivering. "For 
 stealing diamonds ! They steal ! " 
 
 " Diamonds ! " said the count. 
 
 " Yes, diamonds mamma has had a 
 long time, as long as I can remember. 
 She sold them when papa was so ill, 
 and she wanted money.' They were 
 round a picture of a gentleman in uni- 
 form, which she sometimes showed me 
 when I was little. The men who took 
 papa and mamma to prison found this 
 picture, and said it was the proof they 
 wanted." 
 
 "Ah ! I think I understand," ejacu- 
 lated the count. "Did your father 
 know of this picture ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but he did not know till to- 
 day, just before these men came, that 
 mamma had sold the diamonds. He 
 seemed sorry when she told him. Oh, 
 M. de Saxe, you told mamma that if 
 she ever wanted a devoted heart and a 
 strong arm to defend her, she was to 
 think of you. Will you help her now, 
 and my father also ? " 
 
 " I must go to the king, there is no 
 other way. What prison is it ? " 
 
 "The Conciergerie," said Antoine, 
 stepping forward. 
 
 " Do you know at whose instance M. 
 and Madame d'Auban have been arrest- 
 ed?" 
 
 " The huissiers said it was at the re- 
 quest of the Russian ambassador." 
 
 " Confound him ! Ah ! I must be- 
 gin by making sure of that point. Do 
 
 you know to whom your mother sold 
 the diamonds, Mdlle. Mina ? " 
 
 " To a man named Wisbach, in the 
 Rue de 1'Ecu." 
 
 " I know him ; a German jeweller." 
 
 " Will the king let them out of pris- 
 on, M. de Saxe ?" 
 
 " I hope so, my sweet child. I will 
 do every thing I can to help you. In 
 the mean time, in whose care do you re- 
 main ? " 
 
 "His," said Mina, pointing to the 
 old servant ; " our dear, good Antoine. 
 My father said I was to go to the Ho- 
 tel d'Orgeville, and say that through 
 some mistake they had been arrested, 
 but" 
 
 " But you had much better not do so 
 now, Mdlle. Mina. Go with this good 
 man, wherever you live. Where is it 
 by the way ? " 
 
 " 30, Rue des Saints Peres." 
 
 " Well go there, and if any one calls, 
 let him answer that your parents are 
 out." 
 
 " And if Ontara comes ? " 
 
 " Is that the Natches prince ? " 
 
 " Yes ; my adopted brother." 
 
 "Would he be discreet?" 
 
 " An Indian would die rather than 
 betray a secret." 
 
 "Well, then, you may see him, my 
 little princess." 
 
 The count watched to see if that ap- 
 pellation made any impression on Mina ; 
 but seeing it did not, he went on 
 
 " Now do not weep, do not be anx- 
 ious, sweet Wilhelmina. The Comte de 
 Saxe would sooner die than evil should 
 befall your mother." 
 
 " Was she the little girl you loved so 
 much ? " Mina asked. 
 
 " She was," the count answered, with 
 emotion ; " and she is the mother of a 
 not very little girl, whom I am begin- 
 ning to love also very much." 
 
 " And I shall love you very dearly, 
 if you get papa and mamma out of 
 prison." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 203 
 
 Meantime dinner was begun in the 
 next room, and the noise of laughing 
 and talking reached their ears. The 
 Comte de Saxe opened the door and 
 made his excuses to Mademoiselle Gaul- 
 tier. He said that pressing business 
 obliged him to forego her hospitality. 
 
 " I conclude," he added, " that you 
 will have the kindness to send this 
 young lady home ? " 
 
 "I will see her home myself," an- 
 swered Mademoiselle Gaultier, rising 
 from the table. 
 
 " Good bye, M. de Saxe," she added, 
 and her voice faltered again, as it had 
 done in the carriage, and under her 
 rouge her cheeks turned deadly pale. 
 
 " Come, my dear, eat something be- 
 fore you go," she said to Mina. 
 
 " No, thank you, dear lady ; I could 
 not eat. I will drink some water, if 
 you please." 
 
 Mademoiselle Gaultier poured out 
 some for her, and a glass of wine for 
 herself. Her hand trembled so much 
 that she spilt it. She rose, sat down 
 again, and said to her guests ; 
 
 " I know you will excuse my treating 
 you with so little ceremony. I must 
 go, or I would not leave you." 
 
 Her eyes wandered round the table 1 
 she seemed to be looking at each of her 
 friends in turn one of them was stip- 
 ulating that she should not be longer 
 away than a quarter of an hour ; an- 
 other laughingly declaring they would 
 make themselves very happy in her 
 absence ; others protesting against be- 
 ing deprived of her society even for 
 five minutes. Once again she got up, 
 took Mina by the hand, and went to 
 the door. She stood there an instant, 
 looking at the table she had left, at the 
 pictures, at the furniture, with a dreamy 
 expression. Her guests thought she 
 was gone, and had begun again to talk 
 and to laugh amongst themselves. 
 
 " Come," she said to Mina, who was 
 struck by the strangeness of her man- 
 
 ner. They went downstairs and got 
 into the carriage, which had been all 
 this time waiting at the door. The 
 horses were impatient and restive. 
 The coachman whipped them, and 
 they plunged. Mademoiselle Gaulti< r 
 sprang out again, pulling Mina with 
 her into the house. She sank on a 
 chair in the hall, and gave a sort of 
 half cry, half groan, which rang 
 through the house. The company in 
 the dining-room heard it, and wondered 
 what it was. They little guessed whence 
 it proceeded. 
 
 " I cannot," she murmured. " My 
 God! I cannot go; the effort is too 
 great." 
 
 A singular instinct seemed to inspire 
 Mina at that moment. She guessed 
 there was a struggle between right and 
 wrong in that woman's heart. With- 
 out knowing what she was leaving, or 
 where she was going, she seized her 
 hand, and cried 
 
 " Come, come ; Oh, do come away 1 " 
 
 There are moments when the whole 
 of a person's existence when even 
 their eternal destiny seems to hang 
 on an apparently casual circumstance ; 
 when good and bad angels are watch- 
 ing the upshot. Mina's own heart was 
 overcharged with sor/ow, and she 
 longed to get away from the sound 
 of voices and laughter which reached 
 them where they sat. She clung to 
 Mdlle. Gaultier, and again said : " Come 
 now, or you will never come." She did 
 not know the strength of her own 
 words. They fell on the actress's ear 
 with prophetic force. Madame de 
 Stael says, that the most mournful and 
 forcible expression in our language " is 
 no more." Perhaps the words "now 
 or never," have a still more thrilling 
 power. They have been the war-cry 
 of many a struggle the signal of many 
 a victory. 
 
 Once again Mdlle. Gaultier got into 
 the carriage with Mina, and they drove 
 
204 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 to the Rue des Saints Peres. She wept 
 bitterly. It was odd, perhaps, that she 
 should give thus a free vent to her feel- 
 ings before a child and stranger, but 
 she was a very singular person ; a great 
 impulsiveness a careless frankness 
 had always marked her character. 
 
 " I am very glad I met you, my dear," 
 she said to her young companion, who 
 was trying to thank her. "You have 
 done more for me to-day than you can 
 now, or than you will perhaps ever 
 understand. It was just what I wanted 
 to help me through the operation I am 
 undergoing." 
 
 " What operation, dear lady ? " 
 
 " An operation you may have read 
 of in the Gospel, my dear. Cutting 
 off the right hand, and plucking out 
 the right eye, rather than walking into 
 hell with them. May your sweet eyes 
 and your little innocent feet never need 
 plucking out and cutting off ! It hurts, 
 I can tell you ! " 
 
 " I would cut off my hand, and have 
 my eyes burnt out, if that would make 
 all my own people Christians," Mina 
 answered, eagerly. 
 
 " I do not know who are your people, 
 little one ; but I have heard of innocent 
 souls, angels in human form, glad to 
 suffer for the guilty and the perishing, 
 and I think you may be one of them 
 . . . . I, too, had such thoughts 
 when I was your age . . . ." 
 
 " And why did you let them go ? " 
 Mina said. " I felt sure you were good 
 the first day I saw you." 
 
 "What could make you think so, 
 dear child ? " 
 
 " You looked good, though you did 
 push the German lady into the mud." 
 
 The mention of this incident caused 
 a revulsion in Mademoiselle Gaultier's 
 nervous system. She burst into an 
 hysterical fit of laughter. "What a 
 wretch I have been," she exclaimed ; 
 and then, after a pause, said, " I ought 
 to have been good, but I was not suf- 
 
 fered to be so. An orphan and a de- 
 pendent, I prayed for a bare pittance to 
 keep me off the stage. But my rela- 
 tives would not hearken to my plead- 
 ings. They said I had beauty and wit, 
 and must shift for myself. I have done 
 so, God knows how ! " 
 
 " But you can, you will be good now ? " 
 The carriage stopped at the door of 
 Mina's lodgings. She threw her arms 
 round Mademoiselle Gaultier's neck, 
 and said again, as she pressed her lips 
 to her cheeks, ' ' You will be good now ? " 
 It was like the whisper of an angel. 
 Another voice had baen urging, "Re- 
 turn to your pleasant home to your 
 gay friends your luxurious life. You 
 never can fast, obey, and pray for the 
 rest of your life." It was the decisive 
 hour on the order then given to drive 
 to one place or the other on these 
 few words the future turned. She bade 
 the coachman go to the convent of the 
 Anticailles. In after years, when she 
 could afford to look back and write, 
 with the gaiety of a grateful heart, an 
 account of that terrible struggle, she 
 spoke of the rude pallet on which she 
 slept that night, of the bits of cold 
 stewed carp she ate for supper, and said 
 it was the sweetest sleep, and the best 
 meal, she had enjoyed for many a long 
 year. 
 
 Two years later, the Parisian world 
 flocked to the Carmelite convent of the 
 Rue St. Jacques the same where Louise 
 de la Valliere had fled half a century 
 before to see one of the first actresses 
 of the French stage, the witty, the hand- 
 some Mademoiselle Gaultier, put on St. 
 Theresa's habit, and renounce for ever 
 the world which had so long burnt 
 unholy incense at her feet. She retain- 
 ed in the cloister the eager spirit, the 
 indomitable gaiety, the intellectual 
 gifts, with which she had been so rarely 
 endowed. She spoke from behind the 
 grate with the eloquence of former 
 days, only the subject-matter was 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 205 
 
 iged. " Wonders will never cease ! " 
 
 world said, at the news of Made- 
 
 >iselle Gaultier's conversion, and the 
 
 world was right. As long as it lasts, 
 miracles of grace will take it by sur- 
 prise. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Nothing till that latest agony, 
 Which severs us from nature, shall unloose 
 This fixed and sacred hold. 
 
 ***** 
 
 I never will forsake thee. JoTumna BaUUt. 
 
 Tones in her quivering voice awoke 
 
 As if a harp of battle spoke ; 
 
 Light that seem'd born of an eagle's nest 
 
 Flashed from her soft eyes unrepress''d, 
 
 And her form, like a spreading water-flower, 
 
 When its frail cup swells with a sudden shower, 
 
 Seem'd all dilated with love and pride. 
 
 Mrs. ffeman*. 
 
 AT about six o'clock that day, his 
 majesty Lewis the well-beloved, the 
 idol of his people, one of the most 
 pleasing and attractive men of his time, 
 was sitting in his private apartments 
 at Versailles, conversing with the queen 
 to whom he was still devotedly at- 
 tached. The young dauphin and his 
 little sisters were playing about the 
 room. The gentleman in waiting 
 brought in a letter for the king, who 
 read it, and smiled. 
 
 "Our good friend the Comte de 
 Saxe," his majesty said, " entreats the 
 favour of an immediate interview. In 
 order, I suppose, to pique our curiosity, 
 he pledges himself to make known to 
 us a history that we shall with difficulty 
 credit, so like does it sound to a tale 
 of fiction, but which he nevertheless 
 declares to be perfectly true." 
 
 " Your majesty is always glad to see 
 the Comte de Saxe, and will doubtless 
 accede to his request, and direct that 
 he be admitted." 
 
 " Ah ! madame. Is there not some 
 feminine curiosity lurking in your im- 
 plied desire to receive the noble count ? " 
 
 "I confess, sire, that a romance in 
 real life is well fitted to excite the in- 
 terest of one whose own destiny might 
 be described under that name." 
 
 As she said this, Marie Leckzinska 
 looked with tenderness at the king, 
 whom she passionately loved. 
 
 The young monarch, for although 
 the father of four children, Lewis the 
 XY. was scarcely three and twenty 
 years old, commanded the Comte de 
 Saxe to be introduced. Like most sov- 
 ereigns, the king of France liked to be 
 treated with the cautious familiarity 
 which some persons know how to use 
 without trespassing the limits of respect. 
 Perhaps he liked the familiarity more 
 than the respect. The sovereign who, 
 in his maturer years, allowed Madame 
 Dubarry to treat him as a laquais, and 
 to call him La France, could not have 
 had at any time much dignity of char- 
 acter ; but in his youth there was some- 
 thing attractive in this royal bonhomie. 
 The Comte de Saxe perfectly understood 
 his royal master's disposition and tastes, 
 and stood high in his good graces. 
 
 "Ah! M. de Saxe," the king ex- 
 
206 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 claimed, as the count made his obei- 
 sance to him and to the queen, " welcome 
 to Versailles. Would that you took 
 us oftener by surprise. It is one of the 
 ennuis of our position to have no unex- 
 pected pleasures. Our life is so mapped 
 out beforehand that I sometimes fancy 
 to-morrow is yesterday, I know so well 
 all about it." 
 
 A shade of anxiety passed over the 
 queen's face. The king's liability to 
 ennui was her greatest trouble. She 
 had none of the lively wit or piquancy 
 of manner which aids a woman to re- 
 tain her hold of the affection of a man 
 of indolent temperament and idle habits. 
 "I hope," she said to the count, 
 " that you are not about to harass our 
 feelings too deeply by the history you 
 are going to tell us." 
 
 " Ah ! madame the cause I have to 
 
 plead " 
 
 " O come ! " exclaimed the king, 
 "this is not fair, you spoke of a ro- 
 mantic story and now hint at a peti- 
 tion." 
 
 " I have indeed a petition to make, 
 sire, and no trifling one either no less 
 a one than for the immediate release 
 of two prisoners.". 
 
 The king looked annoyed. 
 "And it must be the act of your 
 majesty ; an order emanating from your- 
 self alone." 
 
 " You should have spoken to M. de 
 Frejus." 
 
 "No, sire, to your majesties alone 
 could I communicate the story of a 
 princess of royal birth, whose unex- 
 ampled destiny places her at your 
 mercy." 
 
 " A princess ! " repeated the king, 
 "of what nation?" 
 " A German, sire." 
 
 "Ah! they are innumerable, your 
 German princesses," Madame des Ursins 
 said to the minister of a small Teutonic 
 Prince, who had rejected the hand of a 
 Spanish lady of high rank. " Monsieur, 
 
 une grandesse d'Espagne vaut bien une 
 petitesse d'Allemagne." Is your prin- 
 cess, M. de Saxe, une petitesse d'Alle- 
 magne ? " 
 
 " So far from it, sire," rejoined the 
 count, " that, had she been fifteen years 
 younger, she might have aspired to 
 your majesty's hand, for her sister was 
 the wife of the Emperor of Austria, and 
 the House of Hapsburg deemed it no 
 mesalliance." 
 
 " Who can you be speaking of, M. 
 de Saxe ? What emperor do you mean ? 
 The present emperor was married to 
 the eldest daughter of the Duke of 
 Brunswick, Wolfenbuttel, and her sister 
 married the Czarowitch of Russia." 
 
 " Sire, the sister of the late Empress 
 of Austria, the daughter of the Duke 
 of Brunswick, the widow of the Czaro- 
 witch, is at this moment in the prison 
 of the Conciergerie, and it is on her 
 behalf I have come to implore your 
 majesty ! " 
 
 " My dear M. de Saxe, you are under 
 a strange delusion, for I suppose you 
 are not joking!" 
 
 " Sire, I never was further from it in 
 my life." 
 
 " But the princess you speak of has 
 been dead these fifteen years." 
 
 "Sire, she is not dead. How she 
 happens to be alive I did not know till 
 two months ago, when I met her in the 
 Tuileries Gardens. The sound of her 
 voice first arrested my attention ; then 
 I caught sight of her face, and though 
 more than sixteen years had elapsed 
 since I had seen her, I recognized at 
 once the Princess Charlotte of Bruns- 
 wick. Sire, I had been her playmate 
 in childhood later, she honoured me 
 with her friendship. I loved her as 
 those love who can never hope to be 
 loved in return ; with an intense, hope- 
 less, reverent affection; she was a wo- 
 man who, when once known, could 
 never be forgotten." 
 
 "I have heard my beloved father 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 207 
 
 speak of her," said the queen. " He 
 used to say that her eyes had a melan- 
 choly beauty, a dreamy softness pecu- 
 liarly their own, and that to look upon 
 her and to love her was the same thing." 
 
 "Madame, I verily believe that in 
 body and in mind so rare a creature 
 has seldom graced a palace or a cot- 
 tage. From the very moment I saw 
 her I had not a doubt as to her identi- 
 ty. She turned away, she tried to put 
 me off, to avoid* answering my abrupt 
 and eager questions; but her tears, 
 her changing colour, her passionate 
 emotion, betrayed her. She refused, 
 however, to give me any clue as to the 
 name she bore or the place of her resi- 
 dence. I wished to inform your majes- 
 ty at once of the existence of the prin- 
 cess, but she extorted from me a prom- 
 ise to delay this disclosure for three 
 months. When I lost sight of her that 
 day doubts as to my own sanity occur- 
 red to me, for the death of the Czaro- 
 witch's consort was a well-known pub- 
 lic event. All the Courts in Europe 
 had gone into mourning for her ; and 
 the thought of the interview I had just 
 had with the living-dead was a fact 
 enough to drive reason from its throne. 
 A sudden recollection flashed then on 
 my brain. I remembered having seen 
 amongst my mother's papers, when I 
 was sorting them after her death, a 
 packet, on which was written, ' partic- 
 ulars relating to the supposed death 
 
 of . To be read by my son after 
 
 my decease.' Pressed as I was at that 
 moment by a multiplicity of affairs, I 
 put off opening this packet to a period 
 of greater leisure. The events of the 
 campaign and my return to Paris put 
 it out of my mind, until suddenly the 
 words ' supposed death ' flashed across 
 me like a ray of light. I wrote for the 
 box in which I had left this packet, 
 and only a few days ago made myself 
 acquainted with its contents." 
 
 u And did it relate to the princess ? " 
 
 eagerly asked, in the same breath, the 
 king and the queen. 
 
 "It did, inadame, and sire if my 
 mother erred, if she acted with precipi- 
 tation, if she allowed her fears for the 
 life of a beloved friend to get the better 
 of her prudence, now that she is no 
 more, your majesties will pity and ex- 
 cuse a woman's pity for a woman. I 
 know not how to judge an unprecedent- 
 ed action. Unwonted dangers call for 
 extraordinary remedies. This paper, 
 sire, gives a full account of the manner 
 in which the Comtesse de Konigsmark, 
 in conjunction with the attendants of 
 the Czarowitch's consort, spread the 
 report of her decease after her brutal 
 husband had left her apparently dead. 
 It was well known to the princess's 
 friends that Alexis had resolved on her 
 destruction, and that assassins were at 
 hand to do his work in case she re- 
 covered. They placed a wooden figure 
 in the coffin ostensibly prepared for the 
 princess, and tended her in a secluded 
 chamber until she had strength enough 
 to make her escape from Russia, and 
 the doom which awaited the Czaro- 
 witch's wife. In a separate letter my 
 mother lays her commands upon me 
 not to divulge these facts unless a time 
 should come when the princess might 
 desire to establish her identity. I have 
 brought these documents with me, sire, 
 and I place in your majesty hands the 
 evidence of my mother's daring act, 
 and of the existence of the Princess 
 Charlotte of Brunswick." 
 
 " This is indeed a wonderful history," 
 said the king as he began to peruse the 
 papers. 
 
 The queen in the mean time asked, 
 " And where did the princess fly when 
 she left Russia?" 
 
 "To the new France, madame, ac- 
 companied by one only servant and 
 humble friend the librarian of her 
 father's-court, who had followed her to 
 St. Petersburgh." 
 
208 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "And how comes she here? and 
 good heavens ! did not you say she was 
 in prison ? " 
 
 "Madame, she was arrested this 
 morning, at the instance of the Russian 
 embassy. It seems that when she es- 
 caped from St. Petersburgh, she carried 
 away with her jewels which were her 
 own private property, and sold a part 
 of them on her arrival at New Orleans. 
 These trinkets, of course, were missed, 
 and orders given at the Russian embas- 
 sies and consulates to institute inquiries 
 as to the persons who were supposed 
 to have taken them. Suspicion rested 
 principally on one individual, who had 
 disappeared at the time of the prin- 
 cess's supposed death, the old German 
 librarian who had accompanied her in 
 her flight. It does not seem however 
 that the inquiry was actively followed 
 up in the colony ; but a bracelet, which 
 the princess sold since her arrival in 
 Paris, has been recognized by a jeweller 
 who many years ago had himself ex- 
 ecuted the order for it. In conjunction 
 with a German who had seen the royal 
 exile in America, and was aware of the 
 suspicions afloat on the subject, he 
 gave information to Prince Kourakin 
 of the discovery he had made. Hence, 
 the princess's arrest on a charge which 
 places her amongst felons and thieves, 
 unless his majesty interposes at once to 
 rescue her from such a position." 
 
 The king looked up from the papers 
 he had been perusing, and made the 
 count repeat again the foregoing de- 
 tails. Then he said, " Of course, the 
 princess must be at once released. 
 These documents, M. de Saxe, leave no 
 doubt on my mind that the lady you 
 recognized in the Tuileries Gardens is 
 the same person the Comtesse de Ko- 
 nigsmark speaks of, the widow of the 
 late Czarowitch. But what sort of 
 existence has she led during all these 
 late years? Where did she live, and 
 with whom ? " 
 
 " Sire," said the count, in the tone of 
 a man who makes a reluctant confes- 
 sion, " the romance would not be com- 
 plete without a love story." 
 
 "Ah," said the king laughing, "is 
 it one that you can relate before the 
 queen ? " 
 
 " Sire," said the Comte de Saxe, with ' 
 some emotion, " I know but little of the 
 Princess Charlotte's history during those 
 years of obscure seclusion. But I would 
 willingly lay down my life that her 
 heart is as pure and her life as unstain- 
 ed as that of her majesty herself," he add- 
 ed, bowing profoundly to Marie Leck- 
 zinska. Since the Czarowitch's decease, 
 sire, his widow has married a French 
 gentleman, and a brave man, who at the 
 time of the Natches insurrection, by 
 prodigies of valour saved her and many 
 other French women from the horrors of 
 a lingering death." 
 
 Without uttering an untruth, the 
 count had managed to make it appear 
 that the marriage had followed instead 
 of preceded this heroic exploit. Grat- 
 itude, he thought, might be considered 
 as a circonstance attenuante. 
 
 " I do not see," said the king, " how 
 that difficulty can be got over. Such 
 a marriage can never be acknowledged 
 by her relations. Are there children ? " 
 
 " One girl, sire." 
 
 The king reflected a little, and then 
 said, " I will write with my own hand 
 a letter to the Queen of Hungary, and 
 inform her of her aunt's existence, and 
 of the proofs which establish it. If I 
 judge by my own feelings she will gladly 
 offer to receive her at her own court, 
 and to provide for her in her domin- 
 ions a home suitable to her rank. She 
 must, of course, give up this second 
 husband. I forget if you mentioned 
 his name ? " 
 
 " Colonel d'Auban, sire." 
 
 " This d'Auban she must, of course, 
 separate from ; but as you say he is a 
 brave officer, I will take care of his 
 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 209 
 
 fortune and place him in a good posi- 
 tion. The daughter can be educated 
 at St. Cyr." 
 
 The queen looked anxiously first at 
 M. de Saxe and then at the king. Her 
 woman's heart evidently shrunk from 
 this summary disposal of the nearest 
 and dearest ties of a woman's heart. 
 She ventured to say, " But if this prin- 
 cess is attached to her husband and her 
 child, would it not be possible " 
 
 "Possible, madame, for the Queen 
 of Hungary to call M. d'Auban uncle, 
 and his daughter cousin ! Heaven for- 
 bid that any royal family should admit 
 of such a degradation " 
 
 "No; what I meant was that per- 
 haps she would not give them up." 
 
 " Then, of course, her family could 
 not acknowledge her." 
 
 M. de Saxe was growing very impa- 
 tient at this lengthened discussion, and 
 ventured to say: 
 
 " Sire, every moment must appear an 
 age to the princess, who has already 
 been many hours in prison." 
 
 " But what would be the best course 
 to pursue ? " answered the king. " This 
 strange story must not be divulged un- 
 til I receive the answer of the Queen 
 of Hungary. It would not be just to 
 her royal relatives to forestall their de- 
 cision as to the Princess Charlotte's 
 reassumption of her name and position. 
 But she cannot, of course, remain in 
 prison, or in a mean lodging. She had 
 better be instantly removed from the 
 Conciergerie to one of our royal palaces 
 to Fontainebleau, for instance, and 
 there await her niece's answer. But 
 how can this release be explained to 
 the Russian embassy ? " 
 
 "Will your majesty permit me to 
 call on Prince Kourakin, and to inform 
 him that it is your royal pleasure that 
 the prosecution be abandoned ? " 
 
 "He will think it strange that I 
 should interfere." 
 
 "Not so strange, perhaps, as your 
 14 
 
 majesty supposes. I am greatly mis- 
 taken if there is not one person at least 
 at the embassy who suspects the truth." 
 " Ah ! think you so, M. de Saxe ? 
 Then I commend to your prudence 
 that part of the negotiation. I must 
 see M. de Frejus, and give orders under 
 our signet to remove this royal lady to 
 our palace of Fontainebleau. Madame 
 d'Auban, is not that the name she goes 
 by? "Well, M. de Saxe, it must be ad- 
 mitted that you have redeemed your 
 pledge, and unfolded to us as romantic 
 a tale as the pages of history or of fic- 
 tion have ever recorded. We will not 
 detain you any longer, M. le Comte. 
 As Hermione says to Pyrrhus : 
 
 Tu comptes les instants quo t u perds avec mol ; 
 Ton coeur impatient de revoir ta Troyenne, 
 Ne sonffre qu'& regret qu'nne antre t'entretienne ; 
 Tu lui paries da cceur, ta la cherches des yeux. 
 
 Ah ! how inimitably Mdlle. Gaultier 
 repeats those lines. By the way, is it 
 true that Hermione is about to retire 
 from the stage and the world ? M. de 
 Frejus says she will be a Carmelite." 
 
 " And so will I, my papa king," said 
 a little voice from behind the queen's 
 fauteuil. This was Madame Louise de 
 France, then only two years old. Thir- 
 ty years later she was kneeling at her 
 father's feet to obtain leave to live and 
 die behind the grate of the monastery 
 of St. Denis. The king took her on 
 his knees, and played with her whilst 
 he went on talking to the Comte de 
 Saxe. 
 
 " You must leave with me the Com- 
 tesse de Konigsmark's letters. I must 
 forward a copy of her statement to the 
 Queen of Hungary. Who knows, M. 
 le Comte, if we hunt this week in the 
 direction of Fontainebleau, and very 
 probably we shall," the king said, with 
 a laugh, " that we may not visit this 
 fair spectre?" 
 
 " I should also very much like to see 
 her, if it would not attract too much 
 notice," the queen said. "I used to 
 
210 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 hear so much in my childhood of the 
 Princess Charlotte of Brunswick and 
 her beautiful blue eyes." 
 
 "Your majesty will graciously in- 
 clude in the order of release the prin- 
 cess's husband ? " asked the Comte de 
 Saxe, as he was taking his leave. 
 
 " Yes, yes," the king gaily answered ; 
 "but he is not to come to Fontaine- 
 bleau, or his daughter either. Prin- 
 cesses cannot many commoners and 
 enjoy at the same time the privileges 
 of royalty." 
 
 "And what happens if they like 
 commoners better than privileges?" 
 said Madame Victoire, the eldest of 
 the Enfants de France. 
 
 " They are in disgrace," his majesty 
 answered, with a smile. 
 
 " Is M. de Saxe a commoner, and are 
 you, sire, a privilege ? " 
 
 The Queen ordered Madame Victoire 
 to be silent, and said something tanta- 
 mount to little pitchers having long 
 ears. At last M. de Saxe was suffered 
 to depart. He was not quite satisfied 
 at the turn things had taken. From 
 his brief interview with the Princess, 
 and what he had seen of her daughter, 
 he had a strong impression 
 
 That ties around her heart were spun 
 Which could not, would not be undone. 
 
 The king, though in the main good- 
 natured and kind-hearted, did not like 
 contradiction. Who does but those 
 who, through a long training, have 
 overcome their distaste to it? The 
 order for Madame d'Auban's removal to 
 Fontainebleau, pending the answer of 
 her relatives, sounded somewhat like 
 an honourable imprisonment. He 
 dreaded the suffering she might under- 
 go from the anomalies in her position, 
 and the uncertainty of the future. 
 Would she blame him for disclosing 
 her story to the king? Not, he sup- 
 posed, under the circumstances which 
 had compelled him to do so ; but wo- 
 men are not always reasonable. The 
 
 count felt anxious and out of humour 
 with the king, the princess, the world, 
 and himself. Men of prodigious 
 strength and strong will, who can con- 
 quer almost every thing except them- 
 selves, get as irritated with complica- 
 ted difficulties as women with an 
 entangled skein of silk. They long to 
 cut through the knot, but if they have 
 not at hand either knife or scissors 
 there remains nothing for it but to 
 chafe at the obstacle. 
 
 It was near twelve o'clock at night 
 when the count arrived at the prison 
 door, and with great trouble succeeded 
 in rousing the porter and obtaining an 
 entrance. Mentioning his own name, 
 and slipping a louis d'or into his hand, 
 he asked for news of the prisoners who 
 had -arrived there that day. The sight 
 of gold awakened the attention of the 
 sleepy Cerberus, who produced a book 
 of entries, which was kept in the en- 
 trance lodge. 
 
 "Yes," he said, turning over the 
 leaves till he found the last page, and 
 running his finger down it, " here are 
 the names of the people you are speak- 
 ing of, M. de Saxe. Henri George 
 d'Auban and Sophia Charlotte his wife. 
 They were lodged in separate cells in 
 the fifth ward of the third story." 
 
 " I must see them directly," said the 
 count. "I have the king's order to 
 that effect. Let the governor of the 
 prison know that I am here." 
 
 " I am very sorry," said old Adam, 
 tightly clutching the gold piece in his 
 hand, " but your excellency cannot see 
 them, for" 
 
 " I will see them," cried the Count 
 Saxe. 
 
 "But it is impossible, for" 
 
 "Nothing is impossible," said the 
 count, stamping. "My soldiers are 
 never allowed to use that word, neither 
 shall you. Take your keys and show 
 me the way to the governor or the 
 prisoners' rooms." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 211 
 
 " But when I tell you, M. le Comte " 
 
 " And I tell you, M. le Guichetior, 
 that I will take no denial." 
 
 Then cried the man, "you must 
 quarrel with the good God, and not 
 with me ; for he can work miracles and 
 I can't." 
 
 " Miracles ! nonsense ! Show me the 
 way." 
 
 " But I tell you, sir, they are gone ! " 
 roared out the man, who had now slipt 
 into his pocket the count's louis d'or. 
 
 " Gone ! The devil they are ! Where ? " 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " How came they to be released ? " 
 
 "The governor ordered them to be 
 set at liberty about three hours ago, 
 that's all I know. J never ask ques- 
 tions about those that come in or those 
 that go out." 
 
 Exceedingly puzzled, but at the same 
 time relieved, the count withdrew. 
 Early on the following morning he 
 ordered his carriage and drove to the 
 lodging of which Antoine and Mina 
 had given him the direction on the 
 preceding day. Having ascertained 
 from the concierge that this was the 
 house where M. and Madame d'Auban 
 lived, and that they were at home, he 
 rapidly mounted the stairs and rang at 
 the door of the entresol, which was 
 opened by a tall, careworn, but still 
 handsome man, whom he guessed must 
 be Henri d'Auban. 
 
 "Am I speaking to Colonel d'Au- 
 ban ? " he asked ; and immediately 
 added, " I am the Comte de Saxe." 
 
 D'Auban eagerly invited him in, and 
 said, " I know how very very kind you 
 have been to my daughter, M. le Comte, 
 and most glad I am to have the oppor- 
 tunity of thanking you. Pray come 
 into the next room and sit down." 
 
 Mina was giving Ontara a French 
 lesson. She jumped up, and eagerly 
 greeting the 'Comte de Saxe, said, 
 "They came home last night. I had 
 watched at the window till I fell fast 
 
 asleep on the chair ; and it was mam- 
 ma's kisses which woke me." 
 
 " May your wakings be ever as sweet, 
 Mademoiselle Wilhelmina." 
 
