THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES GIFT OF Ada Nisbet ENGLISH READING ROOM JUL 17 1986 \ THE PARISIANS. THE PARISIANS BY NEW YORK THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO. 31 BAST 17 ST. (UNION SQUARE) TH2 MERRHON COMPANY PRESS, RAHWAY, N. J. INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. THEY who chance to have read " The Coming Race " may perhaps re- member that I, the adventurous discoverer of the land without a sun, con- cluded the sketch of my adventures by a brief reference to the malady which, though giving no perceptible notice of its encroachments, might, in the opin- ion of my medical attendant, prove suddenly'fatal. I had brought my little book to this somewhat melancholy close a few years before the date of its publication, and, in the mean while, I was in- duced to transfer my residence to Paris, in order to place myself under the care of an English physician, renowned for his successful tieatment of com- plaints analogous to my own. I was the more readily persuaded to undertake this journey, partly be- cause I enjoyed a familiar acquaintance with the eminent physician referred to, who had commenced his career and founded his reputation in the United States, partly because 1 had beome a solitary man, the ties of home broken, and dear friends of mine were domiciled in Paris, with whom I should be sure of tender sympathy and cheerful companionship. I had reason to be thankful for this change of residence : the skill of Dr. C soon restond me tu health. Brought much into contact with various circles of Parisian society, I became acquainted with the persons, and a witness of the events, that form the substance of the tale I am about to submit to the public, which has treated my former book with so generous an indulgence. Sensitively tenacious of that character for strict and unalloyed veracity, which, I flatter myself, my account of the abodes and manners of the Vrilaya has estab- lished, I could have wished to preserve the following narrative no less jeal- ously guarded than its predecessor from the vagaries of fancy. But Truth undisguised, never welcome in any civilized community above ground, is ex- posed at this time to especial dangers in Paris ; and my life would not be worth an hour's purchase if I exhibited her in puris naturalibis to the eyes of a people wholly unfamiliarized to a spectacle so indecorous. That care for one's personal safety, which is the first duty of thoughtful man, compels me therefore to reconcile the appearance of la Fi/rzY/ to the KeiuAttua of the polished society in which la /./for //admits no opinion not dressed after the last fashion. Attired as fiction. Truth may be peacefully received ; and, despite the necessity thus imposed by prudence, I indulge the modest hope that I do not in these pages unfai hfully represent certain prominent types of t'ie bril- liant population which has invented so many varieties of Koom-Posh ; * * Koom-Posh, Glek-Xas. For the derivation of these terms and their metaphorical sig- nification, I must refer the reader to " The Coming Race," chapter xii., on the language of the Vril-ya. To those who have not read or have forgotten that historical composition, it may be convenient to state briefly that Koom-Pcsh with the Vr.l-ya is the name of the gov- ernment of the many, or the ascendancy of the most ignorant or hollow, and may be joosely rendered Hollow-Bosh. When Koom-Posh degenerates from popular ignorance into the popular ferocity which precedes its decease, the name for that state of things ii Glek-Nas, viz , the universal strife-rot. IV INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER. and even when it appears hopelessly lost in the slough of a Glek-nas, re- emerges fresh and lively as if from an invigorating plunge into the Fountain of Youth. O Paris, foyer des idfas, et ceil du monde ! animated contrast to the serene tranquillity of the Vril-ya, which, nevertheless, thy noisiest philos- ophers ever pretend to make the goal of their desires of all communities on which shines the sun and descend the rains of heaven, fertilizing alike wis- dom and folly, virtue and vice, in every city men have yet built on this enrth, mayest thou, O Paris, be the last to brave the wants of the Coming Race and be reduced into cinders for the sake of the common good ! TlSH. PARIS, A ugust 28, 1872. THE PARISIANS. BOOK I. CHAPTER I. IT was a bright day in the early spring of 1869. All Paris seemed to have turned out to enjoy itself. The Tuileries, the Champs Elysees, the Bois de Boulogne, swarmed with idlers. A stranger might have wondered where Toil was at work, and in what nook Poverty lurked concealed. A millionnaire from the London Exchange, as he looked round on the magasins, the equipages, the dresses of the women ; as he inquired the prices in the shops and the rent of apartments, might have asked himself, in envious wonder, How on earth do those gay Parisians live ? What is their fortune ? Where does it come from ? As the day declined, many of -the scattered loungers crowded into the Boulevards ; the cafes and restaurants began to fill up. About this time a young man, who might be some five or six and twenty, was walking along the Boulevard des Italiens, heeding little the throng through which he glided his solitary way : there was that in his aspect and bearing which caught attention. He looked a somebody ; but though unmistakably a Frenchman, not a Parisian. His dress was not in the pre- vailing mode ; to a practised eye it betrayed the taste and the cut of a provincial tailor. His gait was not that of the Paris- ian less lounging, more stately ; and, unlike the Parisian, he seemed indifferent to the gaze of others. Nevertheless there was about him that air of dignity or dis- tinction which those who are reared from their cradle in the pride of birth acquire so unconsciously that it seems hereditary and inborn. It must also be confessed that the young man himself was endowed with a considerable share of that nobility which Nature capriciously distributes among her favorites, with little respect for their pedigree and blazon the nobility of form and face. He was tall and well-shaped, with graceful length 6 THE PARISIANS. of limb and fall of shoulders ; his face was handsome, of the purest type of French masculine beauty the nose inclined to be aquiline, and delicately thin, with finely cut open nostrils ; the complexion clear, the eyes large, of a light hazel, with dark lashes, the hair of a chestnut brown, with no tint of auburn, the beard and moustache a shade darker, clipped short, not dis* guising the outline of lips which were now compressed, as if smiles had of late been unfamiliar to them ; yet such compres- sion did hot seem in harmony with the physiognomical charac- ter of their formation, which was that assigned by Lavater to temperaments easily moved to gayetyand pleasure. Another man, about his own age, coming quickly out of one of the streets of the Chaussee d'Antin, brushed close by the stately pedestrian above described, caught sight of his countenance, stopped short, and exclaimed, " Alain ! " The person thus abruptly accosted turned his eye tranquilly on the eager face, of which all the lower part was enveloped in black beard ; and slightly lifting his hat, with a gesture of the head that implied, "Sir, you are mistaken ; I have not the honor 4o know you," continued his slow indifferent way. The would-be acquaint- ance was not so easily rebuffed. " Pcste" he said, between his teeth, " I am certainly right. He is not much altered ; of course / am ; ten years of Paris would improve an orang- outang." Quickening his step, and regaining the side of the man he had called " Alain," he said, with a well-bred mixture of boldness and courtesy in his tone and countenance : "Ten thousand pardons if I am wrong. But surely I accost Alain de Kerouec, son of the Marquis de Rochebriant." " True, sir ; but " " But you do not remember me, your old college friend, Frederic Lemercier? " " Is it possible ? " cried Alain cordially, and with an anima- tion which changed the whole character of his countenance. " My dear Frederic, my dear friend, this is indeed good for- tune ! So you, too, are at Paris ? " " Of course ; and you ? Just come, I perceive," he added somewhat satirically, as, linking his arm in his new-found friend's, he glanced at the cut of that friend's coat-collar. " I have been here a fortnight," replied Alain. " Hem ! I suppose you lodge in the old Hotel de Roche- briant. I passed it yesterday, admiring its vast fagade, little thinking you were its inmate." " Neither am I ; the hotel does not belong to me ; it was sold some years ago by my father." THE PARISIANS. 