 At that moment Madame d'Auban 
 came in from the back room. She was 
 taken by surprise and hesitated an 
 instant ; then holding out her hand to 
 the count, she said, " Oh Maurice ! that 
 child has told me how good you have 
 been to her, and what you meant to do 
 for us." 
 
 " May I speak ? " answered the count, 
 glancing at Mina and Ontara, who had 
 returned to their books. 
 
 " Come in here," said Madame d'Au- 
 ban, leading the way to the back room, 
 and making a sign to her husband to 
 follow. 
 
 But he shook his head and whispered, 
 before closing the door upon them, 
 " Speak to him without restraint, dear- 
 est heart. He knows the truth, and 
 will advise you." 
 
 " Oh, Maurice ! " she exclaimed, sink- 
 ing down on a chair, while he stood by 
 the chimney looking at her with the 
 tenderest pity, " it has been very dread- 
 ful. I thought I should have gone out 
 of my mind yesterday, during those 
 terrible hours at the Conciergerie. The 
 expectation of being examined on that 
 strange charge, not knowing what I 
 could answer, and knowing no one to 
 consult." 
 
 " But how on earth came you to be 
 released, dearest princess, before, the 
 arrival of the king's order, which I went 
 to Versailles to solicit?" 
 
 " Good heavens 1 Maurice, have you 
 told him about me ? " 
 
 " I was compelled to do so, princess. 
 There seemed no other possible way of 
 getting you out of prison." 
 
 "What did he say?" 
 
 " I will tell you presently," said the 
 count, feeling some embarrassment in 
 entering on that question. " But how 
 were you released ?" 
 
212 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 There was some slight noise on the 
 stairs which made Madame d'Auban 
 start. 
 
 "I am afraid of every thing," she 
 said, "since yesterday each time I 
 hear a step, or the door opens, I trem- 
 ble. There is one other person besides 
 you who knows about me, and I con- 
 clude it was through his means we 
 were set at liberty. This note was 
 given to me when I left the prison." 
 
 She took a note out of her bag, and 
 gave it to the count to read. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, glancing at the 
 signature, "Alexander Levacheff! I 
 thought as much. A short while ago 
 since I saw you in the Tuileries, prin- 
 cessI purposely spoke to him one day 
 of my early acquaintance with your 
 royal highness, and in his manner I saw 
 something which made me suspect he 
 knew the truth." 
 
 " He saw me in America many years 
 ago, and recognized me. I obtained 
 from him an oath of secresy. Read 
 what he says" 
 
 "MADAME, Bound by the promise 
 you extorted from me, I dare not rush 
 to your feet to offer you my services. 
 It was but a few days ago that I ascer- 
 tained you were in Paris. I only ar- 
 rived here myself a month ago. Imag- 
 ine my feelings when I was informed 
 of your arrest. I had been absent for 
 a few days, and accidentally heard it 
 spoken of in our Chancellerie. The 
 blood froze in my veins. You ! Prin- 
 cess ! consigned to a prison ! You, the 
 associate of low-born and guilty wretch- 
 es ! You accused and persecuted ! and 
 by whom ? By those who might once, 
 but for untoward events, have been 
 your subjects! By the representative 
 of your own sister-in-law ! Madame, I 
 did not betray your secret ; but, to stop 
 those infamous proceedings, I hinted 
 to Prince Kourakin that there was a 
 mystery in this affair which he would 
 
 do well to respect, for it could not be 
 solved without dangerous disclosures. 
 He took fright, God be praised, and 
 withdrew the charge. Do not let it be 
 a source of uneasiness to your royal 
 highness, but rather of comfort that 
 there is in this town one heart that 
 owns allegiance to you one man who 
 would fain proclaim before the world, 
 if permitted to do so, the sentiments 
 he cherishes for the most perfect of 
 women and the noblest of princesses. 
 "ALEXANDER LEVACHEFF." 
 
 "You see, Maurice," said Madame 
 d'Auban, "that my existence would 
 soon become known if I remained in 
 Europe. I wish to leave Paris as soon 
 as possible." 
 
 " This, of course, must depend, prin- 
 cess, on the views you have as to the 
 future. The king is mightily interested 
 by your story, and bent, I perceive, on 
 bringing about your restoration to your 
 rank and family. A messenger is al- 
 ready gone to the Queen of Hungary, 
 bearing a letter from his majesty, in 
 which he informs her of your royal 
 highness's existence and return to Eu- 
 rope. His Majesty has also ordered 
 that an apartment be prepared for you 
 at the palace of Fontainebleau, whither, 
 I believe, it is his wish you should forth- 
 with remove, and where he intends 
 himself secretly to pay you his respects. 
 Not that I am authorized to say so, or 
 to convey any direct message to your 
 royal highness." 
 
 Madame d'Auban coloured deeply, 
 and said, " And my husband and my 
 child?" 
 
 "Ah! there is the difficulty. The 
 king would provide for them in the 
 most ample and generous manner on 
 condition that your royal highness con- 
 sented to separate from them." 
 
 " To separate myself from them," she 
 slowly repeated. "To give them up, 
 and oh, good God ! for what ? No," 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 213 
 
 she said, starting up, with a vehemence 
 which astonished the Comte de Saxe 
 in that gentle creature, whose voice 
 and eyes were sweetness itself. " No, 
 you do not say you do not mean that 
 the king said that. You would not 
 dare to repeat such words to a wife ! a 
 mother ! a princess ! I have gone through 
 much and terrible suffering. By a royal 
 husband and by the savages of the New 
 World I have been treated as a slave. 
 I have looked death in the face in the 
 palace and at the stake. I have drunk 
 the cup of humiliation to the dregs, 
 and but yesterday was consigned to a 
 felon's cell; but there is one trial, 
 Maurice, which I think a merciful God 
 will spare me. He will not suffer the 
 great ones of the earth to lay again 
 their iron hands on my heart, to tread 
 under foot its strongest affections, and 
 insult me with such an offer as the 
 horrible one you have just mentioned. 
 No, let me depart in peace, and ask 
 nothing at their hands. For one mo- 
 ment, when you said the king knew 
 my history, a thought crossed me a 
 sort of yearning wish to see once more 
 those kindred faces, to hear the sound 
 of voices whose tones have often haunt- 
 ed me; but no, there are no ties, no 
 sympathy between us now. I am noth- 
 ing to them but a name they will deem 
 I have disgraced. I died in the palace 
 where my young life was blighted. Let 
 them think of me as buried in the same 
 grave as my forsaken boy. Go and tell 
 the King of France that Charlotte of 
 Brunswick is no more. That the woman 
 you spoke of yesterday is the wife of a 
 poor gentleman, and owns no name 
 but his." 
 
 " Be calm, dearest princess, be calm," 
 cried the count, himself much agitat- 
 ed. 
 
 " Calm ! when you spoke of giving 
 them, up," she said, pointing to the next 
 room. 
 
 " But I did not advise you to do so, 
 
 princess. If you do not desire to return 
 to your relatives " 
 
 " My relatives ! Ahl when they mar- 
 ried me to the Czarowitch they parted 
 from me for ever. Why should the 
 ghost of my former self haunt their pal- 
 aces again ? " 
 
 "I feel sure," said the count, "that 
 when the king understands your feel- 
 ings and wishes, he will not place you 
 under any restraint, or compel you to 
 part with your husband." 
 
 A deadly paleness spread over Mad- 
 ame d'Auban's face. The words of the 
 count, which were meant to reassure 
 her, in her excited state of mind awoke 
 her fears. She remained a moment 
 silent, and then said with an unnatural 
 calmness, " I have been foolishly agitat- 
 ed, M. de Saxe. Important decisions 
 need to be maturely weighed. No one 
 ought to trust to their first impressions. 
 Will you convey to the king my humble 
 thanks for his majesty's kindness, and 
 say that I commend myself to his clem- 
 ency, and crave permission not to avail 
 myself, at present at least, of his maj- 
 esty's gracious permission to reside in 
 one of his royal palaces. Or stay : as 
 you were not charged with any direct 
 message to me from the king, let it be 
 supposed, M. de Saxe, that no commu- 
 nication has been made to me no in- 
 timation given of his majesty's gracious 
 intentions. I need repose after the 
 emotions and fatigues of yesterday, and 
 I would rather not see even you, M. de 
 Saxe, for a little while", 
 
 " Certainly, princess, I will not in- 
 trude upon you again till you wish it 
 But you will permit me to send to- 
 morrow to inquire after your health t" 
 
 She bowed her head and said u You 
 have been very kind to me and mine, 
 M. de Saxe, from my heart I thank you." 
 
 The count saw that utterance was 
 failing her. He respectfully kissed her 
 hand and withdrew. As he passed 
 through the front room he took a 
 
214 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 friendly leave of d'Auban and Mina, 
 and in the afternoon went to Versailles 
 to inform the king of the spontaneous 
 abandonment of the charge against the 
 princess, and the particulars of his in- 
 terview with her. 
 
 The instant the door had closed upon 
 him, Madame d'Auban called her hus- 
 band into her room, and, laying her icy 
 cold hand on his, said 
 
 " Henri, we must go away at once. 
 The king knows all, and he has spoken 
 of our parting. I am terrified, Henri ; 
 I will not stay another day in Paris." 
 
 " Not half a day, if possible, my own 
 love. But surely the king would not, 
 could not force you against your will 
 to part from me." 
 
 " Henri, there are such things as let- 
 tres de cachet. There are also gilded 
 dungeons, where, under pretence of 
 doing honour to a guest, a woman may 
 be doomed to endless misery. He want- 
 ed me to go to Fontainebleau without 
 you, without Mina. I should have been 
 taken there at once from the prison if 
 we had not been released before the 
 royal order arrived. I am frightened, 
 Henri. I cannot help thinking of the 
 English princess Arabella Stuart, and 
 of the Due de Lauzun sent to Pignerol 
 for aspiring to the hand of the Grande 
 Mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " No, not altogether for that reason, 
 dearest. But tell me, have you confi- 
 dence in the Comte de Saxe ? " 
 
 " He means well ; but I trust no one. 
 Let me leave Paris." 
 
 D'Auban saw that his wife's nerves 
 had given way under the pressure they 
 had undergone, and that nothing but 
 an immediate departure would calm 
 her. He did not himself feel any of 
 the alarm she was seized with. It 
 seemed to him evident, indeed, that 
 she would have to choose between him 
 and her child and the notice of royalty 
 and the reestablishment of her position 
 in the eyes of the world. Still, both 
 
 for the sake of her tranquillity and as 
 a measure of prudence, he deemed it 
 best to acquiesce in her desire, and for 
 them to withdraw at once from the 
 smiles or the frowns of royalty. He 
 reflected for an instant, and then said : 
 
 u I am of opinion, my best love, that 
 you and Mina should start at once for 
 the Chateau de la Croix. My old friend 
 has begged us most urgently to pay 
 him a visit before we leave France ; he 
 has set his heart on seeing Mina. If I 
 write by the next messenger, he will 
 receive my letter in time to prepare for 
 your arrival. Nobody here will know 
 where you are gone. I will follow you 
 as soon as I have finished some abso- 
 lutely necessary arrangements, and we 
 can sail from Marseilles to the Isle de 
 Bourbon. As soon as you are gone I 
 will give up these lodgings and leave 
 no direction. If you will pack up a 
 few things for your journey, dearest, I 
 will take you to the Convent des An- 
 glaises, where you can stay till I have 
 ascertained the hour when the Lyons 
 diligence starts. In three days I hope 
 you will be in the old castle in the 
 Forez, where nobody will dream of 
 looking for you, my pale, sweet love." 
 
 Saying this, he pressed his wife to his 
 heart. She tenderly returned his caress- 
 es, and said : 
 
 " Oh ! how much more freely shall I 
 breathe when I have left Paris behind, 
 and still more when the waves are 
 rolling between France and us. I be- 
 gin to feel that I have been foolish, 
 Henri. The king has no interest in 
 forcing me back into my former posi- 
 tion, and if he had, he is not a wicked 
 tyrant, like the English Queen Eliza- 
 beth. God help him ; perhaps, when 
 he made the suggestion that almost 
 drove me out of my senses, he thought 
 he was doing me a kindness. Of course, 
 his power, or that of my relatives, could 
 reach us in Bourbon as well as here ; 
 but when they find we desire nothing 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 215 
 
 at their hands that we only wish to 
 be forgotten, they will not renew offers 
 which are a pain and an insult. But 
 will you wait till you get the promised 
 appointment, Henri ? " 
 
 This was said with an anxiety which 
 made him answer at once : 
 
 " No, dearest, I have letters to the 
 Governor of Bourbon which will, I 
 hope, secure my obtaining some small 
 post in the island. At all events, we 
 can live cheaper at St. Denys than at 
 Paris," he added, with a smile, as he 
 saw her face brightening up with the 
 prospect of a speedy departure. " Poor 
 Mina," she said, " how grieved she will 
 be to part with Ontara, and so sudden- 
 ly, too. Will you break it to the poor 
 child?" 
 
 D'Auban went into the room where 
 his daughter and her adopted brother 
 were reading together. He laid his 
 hand on her shoulder and called her 
 away. 
 
 " My Mina," he said, folding his arms 
 around her, "you were a courageous 
 little girl when you went to look for 
 the Comte de Saxe, and now you must 
 show another kind of courage." 
 
 She looked up in his face and smiled, 
 but he felt that a thrill ran through her 
 slight frame. 
 
 " For reasons you cannot as yet un- 
 derstand, your mother cannot remain 
 here any longer. She must leave this 
 house in an hour, and Paris this even- 
 ing. Antoine will go with you." 
 
 "Not you, papa?" 
 
 " I shall join you in a few days, and 
 then we shall all leave France." 
 
 The child smiled again, and though 
 tears stood in her eyes she resolutely 
 forced them back, and kissed her father 
 without speaking a word. He beck- 
 oned to Ontara. 
 
 " My dear son," he said, as he made 
 him sit down by their side. " Strange 
 and sudden events compel us to depart 
 at once from my native land. There is 
 
 no abiding place for us in this world, 
 Ontara. We are wanderers, like you, 
 on the face of the earth ; but the day 
 will come, please God, when we shall 
 meet again in a home of our own." 
 
 "May not Ontara say to you, the 
 white chief he loves as a father, what 
 the daughter of Moab said to her dead 
 husband's mother? 'Entreat me not 
 to leave thee, or to return from follow- 
 ing after thee. May not your people be 
 his people, even as your God has be- 
 come his God ? ' " 
 
 " No, dear youth," d'Auban answered, 
 " it may not be so now. Your duty is 
 to stay for the present with your kind 
 protector M. Maret, and to continue the 
 studies which will enable you to pursue 
 whatever path in life Providence may 
 mark out for you. But wherever we 
 have a home that home will be yours, 
 dear Ontara, and under a foreign sky, 
 and in scenes equally new to us all, we 
 shall, I trust, meet again in a very few 
 years. And now, my children, I must 
 leave you, for there is much to be done 
 ere I return. My Mina, you and your 
 mother will be gone from this house, 
 but I shall see you in the afternoon at 
 the Convent des Anglaises." 
 
 Ontara did not speak at first. He 
 was like a person stunned by a sudden 
 blow. Mina had stood him in stead 
 of country, and kindred, and friends ; 
 he seemed to have concentrated upon 
 her all the feelings of which his heart 
 was capable, and young as she was she 
 fully understood their strength and 
 depth, and returned his affection with 
 a love which was made up of gratitude, 
 enthusiasm, pity and admiration. In 
 him she saw the representative of the 
 North Indian race, and of the land 
 where they had both been born. She 
 had not shed a tear in her father's sight 
 but now she wept bitterly. He gave 
 no outward signs of grief, but, in a 
 grave tone of voice and a fixed earnest 
 gaze, he said : 
 
216 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " When we parted in the forest on 
 that dark night when I gave you back 
 to your father, you made me a promise, 
 Wenonah ; will you renew it now ? " 
 
 "Yes, I will, Ontara. Unless I am 
 compelled to it, I will never marry a 
 white man. I will never marry at 
 all" 
 
 " Nay, but will you be my wife ? 
 The rainbow of my life ; the day-star 
 of my dark sky? The Rachel for 
 whom I will work for seven years, if 
 need be, oh, daughter of the white 
 man." 
 
 " No, my brother, that can never be. 
 The daughters of white men, every one 
 says so, do not marry their Indian 
 brethren. They may love them as I 
 do ; they may be willing to die for 
 them as I would for you and for your 
 people, Ontara ; but white fathers and 
 mothers will not let them be your 
 wives, and I do not wish to be a wife. 
 I wish to be your sister." 
 
 "And will you then always be my 
 sister ? and when I come to the home 
 your father speaks of, shall we finish 
 the book we have been reading ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes ! " cried Mina, holding out 
 her hand for the volume. " See, I turn 
 down the page where we left off." It 
 was the life of Father Claver, the apos- 
 tle of the negroes. 
 
 " I bought a copy of it this morn- 
 ing ; here it is, will you write some- 
 thing in it?" 
 
 She took up a pen, and with an un- 
 
 steady hand she wrote, " Go and do 
 thou likewise." 
 
 " There," she said, " when we parted 
 in the forest we did not think we 
 should meet again in a great room 
 full of fine people ; and perhaps some 
 years hence we shall see each other 
 again in some place we do not know of 
 now." 
 
 "My child, the coach is waiting," 
 said her mother, who was counting the 
 minutes in her eagerness to be gone. 
 Mina hastily placed her few possessions 
 in a straw basket Ontara had made for 
 her. He had learnt the art from a Ca- 
 nadian coureur des tois. Madame d' Au- 
 ban took an affectionate leave of the 
 young Indian. Mina could not speak, 
 her heart was too full. As the carriage 
 rolled off she saw him watching them 
 down the long narrow streets, even as 
 he had once before watched her down 
 the green vista of the moonlit grove, 
 and she turned round to her mother, 
 and said : 
 
 "Mamma, is life as full of changes 
 for every one as it is for us ? " 
 
 "No, my child," was the answer, 
 " the destinies of men are as various as 
 their faces. It seems to be God's will 
 that we should have no abiding home 
 on earth. What must we say, love ? " 
 
 "His will be done," answered the 
 child, laying her head on her mother's 
 bosom : " but, mother, I think the best 
 name for heaven is, ' the place where 
 there are no partings.' " 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRTJE. 
 
 21Y 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 With delicate hand and open brow 
 Like Parian marble fair, 
 Know ye him not ? ' Tis Tracy de Vere, 
 The baron's beautiful heir. 
 
 "Tis Tracy de Vere, the castle's pride, 
 The rich, the nobly bora, 
 Pacing along the sunlit sod, 
 With the step of a playful fawn. 
 
 There's a halcyon smile spread o'er his face 
 Shedding a bright and radiant grace ; 
 There's a sweetness of sound in his laughing tones, 
 Betraying the gentle spirit he owns. 
 
 He teaches her how to note the hours 
 By where the sunbeams rest ; 
 He wades for her where the virgin flowers 
 Gracefully bend 'neath the cascade's showers, 
 To pluck the whitest andbest 
 
 He tells her the curious legends of old 
 
 Known by each mountaineer ; 
 
 He tells her stories of ghost and fay, 
 
 Waking her wonder and fear. 
 
 Eliza Cook. 
 
 Then pray for a soul in peril, 
 
 A soul for which Jesus died ; 
 Ask by the cross that bore him, 
 
 And by her who stood beside. 
 And the angels of God will thank you, 
 
 And bend from their throue of light, 
 To tell you that Heaven rejoices 
 
 At the deed you have done to-ntght. 
 
 Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 THERE had been a long-standing tra- 
 ditionary friendship, and more than 
 one intermarriage, between the family 
 of the de la Croix's and that of Henri 
 d'Auban. In the preceding century 
 the heads of both families had been 
 zealous partisans of the League, and 
 lad fought side by side under the 
 command of Guise and Joyeuse. D'Au- 
 ban's grandfather had made consid- 
 erable pecuniary sacrifices to ransom 
 Tom captivity the father of the present 
 Baron de la Croix; and when peace 
 was made and the fortunes of his 
 friend reestablished, he would never 
 
 consent to be reimbursed. The mem- 
 ory of this debt of gratitude had been 
 bequeathed by old Pierre de la Croix 
 to his son as a sacred legacy. And 
 though the meetings between the pres- 
 ent representatives of these two famil- 
 ies had been few and far between, 
 when they did take place nothing 
 could exceed the friendliness and cor- 
 diality of their relations. Baron 
 Charles was an excellent man, and a 
 kind one, too, notwithstanding a cer- 
 tain abruptness of tone, which be- 
 tokened a more habitual intercourse 
 with inferiors and dependents than 
 
218 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TKUE. 
 
 with his equals. He had not what 
 was then called "1'air de la cour." But 
 in his manner to women there was a 
 courteousness which savoured of the 
 days of chivalry. Since he had been 
 made Provost of the Forez, a slight 
 pomposity of language and demeanour 
 marked the good old man's sense of 
 his exalted position and arduous re- 
 sponsibility. His defects were skin 
 deep, not so his virtues. M. de Mais- 
 tre used to say, "Grattez le Kusse, 
 vous trouverez le Tartare." It might 
 have been said of the baron, " Grattez 
 le tyran, vous trouverez le pre ; " for, 
 whilst he rated his tenants in the blus- 
 tering fashion he had learnt as a youth 
 in camps, and apparently governed his 
 family in a despotic manner, it was 
 generally supposed that not only his 
 submissive-looking wife, the picture of 
 a chatelaine of the seventeenth century, 
 and his handsome daughter-in-law, the 
 widow of his only son, could do with 
 him what they liked ; but that his 
 daughters, the twin sisters, merry 
 pretty Bertha and the grave and se- 
 date Isaure, turned him round their 
 slender fingers with very little difficul- 
 ty. As to M. le Chevalier, who, had 
 he not turned round his fingers in that 
 old castle since the day that five weeks 
 after his father had been killed at the 
 siege of Luneville, he opened his eyes 
 on a world which as yet had not proved 
 to him one of trouble. This young 
 gentleman was eighteen years of age, 
 and had never known a greater sorrow 
 than leaving home for the college 
 where he had just finished his studies ; 
 or the loss of a favourite pointer which 
 had died a few days before that on 
 which he rode out with his grandfather 
 and some of their tenants to meet Mad- 
 ame and Mademoiselle d'Auban, who 
 were to arrive' at the neighbouring 
 town of Montbrison in the course of 
 the afternoon. The woods of the Forez 
 had been lately infested with robbers, 
 
 forming part of Mandrin's famous 
 gang, and the baron deemed it prudent 
 to send his carriage and four to meet 
 the travellers, and to escort them him- 
 self on their way to the castle, a dis- 
 tance of about fifteen miles. The Che- 
 valier Raoul was delighted at the pros- 
 pect of visitors. A more light-hearted 
 young gentilhomme could not easily 
 have been found in the light-hearted 
 land of France ; his black eyes had an 
 expression of good-humoured espie- 
 glerie, and his laugh an irresistibly 
 contagious merriment which bewitched 
 old and young. 
 
 As he made his horse curvet and 
 plunge in the entrance court whilst the 
 detachment was getting under weigh, 
 his sisters stood at the window kissing 
 their hands, and Bertha said to Isaure : 
 
 " How carefully Raoul has powdered 
 his hair to-day ; and he has put on his 
 most becoming coat, sister. I suspect 
 grandpapa has let the cat out of the 
 bag." 
 
 "What cat and what bag?" asked 
 Isaure, who had her wits less about her 
 than her twin sister. 
 
 " If you have not guessed I will not 
 tell you, my sweet Isaure. I believe 
 that when M. le Cure publishes the 
 banns of marriage between Isaure de la 
 Croix and Roger d'Estourville, you will 
 ask in that same dreamy manner, 'Who 
 is it that is to be married come next 
 Midsummer?'" 
 
 " Giddy girl," said Isaure, blushing 
 and laughing. "No fear that every- 
 body will not know in and round the 
 castle when your wedding is at hand. 
 Ah me ! was there ever such a wagging 
 tongue or so blithe a heart as yours. 
 You and Raoul ought to have been 
 born on the same day not you and I, 
 sister." 
 
 "There they go," cried Bertha, 
 the cavalcade went out at the porter' 
 gate. " Grandpapa is never so pl( 
 as when he has an excuse for 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 219 
 
 out his bodyguard ; and M. le Cheva- 
 lier will not be sorry to show off that 
 gray steed in the eyep of the ladies." 
 
 " Come into the parterre, Isaure. We 
 will gather an immense bouquet of 
 roses for the guest chamber, and laven- 
 der and rosemary to scent the drawers." 
 
 "How I wish it was autumn, that 
 we might fill the grape baskets for the 
 bedroom tables." 
 
 " It is like you, Isaure, to like autumn 
 better than spring, and fruit than flow- 
 ers." 
 
 " "We might get a few early straw- 
 berries, perhaps, which, in a corbeille 
 with green moss, would look pretty." 
 
 " I have a mind to make a wreath of 
 violets like the one you wore at Marian- 
 ne's wedding last week, and put it on 
 the low toilet table." 
 
 " Does not mamma want you in the 
 store-room ? " 
 
 " No, she and grandmamma are there 
 as busy as two bees. They say they do 
 not want a buzzing-fly like me." 
 
 " Well, go and get your violets, and 
 I will to the strawberry-bed, and take 
 all the ripe ones in spite of gardener 
 grand Louis's cross looks." 
 
 " But do not before your task is half 
 done, pull a book out of your pocket, 
 and sit down like an idle girl in the 
 orchard. Ever since Roger called you 
 Clemence Isaure you are never without 
 a book in your hand. And I do not 
 feel sure that you do not write verses." 
 
 " Fie Bertha, bow can you say such 
 a thing ? " 
 
 "Well, I would if I could. It's a 
 sort of singing." 
 
 And one sister went in search of 
 flowers, and carolling like a bird, and 
 the other knelt beside the strawberry- 
 bed, filling her basket and repeating 
 the while in a low voice lines which 
 .she had made the day her parents told 
 her she was to marry Roger d'Estour- 
 ville, with whom sfce had once danced 
 a minuet, and who had picked up a 
 
 rose she had dropped, as he led her 
 back to her seat. In those olden times 
 many a little romance was mixed up 
 with the formalities of marriages of 
 convenance, as they were called in 
 France, and a young girl was some- 
 times agreeably surprised by the order 
 to accept as a husband one whom she 
 had timidly loved from her childhood, 
 or had fallen in love with at first sight, 
 during a brief interview under the eyes 
 of her parents. It does not seem clear 
 when we study their lives that women 
 loved their husbands less or were less 
 loved by them in the days of Lady 
 Russell, Lady Derwentwater, Lady 
 Nithsdale, Madame de Montmorency, 
 or Madame La Roche Jacquelin, than 
 in our own. 
 
 The baron and his son had been for 
 some time standing under the shade of 
 the plane trees, in the promenade at 
 Montbrison, when the Paris diligence 
 arrived in sight. As it stopped at the 
 door of the inn, M. de la Croix went 
 to the carriage-door to greet Madame 
 d'Auban and her daughter". He in- 
 formed her in a set speech that he had 
 considered it a duty as well as a pleas- 
 ure to offer her the protection of his 
 escort from Montbrison to his chateau, 
 the roads and woods having been lately 
 infested by robbers, although it was to 
 be hoped that the measures he had 
 taken, as Provost of the Forez, had dis- 
 persed the gang and ensured public 
 safety. He then conducted her to his 
 carriage and four, which was drawn up 
 on the other side of the place, and call- 
 ing his grandson, he said, * Permit me 
 to introduce to you the chevalier Raoul 
 de la Croix.' The chevalier's black 
 eyes met Mina's blue orbs ; if ever a 
 youth of eighteen fell in love at first 
 sight with a girl of thirtrrn, the baron's 
 grandson did so on that sunny after- 
 noon in June under the plane trees of 
 Montbrison, as he handed into his 
 grandfather's carriage. Mademoiselle 
 
220 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 Wilhelmina d'Auban. He mounted 
 Ms gray horse and rode on one side of 
 the stately old coach, the baron on the 
 other, and their retainers before and 
 behind it. A pleasant change it was 
 for travellers weary of the high road, 
 its noise, and its dust, to be rolling 
 along the green natural avenues of a 
 forest, resting on soft cushions, with no 
 noise in their ears but the light tramp 
 of the horses' feet, and no glare to hurt 
 their eyes now that the noonday rays 
 were shining through the branches of 
 the overarching trees. 
 
 Madame d'Auban felt carried back 
 to the days of her youth. She could 
 fancy herself emerging from the gates 
 of the palace at Wolfenbuttel, and 
 driving through the green woods of its 
 domain. She thought of the other 
 "Wilhelmina who had then sat by her 
 side, and had a little difficulty in at- 
 tending to the baron as he rode and 
 talked with her at the carriage-window. 
 Mina was delighted at the novelty of 
 the scene. The sound of the postil- 
 ions' horns, the rapid motion, the 
 horses and the riders, the vistas of 
 woodland scenery the graceful gam- 
 bols of two large dogs who formed part 
 of the cortege, pleased and amused the 
 little girl, who had been so long amidst 
 painful or uncongenial scenes. Once 
 as a fine extent of country opened to 
 view, the chevalier pointed to it with 
 his whip, and bent forward his head 
 to see if she had taken notice of it. 
 She smiled, and from that moment he 
 found many opportunities of directing 
 her attention to objects of interest on 
 the road ; sometimes to a deer bound- 
 ing across the glade, or to a group of 
 children gathering wild flowers on a 
 bank, or to a flight of birds careering 
 across the sky. "When there was noth- 
 ing else to show, he showed off a little 
 himself, and with a sidelong glance 
 took notice of the admiring look she 
 gave to the prancing gray, who chafed 
 
 the bit and speckled his mane with foam 
 with admirable docility to his rider's 
 desires. 
 
 At last they came in sight of the 
 chateau de la Croix, an old stately resi- 
 dence, half fortress, and half palace. 
 Part of it had fallen in ruins and was 
 covered with ivy and gray lichens. 
 The walls which surrounded it, and 
 the gateway at the entrance were 
 crowned with a fringe of larkspurs 
 and gillyflowers ; and a little trickling 
 stream edged with blue forget-me-nots, 
 and teeming with water-cresses, flowed 
 through the moat which encircled it. 
 Mina had never seen any thing the least 
 like this before ; though what she had 
 read and pictured to herself as she read, 
 gave her the feeling which most people 
 have known some time or other, of recog- 
 nizing in a new scene the visible image 
 of a long familiar dream. Has not the 
 view of the Roman Campagna from the 
 steps of St. John of Lateran or the 
 Garden of the Villa Mattei answered, 
 in a startling manner, to the visions 
 which have haunted the minds of many 
 to whom Rome is an object of artistic 
 worship, if not of religious veneration ? 
 When the coach drove up to the bot- 
 tom of the winding staircase leading to 
 the suite of apartments inhabited by 
 the family, Madame de la Croix and 
 her daughter-in-law came half way 
 down the steps to greet their visitors. 
 Bertha and Isaure were occupied in re- 
 straining the dogs, who wished to give 
 them an equally cordial, but more trou- 
 blesome, welcome. But their bright 
 eyes spake the words, and when they 
 all met in the principal salon the girls 
 embraced Mina, and then quite aston- 
 ished at her height wondered if she 
 could be only thirteen years old. She 
 was as tall as themselves as tall as Isa- 
 ure, who was going to be married in a 
 few weeks. They were more like pretty 
 fairies, these twin sisters, than grown- 
 up women. Raoul, who was a year 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 221 
 
 younger, had always taken upon him- 
 self the airs of an elder brother. Mad- 
 ame de la Croix was an imposing-look- 
 ing person, whose regular features and 
 serene countenance retained their beau- 
 ty in old age. She was formal in man- 
 >ner, but very kind. There were traces 
 ' of sorrow in her face, of a quiet, long- 
 \ accepted, softened grief. Between her 
 and Madame Armand de la Croix, the 
 mother of Raoul and his sisters, there 
 was an affection which made the old 
 cure call them Naomi and Ruth. Dur- 
 ing eighteen years they had clung to 
 each other as they had done on the 
 day when the Marechal de Villar's let- 
 ter had fallen as a thunderbolt on their 
 two hearts. " Long live France, and 
 long live the king," he had written. 
 " The Baron Armand de la Croix has 
 died as a hero, with the enemy's col- 
 ours in his hand." They had suffered 
 together, and strengthened each other's 
 purpose not to let the shadow of their 
 grief fall on the sunshiny lives of the 
 three young creatures playing and 
 laughing at their feet, and the declin- 
 ing years of the Baron who concentrat- 
 ed on these children all the love of a 
 nature more fitted for joy than for sor- 
 row. And so it was a happy home, in 
 spite of one great grief shrined in the 
 sanctuary of an undying love. And 
 that happiness was contagious. The 
 old-fashioned simplicity of manners, 
 the reverential manner of the children 
 towards the parents, the patriarchal 
 relations between the masters and the 
 servants, the tenants and their lord 
 the simple, pious customs of the peas- 
 antry, and the inexhaustible charity of 
 the two mothers as they were fondly 
 called in and round the castle, formed 
 an atmosphere of peace and joy which 
 insensibly influenced all within its 
 sphere. It told also on Mina 
 
 The young slight girl, the fawn-like child, 
 Of green savannahs and the leafy wild, 
 Yet one who knew how early tears are shed. 
 