7 " Indeed ! I hope your father got a good price for it ; those grand hotels have trebled their value within the last five years. And how is your father ? Still the same polished grand seigneur ? I never saw him but once, you know ; and I shall never forget his smile, style grand monarque, when he patted me on the head and tipped me ten napoleons." "My father is no more," said Alain gravely ; "he has been dead nearly three years." " del ! forgive me, I am greatly shocked. Hem ! So you are now the Marquis de Rochebriant, a great historical name, worth a large sum in the market. Few such names left. Superb place your old chateau, is it not ?" " A superb place, no ; a venerable ruin, yes ! " " Ah, a ruin ! So much the better. All the bankers are mad after ruins so charming an amusement to restore them. You will restore yours, without doubt. I will introduce you to such an architect ! Has the moyen age at his fingers' ends. Dear, but a genius." The young Marquis smiled ; for since he had found a col- lege friend, his face showed that it could smile ; smiled, but not cheerfully, and answered : " I have no intention to restore Rochebriant. The walls are solid ; they have weathered the storms of six centuries ; they will last my time, and with me the race perishes." "Bah? The race perish, indeed! You will marry. Parlezmoi de fa you could not come to a better man. I have a list of all the heiresses in Paris, bound in russia leather. You may have your choice out of twenty. Ah, if I were but a Roche- briant ! It is an infernal thir^g to come into the world a Le- mercier. I am a democrat, of course. A Lemercier would be in a false position if he were not. But if any one would leave me twenty acres of land, with some antique right to the De and a title, faith, would not I be an aristocrat, and stand up for my order ? But now we have met, pray let us dine together. Ah ! No doubt you are engaged every day for a month. A Roche- briant just new to Paris must be/ potjge a la bisque, mow paced calmly and slowly across the salon, and halted before Lemercier. Here let me pause for a moment, and give the reader a rapid sketch of the two Parisians. / Frederic Lemercier is dressed, somewhat too showily, in the extreme of the prevalent fashion. He wears a superb pin in his cravat a pin worth 2000 francs ; he wears rings on his fin- gers, breloques to his watch-chain. He has a warm though dark complexion, thick black eyebrows, full lips, a nose somewhat turned up, but not small, very fine, large, dark eyes, a bold, open, somewhat impertinent expression of countenance ; withal decidedly handsome, thanks to coloring, youth, and vivacity of " regard." Lucien Duplessis, bending over the table, glancing first with curiosity at the Marquis de Rochebriant, who leans his cheek on his hand and seems not to notice him, then concentrating his attention on Frederic Lemercier, who sits square with his hands clasped Lucien Duplessis is somewhere between forty and fifty, rather below the middle height, slender, but not slight what in English phrase is called "wiry." He is dressed with extreme simplicity : black frock-coat buttoned up ; black cravat worn higher than men who follow the fashions wear their neck-cloths nowadays ; a hawk's eye and a hawk's beak ; hair of a dull brown, very short, and wholly without curl ; his cheeks thin and smoothly shaven, but he wears a moustache and im- perial, plagiarized from those of his sovereign, and, like all pla- giarisms, carrying the borrowed beauty to extremes, so that the THE PARISIANS. U points of moustache and '.mperial, stiffened and sharpened by cosmetics which must have been composed of iron, looked like three long strings guarding lip and jaw from invasion ; a pale, olive-brown complexion ; eyes small, deep-sunk, calm, piercing ; his expression of face at first glance not striking, except for quiet immovability. Observed more needfully, the expression was keenly intellectual ; determined about the lips, calculating about the brows : altogether the face of no ordinary man, and one not, perhaps, without fine and high qualities, concealed from the general gaze by habitual reserve, but justifying the confidence of those whom he admitted into his intimacy. "Ah, mon c/ier," said Lemercier, "you promised to call on me yesterday at two o'clock. I waited in for you half an hour ; you never came." " No ; I went first to the Bourse. The shares in that Com- pany we spoke of have fallen ; they will fall much lower foolish to buy in yet ; so the object of my calling on you was over. I took it for granted you would not wait if I failed my appoint- ment. Do you go to the opera to-night ? " " I think not ; nothing worth going for ; besides, I have found an old friend, to whom I consecrate this evening. Let me in- troduce you to the Marquis de Rochebriant. Alain, M. Du- plessis." The two gentlemen bowed. "I had the honor to be known to Monsieur your father," said Duplessis. " Indeed ! " returned Rochebriant. " He had not visited Paris for many years before he died." " It was in London I met him, at the house of the Russian Princess C ." The Marquis colored high, inclined his head gravely, and made no reply. Here the waiter brought the oysters and the chablis, and Duplessis retired to his own table. " That is the most extraordinary man," said Frederic, as he squeezed the lemon over his oysters, " and very much to be ad- mired." " How so ? I see nothing at least to admire in his face," said the Marquis, with the bluntness of a provincial. " His face. Ah! you are a Legitimist party prejudice. He dresses his face after the Emperor ; in itself a very clever face, surely." " Perhaps, but not an amiable one. He looks like a bird of prey." " All clever men are birds of prey. The eagles are the heroes, 12 THE PARISIANS. and the owls the sages. Duplessis is not an eagle nor an owl. 1 should rather call him a falcon, except that I would not at- tempt to hoodwink him." " Call him what you will," said the Marquis indifferently ; " M. Duplessis can be nothing to me." " I am not so sure of that," answered Frederic, somewhat net- tled by the phlegm with which the provincial regarded the pre- tensions of the Parisian. " Duplessis, I repeat it, is an extraordi- nary man. Though unfilled, he descends from your old aris- tocracy ; in fact, I believe, as his name shows, from the same stem as the Richelieus. His father was a great scholar, and I believe he has read much himself.. Might have distinguished himself in literature or at the bar, but his parents died fearfully poor ; and some distant relations in commerce took charge of him, and devoted his talents to the Bourse. Seven years ago he lived in a single chamber, an quat>ieme, near the Luxembourg. He has now a hotel, not large but charming, in the Champs Elysees, worth at least 600,000 francs. Nor has he made his own fortune- alone, but that of many others ; some of birth as high as your own. He has the genius of riches, and knocks off a million as a poet does an ode, by the force of inspiration. He is hand-in-glove