 It brought back childhood and its 
 sweet merriment to her over-wrought 
 heart. It chased away what was too 
 keen and too bitter in the memories of 
 the last years. It soothed the grief of 
 her late parting with her Indian broth- 
 er, and substituted other thoughts for 
 her long, solitary musings on the mys- 
 tery which she dimly discerned in the 
 lives of her parents. But at first there 
 was a little formality in her intercourse 
 with the young de la Croixs. Isaure 
 and Bertha, and even Raoul, were more 
 reserved than the young people she had 
 lately known in Paris* Dinner was 
 served soon after the arrival of the 
 strangers, and Raoul supplied every 
 possible and impossible want of hers 
 with watchful assiduity; but though 
 on the most affectionate footing with 
 their parents, the old-fashioned eti- 
 quette was preserved in this family, and 
 the son and daughters maintained an 
 almost unbroken silence whilst their 
 elders conversed. But after dinner 
 they went out, and then their tongues 
 were loosened. The three girls walked 
 up and down the terrace, and Mina 
 asked a thousand questions about the 
 old castle ; its thick gray walls, its tur- 
 rets, and its battlements filled her with 
 astonishment. She could not believe, 
 she said, that men had made it. Ber- 
 tha laughed, and said, "Men were 
 giants in those days " a fact scarcely 
 borne out by history, but which she had 
 drawn from a volume of old romaunts, 
 the only book besides her livre cTheure* 
 she had much read. 
 
 Isaure pointed out to Mina the dun- 
 geons of the old fortress. " There is a 
 secret chamber beneath the tower," she 
 said, " where Elise de Sabran was mur- 
 dered by her lover. Her ghost is some- 
 times seen on the turret stairs, and it is 
 also said that Roger le Jaune, one of 
 our ancestors, died of hunger in the 
 vaults on the east side because he would 
 not betray the king's secret." 
 
222 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " I should like to see Ms ghost," said 
 Mina, earnestly. " He must have been 
 a brave man." 
 
 " Oh, what a strange idea ! " cried 
 Bertha, "to want to see a ghost. I 
 should not like a visit from the other 
 world ; not even from a saint, I think." 
 
 "Perhaps," said Isaure, "Mademoi- 
 selle hopes the ghost of Baron Roger 
 would tell her the king's secret. But 
 you would have to ask him. Ghosts 
 never speak first, they say." 
 
 " "Who are they who know so much 
 of ghosts, fair Isaure ? " cried a voice 
 behind the speaker. This was Raoul, 
 who had watched for an opportunity 
 to join the trio. There was something 
 catching in his laugh ; both his sisters 
 and Mina joined in it, though Isaure 
 scolded him for startling her. A bird 
 flew across the terrace, and Mina ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " Oh, should you not like to be that 
 bird?" 
 
 " Why, why, mademoiselle ? " Raoul 
 asked. 
 
 " Because he is flying over the walls." 
 
 " And are you longing to go beyond 
 them, Mademoiselle Mina ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. The country looks so 
 pretty." 
 
 " Then I will go and ask the three 
 mothers you know we have two of our 
 own if, under my escort and protec- 
 tion, the young ladies may issue forth 
 from the castle walls and visit the 
 environs." 
 
 He went on his errand, and Isaure 
 said to Mina : 
 
 " Did you notice my brother's horse 
 this morning ? It is reckoned the hand- 
 somest gray in the whole province." 
 
 " Oh, yes ; he has such a beautiful 
 arched neck, and looks so spirited and 
 so proud." 
 
 " And do you not think Raoul rides 
 very well ? " asked Bertha, in her 
 turn. 
 
 " Yes, very well indeed. He and his 
 
 horse seem to make one, like the statues 
 of Centaurs in the galleries at Paris." 
 
 " I think," said Bertha, " Raoul never 
 looks so handsome as on horseback." 
 
 "He is the best brother that ever 
 lived," said Isaure. 
 
 " If he is ever so good, he cannot be 
 better than mine," Mina answered. 
 
 " I did not know you had one. Raoul 
 said you were an only child." 
 
 " I have an adopted brother, an In- 
 dian." 
 
 " Oh, what a funny thing ! " exclaim- 
 ed Bertha, bursting out laughing, " to 
 have a savage for a brother." 
 
 " He is not a savage," said Mina, red- 
 dening. " He is as good as any white 
 man can be." 
 
 " But not so handsome as Raoul ? " 
 
 " I don't know about that. Ontara 
 has beautiful eyes, and a dark, clear, 
 brown complexion." 
 
 " Oh, how frightful, dear Mina ! I 
 would not for all the world exchange 
 brothers with you." 
 
 " Nor I with you," Mina answered, 
 with warmth. 
 
 "No, of course not," said Bertha, 
 laughing, " because, if Raoul was your 
 brother, he could not be your " 
 
 She stopped short and coloured. 
 
 "My what?" Mina asked, with a 
 puzzled look. 
 
 " Oh, nothing, nothing. It was old 
 Nanette put it into my head. Never 
 mind, Isaure," she said, kissing her 
 sister, "don't look so grave; I have 
 not said any thing. How old are you, 
 Mademoiselle Mina ? " 
 
 " Thirteen ; but pl^ise do not call 
 me Mademoiselle. Nobody does. You 
 know I am not French. I am an Indian 
 girl." 
 
 "I know, a Creole. Brother," she 
 said to Raoul, who had returned with 
 the desired permission, and was leading 
 the way towards the castle gate, " what 
 do you guess Mina's age to be ? " 
 
 "I cannot guess, sister, because I 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 223 
 
 he replied, and then they all 
 t out through the entrance-court, 
 conducted their guest all over the 
 urious and picturesque ins and outs 
 the old fortress, which had been by 
 turned into a^ family residence, 
 ey visited the quaint parterres, gay 
 ith every variety of sweet-smelling 
 nd bright-coloured flowers ; the bees 
 nd the doves, Isaure's pets ; and Ber- 
 a's chickens ; and Raoul took them 
 the kennel and into the stables, and 
 ho wed Mina the dun pony which, if 
 8he liked, she might ride the next day, 
 a thing she had not done since her 
 father used to carry her with him on 
 iris own horse at St. Agathe. -The walk 
 was a pleasant one, and Mina's spirits 
 rose apace in the society of her new 
 friends. Their liveliness; their gay, 
 joyous laughter, the exuberance of their 
 youthful spirits, was unlike any thing 
 she had yet known. It acted upon her 
 like refreshing air or sparkling wine 
 on an exhausted frame. Raoul was the 
 Igayest of them all. His jokes, his 
 wtories, his nonsense, the good-humour- 
 ed mischievousness which played about 
 his handsome face, the innocent malice 
 of his dark eyes, the droll questions he 
 put to her, his funny views of people 
 and things amused and charmed her. 
 There had been in her life so little of 
 that kind of merriment. Wit, and 
 vivacity, and keen encounters of the 
 tongue, she had witnessed in the salon 
 of the Hotel d'Orgeville, but none of 
 the bubbling natural overflow of glad- 
 ness which takes its source in innocent 
 and happy hearts, which have never 
 been in contact with the cares, the mis- 
 eries, or the vices of the 'world. When 
 they went through the village, the 
 women and children were sitting out 
 of doors, enjoying the rest of the even- 
 ing hour, and smiled and curtseyed as 
 the young seigneur and his sisters went 
 by. The peasants, returning from work, 
 pulled off their hats and said " Good 
 
 night" iii the patois of the country. 
 From many a poor person's lips she 
 heard a blessing invoked upon her com- 
 panions, and good wishes for the young 
 Isaure, who was soon to go forth as a 
 bride from her ancestral home. One 
 old woman, leaning on her staff, said 
 to her gossip, who was watching the 
 young people down the streets : 
 
 "Methinks the choir children may 
 as well be practising a welcome as a 
 farewell to a bride." 
 
 "Ah! bah! Our young lord is too 
 young to marry. He is going on his 
 travels first." 
 
 "Well, I saw him gathering Made- 
 leine's roses for that blue-eyed young 
 lady who arrived a few hours ago at 
 the castle ; and, if monsieur le chevaliei 
 is not paying his court to her, I am 
 much mistaken. Madeleine is in the 
 third heaven; she will get something 
 handsome for her flowers. Look, they 
 are going into the church. He is show- 
 ing her all about the place. We shall 
 see them, I hope, on the green next 
 Sunday evening. M. le Baron likes to 
 see the boys and girls at play after ves- 
 pers." 
 
 " Aye, and Mademoiselle Isaure is to 
 give a marriage portion to the best- 
 behaved girl of the village. A little 
 bird has whispered to me that your 
 Jane's eldest daughter is to be the 
 Xosiere." 
 
 The old woman wagged her head, 
 and laughed at her gossip's shrewd 
 guess. The supper bell was ringing 
 when the young people returned to the 
 castle. It was served in a hall, where, 
 at a long table, sat all the baron's 
 household, as well as his family ; gray- 
 headed serving men and women, with 
 babies on their knees; and boys and 
 girls with bright sunny faces, looking 
 both good and happy. Mina sat be- 
 tween Bertha and Isaure, and Raoul on 
 the opposite side. He seldom took his 
 eyes off her; and when the meal was 
 
224 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 over he went with her and his sisters 
 to the parapet which formed a sort of 
 terrace overhanging the moat. There 
 they sat on the stone bench, and made 
 Mina describe the new world where she 
 had lived so long and Bertha and 
 Raoul listened with flushed cheeks and 
 eager eyes, and Isaure cried at the tales 
 she told them of the revolt and the 
 destruction of the Natches. And they 
 all wished they could see Ontara, and 
 would have liked to live at St. Agathe 
 if Franc*e had not been their native 
 land and the most beautiful country 
 in the world. Mina fired up a little at 
 this, and then Raoul, to appease her, 
 said that he had certainly never seen 
 North America, but that he would like 
 very much to go there one day. And 
 then she would not be outdone in civil- 
 ity, and admitted that, although she 
 hated Paris, the country in France, and 
 particularly the Forez, was very charm- 
 ing. Then Isaure said she must visit 
 the old Abbey of Ste. Odile, and the 
 Roche qui pleure, and the Shrine of 
 our Lady of the "Wood. And Bertha 
 said she liked the Roche qui vire better 
 than the Roche qui pleure ; and a dance 
 on the village green better than any 
 thing else in the world, except a ball 
 at Montbrison, the only one she had 
 ever been to. And then she and Raoul 
 laughed with Isaure about that ball, 
 and explained to Mina what the joke 
 was. And then he asked her if she 
 would dance with him a minuet. And 
 she said she did not know how, and he 
 offered to teach her. And she said she 
 was too stupid to learn that Made- 
 moiselle d'Orgeville's dancing-master 
 had said so. And Raoul made a dis- 
 respectful speech about the dancing- 
 master, and Mina laughed, and the 
 sound of that laugh was like music in 
 her mother's ears as she sat working 
 at the open window by the side of 
 Madame de la Croix, and Madame 
 Armand played on the spinnet over 
 
 and over again the baron's favourite 
 tunes, whilst he dozed in his great arm- 
 chair. The stars had risen one by one 
 in the darkening sky and the great 
 clock of the castle struck nine. Then 
 the laughter was hushed, and the spin- 
 net shut up, and after night prayers 
 had been said, every soul in the house 
 withdrew to rest. 
 
 Mina sat a while on her mother's lap, 
 great tall girl as she was, and rested 
 her head on her shoulder, before the 
 shutters were closed in their bed cham- 
 ber. The perfume of the jessamine 
 which covered the mullioned windows 
 was filling it with fragrance. The 
 moon was shining on the red-brick 
 floor, and throwing changeful lights 
 on the tapestried walls. 
 
 "Don't you think this a very nice 
 charming place, mamma? and our 
 friends, don't you like them very 
 much?" 
 
 " Ah ! " said her mother, stroking 
 her cheek, " my Mina has found out at 
 last, has she, that white people can be 
 pleasant ? " 
 
 " Yes, they are very pleasant, and so 
 kind to me. Isaure told me a beauti- 
 ful story about the fair-haired Ennen- 
 garde and her daughter, who was called, 
 like her, Isaure and then M. Raoul 
 said there was another Isaure, who 
 wrote verses, and was crowned at Tou- 
 louse some hundred years ago. He 
 laughed about ladies writing verses. I 
 did not tell him, and have never told 
 anybody but you, mamma, that I write 
 verses sometinllls." 
 
 "But as you will never sing them 
 before great crowds, or be crowned like 
 Cle"mence Isaure," answered her mother, 
 laughing, " there is no harm in it." 
 
 " No, but I had rather M. Raoul did 
 not know." 
 
 "Don't be afraid; I will not tell 
 him." 
 
 "Mamma, to-morrow I am to ride 
 the dun pony, and to see so many in- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 225 
 
 teresting things. I hope it will be 
 fine. And in the afternoon we are to 
 fish in that pretty little stream that 
 runs through the moat. Have you 
 been to the church, mother ? Oh, it is 
 such a beautiful, grand old church, 
 with banners in it and shield, and the 
 tornb of a crusader, of a Baron de la 
 Croix, who went to the Holy Land 
 with Godfrey de Bouillon. M. Raoul 
 says he took leave of his wife at the 
 church door after they had said a pray- 
 er together before the altar. Mamma, 
 when he said that, he asked me if I 
 would kneel down by his side, at the 
 same place, and say a prayer that what 
 he wished might happen. I asked if 
 it was a good thing he wished, and he 
 said, Yes. So I did what he asked. 
 When we left the church he said 
 'Papa and mamma were married at 
 that altar. I have never seen my fa- 
 ther he died before I was born.' 
 That was the only time he spoke grave- 
 ly, for he does nothing but laugh, and 
 say such funny things that he makes 
 me laugh too. . Will you look at the 
 crusader's tomb to-morrow ? and please 
 call me early, dearest mamma, for we 
 are to ride before it gets hot, Bertha 
 says, and whilst the dew is on the grass." 
 
 Madame d'Auban tenderly pressed 
 her lips on her daughter's cheek. Mina 
 went to bed, and was soon fast asleep. 
 But Madame d'Auban lay awake, 
 thinking of German castles and haunt- 
 ed chambers and of palaces, enclosing, 
 even as in living graves, warm and lov- 
 ing hearts. And she mused on her 
 child's destiny her lovely, gifted 
 child, doomed to share her parents' 
 strange and unsettled existence. It 
 was long before she closed her eyes. 
 
 it in the morning she was sleeping 
 y, when Mina bounded down the 
 steps leading to one of the entrances of 
 the parish church, which stood between 
 the court of the castle and the village. 
 
 The ride proved a delightful one to 
 
 15 
 
 the new friends. The dun pony had 
 carried Bertha and Isaure for many 
 years. It was as gentle a palfry as lady 
 ever rode. Raoul, mounted on his fiery 
 gray, headed the cavalcade, which 
 went winding down the hill, and across 
 the fields into the woods. He was in 
 the highest spirits, in spite of the baron 
 having insisted on an old piqueur es- 
 corting the party, in case of accidents 
 a precaution which he had deemed a 
 reflection on his own prudence. But 
 his good-humoured resentment, and his 
 outbreaks of indignation at Jacque 
 Ferrand's remonstrances on one or two 
 occasions, when the roads were getting 
 bad, and M. le Chevalier was pushing 
 on too fast for the ladies and the horses 
 " only too fast for M. Jacque's own 
 comfort," as Raoul whispered to Mina 
 only heightened the excitement and 
 enjoyment which at that age derives its 
 source from the overflowing joyousness 
 of youthful hearts. They rode through 
 shady nooks, soft green valleys, and 
 smiling villages. They drew up at the 
 top of a hill, to look at the view of 
 Montbrison and of Moulins in the dis- 
 tance the spire of its cathedral rising 
 against the deep blue sky. They dis- 
 mounted to explore the ruins of the 
 abbey in the wood, and said a Hail 
 Mary at the shrine, which was a favour- 
 ite place of pilgrimage throughout the 
 neighbourhood. They drank of the 
 water of la Roche qui pleure, and 
 breakfasted on milk and bread and 
 strawberries from a neighbouring farm. 
 The sun was getting high up in the 
 horizon as they returned, skirting the 
 wood just within the shade, alongside 
 fields of waving corn, just ripening for 
 the sickle, and edged by the fringe of 
 scarlet, blue, and purple flowers which 
 modem improvements are gradually 
 banishing from the land. 
 
 Mina noticed the healthy, happy 
 looks of the French peasantry, so dif- 
 ferent from the aspect of the Indians and 
 
226 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the slaves of the western hemispheres. 
 Raoul asked her, as they were drawing 
 near home, if she would not like al- 
 ways to live in France. " No," she 
 said, " not always ; " and then looked a 
 little thoughtful, and would not say 
 where she wished to live. There was 
 now, even as there always had been, a 
 singular mixture in Mina of what was 
 not so much childish as childlike ; and 
 of thoughts and feelings matured be- 
 yond her age. When, in the afternoon, 
 she sat by the trout stream, speaking 
 under her breath, for fear of frighten- 
 ing away the fishes, and laughing, till 
 she almost cried, at Bertha's losing her 
 temper with them, she seemed, except 
 for her height, perhaps, even younger 
 than she was; but if any one could 
 have read the thoughts which Raoul's 
 question had awakened, or known what 
 subjects were often occupying her mind, 
 it would have been a matter of aston- 
 ishment that one so young should be 
 so deep a thinker, or capable, in an 
 emergency, of a woman's patience and 
 energy. Days of brilliant sunshine, of 
 country air, and of intercourse with 
 her new friends, wonderfully improved 
 her health. Her mother watched with 
 delight the elasticity of her step and 
 the brightness of her countenance. 
 Everybody in the castle was delighted 
 with the little Creole ; and as to the 
 chevalier, if he had fallen in love with 
 her at first sight, every hour seemed to 
 add to the intensity of his boyish pas- 
 sion. -Finding out that she was fond 
 of books, he proposed one wet morning 
 to his sisters to take their work into 
 the library. Isaure gladly consented. 
 Roger's speech about Clemence Isaure 
 had awakened a literary enthusiasm 
 which had not yet subsided. 
 
 The library contained as many cases 
 of stuffed birds and collections of in- 
 sects as books ; but there was a curious 
 set of old romaunts of the days of the 
 troubadours and the gay " savoir," and 
 
 some volumes of tales of chivalry, which 
 Raoul had read over and over again 
 during his boyhood. He proposed to 
 amuse the ladies, whilst they worked, 
 with the history of Amadis de Gaule, 
 and Mina listened with the deepest 
 attention to the knight-errant's adven- 
 tures. Raoul was satisfied with her 
 attention, but not with her admira- 
 tion. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Mina, would you not 
 have liked to live in those days ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " But I don't think there ever were 
 such days," she answered. This was a 
 view of the subject he was not prepared 
 to admit. 
 
 " You don't think there were knights- 
 errant and tournaments, and ladies in 
 whose honour the knights broke lances 
 and performed prodigies of valour ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, but not enchanters and 
 giants, such as Prince Amadis met 
 with." 
 
 " Then you don't like this story, Mad- 
 emoiselle Mina ? " 
 
 "Not so much as real ones, like that 
 of Joan of Arc, for instance." 
 
 " Ah ! that is one of the few amusing 
 bits of history. Battles are always 
 good fun. I got a prize for writing 
 verses on the battle of Fontenoy. But 
 real, downright histories are very stu- 
 pid. Do not you hate every thing 
 about laws, commerce, art, and agri- 
 culture?" 
 
 " Yesf in a great history book," an- 
 swered Mina, laughing; "but I like 
 pictures and cornfields, and I should 
 like a law that would prevent people 
 from buying and selling other men. I 
 like people who do some good." 
 
 " The knights-errant used to defend 
 the helpless, and punish their oppres- 
 sors." 
 
 " Then I should like them." 
 
 " And you would like Raoul," whis- 
 pered Bertha in Mina's ear; "he is so 
 good to the poor and to little children, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 227 
 
 even though he laughs if anybody says 
 so, or takes notice of it." 
 
 "No secrets, Mdlle. Bertha," cried 
 her brother. " In mamma's book on 
 Politeness, which I had to read a chap- 
 ter of, as a penance, when I had trans- 
 gressed any of its rules, it is said that 
 whispering in company is forbidden." 
 
 " I was telling Mina bad things of 
 you." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, slandering is a great 
 sin ; I hope M. le Cure will not give 
 you absolution for a twelvemonth." 
 
 " That is very possible, brother, for I 
 am not at all disposed to retract what 
 I have said." 
 
 The sittings in the library led to 
 more talking than reading. The hours 
 went by very fast, and the days also. 
 Poor Raoul began to dread M. d'Au- 
 ban's arrival as the greatest misfortune, 
 for he knew it would be speedily fol- 
 lowed by the departure of the Dame de 
 sea pensees. All sorts of schemes were 
 in his mind, and he had long conversa- 
 tions with his mother ; and his spirits 
 rose very much (not that they had at 
 any time much fallen) after an inter- 
 view he had had with the baron on the 
 fourth day of Mdlle. d'Auban's visit. 
 
 The evening of that day proved very 
 wet. The morning, according to 
 Wordsworth's lines, "had gone forth 
 deceitfully, clad in radiant vest ; " but 
 dark clouds, and the distant rolling of 
 thunder, and a first few heavy drops, 
 had driven the young people home 
 some time before the accustomed hour.j 
 After supper there was rain, with thun- 
 der and lightning. The ladies drew 
 round a table in the centre of the room, 
 and worked. 
 
 "This is just an evening for ghost 
 stories," said Bertha, who was always 
 the first to propose this kind of amuse- 
 ment, though as she hastened to de- 
 clare it made her blood run cold, and 
 her hair stand on end, when her grand- 
 papa told of the man at Moulins who 
 
 had spent a night in the churchyard, 
 and had seen three different spectres, 
 the one more awful than the other. 
 This sort of conversation, when once 
 set going, is easily carried on. They 
 were long-standing stories of appari-' 
 tions which the baron related with 
 great effect, and Madame de la Croix 
 had known a lady who had seen a 
 ghost with her own eyes. And Raoul 
 had heard at college a strange tale of 
 three men travelling in a diligence, 
 who were joined by three others, that 
 looked like their own spectres, and did 
 every thing that they did, except that 
 they never eat at the inns ; but they 
 always slipped into their beds before 
 they could get in themselves, only when 
 one of the travellers had the courage 
 to lie down as if there was nobody be- 
 side him, he found the ghost did not 
 take up any room, and he slept very 
 comfortably. But the next day the 
 three spectres were in the coach again, 
 and .... 
 
 " Good heavens how pale you look, 
 my dear, you are as white as a sheet," 
 exclaimed Madame Armand, who was 
 sitting opposite to Mina. 
 
 " Hush, Raoul, she is frightened with 
 these dreadful stories." 
 
 All eyes were turned on Mina. Her 
 face was quite colourless, and she seem- 
 ed ready to faint. 
 
 "It is nothing, only such an odd 
 fancy, mamma," she said to Madame 
 d'Auban, who had taken her hand and 
 found it cold and trembling. 
 
 " You used not to be frightened at 
 these sort of tales when you were a very 
 little girl, Mina, darling, but I sup- 
 pose 
 
 " It was not the stories, mamma, only 
 such an odd fancy." 
 
 " Did you think you saw any thing ? " 
 said her young^ friends, eagerly. 
 
 " Tou'd better not talk to her about 
 it," said Madame d'Auban, who saw 
 she was turning pale again. 
 
228 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " Come," said Madame Armand, " I 
 will play a rondo, and you shall dance 
 and drive the ghosts away." 
 
 She did so, and Mina joined hands 
 with the rest, and the colour returned 
 to her cheeks, and she sang the Ritour- 
 nelle with the others ; but her mother 
 observed that now and then she 
 glanced timidly towards the windows. 
 
 " For my part," said Madame de la 
 Croix, in reply to some observation of 
 her husband's, " I am not half as much 
 afraid of ghosts as of robbers. I had 
 much rather hear of a spectre in the 
 neighbourhood, than of Mandrin and 
 his band." 
 
 "My dear," said the baron, "you 
 need not entertain the slightest appre- 
 hension on that subject. Since I have 
 been appointed Provost of the Forez, I 
 have taken effectual measures on the sub- 
 ject, and have twice reviewed the rural 
 force. You need not pretend to be an 
 esprit fort. I am sure you would die 
 of terror at the sight of a ghost." 
 
 " How gracefully Mina dances," said 
 Madame Armand to Madame d'Auban. 
 " She is as light as a fairy. Oh, now, 
 she and Raoul are going to practise 
 the Menuet de la Cour, dear madame. 
 Well, I think you and I may, without 
 foolish vanity, just between ourselves, 
 agree that prettier partners were never 
 seen than my black-eyed chevalier and 
 your blue-eyed daughter." 
 
 They did look to great advantage 
 during that dancing lesson. Mina was 
 taking pains to learn the graceful steps 
 of the minuet, and smiled so prettily 
 as half-way across the room she stop- 
 ped to curtsey to her partner, that Ra- 
 oul forgot to make his own obeisance, 
 and clapped his hands. She stopped 
 short, and laughing, exclaimed, "that 
 is not fair." Then both his sisters 
 scolded him, and Madame Armand 
 played the rondo again, and they 
 danced till they were tired. 
 
 " Are you sure, my child, that you are 
 
 not ill ? " Madame dAuban asked her 
 daughter when she and herself had 
 withdrawn to their bedchamber. 
 
 " I am quite well, dearest mamma." 
 
 " Then were you frightened with the 
 ghost stories ? " 
 
 " No ; I did not mind them." 
 
 "But then, Mina, love, I want to 
 know what made you turn so pale 
 in the middle of Raoul's ridiculous 
 story." 
 
 " Mamma, it is better not to speak 
 of foolish fancies. I am sure it was all 
 imagination." 
 
 " I don't think it is the best way to 
 get rid of a fear or a fancy to keep it 
 to oneself. We can often drive away 
 troublesome thoughts by telling them." 
 
 " Mamma, I assure you I don't believe 
 in ghosts and apparitions. But I sup- 
 pose people see things sometimes, and 
 that it is all a mistake." 
 
 Madame d'Auban felt uneasy. She 
 had a lurking belief in apparitions. 
 
 " For heaven's sake, Mina, what did 
 you see ? " 
 
 " Well,mamma, I was looking straight 
 at the windows of the parlour the one 
 which opens on to the parapet when 
 there came a flash of lightning, and I 
 saw, as distinctly as possible it seemed 
 to me, a face looking into the room, and 
 it was at the moment at least, I felt 
 sure it was Osseo's face." 
 
 " The Indian Osseo," repeated her 
 mother, apparently relieved. "O, my 
 darling, I have no doubt then, it was 
 an ocular delusion. I have often felt 
 as if I saw about my bed some of these 
 terrible dark Natches' faces. They 
 quite haunted me at one time." 
 
 " I had never thought so little about 
 America as since we have been staying 
 here. I was listening to M. Raoul, and 
 wondering about his travellers and their 
 ghosts. Then all at once I saw what I 
 thought was Osseo's face ; but it is such 
 a brief glimpse of any thing a flash of 
 lightning gives." 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE 
 
 229 
 
 " You did not hear any thing about 
 that Osseo before leaving Paris ? " 
 
 " No, mamma, Ontara did not know 
 where he was. He ran away, you re- 
 member, the day they landed at Mar- 
 seilles." 
 
 " Your mind has dwelt so much upon 
 Indians, my Mina, that it is not won- 
 derful you should see them in imagin- 
 ation." 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it was a mistake," 
 Mina repeated, and nothing more passed 
 between her mother and herself on that 
 subject. 
 
 The next morning, when the family 
 were assembled at breakfast, the baron 
 announced with exultation that he had 
 received excellent news of the success 
 of the rural gendarmerie, in an encoun- 
 ter with a troup of Mandrin's gang in 
 the Forest .of Ludres. Several of them 
 had been taken prisoners, and safely 
 lodged in the prison at Moulins. Man- 
 drin himself had narrowly escaped 
 being arrested. It was supposed he 
 must be concealed in some cave or pit 
 in the same neighbourhood. 
 
 'J Have they caught, sir," Raoul ask- 
 ed, "that incarnate devil, they call 
 Lohie?" 
 
 Mina and her mother started, and 
 exchanged glances. 
 
 "Is he an Indian?" the latter in- 
 quired. 
 
 " By that nom de guerre, I should 
 think so," answered the baron ; " for I 
 suppose it is a nom de guerre, it sounds 
 like it. A man of colour he certainly 
 is, unless he paints his face to keep up 
 a sort of prestige. He is, next to Man- 
 drin himself, the most desperate of the 
 gang. They call him his lieutenant." 
 
 " Choiset tells me he is our game- 
 keeper, ladies," Raoul said; "that his 
 eyes glare like a tiger-cat's. He knows 
 a man who saw him some weeks ago, 
 and who he says relates wonderful 
 things of him. He is supposed to bear 
 a charmed life, to carry about him some 
 
 mysterious talisman. He has taken the 
 lead of late in all Mandrin's most des- 
 perate exploits, and always escapes the 
 gendarmes' clutches. They are con- 
 vinced he is a devil." 
 
 " Aye, and if they catch him," said 
 the baron, " he runs a good chance of 
 being hung like a dog to a tree, with- 
 out trial or shrift." 
 
 " I wonder," said Madame d'Auban, 
 hesitatingly, " if he can be the Natches 
 we once knew, our friend Ontara's com- 
 panion till they landed in France. His 
 name was Osseo, but he may have been 
 called Lohie by his comrades. Mina, 
 my child, we must tell M. de la Croix 
 that you think you saw him last night." 
 
 Mina turned crimson. A half-child- 
 ish sense of fidelity, and compassion 
 towards a persecuted people, made her 
 loth to say a word which might lead 
 to Osseo's apprehension. He was On- 
 tara's relative, an exile, doomed to sla- 
 very, and ignorant of right and wrong. 
 She felt more pity than horror of him, 
 robber as he was. " Mamma," she said, 
 in a low voice, and looking reproach- 
 fully at her mother, " we thought last 
 night it was a mistake." 
 
 "Yes, love, but we did not know 
 what we do now." 
 
 The baron eagerly asked for an ex- 
 planation, and Madame d'Auban, seeing 
 that her daughter did not utter, felt 
 herself of course obliged to tell him 
 exactly what she had heard from Mina 
 on the previous evening. The ladies 
 of the chateau turned pale, and the 
 baron and his grandson went to give 
 orders to set a watch round the castle, 
 and search the ruins which might af- 
 ford a hiding-place to the robbers. Now 
 that he was on his guard, he prepared 
 to give them a warm reception, and 
 forbade any thing being said which 
 would raise an alarm in the neighbour- 
 hood, and prevent their attempting an 
 attack. He was strongly inclined to 
 believe that Mina had really seen Lohie, 
 
230 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 and that the Indian had been sent to 
 reconnoitre the approaches of the castle. 
 
 The young people went out as usual, 
 but Mina was silent and depressed. 
 Raoul's gaiety jarred upon her. Her 
 thoughts were fixed upon the vision 
 of the day before. She wondered if 
 the Indian still carried about the ser- 
 pent in his bosom. The words the 
 baron had said rung in her ears : " Hung 
 like a dog." They made her shudder. 
 She could not understand that her 
 young companions did not feel these 
 sort of things more. They did not 
 understand her anxiety. " If Lohie is 
 Osseo," Raoul said, " he deserves to be 
 broken on the wheel; for he tried to 
 make you his slave, the vile wretch. I 
 should like to shoot him down like a 
 wild beast." 
 
 " How can you say that ? " said Mina, 
 indignantly. " What would become of 
 his soul?" 
 
 Raoul was a little puzzled. He said 
 his prayers regularly, and meant to be 
 good and save his own soul, but had 
 not given much thought to those of 
 other people, especially those of hea- 
 thens and robbers. So he evaded the 
 question, and did not revert to the 
 subject. 
 
 As they were returning to the castle 
 the baron met them, and took Mina 
 into the hall. He asked her to point 
 out the exact spot where she had seen 
 that limb of Satan, Lohie. She showed 
 him the window at which she had 
 caught sight of his face. Then inspired 
 with a sudden courage, she said : 
 
 " M. le Baron, will you tell the gen- 
 darmes not to kill Osseo till I have 
 spoken to him ? " 
 
 " You would not wish, my dear, to 
 speak to a robber ? " 
 
 " Oh, but I would, M. le Baron, in- 
 deed, indeed I would." 
 
 " He is an outlaw, like the rest of the 
 gang, and our men may destroy them 
 like vermin. But I have given orders 
 
 that if this Lohie or Osseo is caught he 
 should be brought here alive, as he may 
 give information as to the others. By 
 the bye, Raoul tells me you speak the 
 language of these savages, Mademoi- 
 selle Mina. As you are so courageous, 
 we shall get you to examine him." 
 
 " Shall you put him into the dun- 
 geon ? " she asked. 
 
 " Take care, grandpapa," Bertha 
 cried ; " Mina will let him out." 
 
 The baron looked grave. 
 