with the Ministers, and has been invited to Compiegne by the Emperor. You will find him very useful." Alain made a slight movement of incredulous dissent, and changed the con versation to reminiscences of old schoolboy days. The dinner at length came to a close. Frederic rang for the bill, glanced over it. " Fifty-nine francs," said he, carelessly flinging down his napoleon and a half. The Marquis silently drew forth his purse and extracted the same sum. When they were out of the restaurant, Frederic proposed ad- journing to his own rooms. " I can promise you an excellent cigar, one of a box given to me by an invaluable young Span- iard attached to the Embassy here. Such cigars are not to be had at Paris for money, nor even for love, seeing that women, however devoted and generous, never offer you anything better than a cigarette. Such cigars are only to be had for friendship. Friendship is a jewel." " I never smoke," answered the Marquis, " but I shall be charmed to come to your rooms ; only don't let me encroach on your good-nature. Doubtless you have engagements for the evening." " None till eleven o'clock, when I have promised to go to a soiree to which I do not offer to take you ; for it is one of those Bohemian entertainments at which it would do you harm in the THE PARISIANS. 1$ Faubourg to assist at least until you have made good your posi- tion. Let me see, is not the Duchesse de Tarascon a relation of yours ? " " Yes ; my poor mother's first cousin." " I congratulate you. Ties grande dame. She will launch you in pura c&fa, as Juno might have launched one of her young peacocks." " There has been no acquaintance between our houses," re- turned the Marquis drily, ''since the me'salliance of her second nuptials." " Mesalliance ! Second nuptials ! Her second husband was the Due de Tarascon." " A duke of the First Empire the grandson of a butcher." "Diable ! you are a severe genealogist, Monsieur le Marquis. How can you consent to walk arm-in-arm with me, whose great-grandfather supplied bread to the same army to which the Due de Tarascon's grandfather furnished the meat?" " My dear Frederic, we two have an equal pedigree, for our friendship dates from the same hour. I do not blame the Duchesse de Tarascon for marrying the grandson of a butcher, but for marrying the son of a man made duke by an usurper. She abandoned the faith of her house and the cause of her sovereign. Therefore her marriage is a blot on our scutcheon." Frederic raised his eyebrows, but had the tact to pursue the subject no further. He who interferes in the quarrels of rela- tions must pass through life without a friend. The young men now arrived at Lemercier's apartment, an entresol looking on the Boulevard des Italiens, consisting of more rooms that a bachelor generally requires ; low-pitched, indeed, but of good dimensions, and decorated and furnished with a luxury which really astonished the provincial, though, with the high-bred pride of an Oriental, he suppressed every sign of surprise. Florentine cabinets freshly retouched by the exquisite skill of Mombro, costly specimens of old Sevres and Limoges ; pictures and bronzes and marble statuettes, all well chosen and of great price, reflected from mirrors in Venetian frames, made a coup d'cdl very favorable to that respect which the human mind pays to the evidences of money. Nor was com- fort less studied than splendor. Thick carpets covered the floors, doubled and quilted portieres excluded all draughts from chinks in the doors. Having allowed his friend a few minutes to contemplate and admire the sAlk-b-mangtr ttv& salon which constituted his more state apartments, Frederic then 14 ; THE PARISIANS. Conducted him into a small cabinet, fitted up with scarlet cloth and gold fringes, whereon were artistically arranged trophies of Eastern weapons and Turkish pipes with amber mouth- pieces. There, placing the Marquis at ease on a divan, and flinging himself on another, the Parisian exquisite ordered a valet, well dressed as himself, to bring coffee and liqueurs ; and after vainly pressing one of his matchless cigars on his friend, in- dulged in his own regalia. " They are ten years old," said Frederic, with a tone of compassion at Alain's self-inflicted loss; "ten years old. Born therefore about the year in which we two parted " " When you were so hastily summoned from college," said the Marquis, "by the news of your father's illness. We ex- pected you back in vain. Have you been at Paris evei since? " "Ever since. My poor father died of that illness. "Hi? fortune proved much larger than was suspected ; my share anfounted to an income from investments in stocks, houses; etc., to upwards of 60,000 francs a year ; and- as I wanted six years to my majority, of course the capital on attaining my majority would be increased by accumulation. My mother desired to keep me near her ; my uncle, who was joint guardian with her, looked with disdain on our poor little pro- vincial cottage ; so promising an heir should acquire his finish- ing education under masters at Paris. Long before I was of age, I was initiated into politer mysteries of our capital than those celebrated by Eugene Sue. When I took possession of my fortune five years ago, I was considered a Crcesus ; and really for that partriarchal time I was wealthy. Now, alas, my accumulations have vanished in my outfit ; and 60,000 francs a year is the least a Parisian can live upon. It is not only that all prices have fabulously increased, but that the dearer things become the better people live. When I first jcame out, the world speculated upon me ; now, in order to keep my standing, I am forced to speculate on the world. Hitherto I have not lost, Duplessis let me into a few good things this year, worth 100,000 francs or so. Crcesus consulted the Del- phic Oracle. Duplessis was not alive in the time of Crcesus, or Crcesus \vould have consulted Duplessis." Here there was a ring at the outer door of the apartment, and in another minute the valet ushered in a gentleman some- where about, the age of thirty, of prepossessing countenance, and with the indefinable air of good-breeding and usage du THE PARISIANS. t5 monde. Frederic started up to greet cordially the new-comer, and introduced him to the Marquis under the name of " Sare Grarm Yarn." " Decidedly," said the visitor, as he took off his paletot and seated himself beside the Marquis ; " Decidedly, my dear Lemercier," said he, in very correct French, and with the true Parisian accent and intonation, " you Frenchman merit that praise for polished ignorance of the language of barbarians which a distinguished historian bestows on the ancient Romans. Permit me, Marquis, to submit to you the considera- tion whether Grarm Yarn is a fair rendering of my name as truthfully printed on this card." The inscription on the card, thus drawn from its case and placed in Alain's hand, was : MR. GRAHAM VANE, No. Rue d'Anjou. The Marquis gazed at it as he might on a hieroglyphic, and passed it on to Lemercier in discreet silence. That gentleman made another attempt at the barbarian appellation. " 'Grar ham Varne.' Cest (a! I triumph ! all difficulties yield to French energy." Here the coffee and liqueurs were served ; and after a short pause the Englishman, who had very quietly been observing the silent Marquis, turned to him and said : " Monsieur le Marquis, I presume it was your father whom I remember as an acquaintance of my own father at Ems. It is many years ago ; I was but a child. The Count de Chambord was then at that enervating little spa for the benefit of the Countess's health. If our friend Lemercier does not mangle your name as he does mine, I understand him to say that you are the Marquis de Rochebriant." " That is my name ; it pleases me to hear that my father was among those who flocked to Ems to do homage to the royal personage who deigns to