 " This man is a murderer and a rob- 
 ber. Mademoiselle Mina has been too 
 well brought up, I am sure, to pity 
 such a wretch." 
 
 Poor Mina ! she did not answer, but 
 she longed to say that it was because 
 this man was a murderer and a robber, 
 and an unbelieving, unbaptized hea- 
 then, that the thought of his sudden 
 death wrung her heart. 
 
 The day went by somewhat wearily ; 
 and, as the night approached, some of 
 the inmates of the castle felt restless 
 and anxious. The ladies and the ser- 
 vants had related to one another 
 stories of robbers and assassins till they 
 had grown so nervous that a foot-fall 
 on the stairs, or the rustling of leaves 
 near the window, made them start and 
 shudder. 
 
 The baron desired that every one 
 should go to bed as usual, except the 
 sentries to whom he had assigned their 
 several posts. Madame d'Auban and 
 her daughter withdrew to their room, 
 and both fell asleep soon after going 
 to bed. But Mina woke in about an 
 hour, her nerves on the full stretch, 
 and her heart beating like a pendulum. 
 For two hours not a sound disturbed 
 the tranquillity of the night. Then a 
 sort of faintness, the result of intense 
 watching, came over her. She slipped 
 out of bed, put on her dressing gown 
 and shoes, and a mantle, with a hood 
 over her head. The door of the bed- 
 room opened on an outward winding 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 231 
 
 staircase leading to the parapet. She 
 opened it gently, and stood on the 
 steps breathing the fresh air. There 
 was no moon, but the night was not 
 very dark : a few stars were visible, 
 when the clouds divided in the sombre 
 sky. She stood there for a few min- 
 utes, and was about to reenter the room, 
 when she saw a figure ascending the 
 steps perfectly noiselessly. She did 
 not move or scream, but said in a low 
 whisper, "Osseo!" 
 
 The figure stopped, and she heard it 
 answer in the Indian language 
 
 " Who are you that know Osseo ? " 
 
 She stepped forward and said : 
 
 "I am Mina. In the city of the 
 Natchesyou once called me your sister. 
 Go away ; the white men are watching 
 for you, and will kill you. Throw 
 away the serpent, Osseo : leave the 
 wicked tribe." 
 
 " I have shed the blood of the white 
 men," answered the Indian, in a low but 
 distinct whisper : " the serpent delivers 
 them into my hand. But the sound of 
 thy voice is like water to the parched 
 lip. O, daughter of the French tribe, 
 come with me into the woods, and I 
 will shed no more blood: I will lie 
 down on the grass and listen to thy 
 words." 
 
 "Osseo, in the name of the Great 
 Spirit of the Christian's prayer, go away 
 before my people kill thee. If I call 
 out they will come." 
 
 "Maiden, the tribe that kills and 
 steals is at hand, and if I whistle they 
 will scale the wall and put thy people 
 to death. But come with me, little 
 bird of the west : I will hide thee from 
 them before I give the signal." 
 
 " They cannot come, Osseo ; they can- 
 not come. There are armed men upon 
 the walls. At the least noise they will 
 rush upon thee." 
 
 "My fetish is stronger than they 
 are," whispered the Indian, and Mina 
 eaw him feeling in his bosom for the 
 
 serpent. She shuddered, and stood 
 transfixed to the spot, as if fascinated 
 herself, and unable to raise her voice. 
 There was a minute's silence. Then a 
 flash and the report of a gun. The 
 Indian had seized hold of the serpent 
 more roughly than usual. The creature 
 hissed, and sprang to his throat. He 
 gave a violent start, and his gun, which 
 he held with one arm against his shoul- 
 der, slipped, went off, and wounded 
 him in the breast. The noise roused at 
 once all the sentinels, and the baron 
 and Raoul were in an instant on the 
 spot. Torches threw light on the 
 scene, and Mina was found kneeling 
 by the Indian's side, who lay appar- 
 ently dead. The serpent on his bosom 
 was lifeless also. But when they took 
 up Osseo, to carry him into the hall, it 
 was perceived that he still breathed, 
 and Mina implored the baron to send 
 for a priest. Raoul went to fetch the 
 cure, and her mother tried to take her 
 away ; but she turned round with an 
 imploring countenance, and said : 
 
 " Let me stay, mother, in case he re- 
 vives." 
 
 And the priest, who arrived at that 
 moment, seconded her entreaties. Raoul 
 had told him who the dying man was, 
 and how anxious Mina was about his 
 soul. Nobody quite understood what 
 had happened. She looked for the 
 baron, and said : 
 
 "He told me before the gun went 
 off that the robbers were close at 
 hand." 
 
 " Aye," said he, " we must be on our 
 guard, then ; but the sound of the gun 
 will have frightened them away, I 
 think. But how, in heaven's name, 
 my child, were you speaking with this 
 wretch?" 
 
 " I was standing at the door of our 
 room, to get air, for I was faint, and I 
 saw him gliding up the stairs. I called 
 to him, and told him who I was, and 
 begged him to go away" 
 
232 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 " The deuce you did ! " ejaculated 
 the Baron. 
 
 " But he would not go ; and as he 
 was feeling for his fetish that serpent 
 you see there his gun went off." 
 
 " Hush 1 " said the cure ; " I think he 
 is moaning." 
 
 The Indian had opened his eyes and 
 looked at the bystanders with a half- 
 fierce, half-bewildered gaze, but when 
 he saw Mina a more human expression 
 stole over his features. He raised his 
 hand to his mouth. This was a token 
 he recognized her. The village doctor, 
 who had been summoned, felt his pulse, 
 and said he had not long to live. The 
 young girl bent over him, and in ac- 
 cents low and sweet, spoke to him in 
 his own tongue. The hall was by this 
 time crowded, and every one was watch- 
 ing the dying man and the child, and 
 the priest standing close to her. A pin 
 might have been heard to drop. No 
 one uttered a word but herself, and no 
 one understood what she was saying 
 except the dying man, whose eyes 
 fastened themselves intently on her 
 face. She looked inspired. On the 
 ashy paleness of her cheek a red spot 
 deepened into crimson as her emotion 
 increased. Sometimes she raised her 
 hand and pointed to the sky. Once he 
 felt in his breast, as if searching for 
 something there. She took up the 
 dead serpent and showed it to him, 
 then throwing it down she set her foot 
 upon it, and held the crucifix before 
 his eyes. Raoul de la Croix felt at 
 that moment a thrilling sensation in 
 his heart which he never forgot. He 
 would fain have fallen at her feet ; and 
 her own mother gazed with awe on her 
 child. At last the Indian spoke. His 
 strength seemed for a moment to rally. 
 He raised himself on his elbow, took 
 the crucifix in his hand, and touched 
 his forehead with it. Then in her ear 
 he murmured a few words. 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure," Mina cried, 
 
 " he asks to be baptized. He believes 
 now in the Great Spirit who died for 
 him. He is very sorry to have robbed 
 and killed His children. Oh, M. le 
 Cure, will you baptize him ? " 
 
 Whilst she was speaking, a spasm 
 passed over Osseo's face, and the death- 
 rattle sounded in his throat. There 
 was no time to lose. The priest bap- 
 tized him, and whilst the water was 
 still flowing on his brow, the poor 
 ignorant savage, on whom a ray of 
 light had shone in the last hour of his 
 life, died with his eyes fixed on the 
 crucifix which Mina was holding in 
 her clasped and upraised hands. 
 
 Those who had witnessed this scene 
 had been deeply impressed. Mina her- 
 self did not seem at all conscious that 
 she had been admired, or even much 
 noticed, on account of the part she had 
 taken in it. An immense weight was 
 off her mind, and during the days 
 which followed, she was often in high 
 spirits. The friendship between her 
 and the young de la Croix grew more 
 and more close. The baron, delighted 
 at the result of Mandrin's projected 
 attack, and at the disappearance of his 
 gang from the Forez, which followed 
 upon his lieutenant's death, could afford 
 to forgive Mina, and to laugh at her 
 for her connivance, as he called it, 
 with the robbers. Madame d'Auban, 
 mean time, was counting the hours till 
 her husband's arrival. He had written 
 to say that he would leave Paris in two 
 days. No positive promise had been 
 given him about an appointment in 
 Bourbon, and recent circumstances had 
 made him averse to press the matter. 
 He had accordingly contented himself 
 with obtaining letters of introduction 
 to the governor and .one or two other 
 French residents in the island. He 
 added, that he had sent Antoine to 
 their former lodgings in the Rue de 
 1'Ecu, and that he had ascertained that 
 the Comte de Saxe had called there, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 233 
 
 and expressed great surprise at their 
 departure. The landlord had told him 
 they had left France as well as Paris, 
 and were on their way to the Isle de 
 Bourbon. 
 
 When Raoul heard that M. d'Auban 
 was expected in a day or two, he 
 looked more thoughtful than he had 
 ever done in his life before. He could 
 scarcely sit still a moment ; and on the 
 morning when he was expected, he 
 rode to Montbrison to meet him. 
 
 As he walked up and down under 
 the plane trees of the promenade, it 
 seemed to him as if years instead of 
 days had elapsed since the one on 
 which he had handed out of the dili- 
 gence Madame d'Auban and Mina. 
 When the same cumbrous vehicle drove 
 to the inn door, his heart beat fast, and 
 before Colonel d'Auban had fairly set 
 foot on the ground, he found himself 
 clasped in the chevalier's arms. 
 
 "Ah! my young friend," he ex- 
 claimed, " I need not ask who you are. 
 The warmth of your welcome would 
 make me know it, even if you were not 
 so like what your father was at your 
 age, when we were at college together." 
 
 "Monsieur, he must have been 
 younger then than I am now," said 
 Raoul, who did not like to be consid- 
 ered as a collegian. 
 
 " Ah 1 but I knew him, too, after we 
 had left Vannes, when he was about to 
 be married." 
 
 "He married very young indeed," 
 cried Raoul, eagerly "when he was 
 about eighteen." 
 
 D'Auban then inquired after the 
 health of all the members of the baron's 
 family, and spoke of their kindness to 
 his wife and daughter. 
 
 ; Mademoiselle Mina is an angel!" 
 Raoul said, with flushed cheeks and 
 sparkling eyes. 
 
 D'Auban smiled, and then they both 
 mounted their horses and rode out of 
 the town. 
 
 D'Auban was delighted with his 
 young companion. There was some- 
 thing so ingenuous, so frank, and so 
 noble about him, and then he was so 
 evidently in love with his little Mina. 
 He related the story of Osseo's death 
 with such an ardent enthusiasm about 
 her goodness and her courage, and de- 
 scribed how beautiful she looked by 
 the side of the dying Indian, that the 
 father's heart was touched, and tears 
 stood in his eyes. 
 
 " If only," he murmured to himself, 
 " if only the spirit does not wear out tho 
 frame ! " and then turning playfully to 
 his companion, he said aloud, " I had 
 rather, M. Raoul, she had been playing 
 at dominoes than playing the heroine. 
 She has had enough of that sort of 
 thing for a child like her." 
 
 "Ah! she is not a child, M. le Col- 
 onel." 
 
 "I fear not. Would she was, my 
 young friend ! She has known too 
 early what it is to suffer. Is she look- 
 ing well ? " d'Auban anxiously asked, 
 for he did not like to think of the 
 scene she had gone through. 
 
 " Oh ! yes. She has the most lovely 
 colour in her cheeks, like that of a 
 deep red rose, and such a brilliant light 
 in her eyes ! " 
 
 The boy's enthusiastic description 
 made the father sigh. But when Mina 
 ran out into the court of the castle to 
 meet him, he was satisfied. She was 
 looking stronger than in Paris, and 
 seemed very happy. After receiving 
 the most affectionate greetings from all 
 the family, and seen the young people 
 go off on a fishing excursion, Mina on 
 the dun pony, and Bertha on a gray 
 one, and Raoul walking alongside of 
 them, their merry voices still ringing 
 in his ears, he drew his wife's arm in 
 his own, and they went into the par- 
 terre to take a quiet stroll, and talk 
 over the incidents of the preceding 
 days. If ever there was an instance of 
 
234 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 the romance of wedded love in advanc- 
 ing life, and amidst the many changes 
 it had brought with it, this was one. 
 These two beings loved each other 
 with the most intense of all affections 
 that of married lovers. The dangers 
 they had gone through, if they had 
 not added to the intensity of that 
 affection, had preserved in it all the 
 freshness of its romantic beginnings. 
 
 " This is happiness," she exclaimed, 
 as they hurried into the garden, and 
 sitting down on a bench which over- 
 looked the valley, rested her head 
 against her husband's shoulder, with a 
 sense of blissful repose. He smiled, 
 and fondly gazed on the pale fair face 
 so passionately loved. 
 
 " And you do not mind, sweetheart," 
 he said, " that we are poorer than ever, 
 and that when we get to Bourbon we 
 may fiave to live in a small cottage, 
 and in a very different manner than at 
 St. Agathe ? " 
 
 "Perhaps," she said, with a little 
 malice, " you are going to ask me, M. 
 d'Auban, if I have no regrets for the 
 King of France's magnificent offer, or 
 for the suite of apartments I was to 
 have occupied at the palace of Fontaine- 
 bleau." 
 
 He laughed, and said, " It must be 
 owned, madame, that you have treated 
 his majesty somewhat unceremonious- 
 ly." 
 
 " You know I had no direct message 
 from the king. But, Henri, you have 
 heard of Mina's heroic conduct about 
 the poor Indian robber. I assure you 
 that when she stood that night, with 
 her little foot on the dead serpent, and 
 the cross in her hand, it was like a 
 heavenly vision. She rises before me 
 over and over again in that attitude, 
 and with the peculiar look in her eyes 
 we have sometimes noticed. But I 
 have something to communicate to 
 you. What will you think of it? 
 Madame Armand de la Croix has been 
 
 speaking to me about our child. It 
 seemed to me very strange. Our own 
 destiny has been so extraordinary, and 
 Mina is so young really, though she 
 loots grown up, that a regular propo- 
 sal of marriage for her took me by 
 surprise." 
 
 D'Auban started, and looked amaz- 
 ed. 
 
 " A proposal of marriage for Mina ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the baron is about to ask you 
 for her hand for his grandson." 
 
 " If I did not hear it from you, love, 
 I should deem it impossible. Raoul is 
 the baron's heir, would he wed him 
 with a portionless girl ? ' 
 
 " Madame Armand has owned to me, 
 that a heavy debt of gratitude is due 
 from their family to yours ; that your 
 grandfather and your father never 
 would accept payment of the large 
 sum which at the time of the League 
 the former gave as a ransom for the 
 life of the Baron Charles de la Croix ; 
 but that the debt is not cancelled in 
 their hearts or in their memories. From 
 the moment the baron heard you had a 
 daughter, he determined, in his own 
 mind, that the Chevalier Raoul should 
 marry her, and since they have known 
 Mina he is more bent upon it than 
 ever." 
 
 " And what do you say to it, mad- 
 ame ? Is the chevalier a good match 
 enough for your daughter? I have 
 always resolved to leave the decision 
 of her fate in your hands." 
 
 His wife smiled and answered, "I 
 ask only one thing for my child, that 
 she should be free to accept or to reject 
 the offer made for her hand. The two- 
 fold experience of my life has taught 
 me beyond measure to value freedom 
 on that point; I would not for the 
 world have her controlled." 
 
 " She is too young to marry, and so 
 is he." 
 
 " Ah, but what the baron proposes is 
 that they should be affianced at once, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 235 
 
 and then that the chevalier should 
 travel for three years at the end of 
 that time, wherever we are, he will 
 come and claim his bride." 
 
 "I see, my sweetest wife, that the 
 thought of this marriage pleases you." 
 
 " I do not deny it. If I could have 
 pictured to myself a fate I should have 
 chosen for Mina, it would have been to 
 enter a family of noble but yet not of 
 princely birth, one in, which I have 
 witnessed the most admirable virtues 
 and the purest domestic happiness. 
 Young Raoul is handsome, good, and I 
 need not apologize to you, Henri, for 
 adding, though others might laugh at 
 me he is in love with her." 
 
 " And does the little Dame de ses pen- 
 sees return his passion ? " asked d'Au- 
 ban, smiling. 
 
 " Ah I I don't know. That child of 
 ours is often a great enigma to me. 
 Open and guileless as she is, I am some- 
 times at a loss when I try to fathom 
 the depths of her young heart." 
 
 " Do not be too romantic, sweet wife. 
 Far be it from me to force her inclina- 
 tions, but at her age assent is sufficient." 
 
 " You know no French young lady 
 ever utters a stronger form of approval 
 of the suitor presented to her acceptance 
 than the admission, that he is not dis- 
 agreeable to her. In this case we might 
 rest satisfied with it. But there is one 
 consideration I cannot quite get over. 
 Is not the Baron de la Croix, are not 
 all his family, making an effort of gen- 
 erosity in asking for the hand of our 
 little portionless daughter? It is so 
 contrary to French usages for a young 
 man to marry a girl without a fortune, 
 that I cannot quite rest satisfied that 
 it is not an overstrained point of honour 
 which alone induces them to make this 
 proposal." 
 
 Madame d'Auban looked a little 
 pained, her cheek flushed. " Henri, do 
 you give me credit for such a total 
 absence of pride, as to think I should 
 
 have spoken as I have done if I had 
 not seen beyond a doubt that the 
 hearts of your friends are set upon 
 this marriage ; had I not heard from 
 Raoul's mother, expressions which sel- 
 dom fall in these days from the lips of 
 French mothers, as to her hopes and 
 fears for the darling of her heart; as 
 to her knowledge of what Mina is, and 
 her intense desire that his destiny should 
 be united to hers ? She never mentions 
 our child since the night of Osseo's 
 death without tears in her eyes. But 
 far be it from me, however, to urge 
 you . . ." 
 
 "Enough, dearest, enough. I am 
 more than satisfied," exclaimed d'Au- 
 ban, who felt he had unintentionally 
 slightly wounded his wife's feelings. 
 Any destiny out of the common order, 
 any transgression of the usual laws of 
 society, even under the most favourable 
 circumstances, at certain moments, 
 sometimes long after old feelings and 
 habits of mind have been apparently 
 eradicated, tends to arouse slight emo- 
 tions, delicate susceptibilities, which 
 are like faint traces left on the soul of 
 what once has been, visible only by 
 certain lights." 
 
 A conversation d'Auban held that 
 evening with the Baron proved to him 
 the justice of his wife's appreciation of 
 the old man's real feelings ; he was so 
 thoroughly happy at the thoughts of 
 an alliance with the family to which 
 his own had owed so much, so full of 
 delight at acquitting a debt of grati- 
 tude as regarded the past, and he kind- 
 ly added, pressing his friend's hand in 
 both his, " in incurring a fresh one in 
 the shape of the holy and beautiful 
 child he asked of them for his Raoul," 
 that it would have been playing an 
 unkind and ungracious part to reject, 
 from a false delicacy, the proposal BO 
 cordially made. He seemed a little 
 surprised, indeed, when d'Auban stipu- 
 lated that the betrothal was not to 
 
236 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE 
 
 take place unless his little girl gave 
 her full and free assent to it, that her 
 mother had made him promise this. 
 
 " But .surely," said the Baron, " a 
 young lady as well educated as Made- 
 moiselle Mina, and of as amiable a dis- 
 position, would never dream of oppos- 
 ing her parents' wishes on such a sub- 
 ject." 
 
 "My best of friends," d'Auban an- 
 swered, u Mina's education, not a bad 
 one, thank God, has yet been in many 
 respects peculiar. Events, more than 
 teaching, have formed her character. 
 She would doubtless obey our orders, 
 but her mother's ideas on that point 
 are strong, and she would never compel 
 her daughter to marry, or to promise 
 her hand to any one she did not herself 
 freely choose." 
 
 The idea of young ladies choosing 
 their husbands was quite a new one to 
 the baron, and utterly distasteful to 
 him. He would like to see Bertha and 
 Isaure think of choosing for themselves, 
 indeed ! And as to Raoul, when he 
 had informed him that he was about 
 to ask for Mademoiselle d' Auban's hand 
 for him, he had behaved as well as pos- 
 sible, and expressed his perfect submis- 
 sion to his grandfather's wishes. 
 
 " But I suppose your daughter is not 
 likely to object to the chevalier," he 
 said. "He has, I hope, made himself 
 agreeable to her since she arrived 
 here ? " 
 
 "I should think your grandson as 
 likely as any youth I have ever seen to 
 win a young lady's heart," answered 
 d'Auban; "and I trust that I may 
 have the happiness of calling him my 
 son." 
 
 On the morning of the next day, 
 which was to be the last but one they 
 were to spend at the Chateau de la 
 Croix, Madame d'Auban sent for her 
 daughter into her room from the library, 
 where she had gone with Isaure, to 
 copy some passages out of an old book 
 
 of poetry they had been reading to- 
 gether, and when Mina came bounding 
 into the room she found her father and 
 mother sitting together. They made 
 room fqr her between them, and he 
 said to her : 
 
 " Have you been very happy here, my 
 daughter ? " 
 
 "Yes; very happy," she answered. 
 " Everybody has been so kind to me, 
 and I love them all very much." 
 
 " They are all very fond of you, Mina. 
 The Baron has been speaking to me 
 about you." 
 
 " I was afraid he was a little angry 
 with me, because I told Osseo to go 
 away, instead of calling to the senti- 
 nels." 
 
 "Well, he seems to have forgiven 
 you. He told me you were a brave 
 little girl. I suppose you will be sorry 
 to part with Isaure and Bertha ? " 
 
 " Yes ; and with Raoul also." 
 
 "Ah ! you like him. I am glad of 
 that. I have taken a great fancy to 
 Raoul. He is very pleasing, and so 
 good and noble-hearted." 
 
 " He ought to be good, for his moth- 
 er, oh, dearest papa! she is quite a 
 saint. I like so much to watch her 
 when she is speaking to a poor person, 
 or dressing their wounds. There is a 
 little room, quite out of the way, where 
 they come to her every morning ; but 
 I know where it is, and she lets me help 
 her. She does not speak much, but 
 the few words she says are full of love 
 and sweetness." 
 
 " Then you would be glad to live 
 some day with Madame Armand ? " 
 
 " I would give the world to be like 
 her." 
 
 " Then I think you will be glad to 
 hear, my daughter, that she would like 
 to call you her child ? " 
 
 "Would she?" answered Mina, in- 
 nocently ; " then I wish she would." 
 
 " What I mean is that she and the 
 Baron want you some time hence to 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRlJE. 
 
 237 
 
 marry Raoul, and to be at once affianced 
 to him." 
 
 Madame d' Auban's heart beat fast as 
 her husband said this. Mina drew her 
 arm from her neck and her hand from 
 her father's, and sat up between them 
 with her eyes fixed on the ground and 
 the colour deepening in her cheeks. 
 She did not speak. They remained 
 silent also for a few minutes, and then 
 her mother said : 
 
 "What is my Mina thinking of? 
 Tell us, dearest, will you promise to 
 marry Raoul ? " 
 
 " No no, I cannot promise to marry 
 him. Oh, dearest papa, dearest mam- 
 ma, do not ask me." 
 
 "And why not, Mina?" said d'Au- 
 ban, looking vexed and disappointed. 
 
 " Because, papa, it would make me 
 miserable; because" ... a flood of 
 tears stopped her utterance. She wept 
 with what seemed passionate sorrow. 
 
 " My child," said her mother, anx- 
 iously, " speak, explain to us what you 
 feel." 
 
 " Mamma, do you remember my tell- 
 ing you long ago that I would never 
 marry a white man ? " 
 
 " Oh, Mina, that old childish story 1 " 
 exclaimed her mother; and her father 
 said with impetuosity : 
 
 "You are no longer a child, my 
 daughter; and I cannot brook this 
 infatuation about Indians. You do 
 not suppose that we should ever con- 
 sent to give our daughter in marriage 
 to a red man ? " 
 
 " I know you would not, papa, and 
 I will never ask you to do so. But I 
 wish to keep my promise." 
 
 " A child's promise 1 which does not 
 bind you in the least, Mina." 
 
 " Then, mamma, if I am too young 
 to be bound by one promise, do not 
 tell me to make another. I told On- 
 tara I could not marry him, when we 
 were at the Natches ; and after he was 
 baptized in Paris I said so again : but 
 
 when he was unhappy I promised never 
 to marry at all, and to be always his 
 sister; and it comforted him a little. 
 Mamma, don't you remember that one 
 day in Paris, when Julie d'Orgeville 
 had been talking to me about her 
 cousin Jeanne being forced to marry 
 the old Count d'Hervilliere, and I asked 
 you if you would make me marry 
 against my will, you said, never f And, 
 mamma, when you said it, I don't 
 know why, but there were tears in 
 your eyes, and you added, 'No, my 
 own, you will never know what it is 
 to wear gilded chains. ' " 
 
 " But Mina, darling, you like Raoul, 
 and you would be very happy with 
 him." 
 
 A troubled look came into little 
 Mina's face ; some large tears gathered 
 in her eyes. She heaved two or three 
 deep sighs, and then hiding her face in 
 her mother's bosom, she murmured : 
 
 " I could not be happy if I broke my 
 promise." 
 
 Madame d'Auban fondly pressed her 
 lips on her head, and, looking at her 
 husband, smiled. Her womanly in- 
 stinct was not at fault. She guessed 
 what was passing in the child's 
 heart. 
 
 " Mina," said her father, gravely, " if 
 it is that foolish promise that weighs 
 on your mind, Ontara would, I am sure, 
 relieve yo.u from it." 
 
 Madame d'Auban shook her head. 
 
 Mina started up. "Oh, papa, that 
 would not be really keeping it. If you 
 order me to break it in that way I must, 
 but my heart will break too. Mamma, 
 you remember the day you took his 
 hand and put it on my head, when 
 Osseo was going to force me away from 
 you? We were friendless then; we 
 were prisoners; and he had parents 
 and friends, and brothers and sisters. 
 We were condemned to death, and he 
 saved me. He saved papa, who saved 
 us all. And now he has only me only 
 
238 
 
 TOt) STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 me to love him, I must keep my prom- 
 ise." 
 
 " Mina," said her father, sitting down 
 again by her, " you are too young to 
 understand what you give up when 
 you say you will never marry." 
 
 The heavenly expression they some- 
 times noticed in their child's face shone 
 in it, as she looked up and said : 
 
 " I would give up any thing to keep 
 that promise." 
 
 " And if, which I never shall, I was 
 to say you might marry Ontara, would 
 you marry him ? " 
 
 Mina closed her eyes, thought a 
 moment, and then said " Yes," but in 
 a tone that made her mother thrill all 
 over, there was something so peculiar 
 in the child's way of saying it. 
 
 She made a sign to her husband not 
 to press the matter further; and they 
 talked to her gently and soothingly, 
 and said she should not be asked to 
 make any promise to Raoul or any one 
 else; that she might remain a child 
 for some years to come, and plant flow- 
 ers and sow seeds in a cottage garden 
 at St. Denys. 
 
 She kissed them and went straight 
 out on the steps which led to the 
 church. At that moment Madame 
 
 Armand's poor people were passing 
 through the gate on their way to the 
 room where she received them. A we 
 man was staggering under the wei| 
 of a sick child, and seemed ready 
 drop. 
 
 Raoul, who was passing through th( 
 court with his dogs, whistling a mei 
 tune, caught sight of the beggar, an< 
 taking her baby in his arms, carried ii 
 to his mother. It was one of those 
 indeliberate impulses which show the 
 tone of a man's feelings. He was off 
 again in a moment, not, however, be- 
 fore he had slipped an alms into the 
 woman's hand. He seemed to tread on 
 air, his handsome face was beaming 
 with animation, and snatches of an old 
 French song burst from his- lips as he 
 passed the foot of the stairs. He did 
 not see Mina, who had been watching 
 the little scene. She went into the 
 church, and prayed a long time. It is 
 said that St. Catherine of Sienna, in 
 one of her mysterious visions, was 
 offered her choice of a crown of roses 
 and a crown of thorns. She chose the 
 last, because it was like the one our 
 Lord had worn. Had two different 
 visions also passed before Mina's eyes, 
 and had she made a similar choice ? 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 Bo rich a close, 
 Too seldom crowns with peace affliction's woes. 
 
 Mrs. ffemant. 
 
 How often, oh, how often, 
 I had wished that the ebbing tide 
 
 Would bear me away on its bosom, 
 O'er the ocean wild and wide 1 
 
 For my heart was hot and restless, 
 
 And my life was full of care, 
 And the burden laid upon me 
 
 Seemed greater than I could bear. 
 
 But now it has fallen from me, 
 
 It is buried in the sea, 
 And only the sorrow of others 
 
 Throws its shadow over me. 
 
 IT had not been easy to induce the 
 Baron de la Croix to give up his fa- 
 vourite idea of a betrothal between 
 Raoul and Mina ; but her parents and 
 Madame Armand, to whom Madame 
 d'Auban had confided the grounds of 
 her daughter's refusal, and her own 
 belief that time would overcome her 
 determination to lead a single life, out 
 of fidelity to her promise and affection 
 for her deliverer, found means to per- 
 suade M. de la Croix that the engage- 
 ment must be deferred, and the ring of 
 espousals which he had sent for from 
 Moulins put aside for the present. 
 
 D'Auban assumed him that, on the 
 whole, it was better the young people 
 should be free till they met again in 
 two or three years, and could better 
 judge of their own feelings. 
 
 " But I never heard of feelings in my 
 youth," cried the baron. " The will of 
 my father was the only feeling spoken 
 of when I married Madame de la Croix ; 
 and nothing ever answered better than 
 our marriage. But let it be as you 
 wish. Wherever you are in three 
 years' time whether at the north or 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 the south pole I shall send Raoul to 
 ask for the hand of that pretty little 
 heroine of yours, who, I hope, will not 
 have found out by that time that she 
 has feelings of her own. Feelings, for- 
 sooth ! do you know, my dear d'Au- 
 ban, that you have gained some strange 
 ideas in the New World ? " 
 
 " Or by staying out of the Old one, 
 my dear baron. It is wonderful how 
 absence modifies one's views of certain 
 things. It takes time to tune oneself 
 to the key of European civilization." 
 
 " Your daughter finds Raoul agreea- 
 ble, I hope?" 
 
 "Indeed, she does; but truly, my 
 dear friend, she is too much of a child 
 fully to appreciate yet the honour you 
 do her." 
 
 " But why is she then so tall ? she 
 takes one in." 
 
 " Ah ! she has seen and felt too much 
 for one so young." 
 
 "Ah! feeling again! Feeling and 
 thinking will be the ruin of the present 
 generation." 
 
 There was truth, in one sense, in the 
 Baron's observation. The thinking of 
 
240 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO. BE TRUE. 
 
 Voltaire, and the feeling of Rousseau, 
 made wild havoc with the happiness 
 and the virtue of the French people. 
 Wit and sentiment are powerful agents 
 when arrayed on the side of infidelity 
 and vice. The old emigre who said to 
 Madame de Coigny, one of the cleverest 
 women of the beginning of this cen- 
 tury, " Madame, ce sont les gens <P esprit 
 qui ont perdu la France I " was not, 
 perhaps, altogether wrong, though it 
 must have been tempting to answer, 
 as she did, " Ah, monsieur I et pourguoi 
 done ne Vavez-wus pas sauvee!" But 
 poor Mina's feelings were not of Rous- 
 seau's, or- her father's philosophy of 
 Voltaire's school ; the Baron was quite 
 satisfied that she was a modest and 
 guileless child, and that his old friend 
 was as staunch a Catholic as ever 
 lived ; but there was something he did 
 not quite understand about them, some- 
 thing a little ahead of his own ideas of 
 right and wrong ; and it is curious how 
 suspicious men are of what goes beyond 
 their own standard, as much, and often 
 more, than of what falls below it. 
 
 Raoul was very angry and very un- 
 happy when his mother told him little 
 Mina would not promise to marry him ; 
 and he took a long walk by himself, 
 and would not speak to her all the 
 evening. But before she went away, 
 they made friends again, and she rode 
 that last day the dun pony once more, 
 and two or three times he saw her large 
 dark blue eyes filling with tears, as 
 Bertha and Isaure said affectionate 
 things to her. And when he whis- 
 pered, as he helped her off her horse in 
 the court of the castle, " You are not 
 sorry to part with me, Mina ; you care 
 only for my sisters ! " she blushed deep- 
 ly, and said, " I do care for you, Raoul 
 only" 
 
 " Only what ? " he asked, as they both 
 stood by the pony, patting his head. 
 ' She did not speak, her heart was so 
 full ; she was afraid of crying. 
 
 " Only you like a savage better than 
 me. Oh, Mina, I cannot forgive you." 
 
 " I never said so," she said, hiding 
 her face in the pony's mane. 
 
 " I know all about it," he said, stamp- 
 ing his foot. " I guessed it immediate- 
 ly. I should like to call him out." 
 
 " Oh, Raoul ! " she said, raising her 
 tearful eyes to his, "who is a savage 
 now?" 
 
 " But I cannot bear you to love him 
 better than me." 
 
 "There are such different kinds of 
 love. You never saved my life ; you 
 never adopted me; you are not alone 
 in the world ; you have every thing to 
 make you happy, and he has nothing." 
 