assume the title of Count cle Chambord." " My own ancestors clung to the descendants of James II. till their claims were buried in the grave of the last Stuart and I honor the gallant men who, like your father, revere in an exile the heir to their ancient kings." The Englishman said this with grace and feeling ; the Marquis's heart warmed to him at once. l6 THE PARISIANS. "The first loyal gcntilhomme I have met at Paris," thought the Legitimist ; " and, oh, shame ! not a Frenchman ! " Graham Vane, now stretching himself and accepting the cigar which Lemercier offered him, said to that gentleman : "You who know your Paris by heart everybody and every- thing therein worth the knowing, with many bodies and many things that are not worth it can you inform me who and what is a certain lady who every fine day may be seen walking in a quiet spot at the outskirts of the Bois de Boulogne, not far from the Baron de Rothschild's villa ? The said lady arrives at this selected spot in a dark blue coupe without armorial bear- ings punctually at the hour of three. She wears always the same dress, a kind of gray pearl-colored silk, with a cachemire shawl. In age she may be somewhat about twenty a year or so more or less and has a face as haunting as a Medusa's ; not, however, a face to turn a man into a stone, but rather of the two turn a stone into a man. A clear paleness, with a bloom like an alabaster lamp with the light flashing through. I borrow that illustration from Sare Scott, who applied it to Milor Bee-ron." "I have not seen the lady you describe," answered Lemer- cier, feeling humiliated by the avowal ; " in fact, I have not been in that sequestered part of the Bois for months ; but I will go to-morrow: three o'clock you say leave it to me; to- morrow evening, if she is a Parisienne, you shall know all about her. But, mon cher, you are not of a jealous temperament to confide your discovery to another." " Yes, I am of a very jealous temperament," replied the Englishman ; " but jealousy comes after love, and not before it. 1 am not in love ; lam only haunted. To-morrow even- ing, then, shall we dine here at Philippe's, seven o'clock ?" "With all my heart," said Lemercier ; " and you, too, Alain." " Thank you, no," said the Marquis briefly ; and he rose, drew on his gloves, and took up his hat. At these signals of departure the Englishman, who did not want tact nor delicacy, thought that he had made himself de trepm the tte-a-tete of two friends of the same age and nation ; and, catching up his paletot, said hastily : " No, Marquis, do not go yet, and leave our host in solitude ; for I have an engage- ment which presses, and only looked in at Lemercier's for a moment, seeing the light at his windows. Permit me to hope that our acquaintance will not drop, and inform me where I may have the honor to call on you." " Nay," said the Marquis ; " I claim the right of a native to THE PARISIANS. 17 pay my respects first to the foreigner who visits our capital, and," he added in a lower tone, " who speaks so nobly of those who revere its exiles." The Englishman saluted, and walked slowly towards the door ; but on reaching the threshold turned back and made a sign to Lemercier, unperceived by Alain. Frederic understood the sign, and followed Graham Vane into the adjoining room, closing the door as he passed. "My dear Lemercier, of course I should not have intruded on you at this hour on a mere visit of ceremony. J called to say that the Mademoiselle Duval whose address you sent me is not the right one not the lady whom, knowing your wide range of acquaintance, I asked you to aid me in finding out." " Not the right Duval ? Diable! she answered your descrip- tion exactly." " Not at all." " You said she was very pretty and young under twenty." " You forgot that I said she deserved that description twenty- one years ago." " Ah, so you did ; but some ladies are always young. 'Age,' says a wit in the Figaro, ' is a river which the women compel to reascend to its source when it has flowed onward more than twenty years.' Never mind soyez tranquille I will find your Duval yet if she is to be found. But why could not the friend who commissioned you to inquire choose a nameless common ? Duval ! every street in Paris has a shop-door over which is inscribed the name of Duval." " Quite true, there is the difficulty ; however, my dear Lemer- cier, pray continue to look out for a Louise Duval who was young and pretty twenty-one years ago ; this search ought to interest me more than that which I intrusted to you to-night, respecting the pearly-robed lady : for in the last I but gratify my own whim ; in the first I discharge a promise to a friend. You, so perfect a Frenchman, know the difference ; honor is engaged to the first. Be sure you let me know if you find any other Madame or Mademoiselle Duval ; and of course you remember your promise not to mention to any one the com- mission of inquiry you so kindly undertake. I congratulate you on your friendship for M. de Rochebriant. What a noble countenance and manner ! " Lemercier returned to the Marquis. "Such a pity you can't dine with us to-morrow. I fear you made but a poor dinner to-day. But it is always better to arrange the menu before- l8 THE PARISIANS hand. I will send to Philippe's to-morrow. Do not be afraid." The Marquis paused a moment, and on his young face a proud struggle was visible. At last he said, bluntly and man- fully : " My dear Frederic, your world and mine are not and cannot be the same. Why should I be ashamed to own to my old schoolfellow that 1 am poor very poor ; that the dinner I have shared with you to-day is to me a criminal extravagance? I lodge in a single chamber on the fourth story ; I dine off a single plat at a small restaurateur s ; the utmost income I can allow to myself does not exceed 5000 francs a year : my for- tunes I cannot hope much to improve. In his own country Alain de Rochebriant has no career." Lamercier was so astonished by this confession that he remained for some moments silent, eyes and mouth both wide open ; at length he sprang up, embraced his friend well-nigh sobbing, and exclaimed : Taut mieux pour moi ! You must take your lodging with me. I have a charming bedroom to spare. Don't say no. It will raise my o^n position to say ' I and Rochebriant keep house together.' It must be so. Come here to-morrow. As for not having a career, bah ! I and Duplessis will settle that. You shall be a millionnaire in t\vo years. Meanwhile we will join capitals : I my paltry notes, you your grand name. Settled ! " "My dear, dear Frederic," said the young noble, deeply affected, "on reflection you will see what you propose is impos- sible. Poor I may be without dishonor ; live at another man's cost I cannot do without baseness. It does not require to be gentilhomme to feel that : it is enough to be a Frenchman. Come and see me when you can spare the time. There is my address. You are the only man in Paris to whom I shall be at home. Au revoir." And breaking away from Lemercier's clasp, the Marquis hurried off. CHAPTER III. ALAIN reached the house in which he lodged. Externally a fine house, it had been the hotel of a great' family in the old regime. On the first floor were still superb apartments, with ceilings painted by Le Brun, with walls on which the thick silks still seemed fresh. These rooms were occupied by a rich agent de change ; but, like all such ancient palaces, the upper THE PARISIANS. 10 stories were wretchedly defective even in the comforts which poor men demand nowadays : a back staircase, narrow, dirty, never lighted, dark as Erebus, led to the room occupied by the Marquis, which might be naturally occupied by a needy student or a virtuous grisette. But there was to him a charm in that old hotel, and the richest locataire therein was not treated with a respect so ceremonious as that which attended the lodger on the fourth story. The porter and his wife were Bretons ; they came from the village of Rochebriant ; they had known Alain's parents in their young days ; it was their kinsman who had recommended him to the hotel which they served : so, when he paused at the lodge for his key, which he had left there, the porter's wife was in waiting for his return, and insisted on lighting him upstairs and seeing to his fire, for, after a warm day, the night had turned to that sharp, biting cold which is more trying in Paris than even in London. The old woman, running up the stairs before him, opened the door of his room, and busied herself at the fire. "Gently, my good Marthe," said he, " that log suffices. I have been extravagant to-day, and must pinch for it." " M. le Marquis jests," said the old woman, laughing. " No, Marthe ; I am serious. I have sinned, but I shall re- form; Entre nous, my dear friend, Paris is very dear when one sets one's foot out of doors. I must soon go back to Roche- briant." " When M. le Marquis goes back to Rochebriant he must take with him a Madame la Marquise some pretty angel with a suitable dot." "A dot suitable to the ruins of Rochebriant would not suffice to repair them, Marthe : give me my dressing-gown, and good- night." ''''Bon repos, M. le Marquis! beaux rfoes, et bel arenir." Belmenir!" murmured the young man bitterly, leaning his cheek on his hand. " What fortune fairer than the present can be mine ? Yet inaction in youth is more keenly felt than in age. How lightly I should endure poverty if it brought poverty's ennobling companion, Labor denied to me ! Well, well ; I must go back to the old rock ; on this ocean there is no sail, not even an oar, for me." Alain de Rochebriant had not been reared to the expectation of poverty. The only son of a father whose estates were large beyond those of most nobles in modern France, his destined heritage seemed not unsuitable to his illustrious birth. Educated at a provincial academy, he had been removed at the age of 2O THE PARISIANS. sixteen to Rochebriant, and lived there simply and lonely enough, but still in a sort of feudal state, with an aunt, an eld- er and unmarried sister to his father. His father he never saw but twice after leaving college. That brilliant seigneur visited France but rarely, for very brief intervals, residing wholly abroad. To him went all the reve- nues of Rochebriant save what sufficed for the manage of his son and his sister. It was the cherished belief of these two loyal natures that the Marquis secretly devoted his fortune to the cause of the Bourbons ; how, they knew not, though they often amused themselves by conjecturing ; and the young man, as he grew up, nursed the hope that he should soon hear that the descendant of Henri Quatre had crossed the frontier on a white charger and hoisted the old gonfalon with its fleur-de Us. Then, indeed, his own career would be opened, and the sword of the Kerouecs drawn from its sheath. Day after day he ex- pected to hear of revolts, of which his. noble father was doubt- less the soul. But the Marquis, though a sincere Legitimist, was by no means an enthusiastic fanatic. He was simply a very proud, a very polished, a very luxurious, and, though not without the kindliness and generosity which were common at- tributes of the old French noblesse, a very selfish grand seign- eur. Losing his wife (who died the first year of marriage in giv- ing birth to Alain) while he was yet very young, he had lived a frank libertine life until he fell submissive under the despotic yoke of aRussian princess, who, for some mysterious reason, never visited her own country, and obstinately refused to reside in France. She was fond of travel, and moved yearly from London to Naples, Naples to Vienna, Berlin, Madrid, Seville, Carlsbad, Baden-Baden anywhere for caprice or change, except Paris. This fair wanderer succeeded in chaining to herself the heart and the steps of the Marquis de Rochebriant. She was very rich ; she lived semi-royally. Hers was just the house in which it suited the Marquis to be the enfant gate'. I suspect that, cat-like, his attachment was rather to the house than to the person of his mistress. Not that he was domiciled with the Princess ; that would have been somewhat too much against the proprieties, greatly too much against the Marquis's notions of his own dignity, He hid his own carriage, his own apartments, his own suite, as became so grand a seigneur, and the lover of so grand a dame. His estates, mortgaged before he came to them, yielded no income sufficient for his wants ; he mortgaged deeper and deeper, year after year, till he could THE PARISIANS. 21 mortgage them no more. He sold his hotel at Paris ; he ac- cepted without scruple his sister's fortune ; he borrowed with equal sang-froid the two hundred thousand francs which his son on coming of age inherited from his mother. Alain yielded that fortune to him without a murmur ; nay, with pride ; he thought it destined to go towards raising a regiment for the fleur-de-lis. To do the Marquis justice, he was fully persuaded that he should shortly restore to his sister and son what he so recklessly took from them. He was engaged to be married to his Princess so soon as her own husband died. She had been separated from the Prince for many years, and every year it was said he could not last a year longer. But he completed the measure of his conjugal iniquities by continuing to live ; and one day, by mistake, Death robbed the lady of the Marquis instead of the Prince. This was an accident which the Marquis had never counted upon. He was still young enough to consider himself young ; in fact, one principal reason for keeping Alain secluded in Bretagne was his reluctance to introduce into the world a son "as old as myself," he would say pathetically. The news of his death, which happened at Baden after a short attack of bronchitis caught in a supper al fresco at the old castle, was duly transmitted to Rochebriant by the Princess ; and the shock to Alain and his aunt was the greater because they had seen so little of the departed that they regarded him as a heroic myth, an impersonation of ancient chivalry, condemning him- self to voluntary exile, rather than do homage to usurpers. But from their grief they were soon roused by the terrible doubt whether Rochebriant could still be retained in the family. Besides the mortgagees, creditors from half the capitals in Europe sent in their claims ; and all the movable effects transmitted to Alain by his father's confidential valet, except sundry carriages and horses which were sold at Baden for what they would fetch, were a magnificent dressing-case, in the secret drawer of which were some bank-notes amounting to thirty thousand francs, and three large boxes containing the Marquis's correspondence, a few miniature female portraits, and a great many locks of hair. Wholly unprepared for the ruin that stared nim in the face, the young Marquis evinced the natural strength of his charac- ter by the calmness with which he met the danger, and the in- telligence with which he calculated and reduced it. By the help of the family notary in the neighboring town, he 22 THE PARISIANS. made himself master of his liabilities and his means ; and, he found that, after paying all debts and providing for the interest of the mortgages, a property which ought to have realized a rental of ^10,000 a year yielded not more than ^400. Nor was even this margin safe, nor the property out of peril ; for the principal mortgagee, who was a capitalist in Paris named Louvier, having had during the life of the late Marquis more than once to wait for his half-yearly interest longer than suited his patience and his patience was not enduring plainly de- clared that if the same delay recurred he should put his right of seizure in force ; and in France still more