 " If he has your love, Mina, he has 
 every thing I care to have. But you say 
 you have a kind of love for me. What 
 sort of a love is it?" 
 
 " I don't know ; I should like to die 
 for him, if it would make him happy." 
 
 " But you would like to spend your 
 life with me to be my wife ? " 
 
 " No ; I will never be anybody's 
 wife." 
 
 " I do not believe that, Mina. But 
 will you make me a promise? Will 
 you promise not to marry anybody 
 else, till I come in three years to see 
 you in the Isle de Bourbon ? " 
 
 "I don't like to make any more 
 promises," Mina answered sadly. "I 
 do not think promises are good things. 
 One must keep them, you know, Raoul. 
 But I am sure I shall not marry till you 
 come." 
 
 This was said with a look which was 
 very like a promise. He felt it as such, 
 and he told his mother so. And after 
 Mina went away, he was always think- 
 ing of these words, and of her look 
 when they were said. And he often 
 patted the dun pony, and fed it out of 
 his hand ; and his sisters smiled when 
 they saw how fond he was of it ; and 
 Isaure peeped into his room, one day, 
 and saw on his table the book of old 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 241 
 
 romaunts he used to read to them in 
 the library, and the life of Father Cla- 
 ver, which Mina had forgot in hers. 
 She was very sorry when she missed 
 it. It was the book Ontara and she 
 were to finish reading when they met 
 again, and she had left it behind at 
 the chateau. Had she left any thing 
 else behind? Not that she knew of, 
 but her mother sometimes thought so. 
 
 Some months elapsed, and a ship 
 was nearing the Isle de Bourbon. The 
 passengers were standing on deck 
 watching the coast becoming every 
 moment more distinct. This vessel 
 had had a long and wearisome passage. 
 For three weeks it had been becalmed. 
 Madame d'Auban thought of her voy- 
 age to America with the German emi- 
 grants, when her despair was at its 
 height, and could not find it in her 
 heart to complain now of the deep 
 stillness which reigned on the sea ; of 
 the breezeless days and the sultry 
 nights. Not but that she and her 
 husband had anxious thoughts about 
 the future. Not but that she dreaded, 
 she scarcely knew why, the arrival at 
 Bourbon. She had a presentiment 
 d'Auban had never persuaded her out 
 of her belief in them that a crisis in 
 their fate was at hand ; and perhaps, 
 in spite of all the inconveniences of the 
 voyage, she dreaded its coming to an 
 end. But now the shores of the. fair 
 island, its verdant undulating hills with 
 their grand background of mountains, 
 rose before their eyes as they went 
 on deck at sunrise. St. Andre" and 
 S**- Suzanne, and the bright little river 
 of St. Jean, and St. Denys, the town 
 where they were to land, were succes- 
 sively pointed out to them. As they 
 drew nearer they discerned the negroes 
 at work in the fields, and the planters' 
 houses, and the people almost all dressed 
 in white, and wearing straw hats. 
 
 " Oh, mamma 1 " Mina exclaimed, 
 " there is a concession, and such a pretty 
 16 
 
 habitation 1 And, oh, look at those 
 palm-trees, and at those pines, and at 
 the oleanders and the orange-trees, and 
 the black women gathering the blos- 
 soms. Is it not beautiful ? Is it not 
 like Louisiana ? " 
 
 As the ship glided into the port, 
 crowds gathered at the landing-place 
 to watch the disembarkation of the 
 numerous passengers. A government 
 officer came on board to examine the 
 passports. They were handed to him, 
 and as he read the names, he also atten- 
 tively looked at the persons who pre- 
 sented them. When Colonel d'Auban's 
 was given to him, he looked up quick- 
 ly, and then said, in a low voice, to one 
 of the men who accompanied him, 
 " These are the persons the governor 
 expects. He is to be immediately 
 informed of their arrival. Send this 
 passport at once to the government 
 house." 
 
 Madame d'Auban overheard the whis- 
 per, and turned as pale as death. She 
 was obliged to catch hold of her hus- 
 band's arm to support herself. She 
 instantly apprehended that a quicker 
 sailing vessel than their own had pre- 
 viously arrived and brought orders to 
 arrest them. This blow seemed almost 
 more than she could bear. D'Auban 
 had been looking ill again, and she 
 had fixed her hopes on the benefit he 
 would derive from a warm climate and 
 a settled mode of life. The fear of 
 fresh troubles and miseries seemed 
 quite to overwhelm her. 
 
 " It was hard," she thought, " if they 
 were not suffered to live in obscurity 
 in this remote island." 
 
 Tired and exhausted, she began to 
 weep bitterly, regardless of the by- 
 standers. It was that sort of weeping 
 induced by fatigue even more than by 
 grief, but which, when joined with it, 
 can neither be stayed nor checked. 
 Her husband, who did not know the 
 cause of her distress, hurried her en 
 
242 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 shore. Though the passport had not 
 been returned, no one opposed their 
 landing. Madame d'Auban and Mina 
 were conveyed in a litter to the house 
 of M. Thirlemont, a gentleman to 
 whom a Mend in Paris had recom- 
 mended them, and who, with the well- 
 known hospitality of the Bourbon Cre- 
 oles, had invited the new comers to 
 take up their abode with him. He 
 was one of the wealthiest landowners 
 of the island, and his habitation, just 
 outside the town, almost a palace. 
 "When the litter, carried by four blacks, 
 stopped in front of the entrance door, 
 he came out with his wife to greet their 
 guests. When Madame Thirlemont 
 caught sight of them, she cried out, 
 "It is Madame d'Auban, monsieur, I 
 told you it must be her ;" and to the 
 astonishment of that lady she clasped 
 her to her breast. 
 
 At the first instant neither Mina nor 
 her mother recollected who she was, 
 but after a minute both exclaimed 
 almost at the same time, "Madame 
 Lenoir ! " 
 
 " Ah ! not any longer Madame Le- 
 noir," answered their hostess, as she 
 led them through the hall into the 
 drawing-room. " A life of single bless- 
 edness did not suit me at all. M. 
 Thirlemont came on business to New 
 Orleans soon after our deliverance from 
 those abominable savages. I am sure 
 we can never be thankful enough to 
 Colonel d'Auban," she turned round 
 and bowed to him, " for so gallantly 
 coming to our rescue. Ah, my charm- 
 ing Mina, I hope since you have been 
 in Paris, you have got over your pref- 
 erence for those wicked wretches who 
 so nearly murdered us. But as I was 
 telling you, M. Thirlemont offered me 
 his hand, and I have really had no 
 reason to regret having accepted it, 
 though of course I did not do so with- 
 out much hesitation, seeing all I had 
 gone through in consequence of my 
 
 first marriage. Not that I mean to 
 say that it was M. Lenoir's fault, poor 
 man ! Ah, Madame d'Auban, when we 
 used to talk over our mutual sorrows, I 
 was most to be pitied. Providence was, 
 however, preparing for me a happy com- 
 pensation," this was said with a sweet 
 smile and glance at M. Thirlemont, 
 whose jovial countenance and loud 
 cheerful laugh seemed indeed calcu- 
 lated to offer a contrast to the trag- 
 ical passages of Madame Lenoir's his- 
 tory. 
 
 After some further conversation had 
 taken place, and just as Madame Thirle- 
 mont was about to conduct her guests 
 to their apartments, a servant came 
 into the room and presented a letter to 
 M. Thirlemont. He hastily read it, and 
 then placed it in his wife's hands. A 
 cloud suddenly overshadowed her face, 
 and her demeanour to her guests be- 
 came cold and dignified. The letter 
 was from the governor. It was a most 
 puzzling one. There was no guessing 
 its drift. " His excellency requested M. 
 Thirlemont, at whose house he under- 
 stood Colonel and Madame d'Auban had 
 arrived, not on any account to let them 
 depart before he had seen them, and 
 added, that as soon as some pressing 
 business he had on hand was conclud- 
 ed, he would come there himself, as he 
 wished for a private interview with his 
 
 The messenger who had brought 
 this missive was cross-questioned by 
 Madame Thirlemont, who went out to 
 speak to him. 
 
 "The governor," he said, "had ap- 
 peared excited when he heard of Col- 
 onel d'Auban's arrival, and immediate- 
 ly sent to inquire where they were 
 gone. He had been ordered to lose no 
 time in delivering the letter his excel- 
 lency had written." 
 
 Madame Thirlemont made her pi 
 It struck her this was an emergency 
 which required prudence and resolv 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 243 
 
 tion. She hastened back to the draw- 
 ing-room, and once more proposed to 
 conduct Madame d'Auban to the cham- 
 ber prepared for her, and then by a 
 bold stroke, which might, if necessary, 
 be explained away as an accident, she 
 locked the door and carried away the 
 key. Then rushing to the one where 
 her husband had just left d'Auban, she 
 took the same precaution. 
 
 "What are you doing, madame?" 
 exclaimed the astonished M. Thirle- 
 mont, who was still in the passage. 
 
 The lady placed her finger on her 
 lips, and drew her husband into a small 
 room on the ground floor, which was 
 his own sitting room. There she was 
 proceeding also to lock the door, but 
 this he would not stand. 
 
 " Madame, are you gone out of your 
 mind ? " he asked. 
 
 She again laid her finger on her 
 lips, and answered, in an impressive 
 whisper, "Monsieur, this is not the 
 time for irrelevant, and I might add, 
 indecorous exclamations. We are in 
 a position of the greatest, of the most 
 awful, responsibility. If I was liable 
 to go out of my mind, I suppose I 
 should have done so when M. Lenoir 
 was murdered, or on the night when I 
 so narrowly escaped being a martyr." 
 Madame Thirlemont's idea of martyr- 
 dom consisted in dying a painful death, 
 and going in consequence as a matter 
 of course to heaven, a sort of pisaller 
 which she evidently thought we must 
 all come to at last. 
 
 " As I did not go out of my mind 
 then, I suppose I shall not do so now, 
 though the circumstances in which we 
 are placed might very reasonably drive 
 one mad . ." 
 
 " Oh ! if you please do not go mad, 
 madame ; that would only make mat- 
 ters worse, whatever the matter is; 
 but" 
 
 "Do not say but, M. Thirlemont. 
 Look the matter in the face, and give 
 
 your attention to it. These people are 
 the same who were in Louisiana at the 
 time of the Natches insurrection. M. 
 d'Auban led the force which delivered 
 me and many others from the hands 
 of the savages, and I saw them after- 
 wards in New Orleans." 
 
 "Well, but what of that?" 
 
 "Ohl very well, M. Thirlemont; if 
 it is 'Well, but what of that!' if I 
 am considered a fool if every thing I 
 say is turned into ridicule, I have done. 
 M. Lenoir would not have acted in that 
 way ; he had reliance on my judgment ; 
 he never did any thing but by my ad- 
 vice " 
 
 "And ended by being murdered, 
 poor man ! " ejaculated, in an incau- 
 tious moment, M. Thirlemont. 
 
 This was indeed a fair ground of 
 attack ; a justifiable theme for his in- 
 jured wife to descant upon. He had 
 accused her of some sort of complicity 
 with her first husband's murderers of 
 having, at least, recommended him to 
 follow the course which led to that 
 result ; and there seemed for some time 
 little prospect of M. and Madame 
 d'Auban being released from captivity, 
 or M. Thirlemont from the conjugal 
 tete-a-tete, to judge from the torrent of 
 words, pathetic, passionate, and utterly 
 senseless, which flowed from his wife's 
 lips. But it came to an end at last, 
 and when she paused to take breath 
 he inquired once again, but taking care 
 to avoid any offensive insinuation, why 
 their guests were to be suspected be- 
 cause they had been in Louisiana at 
 the time of the insurrection, and shared, 
 with many others, and Madame Thirle- 
 mont herself, the sufferings of the 
 colonists. She then explained that 
 somebody at New Orleans had once 
 said to her that there were strange 
 stories about the d'Aubans. No details 
 had been given. One of those asser- 
 tions had been made which, like the 
 seed blown about by the wind, and 
 

 244 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 which gives birth to many a noxious 
 weed, propagates mischief with fatal 
 facility. A strange story about some- 
 body, which the speaker himself does 
 not know much about, has often done 
 more harm than a positive calumny. 
 A direct charge friends can reply to. 
 But who could always deny that, in 
 their own or others' lives' there have 
 been no strange stories ? The few who 
 knew the details of the one we have 
 been describing, could certainly not 
 have denied its strangeness. 
 
 " But why lock them up ? " persisted 
 M. Thirlemont. "Whatever stories 
 there may be about or against them, I 
 do not see the use of that." 
 
 " Not see the use of it ? Why, does 
 not the governor charge you not to let 
 them go till he comes." 
 
 "But he cannot intend that we 
 should keep them prisoners. He would 
 have had them arrested, if such had 
 been his meaning. For heaven's sake, 
 go and unlock those doors before he 
 arrives. I declare there is the sound 
 of a horse's feet in the avenue ! Give 
 me the keys, and go and meet his ex- 
 cellency." 
 
 Madame Thirlemont hurried into the 
 hall, and confronted with no little 
 trepidation the Governor-General M. 
 de La Bourdonnais, who had never 
 honoured her before with a visit. She 
 curtseyed profoundly, and at once pro- 
 ceeded to assure him that it was by the 
 merest chance in the world that the 
 strangers who were just arrived hap- 
 pened to be at her house. From the 
 first moment of their arrival, she had 
 had suspicions that there was some- 
 thing unsatisfactory about them; in- 
 deed, it had been quite against her 
 advice that M. Thirlemont had shown 
 them hospitality : but gentlemen would 
 have their own way. ... M. de La 
 Bourdonnais patiently awaited the 
 ebbing of this tide of self-defence, a 
 slightly sarcastic smile hovering on his 
 
 lips, and then requested to be shown 
 into a room where he could see M. and 
 Madame d'Auban. He was accordingly 
 ushered into the drawing-room, where 
 M. Thirlemont had politely led his 
 guests, who had been perfectly unaware 
 of their temporary imprisonment. Mad- 
 ame d'Auban, when she heard that the 
 governor wished for an interview with 
 her husband and herself, had trembled 
 from head to foot, and the respectful 
 manner with which he approached her 
 only tended to heighten her fears. In 
 her husband's heart a feeling of indig- 
 nation was rising. Wild thoughts 
 were passing through his mind about 
 the tyranny of kings and the iron yoke 
 of despotism. Both saw at once that 
 her position was perfectly known, and 
 that a crisis in their fates must be at 
 hand. Still both preserved their self- 
 command, and received with courteous- 
 ness the governor's greetings. After a 
 few preliminary remarks and inquiries 
 as to their healtjb, the length of their 
 voyage, and their first impressions of 
 the island, he said that the last ship 
 from France had brought an order from 
 his majesty (Madame d'Auban became 
 very pale) to name Colonel d'Auban to 
 the post of sub-governor of the island ; 
 and to offer him also the direction of all 
 the agricultural operations carried on 
 by the government in its own domains. 
 He was also desired by the king to 
 place at Madame d'Auban's disposal 
 the habitation of St. Andre, one of the 
 most salubrious and agreeable resi- 
 dences in the neighbourhood of St. 
 Deny's ; " as desirable a one," he add- 
 ed, in a low voice, " as the island could 
 offer for a lady of exalted rank." 
 
 A deep flush overspread Madame 
 d'Auban's cheek, which soon subsided. 
 She looked at her husband. Their eyes 
 met. "The king is very good," she 
 said, in a faltering voice. Then hiding 
 her face in her hands, burst into tears. 
 M. de La Bourdonnais, with a well-bi 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 LMfi 
 
 delicacy of feeling, led away M. d'Au- 
 ban to another part of the room, and 
 gave him some details about the post 
 to which he was appointed, the emolu- 
 ments of which had been Doubled by 
 his majesty's commands. He soon took 
 leave of him and his wife with a cour- 
 tesy and a kindness which ever after- 
 wards marked his manner and conduct 
 towards them. He made a gracious 
 bow to Madame Thirlemont as he passed 
 her in the anteroom, and advised her 
 and her husband to hasten and pay 
 their respects to the new sub-governor 
 of the island, to whom they had so 
 amicably extended hospitality. This 
 was said with a smile, which had in it 
 a slight mixture of French malice, the 
 most different thing in the world from 
 malice in English. 
 
 The poor hostess experienced as 
 strong, if not as interesting, a revulsion 
 of feeling, as that which her guests had 
 felt a moment before, when the an- 
 nouncement had been made to them 
 of so unexpected a happiness. She 
 quivered all over. She repassed in her 
 memory every word she had uttered, 
 every civility she had omitted or per- 
 formed towards the new dignitaries. 
 She went back in thought even to the 
 old days at the Natches, and to the 
 night when she and Madame d'Auban 
 had been about to die side by side. 
 She was very glad of her good fortune, 
 and when, on entering the room, the 
 pale, gentle woman who had suffered 
 so much, came forward to meet her 
 with tears in her eyes, but a smile on 
 her lips, the good feelings of her heart 
 overcame her uneasiness, and she, too, 
 wept for joy at another's happiness. 
 For it was happiness she could umlrr- 
 stand and sympathize in, that of being 
 sub-governess of the Isle de Bourbon 
 and enjoying a good income. :iml pos- 
 sessing the best house in the island. 
 She did not know of the relief, the 
 peace, the release from the disquietude 
 
 of ceaseless apprehension that was per- 
 vading the heart of one by whose side 
 she sat, whose hand she held. She 
 sympathized with the obvious good 
 fortune which had befallen Madame 
 d'Auban, and did not at all wonder at 
 an emotion, the cause of which she 
 little appreciated. It did not seem to 
 her at all excessive for the occasion. 
 She would have been herself much 
 more agitated if M. Thirlemont had 
 been named sub-governor of the island. 
 On the whole, Madame d'Auban took 
 it very calmly, she thought. Yes ! she 
 was calm with the calmness of one who 
 has long battled with the waves, and 
 has reached a peaceful shore; calm 
 with the calmness of a heart at rest. 
 Calm as those are from whom a great 
 anguish has passed away, to whom a 
 great blessing has been vouchsafed. 
 She could lie down and rise in peace. 
 Her husband was now her own. The 
 fear of separation was no longer before 
 her eyes. His energies would be once 
 more directed in high and useful chan- 
 nels. The house promised to them was 
 all they could desire. Its vicinity to 
 the sea would, she knew, be to d'Auban 
 an immense enjoyment, like a friend of 
 his childhood, cheering his declining 
 years. If the trees round St. Andre 
 were not so grand as those of the pri- 
 maeval forests; if the flowers did not 
 bloteom as spontaneously in its gardens 
 as in the wild pleasure-grounds of 
 Louisiana, there .would be beauty in 
 abundance about their new abode, and 
 more repose, more security, a stronger 
 home-feeling in their position, than in 
 the lodge in the wilderness so much 
 loved in former days. 
 
 Before the Governor left, he had 
 placed in Madame d'Auban's hands a 
 sealed packet, containing letters whu h 
 explained the change in their fortunes. 
 Tin-re was a long one from the Comte 
 de Saxe. He spoke of his own surprise 
 at her departure, which he felt some- 
 
240 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 what afraid of announcing to the king. 
 Important political events had, how- 
 ever, happily supervened, and turned 
 his majesty's thoughts in another direc- 
 tion; and some days elapsed, during 
 which no inquiries were made as to the 
 princess and the interview which the 
 comte had had with her. 
 
 In the mean time, the Queen of Hun- 
 gary's reply to the king's letter arrived. 
 It expressed in courteous terms her 
 majesty's gratitude for the French mon- 
 arch's information on a point so deeply 
 interesting to her. Her royal relation, 
 she assured him, would be most warmly 
 welcomed . by her, and every honour 
 and attention due to her rank paid to 
 the sister of her late mother. His maj- 
 esty's gracious offers with regard to the 
 gentleman whom the princess had es- 
 poused in America, and the child that 
 had been born there, would, doubtless, 
 be gratefully accepted by all parties. 
 It would, of course, be impossible, as 
 his majesty justly observed, that the 
 princess, restored to her rightful posi- 
 tion, and received by her as her aunt, 
 should acknowledge that person as her 
 husband. But she trusted that a sep- 
 aration so inevitable under the circum- 
 stances, and softened by the generous 
 goodness of his majesty to all parties, 
 would be acquiesced in without diffi- 
 culty. " On the receipt of this letter, 
 the king immediately sent for me," 
 wrote the count. " He had it in his 
 hand when I entered, and after reading 
 it aloud, he said, 'You must imme- 
 diately communicate this important 
 intelligence to the Princess Charlotte 
 of Brunswick, and advise with her as 
 to the time and manner in which she 
 desires to avail herself of her royal 
 niece's invitation. I have received a 
 favourable report of Colonel d'Auban's 
 character and abilities, and I shall take 
 care of his fortune. It is fortunate that 
 the princess did not marry an adven- 
 turer.' I felt myself obliged to broach 
 
 at once the state of the case to his 
 majesty. 'Sire,' I said, 'women have 
 always been unaccountable beings; 
 they never feel or act as we should 
 expect. What will your majesty think, 
 when I tell you that the Princess Char- 
 lotte has eloped with her husband?' 
 The king started. 'When?' 'A few 
 days ago, sire.' 'Why did not you 
 inform me of this at once, M. de Saxe ? ' 
 ' I did not know it myself, sire, till 
 after the princess was gone ; and I have 
 since been occupied in seeking to dis- 
 cover where the married lovers have 
 fled.' 'And have you succeeded in 
 doing so?' 'Sire, they have sailed 
 for the Island of Bourbon.' 'What 
 an extraordinary infatuation ! ' said 
 the king. ' Strange, indeed,' I an- 
 swered with a sigh. ' But there is no 
 reasoning with a woman when she hap- 
 pens to be fond of her husband.' The 
 king laughed and said: 'The queen 
 is capable of admiring her. But what 
 can we do for them, M. de Saxe?' 
 ' Leave them alone, sire : wilful people 
 deserve to suffer.' 
 
 "'Suffer!' his majesty said, 'You 
 do not mean that the princess is without 
 fortune ? ' 
 
 " I answered nothing ; and the king, 
 after a moment's thought, exclaimed : 
 
 " ' I will make M. de Frejus write to 
 M. de La Bourdonnais and desire him 
 to treat Madame d'Auban with the 
 greatest consideration, and to bestow 
 upon her husband the post of sub-gov- 
 ernor of the island, which happens to 
 be vacant since M. d'Eperville's death. 
 Will that do, M. de Saxe ? ' 
 
 "I kissed his majesty's hand with 
 more fervent gratitude, madame, than 
 when his majesty promised me the next 
 ' baton de Marechal de France.' 
 
 " ' And I suppose,' the King said, 
 ' that I must inform the Queen of Hun- 
 gary that her royal aunt has played 
 truant, and left us all in the lurch. 
 Upon my word, M. de Saxe, I like her 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 247 
 
 for it. But I wish I had seen those 
 blue eyes I have so often heard of.' 
 
 " Madame I have but a few words to 
 add. By his majesty's desire I secretly 
 informed your royal highness's brother 
 and the other leading members of your 
 family of the extraordinary events al- 
 ready disclosed to her majesty the Queen 
 of Hungary, of the decision you had 
 taken, madame, and of your recent de- 
 parture from France. The answers 
 returned to this communication all 
 agreed in acquiescing in the course 
 your royal highness has adopted. In 
 the complicated state of affairs between 
 Russia and the German powers, it is 
 deemed advisable that the existence of 
 the Czarevitch's widow should not be 
 brought forward to public notice. Had 
 your royal highness claimed from your 
 relatives the recognition which would 
 have enabled you to resume your posi- 
 tion, they would have felt themselves 
 bound to accede to your desire, and 
 publicly to acknowledge your identity. 
 But under existing circumstances, the 
 course your royal highness's own wishes 
 have marked out is considered by the 
 duke your brother, and the other mem- 
 bers of your family, as the most condu- 
 cive to your peace of mind, and the 
 tranquillity of your relatives. They 
 are desirous, however, to secure to your 
 royal highness an annual income suffi- 
 cient to remove all pecuniary embar- 
 rassments in the position chosen by 
 yourself, and have entrusted to my care 
 the necessary arrangements for this 
 purpose. I am charged, madame, to 
 express to your royal highness the 
 affectionate sentiments of your royal 
 brother and of your other relatives, 
 and their regret that an unprecedented 
 destiny should have placed an insu- 
 perable bar between persons so closely 
 allied by the ties of consanguinity." 
 
 The day came to an end at last, and 
 Madame d'Auban was alone in her room 
 with her husband and her daughter. 
 
 They could sit quietly together, looking 
 back to the last four years of their lives 
 as to a feverish dream, and forward 
 with grateful hearts to one of usefulness 
 and peace. If they had been allowed 
 to choose for themselves, they could 
 not have fixed on a destiny more in 
 accordance with their wishes than the 
 one Providence had assigned to them. 
 From the window, where they were 
 sitting, they could see their future hab-^ 
 itation in the midst of orange gardens" 
 and coffee plantations, and trees bend- 
 ing under the weight of the most beau- 
 tiful fruits, the blue sea breaking gently 
 on the smooth yellow coast ; the even- 
 ing breeze rippling its surface without 
 stirring its depths. They could scarcely 
 speak, their hearts were too full. 
 
 "My Mina, is not this a beautiful 
 land ? " said her father, looking fondly 
 at his child. 
 
 "An earthly Paradise," murmured 
 her mother, clasping her to her breast. 
 
 Mina threw her arms round her neck 
 and covered her with kisses. Then she 
 followed with her eyes her father's hand 
 as he pointed out to her the habitation 
 of St. Andr6, and they rested on the 
 sugar-cane and cotton fields, and on 
 long lines of negroes marching home 
 from their work, followed by an over- 
 seer with a whip in his hand. She 
 cried: 
 
 " O how beautiful is the sea ! and 
 how lovely the trees and the sky ! and 
 the most beautiful thing of all, mamma, 
 is the smile on your face. I have not 
 seen you smile quite in that way since 
 we left St. Agathe P 1 
 
 "Papa," she said, gently stroking 
 her father's hand, "you will have to 
 manage a great many plantations here 
 besides the one we see from this win- 
 dow, round St. Andi 
 
 " Yes, my sweetest ; please God, we 
 may do some good here." 
 
 "You will have a great many 
 slaves?" 
 
248 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 "Yes, my child; there is no work 
 done here except by slaves." 
 
 " I wish I had not left Father Clav- 
 er's Life at the Chateau de la Croix, 
 papa. There are no slaves there. I 
 should like to read it again here." 
 
 " Do not you know it by heart, 
 Mina ? " said her father, smiling. 
 
 "Almost by heart," she answered 
 slowly, with her eyes again turning 
 towards the plantations, and the long 
 files of black men bearing their bur- 
 thens home. The story of that life- 
 long apostleship amongst the slaves 
 of Brazil had, indeed, been conned by 
 the young . girl till it had awakened 
 thoughts which 
 
 Condensed within her soul, 
 And turned to purpose strong. 
 
 There is happiness, real, intense hap- 
 piness in this world. How should we 
 guess at the joy of heaven, if we had 
 never tasted happiness on earth ? There 
 are moments when our hearts seem too 
 full of bliss for their strength. When 
 an innocent ardent wish is fulfilled; 
 when a great happiness has come to 
 one we love more than ourselves ; when 
 a long anguish is at an end, or a new 
 gladness has come to our homes, there 
 is a light, a brightness, a radiance 
 thrown over our lives beautiful in its 
 way, and it is often good to have felt 
 it. Pure earthly joys are blossoms 
 which often bear fruit when they are 
 themselves withered and gone. And 
 there are Hallowtide summers in the 
 autumn of life which have a softened 
 brilliancy of their own breathing times 
 allowed in the race of existence. Such 
 were the years which followed the ar- 
 rival of the wanderers in the Island of 
 Bourbon. By the dark blue sea he so 
 much loved, amidst the spicy groves 
 and orange flowers of that delicious 
 land, in the performance of pleasant 
 duties and the fullest enjoyment of 
 domestic happiness, their hearts over- 
 
 flowing with affection for each other 
 and for their child; beloved by their 
 dependants; all but worshipped by 
 their slaves, whose fate was exception- 
 ably happy, and generally liked by 
 their neighbours; months and years 
 went by in peaceful serenity. Some 
 colonists, indeed, were wont to remark 
 that Colonel d'Auban had eccentric 
 ideas on certain points. He had been 
 known to invite to dinner a well-edu- 
 cated quadroon, and to take into his 
 house the widow of a man who had 
 died of a broken heart, because his 
 father had cursed and disinherited him 
 for marrying a woman with negro blood 
 in her veins; and he permitted his 
 daughter to do extraordinary things, 
 which did not always meet with public 
 approval. But the girl was so beautiful, 
 and so beloved, and looked so like an 
 angel, that much was not said on that 
 score. And Madame d'Auban we would 
 fain take leave of her in her pretty 
 rooms, or her charming garden ; greet- 
 ing every friend with kind words, every 
 stranger with a courteous smile, every 
 sufferer with soothing sympathy. Less 
 active than of yore, for the climate was 
 enervating, she often reclined on a 
 couch in the verandah, whence she 
 could see the waves rippling on the 
 shore, and the white vessels nearing 
 the coast. Visitors crowded about the 
 sub-governor's lovely wife, and whispers 
 went abroad that she was not born a 
 thousand miles away from a palace. 
 Rumours more or less removed from 
 the truth, but generally credited in the 
 island, ascribed her ample means, her 
 boundless generosity, and the union in 
 her manner of courteousness and dig- 
 nity, of kindness and reserve, to a regal 
 origin, vaguely and variously hinted at. 
 Yes, it would be well thus to part with 
 her. The present is bright, and the 
 future smiling. For Raoul de la Croix 
 is soon coming to seek his young bride, 
 now no longer portionless, and when 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 249 
 
 Mina is happily married there will be 
 nothing left for her mother to wish. 
 This would be a pleasant way of con- 
 cluding a tale ; but the story, the le- 
 gend, if you will, which we have been 
 endeavouring to illustrate, ends not 
 
 here ; and there are some who may wish 
 to trace to its close the course of so 
 strange a life. For them the following 
 pages are written. Let others close 
 the book, if from weariness they have 
 not done so yet. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Here I Cain would end, 
 
 Leaving her harbour'd; but her stern kind fetes, 
 Not thus forwent her. Like her life, her death ; 
 Not negative or neutral ; great in pains, 
 La consolations greater. Aubrey d Vere. 
 
 Slowly across the gleaming sky, 
 A crowd of white angels are passing by; 
 Like a fleet of swans they float along, 
 Or the silver notes of a dying song, 
 Like a cloud of incense their pinions rise, 
 Fading away up the purple skies. 
 But hush, for the silent glory is stirred, 
 By a strain such as earth has never heard. 
 Open, Oh heaven 1 we bear her, 
 
 This gentle maiden mild, 
 Earth's griefs we gladly spare her, 
 From earthly joys we tear her, 
 
 still undeflled. 
 And to thine arms we bear her, 
 
 Thine own, thy child. 
 Open, Oh heavens 1 no morrow 
 
 Will see this Joy o'ercast, 
 No pain, no tears, no sorrow, 
 Her gentle heart will borrow ; 
 
 Sad life is past 
 
 Shielded and safe from sorrow, 
 At home at last. Adelaide Proctor. 
 
 MANY years later than the date of the, 
 last chapter, at the close of a Novem- 
 ber day, in Brussels, the shutters were 
 being closed in the small sitting-room 
 of a rez du chautsee in the rue de Pare, 
 not far from the Cathedral of St. Gu- 
 dule. A lamp had just been placed on 
 the table, where an elderly lady, dressed 
 in black, was tying up a variety of par- 
 cels, and writing upon them the names 
 of the articles they contained. 
 
 " Antoine," she said to the old man 
 who was stirring the fire and trying to 
 
 make the room comfortable, " is not to- 
 morrow the day that the case must be 
 sent to the Foreign Missions ? " 
 
 " To-day is Thursday ; to-morrow 
 consequently Friday. Yes, madame, 
 I must take it to the office before four 
 o'clock." 
 
 Then lingering by the table as if 
 glad of an excuse for remaining in the 
 room, he glanced at the parcels and 
 said 
 
 "My goodness! how glad Pcre Marie 
 Guillaume will be when he looks at all 
 
250 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 these fine things! Let me see; mad- 
 ame sends him six dozen crucifixes 
 he asked for three dozen in his last 
 letter and as many dozens of rosaries 
 and pictures; and the Gospels just 
 printed in Paris, in the Indian lan- 
 guage ; and a chalice, a very handsome 
 one too ! and vestments they would not 
 despise at St. Gudule. Faith! the 
 good father will be famously well set 
 up. And what are these things, I won- 
 der ! Clothes, I declare ; red and blue 
 and yellow handkerchiefs for Mesdames 
 les Sauvagesses, as poor M. de Cham- 
 belle used to say." 
 
 " Somebody is ringing, Antoine. It 
 is perhaps M. le Cure, or the nuns of 
 St. Charles." 
 
 Antoine went to the door, and re- 
 mained for a few minutes in conversa- 
 tion with the person outside. When 
 he came back into the room he looked 
 a little excited. 
 
 " A gentleman asks to see madame 
 somebody she knows very well, but 
 whom she has not seen for a long 
 time." 
 
 " Who is it ? " she quickly answered. 
 
 " Madame, it is the Comte Marechal 
 de Saxe." 
 
 Madame d'Auban, for the pale and 
 now gray-headed woman in this little 
 lodging was the same who, during 
 half a century of her earthly pilgrim- 
 age, had gone through such extraordi- 
 nary vicissitudes, heaved a deep sigh 
 and passed her thin hand over her 
 brow. 
 
 "Beg M. le Marechal to come in," 
 she said, and rose to receive him. 
 
 There was but little visible emotion 
 in her manner when first they met. He 
 seemed embarrassed, as persons often 
 are when they come into the presence 
 of one whom they suppose to be in 
 great afiliction. She greeted him kind- 
 ly, but a careless observer would have 
 said, coldly 
 
 "It is very good of you to have 
 
 thought of me, M. de Saxe. Several 
 years have elapsed since my return to 
 Europe, and during all that time I have 
 not seen any one I used to know. You 
 are looking well. I perceive time has 
 dealt leniently with you. It is only in 
 fame that you can be considered old." 
 This was said with a smile which re- 
 called to his mind, though faintly, the 
 smiles of other days. 
 
 " And you, madame," he answered, 
 "you whom fate has so cruelly 
 used . . . ." 
 
 She waved her hand, and interrupt- 
 ed him. "No, my dear friend, say 
 not so; God has been very good to 
 me." 
 
 For a moment neither of them spoke, 
 he looked at her faded eyes, her gray 
 hair, tied and turned up according to 
 the fashion of the day, but not pow- 
 dered, only bound by a black ribbon, 
 and a cap such as widows wore at that 
 period. He remembered how those 
 pale blue eyes had flashed the last time 
 they had met at the thought of a 
 human power thrusting itself between 
 her and those she loved, and now, " the 
 fire has gone out of them ; quenched 
 by many tears," he said to himself. 
 And then he glanced at a picture over 
 the chimney, but quickly turned his 
 eyes away till he saw that hers were 
 fixed upon it. 
 
 " Do you think it like ?" she asked. 
 
 " I never saw in my life any thing so 
 like," he answered ; and then after a 
 little hesitation, said, " Madame, I have 
 never forgotten that face. It has 
 haunted me at strange times, and in 
 strange ways. Is it painful to you to 
 speak of her?" 
 
 " No, Maurice, I find a sweetness in 
 it. Except sometimes to my old ser- 
 vant, I never breathe her name. But 
 it is not because I fear to do so. You 
 remember her, then ? " 
 
 " I see her as if she was still standing 
 before me with her wonderful beauty, 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 251 
 
 and that gaze which had in it all a 
 woman's tenderness and a child's sim- 
 plicity. It was not her mind only, but 
 her whole soul which seemed to speak 
 in her face. All, madame I how could 
 death be so cruel as to rob you of that 
 fair creature? How dared it to ap- 
 proach her ? " 
 
 " She did not think it cruel, she wel- 
 comed it with a smile, and the last 
 words on her lips were Deo gratias." 
 
 " Was it a sudden illness snatched 
 her from your arms, princess, or did 
 you watch the slow decline of that 
 young existence ? " 
 
 " Do you wish to hear about her, M. 
 de Saxe ? Would you like her mother 
 to relate to you the life and death of 
 the little girl you remember so well ? " 
 
 "Nothing could interest me more. 
 But you, dear friend, have you the 
 strength to go through this recital ? '' 
 
 "I should wish you to know what 
 she was. How in the words of the 
 Bible, * Being perfect in a short space 
 she fulfilled a long time.' Ever since 
 she could think or speak, Mina's pas- 
 sion, if I may so speak, was charity. 
 At the time you knew her, the tempo- 
 ral sufferings and the spiritual necessi- 
 ties of the people amongst whom she 
 was born, the Indians of North Amer- 
 ica, were continually in her thoughts, 
 and her attachment to the young In- 
 dian who had adopted her as his sister 
 at the period of our captivity, partly 
 arose from this engrossing feeling. 
 She looked upon him as the represent- 
 ative of that suffering race, and before 
 we left France, she refused the hand 
 of the Chevalier de la Croix, whom we 
 wished her to marry, on account of the 
 promise she had made to this Indian 
 not to marry a white man. She seem- 
 ed to consider it -as a pledge to devote 
 herself in some form or other to his, 
 and, as she called them, her own peo- 
 ple. We did not thwart her on this 
 point, which we looked upon as a 
 
 childish fancy. She was too young at 
 that time to be married, and the chev- 
 alier's parents were willing to wait 
 After our arrival at Bourbon, and our 
 establishment at St. Andr6, the slaves 
 became the object of her intense solici- 
 tude. Whilst we were still in America, 
 at the convent I believe, she had be- 
 come possessed of a life of Father 
 Peter Claver, which had made the 
 deepest impression on her. You are 
 not a Catholic, Maurice, but you may 
 have heard of this wonderful man ? " 
 
 " Is he not the priest who was called 
 the apostle of the Brazils ? " 
 
 "Yes; for forty years and more he 
 laboured under the burning sun of 
 South America, and devoted himself, 
 soul and body, to the conversion of the 
 negroes in and around Carthagena. 
 His life was spent in consoling, reliev- 
 ing, and instructing them. In the 
 pestilential holds of the slave ships he 
 went to greet them on their arrival. 
 He passed whole days in the noisome 
 buildings to which they were consign,- 
 ed on landing, breathing an air which 
 after a few minutes caused the strong- 
 est men to faint away. He followed 
 them to the scenes of their labours ; to 
 the homes of their purchasers. He 
 mediated between them and their 
 masters, and exposed himself to ill 
 treatment for their sakes. It was giv- 
 en to him to work miracles in their 
 behalf; the hearts of cruel men soften- 
 ed when he spoke ; cupidity and cruel- 
 ty stayed their hands at his word. M. 
 de Saxe, from the moment of our arri- 
 val at St. Andre, Mina took this holy 
 man for her model ; and I dare to say 
 that in her measure, and with her fee- 
 ble strength, she copied into her own 
 the features of that saintly life. The 
 same love which burnt in his heart, 
 inflamed hers. It was a consuming 
 fire. It sustained her strength, even 
 whilst her fragile form wasted away. 
 It could not be stayed. We could not, 
 
252 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 dared not, stop her work. She would 
 have obeyed our commands, but the 
 effort would have destroyed her more 
 quickly than the work itself. "What 
 that child effected in three years is 
 almost incredible. How many slie in- 
 structed, converted, and reconciled to 
 their fate. How many she brought to 
 be sincere Christians, instead of nomi- 
 nal converts. How many she saved 
 from cruel treatment; for she some- 
 times succeeded where the magistrates, 
 and even the governor himself, had no 
 power, and priests no influence. There 
 was scarcely a slaveowner in the neigh- 
 bourhood .who would not listen to her 
 when she begged, on her knees, and 
 as a favour to herself, the remission of 
 a sentence or the pardon of a runaway 
 slave. She was so beautiful, so en- 
 gaging, so eloquent. M. de La Bour- 
 donnais, that great and good man, 
 now in the Bastille, for having dared 
 to defend the cause of humanity and 
 good faith against the passions and 
 prejudices of interested men, used to 
 say that when discouragement at the 
 sight of evil, which all his efforts could 
 not prevent, stole upon him, the sight 
 of Mina at work amongst the slaves, 
 strengthened and cheered him. And 
 the poor negroes of our own plan- 
 tations, how they worshipped her! 
 And with what wonder those freshly 
 imported from Africa looked upon the 
 white angel who met them on their 
 arrival ! Many of them, when they 
 landed after the horrors of the passage, 
 were sunk into sullen despair. They 
 were persuaded that nothing but tor- 
 tures and death awaited them, and 
 would not listen to any white man, 
 whether priest or layman. But Mina 
 could always gain a hearing. She had 
 learnt the Angola language, which 
 most of them speak ; or, if they belong- 
 ed to other tribes, her early acquaint- 
 ance with the use of signs gave her 
 facilities for communicating with them. 
 
 I really believe that at first they took 
 her for a celestial visitant. No other 
 European woman came near them. 
 The sight of their wounds the stench 
 of the places they inhabited on first 
 landing kept them away, even from 
 the vicinity of these buildings. But 
 she used to go with her father or with 
 Antoine. I can see her before me, even 
 now, starting on these errands of mer- 
 cy ; her face literally beaming with joy; 
 her large straw hat shielding it from 
 the sun ; the wide pockets of her green 
 silk apron filled with sweetmeats and 
 biscuits, whilst some of our own slaves 
 carried behind her fruit and wine and 
 cooling drinks. The angel in the 
 fiery furnace, breathing a moist refresh- 
 ing wind through its flames, could 
 scarcely have been more welcome than 
 this dear child in those haunts of woe. 
 She used, her father told me, to kiss 
 the children and embrace the women. 
 He hardly liked to see her do it, so 
 loathsome sometimes were those poor 
 wretches ; but the effect was unfailing. 
 Their hearts were touched, and despair 
 vanished before her like a dark mist 
 before the sunshine. And it was all 
 done so simply, so joyously ! It was 
 such a real joy to her. When notice 
 was given us of the arrival of a ship 
 laden with slaves, her impatience to 
 rush to the port, her active prepara- 
 tions, her solicitude as to the selection 
 of her little gifts and offerings, was 
 like that of an affectionate child an- 
 ticipating the arrival of much-loved 
 relatives. M. de Saxe, am I wearying 
 you?" 
 
 "Madame, I remember once saying 
 to your angelic daughter, that next to 
 fighting battles, I loved to .hear of 
 them. Next to the happiness of per- 
 forming heroic deeds, is that of listen- 
 ing to the record of such a life as 
 hers." 
 
 " We saw that she was growing every 
 day more delicately fair, her complex- 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 253 
 
 ion more transparent, and the light in 
 her eyes more unearthly in its bright- 
 ness. But there was no feebleness in 
 her step no alteration in her spirits. 
 She was always ready for every exer- 
 tion. No call upon her strength seemed 
 to tax it too much. She used to ride 
 with her father, or with our old servant 
 if he was too busy, to every hut in the 
 neighbourhood where there was sick- 
 ness, to every spot where help or con- 
 solation was needed. Sometimes, if a 
 great wrong was done, or some act of 
 cruelty committed towards a slave 
 which she could not prevent, a passion- 
 ate burst of grief and indignation 
 would shake her frail form, and bring 
 out a crimson spot upon the marble 
 paleness of her cheek. She would go 
 into a church, or into her own little 
 room, and I have heard her pray for 
 hours prostrate on the ground. I have 
 no doubt her prayers were heard, and 
 often obtained what she sought. 
 
 " Three years and more had elapsed 
 since we had left France. One day a 
 letter came which announced the ap- 
 proaching arrival of the Chevalier de 
 la Croix. A singular feeling came over 
 both my husband and myself, as we 
 found afterwards, though at the time 
 we did not know how to put it into 
 words, and did not mention it to each 
 other. We wished as much as ever 
 this marriage to take place, but we 
 dreaded to speak of it to Mina. Less 
 than ever we felt that she could be con- 
 strained in the free exercise of her 
 choice of a state of life. Perhaps she 
 would still plead the old promise, the 
 old allegiance she had alleged three 
 years before. She had not alluded to 
 it again, nor had we spoken to her of 
 marriage. Letters had passed between 
 her and Ontara. He seemed to be 
 making rapid progress in knowledge 
 and in virtue. In two years his studies 
 would be finished, and then he hoped 
 to visit us in our new home. One day, 
 
 about this time, she received one from 
 him, and the expression in her face 
 whilst she read it, immediately showed 
 me that its contents were deeply inter- 
 esting. An exclamation burst from her 
 lips ; she let the letter drop, and clasp- 
 ing her hands together, she bent her 
 head over them, pouring forth thanks- 
 givings, as I found afterwards, but at 
 the moment I felt uneasy, not knowing 
 if she was sorrowing or rejoicing. But 
 the instant she raised it, I saw it was 
 joyful emotion which filled her soul. 
 
 " What is it, dearest ? " I asked, still 
 feeling anxious. 
 
 " * I am too happy ! ' she cried. 
 'Oh, too, too happy! It is what I 
 have longed and prayed for. Ontara 
 is going to be a priest. God has put 
 it into his heart to devote himself to 
 His service, and to that of his brethren. 
 As soon as he is ordained, he wftl be 
 sent to the Missions of New France to 
 preach the Gospel to his own people. 
 Oh, dearest mamma, I am so happy; 
 I have nothing left to wish. He will 
 do for them what I could never have 
 done. Mamma, you know the Indians 
 were my first love, though I am so fond 
 of our poor negroes now.' 
 
 "Well, I was very happy also, and 
 yet my heart was not free from a vague 
 uneasiness. I have always been a be- 
 liever in presentiments; is it not one 
 of our German traditions ? Some days 
 afterwards we spoke to Mina of Raoul's 
 approaching arrival, and her father 
 said to her : 
 
 " ' Now, my Mina, that Ontara has 
 renounced every worldly tie, I suppose 
 you consider yourself free from a prom- 
 ise which we always told you was not 
 binding ? ' 
 
 " She smiled, and answered 
 
 " * Oh yes, he gives me back my prom- 
 ise in his lost letter. I do not think 
 he thought of it, of late at least, as 
 seriously as I did/ 
 
 " * And have you now any difficulty 
 
254 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 in receiving Raoul de la Croix as your 
 future husband ? ' 
 
 "I have never forgotten the expres- 
 sion of her face when this question was 
 put to her. She did not seem troubled 
 or grieved, or glad, but a tender, 
 thoughtful look came over it. She 
 took up her long accustomed position 
 between us, joined our hands together, 
 and then kissing them, said, 'Would 
 it make you happy ? ' Her father said, 
 ' Yes.' I kissed her without speaking. 
 * Let him come, 1 she said ; ' dear 
 Raoul, I shall be so glad to see him.' 
 My dear friend, he came, and she re- 
 ceived him with that holy serenity of 
 expression which you see in her picture. 
 It was taken at that time. She showed 
 him much affection, maidenly, tender, 
 gentle love. He was all that we could 
 desire, good, generous, and brave. He 
 had treasured up in his heart the re- 
 membrance of Mina, as he had known 
 her at fourteen, and he all but wor- 
 shipped the girl of seventeen who was 
 about to become his wife ; but he has 
 since told me that though he fell pas- 
 sionately in love with her, he had, 
 from the first moment of his arrival, a 
 misgiving that there was something 
 too pure, too ethereal, he had almost 
 said, too divine about her for an earth- 
 ly bride. I think myself that she had 
 a clear presentiment of her approaching 
 death, and did not expect to live to 
 marry him. She seemed very happy 
 during the weeks which followed his 
 arrival. Two or three times she said, 
 ' I am so glad Raoul is come. I am so 
 glad you will have a son.' I used to 
 listen to his joyous laugh and her 
 sweet voice mingling together, as they 
 sat on the seashore, like the whispering 
 of the breeze and the ripple of the 
 waves. She seemed willing to give up 
 much of her time to him, and was 
 always ready to talk and to laugh 
 when he was in the humour for it. 
 Poor Raoul ! he is now married, and 
 
 has children, but I do not think as 
 long as he lives he will forget those 
 conversations in the shaddock grove, 
 by the blue southern sea. I observed 
 that she visited by turns all her poor 
 negroes, and made them little presents 
 as if taking leave of them, though 
 nothing had yet been said about her 
 departure from Bourbon. We knew 
 she must go to Europe if she married, 
 but no definite time had been men- 
 tioned." 
 
 Madame d'Auban paused, and the 
 Marechal de Saxe exclaimed abruptly, 
 "You cannot go on. I am sure you 
 cannot go on ! " His eyes were full of 
 tears. 
 
 "Yes," she said, "I will tell you all. 
 This is probably the last time we shall 
 meet, and the last time I shall speak 
 of her to one whom I knew and she 
 knew. I should not have done so, per- 
 haps, but that a short time before she 
 died, she said she hoped I should see 
 you again, and that I was to give you 
 her love." 
 
 Tears were now running down the 
 marshal's cheeks, and he murmured, 
 "God bless her!" 
 
 " It was one morning, on a very hot 
 day, that she fell ill, that is, if that 
 painless, quiet sinking into the arms 
 of death, which it was, could be called 
 an illness. A ship laden with slaves 
 had arrived in the night, and when 
 she heard of it, as usual, she prepared 
 to ride to St. Denys. But when on the 
 point of starting, she fainted away, and 
 was obliged to lie down. Antoine 
 went alone with their usual attendants. 
 I saw a change in her face and in her 
 manner. She did not seem grieved, as 
 she would usually have been, to give 
 up this active office of charity. It 
 seemed as if she felt that her work was 
 done as if the signal of eternal rest 
 was sounding in her ears. From that 
 moment her strength did not rally. 
 She sat or reclined in the shade, with 
 
TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 255 
 
 her eyes fixed on the sky or on the sea, 
 or fondly turning from one loved face 
 to another, with a look of indescribable 
 tenderness. Not one of them to whom 
 she was so dear, felt surprised when it 
 became evident that she was dying. 
 Not one of the breaking hearts gather- 
 ed round that angel form thought to 
 keep her on earth. Nor father, or 
 mother, or lover. She was too fit for 
 heaven ; too clearly on her way home. 
 The work of a life had been done in a 
 few years. The earthly frame worn 
 out ; the soul breaking its bonds. There 
 was wild weeping amongst the crowds 
 that gathered round our doors, when 
 it became known that she was dying, 
 and prayers were put up in all the 
 churches for her recovery. But the 
 word recovery had no meaning for us. 
 We bent down in anguish, but did not 
 pray to detain her. 
 
 " She left 'us fourteen days after the 
 one on which the slave-ship had ar- 
 rived. Her last thought was for the 
 poor wretches it had brought. The 
 priest who gave her the last Sacra- 
 ments, told her of some little children 
 born during the passage, whom he had 
 just time to baptize before they died. 
 She smiled, and said, ' Deo gratia*." 1 
 Those were the last words she uttered." 
 
 Madame d'Auban remained silent. 
 The marshal attempted to express 
 sympathy, but broke down in the at- 
 tempt. He could only murmur : 
 
 " God knows I feel for you, madame, 
 and I admire your fortitude. Has it 
 never forsaken you ? " 
 
 Her lip quivered. 
 
 "There came a time when it gave 
 way, Maurice. For seven years we re- 
 mained in the place whence she was 
 gone. Her father took up her work, 
 and as long as he lived I could look 
 calmly on those bright skies and those 
 sunny seas, and the negroes toiling in 
 the fields. He was stemming, with all 
 his might, the evils of their lot. He 
 
 was doing what she had done. But 
 when he was taken from me, he on 
 whom I leant with a too absorbing 
 love, when for a while resignation was 
 only despair, I loathed the sight of all 
 that natural beauty and that moral 
 misery. I longed for obscurity, silence, 
 and shade. Not that of the forest, not 
 that of the green glade or the quiet 
 valley. I fled back to the Old World, 
 to the deeper solitude of a city. The 
 dark cathedral, the obscure dwellings 
 of the poor, the crowds that take no 
 heed of a stranger, and this little room 
 in an unfrequented street, are more 
 congenial, more soothing to me now 
 than Nature's loveliest scenes, more 
 peaceful than its most silent haunts." 
 
 " And here you dwell alone, princess, 
 alone with your grief? " 
 
 " Say, rather, dear friend, alone with 
 blessed memories, alone with dearest 
 hopes, alone with God bereft of all 
 that looks like happiness, and yet 
 happy. And now tell me something 
 of yourself, Maurice, and speak to me 
 of my sister's children, and of my 
 brother. I sometimes send for a num- 
 ber of the * Gazette de France ' and see 
 their names in it, but not with the old 
 painful feelings it used to cause me. 
 I think my heart has softened tow- 
 ards them, towards every one of late 
 years. Is it true what I read fiome 
 time ago, that with the Mton de mare- 
 chal, his Majesty the King of France 
 has given you the domain of Chambord, 
 with a right royal endowment ? " 
 
 " It is perfectly true, princess. For- 
 tune has been a kind mistress to me, 
 and the king a generous master. I 
 have nothing to complain of at their 
 hands, and yet . . . to-night I am 
 almost inclined to envy you, your sor- 
 rows, your obscurity, and . . . your 
 faith. I believe you are happier than 
 lam." 
 
 Again, as when they had first spoken 
 together, she smiled in her old way, 
 
256 
 
 TOO STRANGE NOT TO BE TRUE. 
 
 and the face, once so beautiful, lighted 
 up for a moment. They, talked a long 
 time, that night, of past events. They 
 went back to scenes of early youth, 
 and then kindly and sadly parted 
 never to meet again. He died a short 
 time afterwards; she lived to an ad- 
 vanced age. 
 
 With him passed away the last link 
 between her and the world she once 
 
 belonged to. She lingered long on 
 earth, a deceiver, and yet true; un- 
 known, and yet known ; as one dead, 
 and yet alive; sorrowful, yet always 
 rejoicing; needy, and yet enriching 
 many. Her life was a mystery ; her story 
 has become a legend. In the by-ways 
 of history she has left a name, which 
 may indirectly point a moral, whilst 
 it serves to adorn a tale. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 PART FIJK8T. 
 
 THE late Lord Dover published, in the 
 "Keepsake" of 1833, a sketch entitled 
 "Vicissitudes in the Life of a Princess of 
 the House of Brunswick." It is on the inci- 
 dents related in that narrative that the fore- 
 going tale is founded. They are given on 
 the authority of M. Bossu, a French officer, 
 whose travels in Louisiana are well known 
 and much esteemed, and who must have 
 been made acquainted with those facts whilst 
 in that province. The English author adds : 
 " Every reader of this anecdote must judge 
 for himself as to the degree of credence he 
 is willing to give to it." The story gained so 
 much ground during the latter part of the 
 eighteenth century that the Russian Govern- 
 ment put forth an official statement for the 
 purpose of contradicting and disproving it. 
 Cox, in his history of Russia, dwells at some 
 length on the subject, and so does 1'Eveque, 
 the French historian. They both quote the 
 Imperial Manifesto, which states that the 
 Czar Peter was at St. Petersburgh at the time 
 of the princess's death, and that shortly be- 
 fore she expired he had an interview with 
 her, the details of which they give. It also 
 denies that the Comtesse de Konigsmark was 
 ever in Russia. Voltaire, in one of his let- 
 ters, speaks of the supposed Princess as of 
 an adventuress, who was, he says, an English- 
 woman of the name of Sophia Donaldson, 
 and who turned to account, in carrying on 
 her alleged imposture, a strong personal 
 resemblance to the wife of the Czarovitch. 
 He says, she appeared at Wolfenbuttel some 
 years after the prince's death, and claimed to. 
 17 
 
 be received as his widow and the sister of 
 the reigning duke, but that she was sent 
 away from the duchy, and a sum of money 
 privately given to her, which latter circum- 
 stance does not seem quite hi keeping with 
 the assumption that her claim was an impos- 
 ture. St. Simon mentions, hx, the 26th vol- 
 ume of his memoirs, the fact of the prin- 
 cess's death, which, he says, was caused by a 
 violent blow from her husband when she was 
 pregnant. 
 
 He adds that her beauty, her virtues, and 
 her accomplishments would have deserved a 
 happier fate, but makes no allusion to the 
 story related by M. Bossu. It is probable, 
 however, supposing it to be true, that it would 
 not have been rumoured hi Europe until a 
 period subsequent to the one hi which St. 
 Simon wrote, and even not till some time 
 after his death. In the annual register for 
 1777, the same narrative is given with some 
 variations and additional circumstances, 
 which do not bear any appearance of truth. 
 
 VICISSITUDES IN THE LIFE OP A PRIN- 
 CESS OP THE HOUSE OF BRUNSWICK. 
 
 BT LORD DOVXB. 
 
 "ABOUT the year 1760, there lived in t In- 
 city of Brussels, hi great retirement, an old 
 lady, who bore the name of Madame d'Au- 
 ban. She was much occupied in observances 
 of religion, as well as in extensive charities 
 to the poor of her neighbourhood, who re- 
 garded her as their benefactress. She had 
 passed some years in this circle of duties, 
 
258 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 unnoticed by the great or the gay, and appar- 
 ently without connections or relatives. Yet 
 none in that city were born of higher lineage, 
 or wedded to greater hopes; nor had any 
 other of its inhabitants probably endured so 
 great a variety of prosperity and adversity, 
 and of romantic changes of fortune, which 
 almost exceed the bounds of credibility. 
 
 " Lewis Rodolphus, Duke of Brunswick 
 Wolfenbuttel, married Christina Louisa, Prin- 
 cess of Oettingen, who bore him three daugh- 
 ters. The eldest, Elizabeth Wilhelmina, mar- 
 ried Charles the Sixth, Emperor of Germany, 
 and slumbered through a tranquil life of Aus- 
 trian precision and etiquette. Far different 
 was the lot of her youngest * sister, the Prin- 
 cess Charlotte Sophia ; though she also was 
 destined to marry into an imperial house. 
 On the twenty-fifth day of October, 17'll, she 
 became the ill-fated wife of Alexis Petrowitz, 
 Prince of Russia, the eldest son of Peter the 
 Great. The marriage took place at Torgau, 
 in Germany, and the young bridegroom was 
 in the twenty-second year of his age. The 
 czarowitz was a' man of ferocious manners, 
 and his habits of debauchery had greatly in- 
 creased his natural brutality. He is also said 
 to have taken a violent aversion to his un- 
 happy wife, and to have attempted no less 
 than three different tunes to poison her. 
 Happily, the Princess, upon all these occa- 
 sions, received such speedy succour, that her 
 life was preserved. But the ill-treatment she 
 received from her barbarous husband con- 
 tinued to increase. Nor was there any one 
 at this tune at the court of Russia who could 
 control the violences and the outrages of the 
 czarowitz, as Peter the Great and the czarina 
 Catherine were occupied in visiting foreign 
 countries. 
 
 " At length, one day, when the Princess 
 was eight months gone with child, her hus- 
 band attacked her with greater fury than 
 ever, knocked her down, kicked her while 
 she lay on the ground, and left her bathed in 
 blood. He then set off for one of his coun- 
 try houses, without deigning to make any 
 further inquiries respecting his unhappy vic- 
 tim. The consequence of the ill-treatment 
 
 * The second Princess of Brunswick, Antonetta 
 Amelia, married Ferdinand Albert, Duke of Bruns- 
 vrick Severn. 
 
 she had received was a premature labour, 
 which her attendants determined to take ad- 
 vantage of, to deliver the Princess for ever 
 from the hands of her unworthy husband. 
 They therefore sent a courier to him, to in- 
 form him of her death. The czarowitz re- 
 turned for answer, an order for her imme- 
 diate interment as privately as possible, hop- 
 ing by speed and secrecy to prevent the 
 public from becoming aware of the manner 
 hi which he had behaved towards her. 
 
 " The funeral of the Princess accordingly 
 took place, but her coffin only contained a 
 log of wood. In the meanwhile, and whilst 
 all the courts of Europe were wearing mourn- 
 ing for her supposed decease, she had escaped 
 from the palace in which she usually resided. 
 
 " The Countess Konigsmark, who had been 
 one of the mistresses of Augustus the Second, 
 King of Poland, and was the mother by him 
 of the celebrated Marechal de Saxe, was at 
 this time at the court of the Princess of 
 Russia. It was to her assistance and man- 
 agement that the princess principally owed 
 her escape. She collected for her whatever 
 of money or of jewels could be found in the 
 palace ; gave her an old and trustworthy 
 man-servant of her own, who spoke French 
 and German, to accompany her, and one of 
 her own femmes-de-chambre. Thus attend- 
 ed, the Princess set off for Paris, where she 
 arrived without accident. Fearing, however, 
 lest she might be recognized in that capital, 
 she determined to go to America. With this 
 view she went to 1'Orient, from which port 
 the vessels belonging to the company of the 
 Indies, to whom the king had conceded the 
 right of colonizing Louisiana, otherwise called 
 the Mississippi, were accustomed to sail. 
 
 " The Princess embarked in a packet with 
 eight hundred other Germans, who were on 
 their way to the newly-settled colony. Her 
 faithful servant, who passed on board the 
 vessel for her father, and her maid, still ac- 
 companied her. She arrived in safety at the 
 place of her destination. The appearance of 
 the young and beautiful stranger in this wild 
 colony excited universal admiration. The 
 Chevalier d'Auban, an officer of merit, who 
 at that time resided hi the colony, and who 
 had formerly been at Petersburg!! soliciting 
 an employment hi the Russian service, saw 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 259 
 
 and recognized the Princess. At first he 
 could hardly believe the testimony of his 
 eyes ; but after seeing her frequently, and 
 examining attentively her air, her counte- 
 nance, and her features, he could no longer 
 doubt that the obscure exile was the same 
 person whom he had formerly beheld sur- 
 rounded by a brilliant court. He had the 
 prudence not to confide his discovery to any 
 one ; but feeling a natural interest in the for- 
 tunes of so illustrious an exile, he contrived 
 to acquire the intimacy and confidence of her 
 old and faithful servant, who has been already 
 mentioned. 
 
 " At length the old man confided to him, 
 that he and his family were desirous of mak- 
 ing a settlement on the banks of the Missis- 
 sippi, for which purpose he had brought with 
 him a sufficient sum of money ; and he pro- 
 posed at the same time to the chevalier to 
 unite his fortunes with theirs in the under- 
 taking. D'Auban accepted with readiness, 
 joined his funds to those of the strangers, 
 and undertook the management of the whole 
 concern ; for which, from his habits of busi- 
 ness, he was peculiarly well qualified. The 
 chevalier thus acquired the opportunity of 
 seeing the Princess daily, of exerting himself 
 with zeal in her service, and of showing her 
 upon all occasions the most respectful attach- 
 ment and devotion. 
 
 " One day, when he found himself alone 
 with her, he could no longer resist telling her 
 the secret which he had discovered. He fell 
 at her feet, and acknowledged that he knew 
 her. This avowal at first caused the Princess 
 no less surprise than pain ; but after a time 
 she became reassured, from reflecting upon 
 the prudence and attachment which she had 
 witnessed in the chevalier. She therefore 
 contented herself with thanking him for his 
 previous kindness, and making him enter into 
 a solemn engagement that he would keep her 
 secret inviolably. 
 
 " Some time after this occurrence, the Eu- 
 ropean newspapers which arrived at New 
 Orleans brought accounts of the catastrophe 
 and death of the czarowitz. The Princess, 
 who was civilly dead hi Europe, and who 
 besides was happy hi the obscure but tran- 
 quil situation in which fate had now placed 
 her, preferred remaining in the New World, 
 
 and leaving her friends and relatives hi the 
 Old ignorant of her existence. At length she 
 had the misfortune to lose her faithful ser- 
 vant, who had followed her over more than 
 half the globe. 
 
 " His death overwhelmed the Princess with 
 grief: she felt at first as if she had lost her 
 only friend. But the redoubled zeal and 
 activity of the Chevalier d'Auban, who now 
 undertook the entire management of her 
 affairs, enabled her to struggle through her 
 difficulties. The respectful tenderness of the 
 feelings which the chevalier entertained for 
 her had also not escaped her. He seemed 
 but to exist for the purpose of furthering and 
 executing her wishes, almost before they were 
 formed hi her own breast He treated her 
 at the same tune with the homage due to a 
 sovereign, while his whole life was spent in 
 striving to make her forget her sorrows, and 
 hi procuring for her whatever comforts or 
 pleasures that wild region afforded. 
 
 " His merits, his capacity, and his zeal, at 
 length" touched the heart of the Princess, and 
 she became his wife. And thus was united 
 to a captain of infantry, in a country peopled 
 with negroes, and in the midst of the savage 
 natives, a princess, bora herself of a sovereign 
 house, the widow of the heir of one of the 
 vastest empires of the world, and the sister 
 of the Empress of Germany. The newly- 
 married couple lived happily, and struggled 
 contentedly through all the difficulties which 
 must accompany a residence in a newly-settled 
 country. The Princess did not disdain to 
 assist her husband hi the labours of the es- 
 tablishment. Time passed rapidly away, and 
 Heaven blessed their union with a daughter, 
 whom Madame d'Auban nursed herself, and to 
 whom she taught her own language, German. 
 
 ' After some years of tranquil happiness, 
 passed in the manner here described, the 
 Chevalier d'Auban was attacked with a dis- 
 order which required surgical aid. He there- 
 lore sold his property in Louisiana, and "n* 
 to Paris, with the view of obtaining it. Mad- 
 ame d'Auban nursed her husband with the 
 tenderest affection. During the convales- 
 cence of the chevalier, she sometimes went 
 with her daughter to walk hi the gardens of 
 the Tuileries. One day, as she was talking 
 lerman to her, the Count de Saxe, who was 
 
260 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 passing along the same walk, and who was 
 attracted by the sound of his native language, 
 approached them. What was his surprise, 
 on recognizing hi the elder of the two stran- 
 gers the Princess of Russia, whom he, with 
 the rest of the world, had imagined to have 
 died many years before. 
 