than in England bad seasons seriously affect the security of rents. To pay away ^9,600 a year regularly out of ^10,000, with the penalty of forfeiting the whole if not paid, whether crops may fail, farmers procrastinate, and timber fall in price, is to live with the sword of Damocles over one's head. For two years and more, however, Alain met his difficulties with prudence and vigor; he retrenched the establishment hitherto kept at the chateau, resigned such rural pleasures as he had been accustomed to indulge, and lived like one of his petty farmers. But the risks of the future remained undi- minished. "There is but one way, Monsieur le Marquis," said the family notary, M. Hebert, " by which you can put your estate in comparative safety. Your father raised his mortgages from time to time, as he wanted money, and often at interest above the average market interest. You may add considerably to your income by consolidating all these mortgages into one at a lower percentage, and in so doing pay off this formidable mort- gagee, M. Louvier, who, I shrewdly suspect, is bent upon be- coming the proprietor of Rochebriant. Unfortunately, those few portions of your land which were but lightly charged, and, lying contiguous to small proprietors, were coveted by them, and could be advantageously sold, are already gone to pay the debts of Monsieur the late Marquis. There are, however, two small farms which, bordering close on the town of S , I think I could dispose of for building purposes at high rate's ; but these lands are covered by Monsieur Louvier's general mortgage, and he has refused to release them unless the whole debt be paid. 'Were that debt therefore transferred to another mortgagee, we might stipulate for their exception, and in so doing secure a sum of more than 100,000 francs, which you could keep in reserve fora pressing or unforeseen occasion, and make the nucleus of a capital devoted tc the gradual liquida- THE PARISIANS. 23 tion of the charges on the estate. For with a little capital, Monsieur le Marquis, your rent-roll might be very greatly in- creased, the forests and orchards improved, those meadows round S drained and irrigated. Agriculture is beginning to be understood in Bretagne, and your estate would soon double its value in the hands of a spirited capitalist. My ad- vice to you, therefore, is to go to Paris, employ a good avou/, practised in such branch of his profession, to- negotiate the consolidation of your mortgages upon terms that will enable you to sell outlying portions, and so pay off the charge by in- stalments agreed upon ; to see if some safe company or rich individual can be found to undertake for a term of years the management of your forests, the draining of the S meadows, the superintendence of your fisheries, etc. They, it is true, will monopolize the profits for many years perhaps twenty ; but you are a young man ; at the end of that time you will re-enter on your estate with a rental so improved that the mortgages, now so awful, will seem to you comparatively trivial." In pursuance of this advice, the young Marquis had come to Paris fortified with a letter from M. Hubert to an avout Q{ emi- nence, and with many letters from his aunt to the nobles of the Faubourg connected with his house. Now one reason why M. Hebert had urged his client to undertake this important business in person, rather than volunteer his own services in Paris, was somewhat extra-professional. He had a sincere and profound affection for Alain ; he felt compassion for that young life so barrenly wasted in seclusion and severe priva- tions ; he respected, but was too practical a man of business to share, those chivalrous sentiments of loyalty to an exiled dynasty which disqualified the man for the age he lived in, and, if not greatly modified, would cut him off from the hopes and aspirations of his eager generation. He thought plausibly enough that the air of the grand metropolis was necessary to the mental health, enfeebled and withering amidst the feudal mists of Bretagne ; that once in Paris, Alain would imbibe the ideas of Paris, adapt himself to some career leading to honor and to fortune, for which he took facilities from his high birth, an historical name too national for any dynasty not to welcome among its adherents, and an intellect not yet sharpened by contact and competition with others, but in itself vigorous, habituated to thought, and vivified by the noble aspirations which belong to imaginative natures. At the least, Alain would be at Paris in the social position 24 THE PARISIANS. which would afford' him the opportunities of a marriage, in which his birth and rank would be readily accepted as an equivalent to some ample fortune that would serve to redeem the endangered seigneuries. He therefore warned Alain that the affair for which he went to Paris might be tedious, that lawyers were always slow, and advised him to calculate on remaining several months, perhaps a year ; delicately suggest- ing that his rearing hitherto had been too secluded for his age and rank, and that a year at Paris, even if he failed in the ob- ject which took him there, would not be thrown away in the knowledge of men and things that would fit him better to grapple with his difficulties on his return. Alain divided his spare income between his aunt and him- self, and had come to Paris resolutely determined to live within the ^200 a year which remained to his share. He felt the revolution in his whole being that commenced when out of sight of the petty piincipality in which he was the object of that feudal reverence still surviving, in the more unfrequented parts of Bretagne, for the representatives of illustrious names connected with the immemorial legends of the province. The very bustle of a railway, with its crowd and quickness and unceremonious democracy of travel, served to pain and confound and humiliate that sense of individual dignity in which he had been nurtured. He felt that, once away from Rochebriant, he was but a cipher in the sum of human beings. Arrived at Paris, and reaching the gloomy hotel to which he had been recommended, he greeted even the desolation of that solitude which is usually so oppressive to a stranger in the metropolis of his native land. Loneliness was better than the loss of self in the reek and pressure of an unfamiliar throng. For the first "few days he had wandered over Paris without calling even on the avouJ to whom M. Hebert had directed him. He felt, with the instinctive acuteness of a mind which, under sounder training, would have achieved no mean distinc- tion, that it was a safe precaution to imbue himself with the atmosphere of the place, and seize on those general ideas which in great capitals are so contagious that they are often more ac- curately caught by the first impressions than by subsequent habit, before he brought his mind into collision with those of the individuals he had practically to deal with. At last he repaired to the avout, M. Gandrin, Rue St. Flor- entin. He had mechanically formed his idea of the abode and person of an avoud from his association with M. Hebert. He expected to find a dull house in a dull street near the centre THE PARISIANS. 