 " Madame d'Auban, upon his discovering 
 to her that he knew her, implored him to 
 guard her secret; and then related to him in 
 what manner the Countess Konigsmark had 
 favoured her escape from Petersburgh. The 
 Count de Saxe promised what she wished 
 with regard to the world in general; but 
 informed her, that he should feel it his duty 
 to state the circumstance to the King of 
 France. The -Princess then entreated him, 
 at all events, not to make the disclosure for 
 the space of three months. The count con- 
 sented to this ; and then demanded the per- 
 mission to come and see her ; to which she 
 agreed, on condition that he would only come 
 at night, and alone. 
 
 " In the meanwhile the Chevalier d'Auban 
 had recovered his health, but found his means 
 of subsistence nearly exhausted. He solicited 
 and obtained from the French East India 
 Company the situation of major of the Island 
 of Bourbon. The Count de Saxe paid visits 
 from time to time to the Princess ; and at 
 length, when the three months were expired, 
 he went to her house, in order to inform her 
 that the time was now arrived when he in- 
 tended to mention her name to the king. 
 Upon arriving at her lodging, he was much 
 astonished to find that she had set off, with 
 her husband and her daughter, for the Island 
 of Bourbon. 
 
 " The Count de Saxe went immediately to 
 the king, and told him the whole story. The 
 king sent in consequence for his minister, and 
 ordered him to write to the governor of 
 Bourbon, desiring him to treat Madame d'Au- 
 ban with the greatest respect and attention. 
 His majesty also wrote, with his own hand, 
 a letter to the Queen of Hungary, though he 
 was at that time at war with that sovereign, 
 to give her information respecting the fate 
 of her aunt. The queen returned an answer 
 of thanks to the king, and sent him a letter, 
 to be forwarded to Madame d'Auban, in which 
 Bhe entreated her to come to her, and to 
 
 leave her husband and daughter, for whom 
 the King of France would provide. 
 
 " This offer the Princess at once and per- 
 emptorily refused. She remained in the 
 Island of Bourbon until the year 1754, when, 
 having become a widow, and having also lost 
 her daughter, she returned to Paris. From 
 thence she went to Brussels, where she re- 
 mained till her death, in extreme old age ; 
 subsisting upon a pension of sixty thousand 
 florins (given her by the House of Brunswick), 
 of which she devoted three-fourths to objects 
 of charity and benevolence." 
 
 PART I. CHAPTER I. 
 
 Translation of a letter from the Pere RasleSj 
 
 Missionary in the Nouvelle France, to his 
 
 nephew. 
 
 " THE village of Narantsouak, where I live, 
 is situated on the banks of a river which 
 flows into the sea at about thirty leagues 
 distance from it. I have built here a neat 
 and well-ornamented church. I have spared 
 no pains to make every thing belonging to 
 the Divine service handsome and suitable. 
 The vestments, chasubles, chalices, &c., are 
 all such as would be admired hi Europe. I 
 have formed a body of forty young savages, 
 to whom I assign various functions. Some 
 sing in the choir, some serve at mass and 
 benediction, a great number of Indians come 
 even considerable distances to join in our 
 processions. You would be surprised to see 
 how well they behave, an how pious they 
 are. 
 
 "Two chapels have been built, at three 
 hundred steps from the village ; one is dedi- 
 cated to the Blessed Virgin, and contains her 
 Image, the other, further down the stream, is 
 dedicated to the Angel Guardians. We have 
 always a great abundance of lights at all the 
 services. The green wax which is made out 
 of the bays of a particular sort of laurel, 
 which grows abundantly in this part of the 
 country, enables us to do this with great 
 facility. As these chapels are on the road 
 which leads to the woods and to the fields, 
 the savages always stop a moment on their 
 way as they pass them to say a prayer. There 
 is a holy rivalry between the women of the 
 village as to who shall decorate and embellish 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 261 
 
 most their nearest chapel on the days of the 
 processions. They devote to this object their 
 jewels, their richest stuffs . . . All my 
 converts came twice a day to church ; very 
 early in the morning to hear mass, and for 
 night prayers, which we say at the hour of 
 sunset. As it is necessary to fix the imagi- 
 nations of the savages, who are easily dis- 
 tracted, I have composed prayers and hymns 
 which they repeat or sing during the holy 
 sacrifice of the mass, and which instruct them 
 how to enter into its spirit Besides regular 
 sermons on Sundays and holydays, I give 
 them on most days a short instruction to 
 warn them against their most habitual temp- 
 tations, and strengthen them in the practice 
 of virtue. After mass I teach the catechism 
 to the young people and children ; a great 
 many adults attend it and answer my ques- 
 tions with great docility. The rest of the 
 morning till twelve o'clock, is devoted to 
 speaking with all those who come to see me 
 for various reasons. They confide to me 
 their sorrows and difficulties, or tell me their 
 grievances, or consult me about their mar- 
 riages and other affairs. I have to instruct, to 
 comfort, to mediate, to calm uneasy con- 
 sciences, to reprove in some cases, and, in 
 short, to work hard at sending them all away 
 in "good dispositions. In the afternoon I visit 
 the sick, or instruct hi their cabins those who 
 particularly need it If a council is held, 
 which is often the case, hi the village, I am 
 deputed to preside at it, and requested to 
 assist at its deliberations. I approve or dis- 
 sent from their resolutions as needs be, and 
 I find them always ready to adhere to my 
 advice. When they give a feast they send 
 for me to say grace. The guests bring a 
 wooden platter, in which their share of good 
 things is placed, and they carry it away with 
 them. This is the mode of entertaining in 
 this part of the world. 
 
 " In the midst of these incessant occupa- 
 tions, you can scarcely imagine how quickly 
 time goes by. At one time I could not find 
 tune to say my office or to sleep, for even 
 in the night the savages, who do not excel 
 In the virtue of discretion, invaded continually 
 my hut But some years ago I made it a 
 rule not to speak to any one after night 
 prayers, until after mass the next morning, 
 
 and I absolutely forbade everybody to die* 
 turb me during those hours unless for some 
 sufficient reason, such as a person's dangerous 
 illness, or an affair that did not brook delay. 
 I am now, therefore, generally able to devote 
 those hours to prayer and repose. 
 
 " When the savages go on their fishing or 
 hunting expeditions, they build for me with 
 logs and pieces of bark a temporary chapel 
 and hut in the neighbourhood of their haunts ; 
 and we perform our religious services with 
 the same reverence and the same numerous 
 attendance as when at home. This, my dear 
 nephew, is a sketch of my mode of life. As 
 to myself, I can only say that I see nothing 
 but savages, and hear and speak nothing but 
 their language. My food is very simple. I 
 have never been able to accustom myself to 
 their way of dressing meat and fish, so that 
 I never eat any thing but maize, which I make 
 into a kind of paste by boiling it and sweet- 
 ening it with the syrup of the maple tree, 
 which grows in abundance in this country, 
 and produces sugar almost as good as that 
 of the sugar canes." * 
 
 PART I. CHAPTER H. 
 
 " SIMON, with a few hirelings, was come 
 from the Illinois, and had been waiting for 
 us for two or three months. Simon is a 
 bargeman from the Mission of the Illinois. 
 They call here hirelings (engages), the men 
 who hire themselves out to row a barge or a 
 boat, and one might add, to try the patience 
 of those they convey." f 
 
 PART I. CHAPTER VL 
 
 The following extract from Thackeray 1 * 
 " Four Georges " give* evidence of the *ye> 
 tern of religion*, or rather non-religion 
 system of education, prevalent in the north- 
 ern court* of Germany in the la*t century. 
 
 " It was the first Elector of Hanover who 
 made the fortunate marriage which bestowed 
 the race of Hanoverian sovereigns upon us 
 Britons. Nine years after Charles Stuart lost 
 his head, hia niece Sophia, one<of many i-hil- 
 
 * Lettrcs curteusw et MUUotM, fth voltuno, 
 
 t MiflantM, 6th volum* 
 
 t Lettw* 
 
262 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 dren of another luckless dethroned sovereign, 
 the Elector Palatine, married Ernest Augus- 
 tus of Brunswick, and brought the reversion 
 of the crown of the three kingdoms in her 
 scanty trousseau. One of the handsomest, 
 the most cheerful, sensible, shrewd, accom- 
 plished of women was Sophia, daughter of 
 Frederick the winter, King of Bohemia. . The 
 other daughters of lovely Elizabeth Stuart 
 went off into the Catholic Church ; this one, 
 luckily for her family, remained, I cannot say 
 faithful to the Protestant religion, but at least 
 she adopted no other. An agent of the 
 French king's, Gourville, a convert himself, 
 strove to bring her and her husband to a 
 sense of the truth, and tells us that he one 
 day asted Madame, the Duchess of Hanover, 
 of what religion her daughter was, then a 
 pretty girl of thirteen years old. The duchess 
 replied that the princess was of no religion as 
 yet. They were waiting to know of what 
 religion her husband would be, Protestant or 
 Catholic, before instructing her. This daugh- 
 ter, of whose early education we have made 
 mention, was married to the Elector of Bran- 
 denburgh, and so her religion settled finally 
 on the Protestant side. 
 
 " It must be told to the honour of Catherine 
 of Anspach (who afterwards married George 
 II.), that at a time when German princes 
 thought as little of changing their religion 
 than you of altering your caps, she refused to 
 give up Protestantism for the other creed, 
 although an archduke, afterwards to be an 
 emperor, was offered to her for a bridegroom. 
 Her Protestant relations, in Berlin were angry 
 at her rebellious spirit. It was they who 
 tried to convert her ! " 
 
 PART I. CHAPTER VI. 
 
 As it is not unreasonable to suppose that 
 the same customs and habits prevailed hi the 
 Court of Russia during the earlier part of the 
 century, as existed at the time of the Em- 
 press Catherine's arrival hi that country in 
 the year 1744, a few extracts from her jour- 
 nal are given, in order to show to what trials 
 a young princess, born and educated in a 
 more civilized country, would have been 
 likely to endure hi that semi-barbarous court. 
 
 Ten days after her arrival at St. Peters- 
 
 burgh, the young Princess Sophiah Augusta 
 Frederica of Anhalt-Zerbst-Bernbourg, the 
 betrothed bride of Peter, Duke of Holstein, 
 the heir to the throne, nephew of the reign- 
 ing Empress Elizabeth, and "grandson of 
 Peter the Great, writes as follows : "I have 
 now three masters to instruct me. Simon 
 Theodorsky teaches me the Greek religion ; 
 Basil Adadouroff the Russian language ; and 
 Laudet, the ballet-master, dancing." A few 
 days later the princess falls dangerously ill. 
 Her mother, who had accompanied her to the 
 Court of Russia, wishes her to see a Lutheran 
 clergyman, but the future empress objects, 
 sends for a Greek priest, and makes the fol- 
 lowing remark, with reference to this stroke 
 of policy: "Simon Theodorsky came, and 
 we conversed hi everybody's hearing in a 
 way which gave general satisfaction. This 
 brought me into great favour with the em- 
 press and all the court." 
 
 A few pages on she mentions the advice 
 which she receives from one of the few 
 friends who appears to have taken any 
 interest in her during the months which 
 preceded her marriage. " Count Gillembourg 
 (she writes) was a very clever man, rather 
 old, and highly esteemed by my mother. I 
 had reason to be grateful to him, for when 
 we had seen him at Hamburg he noticed how 
 little my mother cared for me, and he told 
 her she was wrong, and that I was wise be- 
 yond my years. He informed me I had a 
 philosophical turn of mind, and when he 
 came to St. Petersburgh he enquired how my 
 philosophy thrived in the midst of the whirl- 
 wind I lived in. I told him how I employed 
 my tune in my own room ; learning the Rus- 
 sian language, playing on the pianoforte, and 
 reading all the books I could buy. He said 
 that a philosopher of fifteen years of age 
 could have but little self-knowledge; and 
 that, surrounded as I was by numberless 
 shoals, unless my soul was of a very superior 
 order, I must infallibly be shipwrecked, and 
 that I must strengthen my soul by the best 
 possible course of reading, for which purpose 
 he recommended me to get Plutarch's " Lives 
 of Great Men," " Cicero's Life," and Montes- 
 quieu's " History of the Greatness and the 
 Decline of the Roman Empire." I imme- 
 diately sent for those books, which I found 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 263 
 
 it very difficult to procure at St. Peters- 
 burgh." 
 
 Immediately after the Princess's marriage 
 she finds out that spies are set about her. 
 When she wishes to speak to one of her bed- 
 chamber women, she notices her affright 
 
 " For God's sake, madam," the attendant 
 says, "do not say any thing to me. We 
 have received strict orders never to speak 
 with you in a low voice, or but in the pres- 
 ence of the first woman in waiting." One 
 of these attendants, the cheerfulness of whose 
 disposition had cheered her mistress, who 
 was in very low spirits at her mother's final 
 departure from Russia, and the brutal and 
 disgusting conduct of her youthful husband, 
 disappears one day. The Princess asks for 
 her. She is given to understand that Made- 
 moiselle Toukoff is gone to see her sick 
 mother. The empress tells her the next day 
 that she is dismissed and is on her way to 
 Moscow. And when the Princess endeavours 
 to soften her disgrace by promoting the mar- 
 riage of Mademoiselle Toukoff with an officer 
 of the Guards, both are banished to Siberia. 
 From that moment forward the least sign of 
 confidence hi or of preference for any person 
 of her household proved the signal for an 
 instant dismissal. The discomforts endured 
 by the Princess of Anhalt show what must 
 have been those experienced by the Princess 
 of Wolfenbuttel forty years before. 
 
 " Our mode of travelling," she says, " was 
 wretched and disagreeable. The stations and 
 post-houses were occupied by the empress. 
 We had tents put up for us, or were some- 
 times lodged in the servant's offices. I re- 
 member having to dress one day near an 
 oven, where bread had just been baked ; and 
 another time that in the tent where my bed 
 was placed water was an inch deep. There 
 were no fixed hours either for rest or for 
 meals, and we were often tired almost to 
 death. I felt miserably lonely, and my spir- 
 its were deplorable. I had recourse to books. 
 Since my marriage I was always reading. 
 Novels at first, but I got tired of them. Then 
 I fell in with Madame de Scvigne's letters, 
 which amused me ; and then with Voltaire's 
 works, which I read from beginning to i-wl" 
 When the Princess's father died, she took it 
 naturally to heart, and cried a good deal 
 
 At the end of eight days she got a 
 from the empress to say that her imperial 
 majesty requested her to leave off crying, for 
 that her father was not a king, and she bad 
 wept quite long enough. " True," the Prin- 
 cess answered, "he was not a king, but he 
 was my father." To which the lady-in- 
 waiting replied, " It is not befitting that a 
 grand duchess should weep for more than 
 eight days for a father who was not a king." 
 She was forbidden to write herself to her 
 mother, for the letters of a grand duchess 
 of Russia were to be composed by the Coun- 
 cil for Foreign Affairs, and she had only to 
 sign them. When she begged to mention 
 what she wished to be said in these letters, it 
 was pointed out to her that the council knew 
 better than she did what it was proper for 
 her to write. She says again later, " I had 
 been for many years forbidden to write to my 
 mother." The moral and physical sufferings 
 endured at that formal but uncivilized court 
 seem to have been on a par. The following 
 account testifies to the latter class of mis- 
 eries: 
 
 " This year we lodged in a new whig, built 
 of wood, and so damp that the water was 
 running down the walls. In the chamber 
 called my dressing-room, my ladies and maids 
 of honour and their waiting-maids were all 
 lodged, so that there were seventeen women 
 and girls sleeping in one room, which had 
 three windows, but no entrance or exit but 
 through my bed-room. The misery and dis- 
 comfort of this arrangement was intolerable. 
 I do not know how those seventeen women 
 crowded in one room, and some of them ill, 
 did not breed a fever. The smell was dread- 
 ful, and my poom so full, in consequence, of 
 vermin of all sorts, that I could not sleep." 
 
 Another of the habitations for a while oc- 
 cupied by the grand duke and grand ducfaen 
 is thus described : 
 
 "We received orders to remove to the 
 bishop's house. This was a very old house, 
 built of wood, with no look-out at all The 
 stones were so old and so full of holes that 
 one could see the fire through them, and the 
 rooms so filled with smoke that it hurt our 
 eyes. There was only a wooden staircase, 
 and the windows high above the ground. 
 One was liable to be burnt to death in this 
 
264 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 abode. Three times it caught fire during the 
 time we lived in it ; I caught on one of these 
 occasions a sore throat and fever. The Aus- 
 trian ambassador noticed one day the redness 
 of my eyes, and asked me if I had been cry- 
 ing. He was not mistaken. Ennui, ill 
 health, and the amount of moral and physical 
 misery I was subjected to, effectually de- 
 pressed my spirits." 
 
 In support of the account given in the 17th 
 chapter of the foregoing work, of the isolation 
 and neglect to which etiquette and courtly 
 indifference consigned a Russian princess in 
 the eighteenth century, and of the separation 
 from her children, which the same absolute 
 rules enforced, the following extracts are 
 adduced : 
 
 " In the month of August, we returned to 
 the summer palace. It was a mortal blow 
 to me when I heard that the rooms I was to 
 occupy at the time of my confinement, were 
 those adjoining to the empress's apartments. 
 Alexander Shouvaloff took me to see them. 
 I found two rooms, with only one entrance, 
 dull, like all those of the summer palace, with 
 hangings of crimson damask, but hardly any 
 furniture, or comforts of any kind. I saw I 
 should be isolated, without any sort of so- 
 ciety, and as unhappy as possible. I men- 
 tioned this to Serge Soltikoff and to Princess 
 Gagarine, who did not like each other, but, 
 being both much attached to me, were, on 
 that one point, united ; but they agreed there 
 was nothing to be done. I was taken ill in 
 the night of the following Tuesday, and Mad. 
 ame Vladislava sent for the midwife, and 
 woke the grand duke and Count Alexander 
 Shouvaloff, who went to give notice to the 
 empress, who came to my room at two o'clock 
 in the morning. After great sufferings, I was 
 brought to bed at about twelve o'clock, A.M. 
 As soon as my son was born and dressed, the 
 empress sent for her confessor, who gave him 
 the name of Paul. Then she told the mid- 
 wife to take the child and to follow her. I 
 remained on my bed of suffering. This bed 
 was standing between a door, through which 
 I could see the light, and two great windows, 
 which shut badly. On the right side was a 
 door opening into my dressing-room ; and on 
 the left, one leading to Madame Vladislava's 
 room. As soon as the empress had left, the 
 
 grand duke went away too ; and so did M. 
 and Madame Shouvaloff; and nobody came 
 near me till three o'clock. I entreated Mad- 
 ame Vladislava to move me into my own bed, 
 but she said she could not venture to do so 
 on her own authority. She sent several 
 times for the midwife but she did not come. 
 I asked for something to drink and received 
 the same answer. At last, at three o'clock, 
 the Countess Shouvaloff arrived in full dress, 
 having made a grand toilette. When she 
 saw me lying in the same place where she 
 had left me, she made a great exclamation, 
 and said it was enough to kill me. This was 
 very consoling for me, who had been, as it 
 was, crying bitterly since the moment of my 
 confinement, and especially at the utter neg- 
 lect with which I was treated; lying on a 
 hard couch after horrible sufferings, between 
 doors and windows that did not shut, nobody 
 daring to help me into my bed, and without 
 strength to stir alone. Madame Shouvaloff 
 went away, and half-an-hour afterwards the 
 midwife came. She said the empress was so 
 taken up with the child that she would not 
 let her go for a moment. As to me, I was 
 not thought of at all. I was dying of thirst. 
 At last I was moved into my bed ; and, 
 during the rest of the day, not a single crea- 
 ture came near me or sent to inquire after 
 me. The empress never left the child, and 
 the grand duke did nothing but drink with 
 his companions. The city and country were, 
 meanwhile, rejoicing over my son's birth. 
 The next day I was seized with violent rheu- 
 matic pains, and I could not sleep, and had 
 a high fever. Still nobody took any heed of 
 me. The grand duke came into my room 
 for a minute, and went away, saying he had 
 not tune to remain. I did nothing but moan 
 and weep. Madame Vladislava was the only 
 person I saw, and she was sorry for me, I 
 know. But she could do nothing, and I could 
 not endure to be pitied. My pride forbade 
 me from avowing how wretched I was. 
 
 " On the sixth day, my son was baptized. 
 He had been very near dying of croup. I 
 could only have news of him by stealth, for 
 to inquire openly after his health would have 
 been considered as a proof of want of confi- 
 dence in the empress, who had taken charge 
 of him, and it would have given great offence. 
 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 261 
 
 She kept him in her own room, and whenever 
 he cried she used half to suffocate him by 
 her excess of care. In a very hot room, he 
 was kept in swaddling-clothes made of flannel, 
 in a cradle lined with black fur, and covered 
 with a counterpane of pink satin, lined with 
 wadding, and another one above it of pink 
 velvet, lined with black fur. I have seen him 
 smothered in this way, with the drops of 
 sweat streaming down his face; the conse- 
 quence of which was, that when he grew 
 older the least breath of air gave him cold. 
 Besides that, he was surrounded by a bevy 
 of ignorant old crones, who, by dint of their 
 senseless modes of management, injured him 
 both physically and morally. At the end of 
 forty days, the empress came to my room 
 again for my churching. I had risen to re- 
 ceive her, but seeing how pale and weak I 
 was, she made me sit down, whilst her con- 
 fessor read the prayers. My son had been 
 brought into the room. It was the first time 
 I had seen him since his birth. I thought 
 him very handsome, and the sight of him 
 cheered me a little. But no sooner were the 
 prayers finished than the empress had him' 
 carried away, and went away herself. From 
 Christmas to Lent there was no end of din- 
 ners, balls, masquerades, illuminations, and 
 fire-works, the finest in the world, in honour 
 of my son's birth. I pretended to be ill in 
 order not to be present at any of them . . 
 
 . After Easter, we went to Orianenbaum. 
 Before we left St. Petersburgh, the empress 
 permitted me to see my son for the third 
 time since his birth. I found him in that 
 suffocating heat I have already described 
 (the child was then six months old)." 
 
 Some years afterwards the princess wrote 
 a letter to the Empress Elizabeth, in which 
 she says " That she earnestly entreats her 
 majesty to put an end to her misery by send- 
 ing her back to her family. That, as she 
 never was able to see her children although 
 living under the same roof, it did not signify 
 whether she remained in the same house, or 
 was a hundred leagues away from them. 
 That she was aware the empress took much 
 better care of them than she could have done ; 
 and that she therefore craved permission to 
 spend the rest of her life in her native coun- 
 try, praying for her majesty, the grand duke, 
 
 her children, her friends, and her enemies, 
 for that constraint and sorrow had impaired 
 her health, so as to put h.-r lit'.- in danger." 
 Whether or not this letter was a sincere 
 expression of feeling on the part of the Prin- 
 cess of Anhalt, it gives some idea of the suf- 
 ferings she had experienced. In relating a 
 conversation which she held about that time 
 with Count Woronzoff, and in which he tried 
 to persuade her not to seek to leave Russia, 
 she says: "He spoke of my children. I 
 told him I never saw them. That since my 
 churching I had not seen my second daugh- 
 ter. That I was not allowed to do so without 
 a special order from the empress, near whose 
 room they were lodged. That I had no doubt 
 she took great care of them, but that being 
 deprived of the happiness of seeing them, it 
 did not signify if I lived in the same place as 
 they did or not. About this tune the princess 
 mentions that she went to communion in 
 order to show her attachment to the Greek 
 religion." The whole of the curious volume 
 from which these extracts are taken exhibits 
 the melancholy influence of a corrupt court, 
 a depraved entourage, a state religion, a 
 ridiculous etiquette, and a disgusting admix- 
 ture of luxury and barbarism, on the charac- 
 ter of a young person who, at fourteen, was 
 endowed with a natural love of virtue, an amia- 
 ble disposition, an inclination, as she herself 
 states, to piety, and an ambition which might 
 have been directed to high and good objects.* 
 What it was directed to, the sequel of her 
 history evinced. The reign of the Empress 
 Catherine is the moral of this story. The 
 sufferings and the trials which gradually de- 
 praved and corrupted her were probably not 
 dissimilar to those which drove the Princess 
 of Wolfenbuttel from the palace of the czar 
 to the wilds of the new world ; or, if our 
 legend of modern history be rejected, broke 
 her heart, and consigned her to an early grave 
 in the flower of her youth. 
 
 PART L CHATTER VIIL 
 
 FOR historical evidence of the horrible 
 
 cruelties exercised by the C*ar Peter on Ms 
 
 rebellious subjects ; of his treatment of his 
 
 wife and sister, whom he condemned to the 
 
 * Iftmoires do 1'ImptatrlM Othrlne IL ocrlt. 
 par elle m6m et prioidA d*OM prifro* pv A Hcnra. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 punishment of the knout ; of the barbarities, 
 startling beyond any thing recorded of the 
 most heathen emperors, which he inflicted on 
 the revolted Strelitz ; of his personal brutal 
 violence towards his victims, and the insults 
 
 with which he aggravated their sufferings; 
 of his coarse buffoonery and cynical impiety, 
 the reader is referred to the recently-published 
 diary of an Austrian Secretary of Legation at 
 the Court of St. Petersburgh. 
 
 PART SECOND. 
 
 PAKT II. CHAPTER H. 
 
 "AFTER forty days march we arrived at 
 the first village of the Illinois. On the next 
 day I was invited by the principal chief to a 
 great feast, to meet the most important per- 
 sonages of the tribe. When all the guests 
 were arrived, they sat down hi rows round 
 the hut on the ground, or some of them on 
 mats. Then the chief rose and began his 
 speech. I own to you that I was struck with 
 astonishment at the fluency of his language, 
 the strength and justice of his reasoning, the 
 eloquent turn of his sentences, the choice and 
 the delicacy of his expressions. I am per- 
 suaded that had I been able to write down 
 what this savage said, without preparation 
 and at the impulse of the moment, you would 
 have acknowledged that the cleverest Euro- 
 pean, with study and care, could not have 
 composed a better speech, both as to matter 
 and as to language." * 
 
 PART II. CHAPTER II. 
 
 Extract from "Vffistoire Generalede laNou- 
 velle France" on the subject of the Insur- 
 rection of the Natches in the year 1729. 
 
 " THE governor-general, without being aware 
 of it, was on the point of seeing the colony 
 destroyed by enemies he did not fear, and 
 allies on which he fancied he could rely 
 who were,, in fact, our great support, but who 
 had been tempted to betray us. . . There 
 was not a single French habitation secure 
 
 * Lettres curieuses et 6difiantes, 6th volume, 
 page 176. 
 
 from a sudden surprise. In a few 
 there were forts, but in general they were 
 only defended by rows of half-rotted wooden 
 palings ; which, had they been in a better 
 state, could only have protected the habita- 
 tions in their immediate neighbourhood. The 
 security was so general, that the savages 
 could easily have massacred the French even 
 in the best-protected localities, as happened 
 at the Natches in the way I am about to 
 relate. M. de Chepar had had a sh'ght quar- 
 rel with this tribe, but they had contrived, 
 however, to persuade him that the French 
 had not more sincere allies. So little did he 
 apprehend the reverse, that when a rumour 
 was set afloat that the Natches were plotting 
 against us, he ordered into prison seven 
 French colonists who had asked his permis- 
 sion to arm themselves and organize a system 
 of defence. He received at that very tune 
 thirty savages within the fort, and as many 
 in his own house and neighbourhood. They 
 were mixed up everywhere with the French 
 in the workmen's huts, and the habitations 
 scattered round the village. 
 
 " A day had meanwhile been fixed for the 
 general massacre, but two circumstances 
 induced the Natches to hasten it. First, the 
 arrival of large stores of merchandise, which 
 had just arrived at the fort, and which ex- 
 cited their cupidity ; the second was, that the 
 commander had several colonists staying with 
 him, and that, on pretext of seeking game to 
 offer him for the entertainment of his guests, 
 they could arm themselves without exciting 
 suspicion. The commandant gladly accepted 
 their proposal, and they went about buying 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 267 
 
 and powder, ostensibly for the use of 
 e hunters. 
 
 "On the morning of the appointed day, 
 icy dispersed themselves amongst the va- 
 ous habitations, announcing that they were 
 roing into the woods for this famous hunting 
 .u ty ; and took care so to arrange, that in 
 ach habitation they should be in greater 
 umber than the French. They smoked the 
 alumet in honour of the commander and 
 is guests, and then went each to his post 
 L moment afterwards three guns were fired 
 ose to M. Chepar's house. This was the 
 ignal of the massacre. The Natchea fell 
 rerywhere on the French. The commander 
 
 rod his guests amongst whom were Messrs. 
 oly and his sons were amongst the first 
 illed. There was no struggle, except in the 
 abitation of M. de la Loire des Ursins, where 
 ght Frenchmen were staying. There was 
 ame hard fighting; eight of the Natches 
 ere killed, and six Frenchmen ; two escaped. 
 L de la Loire was just riding out on horse- 
 ack ; at the report of the first gun he turned 
 ack, and was assailed by a troop of savages, 
 
 gainst which he fought some time, but at 
 
 ast fell, covered with wounds, after having 
 died four Natches. So twelve of the savages 
 Ejrished. But that was all their loss at the 
 
 iime of the massacre. 
 
 "Before proceeding to the execution of 
 eir design, they had secured the cooperation 
 some of the negroes. They persuaded 
 em that they would be delivered from sla- 
 jry by the savages; that our women and 
 ildren would be the slaves ; and that they 
 eed have no fear of the French in other 
 aces, as the massacre would take place 
 imultaneously all over the country. It ap- 
 eare, however, that the plot was only made 
 
 cnown to a few, for fear of discovery. Two 
 radred Frenchmen died on this occasion ; a 
 undred and fifty children, eighty women, 
 td as many negroes, were made prisoners, 
 ather Poissan, a Jesuit, and M. de Codere, 
 e governor at the Yasous, who happened 
 be at the Natches, perished also. The 
 rmer was going on some business from his 
 
 oissions at the Arkansas to New Orleans, 
 e arrived on the 26th, rather late in the 
 ening, at the Natches, meaning to set off 
 
 tgain on the next day immediately after say- 
 
 ing mass. However, as the priest of the 
 mission was absent, Father Poissan was en- 
 treated to sing high mass and to preach on 
 the next day, as it was the first Sunday hi 
 Advent He agreed to do so. In the even- 
 ing, as he was about to depart, he was told 
 that several sick and dying persons were 
 wishing to see him. He consented to put 
 off his journey, and visited them all, admin- 
 istering the last sacrament to the dying, and 
 carrying holy communion to the sick. He 
 was just coming out of a cabin where he had 
 been accomplishing this act of charity when 
 an Indian chief threw himself upon him, and 
 struck him with a hatchet. At the same 
 moment M. de Cod&re, who was hurrying to 
 his assistance, was killed by a gun-shot, and 
 the savage completed the murder. During 
 the massacre the great Sun, or chief, of the 
 Natches was sitting quietly under a shed, and 
 the heads of the Frenchmen were brought 
 to him and laid at his feet. They only spared 
 two Frenchmen, a tailor and a carpenter, 
 whom they thought might be of use to them. 
 They killed some of the women, but the most 
 part of them were kept as slaves, and treated 
 with great cruelty. 
 
 " The news of the massacres, which broke 
 out in several places at once, was carried to 
 New Orleans by the Pere Dautrelean, mis- 
 sionary at the Illinois, who had taken advan- 
 tage of the hunting season, when the Indians 
 leave their villages to encamp in the woods, 
 to go to New Orleans on business. He wish- 
 ed to say mass at Father Scud's mission, not 
 knowing that he had been murdered a few 
 days before, but, finding he could not reach 
 his residence till twelve o'clock, he <! 
 mined to celebrate the Holy Sacrifice on the 
 banks of the river. A number of savages 
 joined him and his companions, and offered 
 them some provisions. When mass began 
 they placed themselves behind the French, as 
 if wislung to assist at it At the moment 
 the priest was saying the 'Kyrie Eleison' 
 they fired upon him, and wounded him in the 
 rid it arm. Seeing one of his companions 
 fall dead at his feet, the Father knelt down 
 and prepared to receive his death-blow. But 
 the savages having fired upon him two or 
 three times without effect, although dose to 
 him, it struck him ho might yet escape. Still 
 
268 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 in his vestments, and carrying the chalice and 
 the palena in his hands, he rushed towards 
 the boat. The two other Frenchmen had 
 already reached it, and, believing him to be 
 dead, had pulled away from the shore. He 
 threw himself into the water, and they con- 
 trived to pull him into the boat. Turning 
 round to see if he was pursued, he received 
 in his mouth several shots from the gun of 
 an Indian. They struck chiefly against his 
 teeth ; some of them entered his gums. He 
 undertook, in spite of his wounded arm, to 
 steer the boat; and his two companions 
 one of whom had the thigh shattered with a 
 gun-shot rowed with all their might. The 
 savages pursued them for an hour, firing con- 
 tinually upon them, but without effect. The 
 two rowers were often about to give up, but, 
 encouraged by the priest, kept on, and man- 
 aged to keep the Indians at bay by pointing 
 towards them an old unloaded fowling-piece 
 which had been lying at the bottom of the 
 boat. When they came near the Batches, 
 not knowing what had happened there, they 
 wished to land, but the sight of ruined and 
 smoking habitations put them on their guard, 
 and they pushed farther on, though well-nigh 
 exhausted. At last they fell in with a de- 
 tachment of French troops, which was march- 
 ing against the Natches. The surgeon who 
 was with them dressed' their wounds, and 
 after a short repose they went on to New 
 Orleans. 
 
 " On January 2Y, M. le Sueur, a French 
 officer, who, on hearing of the massacre, had 
 been recruiting amongst the friendly tribe of 
 the Choctaws, marched with 700 men of that 
 nation to the Natches. He expected to have 
 met the French troops there, but they had 
 not yet arrived, and he could not restrain the 
 impetuosity of the Choctaws. They charged 
 the enemy with such impetuosity that they 
 killed eighty men, made sixteen women pris- 
 oners, and delivered from captivity fifty-one 
 French women, the two men the Natches had 
 spared, and a hundred and fifty negroes and 
 negresses. If the negroes had all been on 
 the side of the French, or the French troops 
 had arrived, the Natches would have met the 
 same fate then as awaited them at a later 
 period." 
 
 PART II. CHAPTER IV. 
 
 IN the court of this young monarch (Louis 
 XV.) many intrigues were carried on. Peo- 
 ple wondered that a king of twenty years of I 
 age had not yet given his heart to any of the 
 titled beauties who were coveting its posses-j 
 sion. Such was the spirit which the regency | 
 bad fostered, and a regular plot was formed 
 to seduce Louis XV. from his allegiance to 
 his queen. His courtiers were tired of the 
 sight of his conjugal virtues, and of his devo- 
 tion to Marie Leckzinska. They laughed at 
 his constancy they used every art to con-j 
 strain him to be unfaithful to her. Forj 
 some time the king resisted. To those who 
 spoke to him in praise of other women he 
 used to say, " The queen is to my mind hand- 
 somer ; I like her better than any of those 
 women who flutter about me." But these 
 perverse efforts were unceasing; the court 
 turned the young couple into ridicule ; the 
 king began to wonder that he was not as 
 profligate as those about him. It would 
 have required a very strong character to 
 stem the tide of that dissolute period and 
 that corrupt society. When the queen had 
 had five children, and had begun to lose her 
 youthful bloom, the assaults on the king's 
 heart, or rather his fancy, redoubled. All 
 the young lords of the court, from the Due 
 de Richelieu to the Dukes of Eperaon and 
 Gesvres, plotted to lead him into vice ; and 
 before long the young Duchesse de Mailly 
 assumed the position at the French Court 
 which Madame de Montespan had so long 
 held in the preceding reign.* 
 
 PART II. CHAPTER V. 
 "As I have mentioned Pouponne, I must 
 tell you we are in a state of great excitement. 
 Athalie is going to be acted at her convent. 
 She is to act the part of the queen, and we 
 greatly need your advice, sir. Just fancy 
 that we do not know (that is, I have forgot- 
 ten it) how Athalie ought to be dressed, 
 when she must stand or when she must sit 
 down, when she must be in a passion or 
 when she must play the hypocrite. All this 
 puzzles us very much. Could not you, hi a 
 
 * Extract from the history of Louis XV., by 
 Capefigue. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 JG9 
 
 moment of leisure, glance over the tragedy 
 d mark these different points for us ? you 
 ould do me a great favour. 
 " If you keep your promise you will ar- 
 -e in time to make us rehearse. Pouponne 
 _ines in the sentimental parts, so that what 
 e does hi her own way, out of her own 
 tie head and taste, is a hundred times bet- 
 r than what we teach her. I have just 
 tticed this in the scene which begins * Te 
 jila SeMucteur!' I was not aware she 
 
 mew it, and she repeats it better than any 
 ing else. Simple things are what she fails 
 , such as used to be the triumph of Mdlle. 
 ecouvreur. As to Pouponne, she likes to 
 orm and rave she is a little Duelas." 
 
 PART IL CHAPTER V. 
 MAURICE, Comte de Saxe and Marshal of 
 Vance, was bora in Dresden in 1696. He 
 ras the illegitimate son of the Elector of 
 jaxony and King of Poland, Augustus the 
 Second, and the Countess de Koenigsmark. 
 Je entered the army at twelve years of age, 
 earnt the art of war under Prince Eugene, 
 ind was present at the siege of Belgrade, 
 [e entered the French service in 1720, but 
 loon after went to Courland, where, through 
 he protection of the Dowager Duchess Anna 
 vanovna, he was elected Duke; but the 
 Jmpress Catherine the First would not recog- 
 u/.e his election, and he returned to France, 
 whore he definitively remained. He greatly 
 distinguished himself in the campaigns of 
 1733, '34, and '35. He became a Lieuten- 
 jnt-General in 1736, covered himself with 
 glory in the war of the Austrian succession, 
 ook Prague and Egra, defended Alsatia, and 
 was named Marshal in 1743. He held the 
 allies in check in Flanders, defeated them at 
 Fontenoy, took Ath and Brussels, won two 
 victories at Bocoux and Lanfeld, and played 
 a decisive part in bringing about the peace 
 of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748. At the conclu- 
 sion of the war he received from Louis the 
 Fifteenth the domain of Chambord and a 
 revenue of 40,000 francs. The bodily 
 strength of this Prince was astonishing. 
 
 ' Madame de Slmlane's letters, to M. d'Herlcourt, 
 She was Madame de 86vlgn6's granddaughter, and 
 Ponponne was her grandchild. 
 
 He could break a six-franc piece in two with 
 his fingers.* 
 
 PART H. CHAPTER VL 
 
 Trantlation of a note in the Appendix of 
 Chateaubriand'* tale, " The Notch*." 
 
 THE banks of the Ohio are peopled with 
 French names which bear witness to the 
 ancient glories of those shores. Indian fami- 
 lies boast even now of the alliances formed 
 by their ancestors ; and proudly bear the name 
 of Pont Chartrain, of Yberville, and of Tcr- 
 monville. 
 
 That of Maurepas is well known in Indian 
 annals, but no gratitude is due from Ameri- 
 cans to the memory of this minister. He it 
 was who ordered the sale of the last Natches. 
 The following reflections occur hi M. Barb6 
 Marboix's History of Louisiana, regarding 
 this inhuman act of policy : 
 
 In the course of the wars between the 
 French and the inhabitants of Louisiana, the 
 conflict with the Natches produced deplor- 
 able consequences. This nation was reck- 
 oned, before the French conquest, as the 
 most peaceful of the Indian tribes. But, 
 irritated by the tyrannical proceedings of a 
 French commanding officer, it carried into 
 effect a horrible retaliation. In consequence, 
 the governor of the colony deemed it neces- 
 sary to make a striking example of this peo- 
 ple, and the whole tribe was exterminated, 
 with the exception of a few families which 
 escaped the general massacre, and were re- 
 ceived and harboured by the neighbouring 
 tribes. From time immemorial the Natches 
 had been governed by a family of chiefe, 
 whom they deemed the children of the sun. 
 M. Perrier, the commander-in-chiof, had them 
 all transported to the Cape Francais. The 
 head of this dynasty died there soon after- 
 wards. The other Suns were supported for 
 a little while, in a miserable manner, at the 
 expense of the Company. When the syndics 
 wrote to XL de Maurepas, to claim indemni- 
 fication for this outlay, his answer was, " 
 do not see what can be done, but to send 
 back what remains of those two Indian femi- 
 lies to Louisiana, or to sell them as Blares." 
 
 Dietiomulrtt Untrcml, Aa. 
 
270 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 The archives of the Company contain the 
 following resolution: "It has been decided 
 after mature consideration, to sell as slaves 
 the remaining members of royal families of 
 the Natches." At the same time as this 
 order was given, mention was made of 
 civilizing the nation whose chiefs were to be 
 sold as slaves ! 
 
 Two of the Natches thus doomed to sla- 
 very were sent to France. One of them had 
 been brought up as an attendant on the altar 
 of the Manitous, and had saved from de- 
 struction, when the idols were overthrown in 
 North America, a young serpent which he 
 considered as a fetish or charm. He kept it 
 in a bowl and carried it to France with him, 
 trusting that when this Mfinitou acquired 
 its full strength it would deliver him from 
 slavery. 
 
 This Natches landed at Toulon at the 
 time when the famous Mandrin was filling 
 with terror the southern provinces of France. 
 The sailors had told before the young Natches 
 wonderful stories of this smuggler's exploits, 
 and he became persuaded that the white man 
 who so marvellously escaped dangers, must 
 be protected by invisible agencies. He 
 ardently desired to enrol himself amongst 
 the foUowers of this invincible chief. Hav- 
 ing contrived to escape, he wandered about 
 some time living upon alms. After many 
 unsuccessful efforts he succeeded at last in 
 falling in with Rondart, one of the followers 
 of Mandrin and his band. The young sav- 
 age told the story of his country's destruc- 
 tion, and said the Manitou which he adored 
 had led him amongst the warriors who were 
 the object of his admiration. The singular- 
 ity of these circumstances struck Mandrin. 
 He saw at once how useful the fanaticism of 
 the young idolater might prove, and encour- 
 aged him in his belief. He was given the 
 name of Lohie, a derivation from that of 
 Ohio. 
 
 Accustomed to see the prisoners made in 
 war offered up in sacrifice to his gods, the 
 Natches had no remorse in murdering and 
 pillaging, and ascribed to his fetish the suc- 
 cessful result of the dangerous expeditions in 
 which he was ever ready to join with super- 
 stitious ardour. 
 
 Mandrin's band, whilst exploring the Fo- 
 
 rez, conceived the project of invading the 
 castle of the High Prevost. A bolder enter- 
 prise could not have been conceived or pro- 
 posed to the courage of the Natches. He 
 accepted with joy the command of this mid- 
 night attack. Foreseeing the perilous nature 
 of the attempt he resolved to carry his ser- 
 pent with him in his breast, feeling certain 
 to triumph through its influence. 
 
 When on the spot, Lohie dispersed his 
 band for the attack, and before giving the 
 signal, opened the can in which he carried 
 his serpent, in order to invoke it. The 
 venomous creature who had been painfully 
 compressed in a narrow space, sprung out 
 and fastened on the savage's throat. Lohie 
 could not restrain a cry of pain, and his com- 
 panions did not dare to touch the serpent so 
 as to disengage him from its hold. The 
 struggles of the wretched man caused his 
 gun to go off. The noise it made gave the 
 alarm ; Lohie's troop tried to fly, but the 
 prevost's guards, surrounded them in an 
 instant, and soon disarmed them. The ser- 
 pent's head was cut off with a sword, but the 
 Natches was by that time at the point of 
 death. He died in horrible sufferings, invok- 
 ing the idol who had caused his death. Such 
 was the unhappy end of one of the North 
 American slaves. 
 
 The other Indian, born in the same region, 
 and brought by the same ship to the shores 
 of France, met with a very different fate. He 
 belonged to the race which claimed descent 
 from the sun. When he left his native land 
 it was noticed that he carried a crucifix in 
 his bosom. When questioned as to this holy 
 sign, he stated that it had been given to him 
 by a dying sachem. 
 
 Struck with the peace which had, attended 
 the last moments of the Indian Christian, 
 the young Natches had vowed to renounce 
 the worship of idols, and to follow the reli- 
 gion of the God of Truth. The genuine 
 piety which breathed in his touching narra- 
 tive induced M. Maret, the Prince de Conde's 
 secretary, to deliver him from slavery. In- 
 stead of a master he found hi him a protec- 
 tor, who naturalized him in the bosom of his 
 new country. He was taken to Paris. In 
 the midst of the wonders of that splendid 
 city it struck people with astonishment to 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 271 
 
 f^hear the young savage beg to be conducted 
 to the house of God rather than to the bril- 
 it sights which met hia eyes. This wish 
 expressed at a great assembly which had 
 
 I been called together to witness the introduc- 
 tii in of a native of the Louisianian forests 
 
 [into the dazzling atmosphere of Parisian 
 
 ^magnificence into a world altogether new 
 to him. M. de Caylus, Bishop of Auxerre, 
 
 [obtained the privilege of introducing the 
 Indian into the Christian temple, and of 
 
 | instructing him in the Christian religion. 
 
 It was in the church of St. Severine in 
 Paris, that he administered the rite of bap- 
 tism to the young savage. The procureur 
 
 | general of the Parliament, M. Fleu de Henry, 
 
 -was his godfather, and the noble Lady de 
 
 [Senac d'Orgeville his godmother. He took 
 the name of Marie Guillaume. The register 
 
 I of his baptism still exists hi the archives of 
 the Parliament of Paris. During the cere- 
 mony he kept his head bowed down on the 
 
 'sachem's crucifix. The court and the town 
 crowded to see the North American convert. 
 It was always with deep emotion that he 
 related how the beauty of a Christian death- 
 bed had led him to the true faith. These 
 facts seem almost like a complement of the 
 preceding fictions. Truth is thus linked with 
 the inspirations of a writer who was the first 
 to throw a romantic interest on the, history 
 of the Natches. M. de Chateaubriand has 
 endowed this people with the prestige which 
 suffering gives; and these true and touch- 
 ing episodes might form a sequel to his 
 tale.* 
 
 PART II. CHAPTER VI 
 
 Extract* from. "Mademoiselle Gaultier's 
 Conversion, related by herself, and printed 
 from the manuscript written by her own 
 hand." 
 
 THIS narrative has been published in a 
 volume of the Lives of French Carmelite 
 Nuns, and is also to be found in " Pieces 
 curieuses pour servir a la Litt6rature et & 
 1'Histoire, par De la Place." Mdlle. Gaultier 
 was a celebrated French actress, who, after 
 
 * The story of Rcn6 and Atala, and the history 
 of the Natches. 
 
 being ten years on the stage, retired from it 
 and the world, and ended by entering a Car- 
 melite convent, the same where Mdlle. de la 
 VaUiere had taken the veil in the previous 
 century. Mdlle. Gaultier's professional la- 
 bours at the Theatre Fnu^ais had met with 
 success and brought her wealth, and she lav- 
 ishly indulged in all that wealth can procure. 
 Nature had bestowed upon her many and 
 various gifts. She was endowed with talents 
 for poetry and painting as well as acting. Tall 
 hi stature, commanding in appearance, with 
 a brilliant complexion and a graceful figure, 
 she made herself conspicuous wherever she 
 went by a display of the less feminine arts 
 of riding and driving, and few men could 
 boast of strength equal to hers. She once 
 challenged the Comte de Saxe to try the 
 power of his wrists against her own. His 
 strength was proverbial, and no one in 
 Europe had ever been a match for him hi 
 this respect. Nor did Mdlle. Gaultier come 
 off victorious in the trial she had invited, but 
 her antagonist acknowledged he had never 
 been so nearly defeated. She was able to 
 roll a silver piece in her hand as if it had 
 been a wafer. For many years her life was 
 notorious for its irregularities, and many were 
 the scandals she gave. Her mad freaks were 
 the subject of public conversation ; and the 
 following anecdote will exemplify the tone of 
 her mind at that period. 
 
 She had been banished from the court of 
 the Grand Duke of Wiirtemberg on account 
 of the insolence with which she had treated 
 a lady whose influence was great with that 
 sovereign. But no sooner had she arrived 
 hi Paris than she resolved not to submit 
 tamely to the insult she had received, but to 
 return at once to Stuttgard, and carry out her 
 revenge. Secreting hersel f in that town for the 
 purpose, she watched her opportunity. Hav- 
 ing ascertained that her enemy was driving 
 hi an open carriage on the public promenade, 
 she ordered a pair of fiery horses to be har- 
 nessed to a vehicle she had previously hired, 
 and, driving as usual herself, she contrived 
 to run against her rival's equipage and to 
 overset it No sooner was this done than, 
 leaving the object of her enmity prostrate in 
 the mud, she jumped into a post-chaise which 
 was in waiting, and was on her way to Paris 
 
272 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 before the Grand Duke had had time to hear 
 of her exploit 
 
 With reference to this journey she writes, 
 " In order to conceive an idea of what the 
 strength and impetuosity of my passions had 
 been, and the dangers to which I exposed 
 myself when there was a question of satisfy- 
 ing them, just imagine what perils a girl of 
 twenty-two must have run travelling alone from 
 Paris to the kingdom of Wiirtemberg, and 
 from thence back again to Paris alone with 
 the footman and the postboy who drove the 
 carriage. This footman, much more tired 
 and more timid than his mistress, used often 
 to come to the door of the chaise, especially 
 when going through the woods of Nancy and 
 St. Menehould, and whisper in broken ac- 
 cents, ' Mademoiselle, do you know that we 
 are hi a most cut-throat sort of a place ? ' 
 I only laughed and said, 'Go on ; don't be 
 afraid. You follow Caesar and his fortunes.' " 
 
 " On the 25th of April, 1722, at a tune when 
 I was revelling in an ocean of delights, accord- 
 ing to the world's pernicious way of thinking, 
 and enjoying a fatal security even whilst com- 
 passed about with the shades of death I 
 happened one morning to awake between 
 eight and nine o'clock, which was earlier 
 than was usual with me. I remembered that 
 it was my birthday, and rang for my women. 
 One of them came hurrying to my bedside, 
 supposing that I had been taken ill. I 
 desired her to get me dressed, as I intended 
 to go to mass. She told me that it was not 
 a festival; for she knew that it was only on 
 days of obligation that I ever thought of such 
 a thing, and then not always. I insisted, 
 however, and she assisted me to dress. I 
 went to the church of the Franciscans, fol- 
 lowed only by my footman, and taking with 
 me a little motherless boy whom I had adopt- 
 ed. I heard the first part of Mass without 
 the least attention ; but about the tune of 
 the Preface an interior voice seemed to say to 
 me, 'What brings you to the foot of the 
 altar ? Are you come here to thank God 
 that he has given you the means of pleasing 
 men and mortally offending him every day ? ' 
 The thought of this my monstrous ingratitude 
 towards the Lord overwhelmed me to such a 
 degree that I cannot describe it. I slipped 
 
 
 off the chair against which I was negh'gen 
 leaning and fell prostrate on the pavement. 
 When Mass was ended I sent home my foot- 
 man and the orphan boy, and remained in 
 church in a state of inconceivable agitation. 
 
 "I spent six months in this way, hearing 
 Mass every morning and in the evening going 
 on in my usual manner. At last I bethought 
 myself to the words of the Gospel, ' No man 
 can serve two masters,' upon which I made 
 up my mind. At last the day of my depar- 
 ture arrived. It was the very one upon 
 which persons dearest to me in the world 
 were for the last time to dine at my house. 
 But dear to me as they were, my salvation 
 was now dearer to me still. What I suffered 
 whilst at table in order not to betray my feel- 
 ings can scarcely be conceived. Nature and 
 grace were carrying on a fearful conflict with- 
 in my heart ; especially I was agitated when 
 some one said to me, * The fare you give us 
 is too good for a Wednesday in Passion 
 Week ;' and then they all exclaimed, ' It is 
 because she is taking leave of us.' Feeling 
 myself about to faint, I rose from table, and 
 said I was obliged to go out on account of a 
 payment which I had given my word to make 
 that day. Everybody got up and^ accom- 
 panied me to the door. I entered my car- 
 riage, and the guests sat down again to din- 
 ner. But at the first sign of starting my 
 anguish grew so great that I gave a piercing 
 cry, which was heard in the dining-room, and 
 the company were about once more to rush 
 out of the house. In the mean time I had 
 left the carriage and shut myself up in a 
 parlour on the ground-floor. My attendants 
 persuaded the guests that I was gone, and 
 that it was the cry of a child they had heard. 
 I then took courage, and drove off to St. 
 Sulpice, where my confessor was awaiting 
 me. There, though greatly agitated, I began 
 my confession. After an interview of three 
 hours, my confessor, pitying the state I was 
 in, put me off to another day. I returned to 
 my house, where I was only to stay four days 
 longer. A sense of intense desolation came 
 over me. I was bewildered ; I trembled. I 
 asked myself, like St. Augustine, ' Shall you 
 indeed be able to do without all these posses- 
 sions, all these comforts ? without all these 
 luxuries and pleasures which have hitherto 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 273 
 
 filled you with delight ? Will you abandon 
 this little palace to go and live in a dismal 
 cell ? Will you take up with a mode of life 
 so monotonous and so obscure, one which 
 you have hitherto held in abhorrence, and 
 that for the whole remainder of your ex- 
 istence ? ' 
 
 "But I got over those terrible moments. 
 At last the day of my departure arrived. M. 
 Sanguet, my cure, had for a long time kept 
 out of my way I had so often turned into 
 ridicule his pious exhortations. But when I 
 told him the great mercy God had shown me 
 his joy was great I passed a part of the 
 night in writing to the persons with whom I 
 had professional engagements, and to the 
 father of my adopted child, to whom I sent 
 back the boy with a sum of money. I left 
 the letters with orders that they should not 
 be sent till twelve o'clock at noon ; and that 
 whoever asked for me should be told that I 
 was gone away for a long time. Then at 
 five o'clock in the morning I left my home, 
 never to return to it again. But I was not 
 agitated by the same struggles I had lately 
 gone through. I went out with the same 
 tranquillity with which I now leave my cell to 
 go to the choir ; just sixteen months after 
 that first Mass at the Franciscan church ! 
 In the same composed state of mind I ar- 
 rived at Versailles, and waited on the late 
 Cardinal de Fleury and the Due de Gesvres, 
 who had been my constant protectors, and of 
 whom I now took leave. From their apart- 
 ments I went to the king's chapel to hear 
 Mass. While I was there it came into my 
 mind that there was in the chateau a lady 
 whom I had grievously offended ; and as I 
 came out of the chapel I hastened to her 
 rooms ; but, in order to avoid the eclat which 
 the first burst of her feelings might have 
 given rise to, I sent to request an interview 
 with her in one of the ground-floor parlours, 
 where I was waiting. As soon as she came 
 in, I closed the door and threw myself at her 
 feet The suddenness of this action took 
 from her the power of speech. Still hi the 
 attitude of a suppliant, I implored her to 
 grant me a generous pardon. I told her that 
 I was about to retire from the world to do 
 penance, and that I had thought ii right to 
 by fulfilling the most difficult of the 
 18 
 
 Gospel precepts. This lady, who had been 
 taken quite aback at first by the suddenness 
 of my appearance, and had imagined herself 
 the subject of an illusion, now began to 
 recover her presence of mind, and said to 
 me every thing most harsh which a woman 
 cruelly wounded in her .feelings might be 
 supposed to think of. After listening to her 
 some time without making any reply, always 
 humbly kneeling at her feet, I said that I 
 had not come there to justify myself, but 
 simply to implore her pardon ; that if she 
 granted it, I should go away happy ; that if, 
 on the contrary, she refused it to me, God 
 would be satisfied with my submission, and 
 not with her refusal. At these words she 
 held out her hand, desired me to sit down, 
 and we were reconciled. 
 
 " I left Versailles without taking any food. 
 The action I had been enabled to perform 
 had sufficiently refreshed me. I went back 
 to Paris to the community of St. Perpetua, 
 where I had a little room prepared for me, in 
 which I was to remain until the inventory of 
 my furniture was completed, and various 
 other arrangements made. 
 
 "As I entered that first place of retreat, 
 what happened visibly to St Paul seemed in- 
 visibly to take place in me. Scales fell from 
 my eyes, and I felt as if transformed into a 
 totally new creature. Once in that little 
 room at the top of the house, I felt as if I 
 had reached heaven 1 The past seemed to 
 vanish away. My house, my property, my 
 friends, my pleasures, no longer dwelt in my 
 thoughts. The tranquillity and interior peace 
 which I enjoyed almost led me to feel as if 
 my life, up to that moment, had been one 
 long unquiet dream. My cousin, whose tears 
 were flowing fast, and who could not bear to 
 take leave of me, fearing to let me remain 
 alone, and perhaps to find me dead the next 
 morning, could not understand my eager 
 desire to send her away, in order to enjoy at 
 leisure the new blessing of solitude. I told 
 the Superioress that I had taken a collation 
 in the morning, and that I begged she would 
 let me have for supper what had been Kit 
 from the dinner of the Community. There 
 was some stewed carp, which I ate with the 
 greatest appetite, strange to Bay. For the 
 preceding three months I had not been able 
 
274 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 to keep any food on my stomach, not even a 
 little broth. Some rice with gravy, which I 
 had taken the night before for supper, had 
 made me sick : and now I not only digested 
 quite well this warmed-up bit of fish, and a 
 few walnuts for dessert, but I slept all night 
 as soundly as a child of eight years old ; and 
 this has been the case ever since. 
 
 " As soon as my retirement became known, 
 various reasons were assigned for it, accord- 
 ing to the temper of people's minds. The 
 world found it difficult to beh'eve that, in the 
 prime of life I was thirty-one years of age 
 and in the full tide of passion, I should have 
 taken, of my own free choice, a decision so 
 utterly at variance with my past life. My 
 furniture was put up to auction. This sale 
 lasted a fortnight ; during which tune all Paris 
 came to convince itself of the reality of my 
 disappearance ; and all who came went away 
 touched by a sense of the great mercy God 
 had shown me. My kinswoman, who had 
 undertaken the charge of my worldly affairs, 
 was closely questioned as to my place of 
 retreat. Refusing to disclose it, she was 
 requested to convey to me a letter, and 
 greatly entreated not to fail to deliver it 
 into my hands. This proved to be from a 
 friend, who exhorted me not to persist in a 
 course which I had evidently adopted with- 
 out sufficient reflection, particularly consid- 
 ering the agreeable position I occupied, the 
 difficulty I should find in retracing my steps, 
 and the inevitable regrets that would follow. 
 Many examples were adduced abundantly 
 calculated to frighten me from my resolution, 
 and to shake my courage, if Almighty God 
 had not supported me by His grace. As it 
 was, it is easy to suppose what my answer 
 must have been. 
 
 "Providence had hi numerous instances 
 preserved me in a remarkable manner from 
 accidents to which I was every day exposing 
 myself, in spite of the wise remonstrances of 
 persons eminent for their rank, age, and 
 virtue. When they inquired if I approached 
 the Sacraments, '0 dear, no,' I used to 
 answer. ' And why not ? ' ' Why, because 
 I do not choose to commit a sacrilege, or to 
 give up my pleasures until I reach the age of 
 forty-five.' 'But have you no remorse?' 
 'Not I ! What harm do I do ? I do not 
 
 injure any one, that I know of. As to a fu- 
 ture paradise, I leave it to those who do not 
 know how to enjoy the present. I am satis- 
 fied with the pleasures this world affords, and 
 do my best to enjoy them.' Horrible infat- 
 uation ! fatal blindness ! which makes me 
 shudder when I recall it. And it is on this 
 sensual, reckless creature that the Almighty 
 has vouchsafed to look with pity, and by that 
 powerful glance to restore her to herself. 
 For He had given me, at the outset, a soul 
 capable of good, an "upright, sincere, and 
 compassionate heart, well inclined towards 
 virtue, and full of a just horror of disgraceful 
 vices. But, as I said before, the poverty of 
 my family had caused my education to be 
 neglected ; and young, free from all restraints, 
 with headlong passions, and without any 
 means of support, ruin and dishonour were, 
 as it were, forced upon me. God knows how 
 much suffering it cost me to forego virtue. 
 He knows that at the age of nineteen, when 
 I was in Flanders, I promised Him, during a 
 severe illness I had and most sincerely I 
 promised it that I would give up the dan- 
 gerous profession I was engaged in, if only I 
 could secure a pension of 200 francs. It 
 might have been done. It ought to have 
 been done. God forgive those who refused 
 to do it. Poverty had alone in the first in- 
 stance thrust me into the land of perdition, 
 for none of my relations had lived in any but 
 a simple and Christian manner of life, except 
 my father, who, through his extravagance, 
 reduced me at the age of seventeen, with, as 
 I have been told, a good figure and a comely 
 face, to the most embarrassing straits. I 
 had a horror of vice, and, consequently, felt 
 shocked when it was proposed that I should 
 go upon the stage. But I was told that this 
 was a prejudice ,which only existed now 
 amongst the common people and vulgar 
 bigots ; that the court and the town were of 
 quite another way of thinking, and lacked 
 very favourably upon persons who exercised 
 so useful and so agreeable an art. Young 
 people are easily persuaded ; but experience 
 has taught me how inevitable is the ruin of 
 those who choose this profession, unless they 
 exercise the strictest watch over themselves, 
 and guard at every turn against the dangers 
 that surround them. Only consider what a 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 275 
 
 life it is! No occupation but the exercise 
 of the memory ; wealth, luxuries, amusemen 
 of every sort ! The last three years that I was 
 on the stage brought me in, free from al 
 deductions, forty thousand francs. What L 
 temptation for those who think of nothing 
 but the present moment ; and what a miracle 
 of grace it is that withdraws a soul from so 
 voluptuous an existence, especially one hi the 
 prime of life, and with passions at their 
 height ! I must admit, however, that I have 
 known persons in that line whose conduct 
 was as irreproachable as their talents were 
 remarkable; but I, alas! was not of that 
 number ; I own it, to my shame and to the 
 greater glory of God, whose grace is all the 
 more evident in my conversion, that He chose 
 for the display of its irresistible power the 
 most unworthy of subjects ; and I have to 
 thank Him for this particular grace that since 
 the day I abandoned the world up to this 
 moment, I have never regretted its enjoy- 
 ments, in spite of all the trials I have had to 
 go through ; and the violent efforts I had to 
 make in order to subdue my overweening 
 sensibility, which so reacted on my constitu- 
 tion that my hair and my eyebrows turned 
 from black to white in a very short space of 
 time." 
 
 The Carmelite nun never lost those bril- 
 liant powers of conversation for which the 
 woman of the world had been famous. Her 
 language remained what it had been, clear, 
 forcible, graphic, animated ; but whereas her 
 words had formerly deluded whilst they 
 fascinated her hearers, now they lured them 
 to the love of God and the practice of virtue. 
 In her old age she became blind, but there 
 was no darkness on her spirit even then. 
 She went about her duties as cheerfully as 
 ever. She suffered no one to help her. The 
 energy of her natural character, sanctified 
 by grace, gave her the will and the power to 
 accomplish to the last every obligation; 
 whilst the tenderness of her heart, increasing 
 with her years, made her an example of that 
 charity which can never hear of suffering 
 without seeking to relieve it. 
 
 A strange circumstance in Scour Augustine 
 de la Mis6ricorde's history was the intercourse 
 which took place between the Queen of France 
 
 and herself during the latter part of her life. 
 She had a nephew, an eminent violin-player, 
 who directed the orchestra of the Theatre 
 Francais. Deeply impressed with a sense of 
 the dangers of any employment connected 
 with the stage, she felt very anxious to with- 
 draw him from its influence, and wrote to the 
 pious queen of Louis XV. entreating her to 
 admit this young man into her private band; 
 and eloquently dwelling on the motives which 
 prompted this request The desire in itself 
 was sufficient to engage the queen's sym- 
 pathy, and she readily acceded to the petition 
 of Soeur Augustine. The manner in which 
 she expressed her thanks so charmed her 
 royal correspondent, that an interchange of 
 letters of a religious character established 
 itself between them. 
 
 The night before her death, which took 
 place at the convent of the Carmelites at 
 Lyons in the year 1757, the nun dictated to 
 the Sister who was sitting up with her eight 
 lines of poetry addressed to her royal friend, 
 entreating her prayers, and commending her- 
 self to her compassionate recollection. 
 
 PAKT H. CHAPTER X. ' 
 
 M. DE LA BOURDONNAIS was governor-general 
 of the Isles de France and Bourbon in the 
 pear 1739. He had every thing to organize 
 n these colonies. The administration of 
 justice, the observance of order, commerce, 
 and industry ; and his mode of government 
 drew down blessings upon him. In the war 
 of 1743 between France and England he went 
 o the assistance of Dupleix, Governor of 
 Pondicherry, besieged the English in Madras, 
 and forced them to capitulate. Madras, ac- 
 cording to the terms of the capitulation, was 
 o be restored to the English on the payment 
 [>f a ransom. Dupleix, who had possession 
 of Madras, refused to ratify this treaty, and a 
 dispute arose, in consequence, between him 
 and La Bourdonnais, which proved fatal to 
 he latter. Indignant at the bail fuith of 
 Dupleix, he left Madras and returned as a 
 private individual to the Isle de France, 
 where a new governor, chosen by the impe- 
 rious Dupleix, was already hi authority. La 
 lourdonnais came back to France in 1748 
 
276 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 to answer in person the accusations of pow- 
 erful enemies, excited by his persecutor. He 
 was shut up in the Bastille, where he remained 
 several years without being able to get even 
 
 a hearing in his own defence. His innocence graphic. 
 
 was at last admitted, and, he was set at lib- 
 erty in 1752, but he was utterly ruined, and 
 died in 1756, after along and painful illness.* 
 * Dictionnaire TJniversel d'Histoire et de Geo- 
 
 THE END. 
 
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