2$ of business, remote from the haunts of idlers, and a grave man of unpretending exterior and matured years. He arrived at a hotel newly fronted, richly decorated, in the fashionable quartier close by the Tuileries. He entered a wide porte cochere, and was directed by the concierge to mount au premier. There, first detained in an office faultlessly neat, with spruce young men at smart desks, he was at length ad. mitted into a noble salon, and into the presence of a gentleman lounging in an easy-chair before a magnificent bureau of mar- queterie, genre Louis Seize, engaged in patting a white curly lap* dog, with a pointed nose and a shrill bark. The gentleman rose politely on his entrance, and released the dog, who, after sniffing the Marquis, condescended not to bite. " Monsieur le Marquis," said M. Gandrin, glancing at the card and the introductory note from M. Hebert, which Alain had sent in, and which lay on the secretaire beside heaps of letters nicely arranged and labelled, "charmed to make the honor of your acquaintance; just arrived at Paris? So M. Hebert a very worthy person whom I have never seen, but with whom I have had correspondence tells me you wish for my advice ; in fact, he wrote to me some days ago, mentioning the business in question consolidation of mortgages. A very large sum wanted, Monsieur le Marquis, and not to be had easily." "Nevertheless," said Alain quietly, "I should imagine that there must be many capitalists in Paris willing to invest in good securities at fair interest." " You are mistaken, Marquis; very few such capitalists. Men worth money nowadays like quick returns and large profits, thanks to the magnificent system of Cre'dit Mobilier, in which, as you are aware, a man may place his money in any trade or speculation without liabilities beyond his share. Capitalists are nearly all traders or speculators." "Then," said the Marquis, half rising, "I am to presume, sir, that you are not likely to assist me." "No, I don't say that, Marquis. I will look with care into the matter. Doubtless you have with you an abstract of the necessary documents, the conditions of the present mortgages, the rental of the estate, its probable prospects, and so forth." "Sir, I have such an abstract with me at Paric ; and having gone into it myself with M. Hebert, I can pledge you my word that it is strictly faithful to the. facts." The Marquis said this with nai've simplicity, as if his word were quite sufficient^ set that part of the question at rest. 26 THE PARISIANS. M. Gandrin smiled politely and said : "Eh bien, M. le Mar- quis : favor me with the abstract ; in a week's time you shall have my opinion. You enjoy Paris? Greatly improved under the Emperor. Apropos, Madame Gandrin receives to-morrow evening ; allow me that opportunity to present you to her." Unprepared for the proffered hospitality, the Marquis had no option but to murmur his gratification and assent. In a minute more he was in the streets. The next evening he went to Madame Gandrin's : a brilliant reception a whole mov- ing flower-bed of "decorations" there. Having gone through the cereuiony of presentation to Madame Gandrin a hand- some woman dressed to perfection, and conversing with the secretary to an embassy the young noble ensconced himself in an obscure and quiet corner, observing all, and imagining that he escaped observation. And as the young men of his own years glided by him, or as their talk reached his ears, he became aware that from top. to toe, within and without, he was old-fashioned, obsolete, not of his race, not of his day. His rank itself seemed to him a waste-paper title-deed to a heritage long lapsed. Not thus the princely seigneurs of Rochebriam made their debut at the capital of their nation. They had had the entree to the cabinets of their kings ; they had glittered in the halls of Versailles ; they had held high posts of distinction in court and camp ; the great Order of St. Louis had seemed their hereditary appanage. His father, though a voluntary exile in manhood, had been in childhood a king's page, and throughout life remained the associate of princes ; and here, in an avoue"s soiree, unknown, unregarded, an expectant on an avoues patronage, stood the last lord of Rochebriant. It is easy to conceive that Alain did not stay long. But he stayed long enough to convince him that on ^200 a year the polite; society of Paris, even as seen at M. Gandrin's, was not for him. Nevertheless, a day or two after, he resolved to call upon the nearest of his kinsmen to whom his aunt had given him letters. With the Count de Vandemar, one of his fellow- nobles of the sacred Faubourg, he should be no less Roche- briant, whether in a garret or a palace. The Vandemars, in fact, though for many generations before the First Revolution a puissant and brilliant family, had always recognized the Rochebriants as the head of their house, the trunk from which they had been slipped in the fifteenth century, when a younger son of the Rochebriants married a wealthy heiress and took the title, with the lands, of Vandemar. Since then the two families had often intermarried. "The THE PARISIANS. 27 present count had a reputation for ability, was himself a large proprietor, and might furnish advice to guide Alain in his negotiations with M. Gandrin. The Hotel de Vandemar stood facing the old Hotel de Rochebriant ; it was less spa- cious, but not less venerable, gloomy, and prison-like. As he turned his eyes from the armorial scutcheon which still rested, though chipped 'and mouldering, over the portals of his lost ancestral house, and was about to cross the streec, two young men, who seemed two or three years older than himself, emerged on horseback from the Hotel de Vandemar. Handsome young men, with the lofty look of the old race, dressed with the punctilious care of person which is not fop- pery in men of birth, but seems part of the self-respect that appertains to the old chivalric point of honor. The horse of one of these cavaliers made a caracole which brought it nearly upon Alain as he was about to cross. The rider, checking his steed, lifted his hat to Alain, and uttered a word of apology in the courtesy of ancient high-breeding, but still with condescen- sion as to an inferior. This little incident, and the slighting kind of notice received from coevals of his own birth, and doubtless his own blood for he divined truly that they were the sons of the Count de Vandemar disconcerted Alain to a degree which perhaps a Frenchman alone can comprehend. He had even half a mind to give up his visit and turn back. However, his native manhood prevailed over that morbid sensitiveness which, born out of the union of pride and poverty, has all the effects of vanity, and yet is not vanity itself. The Count was at home, a thin, spare man, with a narrow but high forehead, and an expression of countenance keen, severe, and un peu moqueuse. He received the Marquis, however, at first with great cor- diality, kissed him on both sides of his cheek, called him "cousin," expressed immeasurable regret that the Countess was gone out on one of the missions of charity in which the great ladies of the Faubourg religiously interest themselves, and that his sons had just ridden forth to the Bois. As Alain, however, proceeded, simply and without false shame, to communicate the object of his visit to Paris, the extent of his liabilities, and the penury of his means, the smile vanished from the Count's face ; he somewhat drew back his fauteuil in the movement common to men who wish to estrange themselves from some other man's difficulties ; and when Alain came to a close, the Count remained some moments seized with a slight cough ; and gazing intently on the carpet, at 28 THE PARISIANS. length he said : " My dear young friend, your father behaved extremely ill to you dishonorably, fraudulently." " Hold ! " said the Marquis, coloring high. " Those are words no man can apply to my father in my presence." The Count stared, shrugged his shoulders, and replied with sang-froid : " Marquis, if you are contented with your father's conduct, of course it is no business of mine : he never injured me. I presume, however, that, considering my years and my char- acter, you come to me for advice ; is it so ? " Alain bowed his head in assent. " There are four courses for one in your position to take," said the Count, placing the index of the right hand successive- ly on the thumb and three fingers of the left ; " four courses, and no more. " First. To do as your notary recommended : consolidate your mortgages, patch up your income as you best can, return to Rochebriant, and devote the rest of your existence to the preservation of your property. By that course your life will be one of permanent privation, severe struggle ; and the prob- ability is that you will not succeed : there will come one or two bad seasons, the farmers will fail to pay, the mortgagee will foreclose, and you may find yourself, after twenty years of anxiety and torment, prematurely old and without a sou. " Course the second. Rochebriant, though so heavily en- cumbered as to yield you some such income as your father gave to his chrf de cuisine, is still one of those superb terres which bankers and Jews and stockjobbers court and hunt after, for which they will give enormous sums. If you place it in good hands, I do not doubt that you could dispose of the property within three months, on terms that would leave you a considerable surplus, which invested with judgment, would afford you whereon you could live at Paris in a way suitable to your rank and age. Need we go further ? Does this course smile to you ?" " Pass on, Count ; I will defend to the last what I take from my ancestors, and cannot voluntarily sell their rooftree and their tombs." " Your name would still remain, and you would be just as well received in Paris, and your noblesse just as implicitly con- ceded, if all Judrea encamped upon Rochebriant. Consider how few of us gcntilshommes of the old regime have any domains left to MS. Our names alone survive ; no revolution can efface \kern? THE PARISIANS. 2$ " It may be so, but pardon me ; there are subjects on which we cannot reason, we can but feel. Rochebriant may be torn from me, but I cannot yield it." " I proceed to the third course. Keep the chateau and give up its traditions; remain de facto Marquis of Rochebriant, but accept the new order of things. Make yourself known to the people in power. They will be charmed to welcome you ; a convert from the old noblesse is a guarantee of stability to the new system. You will be placed in diplomacy ; effloresce into an ambassador, a minister and ministers nowadays have op- portunities to become enormously rich." " That course is not less impossible than the last. Till Henry V. formally resign his right to the throne of St. Louis, I can be servant to no other man seated on that throne." "Such, too, is my creed," said the Count, "and I cling to it; but my estate is not mortgaged, and I have neither the tastes nor the age for public employments. The last course is per- haps better than the rest ; at all events it is the easiest. A wealthy marriage ; even if it must be a mesalliance. I think at your age, with your appearance, that your name is worth at least two million francs in the eyes of a rich roturier with an ambitious daughter." "Alas ! " said the young man, rising, "I see I shall have to go back to Rochebriant. I cannot sell my castle, I cannot sell my creed, and I cannot sell my name and myself." " The last all of us did in the old regime, Marquis. Though I still retain the title of Vandemar, my property comes from the Farmer-General's daughter, whom my great-grandfather, happily for us, married in the days of Louis Quinze. Mar- riages with people of sense and rank have always been manages de convenance in France. It is only in le petit monde that men having nothing marry girls having nothing, and I don't believe they are a bit the happier for it. On the contrary, the quarrels de manage leading to frightful crimes appear by the Gazette des Tribunaux to be chiefly found among those who do not sell themselves at the altar." The old Count said this with a grim persiflage. He was a Voltairian. Voltairianism deserted by the modern Liberals of France has its chief cultivation nowadays among the wits of the old regime. They pick up its light weapons on the battlefield on which their fathers perished, and refeather against the canaille *he shafts which had been pointed against the noblesse. " Adieu, Count," said Alain, rising ; "I do not thank you 50 THE PARISIANS. less for your advice because I have not the wit to profit by it." " Au revoir, my cousin ; you will think better of it when you have been a month or two at Paris. By the way, my wife receives every Wednesday ; consider our house yours." " Count, can I enter into the world which Madame la- Comtesse receives, in the way that becomes my birth, on the income I take from my fortune ? " The Count hesitated. " No," said he at last, frankly ; " not because you will be less welcome or less respected, but because I see that you have all the pride and sensitiveness of a seigneur de province. Society would therefore give you pain, not pleas- ure. More than this, I know by the remembrance of my own youth, and the sad experience of my own sons, that you would be irresistibly led into debt, and debt in your circumstances would be the loss of Rochebrianr. No ; I invite you to visit us. I offer you the most select, but not the most brilliant, circles of Paris, because my wife is religious, and frightens away the birds of gay plumage with the scarecrows of priests and bishops. But if you accept my invitation and my offer, I am bound, as an old man of the world to a young kinsman, to say that the chances are that you will be ruined." " I thank you, Count, for your candor ; and I now acknowl- edge that I have found a relation and a guide," answered the Marquis, with a nobility of mien that was not without a pathos which touched the hard heart of the old man. " Come at least whenever you want a sincere, if a rude, friend " ; and though he did not kiss his cousin's cheek this time, he gave him, with more sincerity, a parting shake of the hand. And these made the principal events in Alain's Paris life till he met Frederic Lemercier. Hitherto he had received no definite answer from M. Gandrin, who had postponed an in- terview, not having had leisure to make himself master of all the details in the abstract sent to him. CHAPTER IV. THE next day, towards the afternoon, Frederic Lemercier, somewhat breathless from the rapidity at which he had as- cended to so high an eminence, burst into Alain's chamber. " Pr-r ! mon cher ; what superb exercise for the health' How it must strengthen the muscles and expand the chest \ THE PARISIANS. 3! After this, who should shrink from scaling Mont Blanc ? Well, well. I have been meditating on your business ever since we parted. But I would fain know more of its details. You shall confide them to me as we drive through the Bois. My coupe is below, and the day is beautiful come." To the young Marquis the gayety, the heartiness of his col- lege friend were a cordial. How different from the dry coun- sels of the Count de Vandemar ! Hope, though vaguely, entered into his heart. Willingly he accepted Frederic's invi- tation, and the young men were soon rapidly borne along the Champs Elysees. As briefly as he could Alain described the state of his affairs, the nature of his mortgages, and the result of his interview with M. Gandrin. Frederic listened attentively. "Then Gandrin has given you as yet no answer ? " " None ; but I have a note from him this morning asking me to call to-morrow." " After you have seen him decide on nothing if he makes you any offer. Get back your abstract, or a copy of it, and confide it to me. Gandrin ought to help you ; he transacts affairs in a large way. Belle clientele among the millionnaires. But his clients expect fabulous profits, and so does he. As for your principal mortgagee, Louvier, you know, of course, who he is." "No, except that M. Hebert told me that he was very rich." " Rich ! I should think so ! One of the Kings of Finance. Ah ! observe those young men on horseback." Alain looked forth and recognized the two cavaliers whom he had conjectured to be the sons of the Count de Vandemar. " Those beaux gar (ons are fair specimens of your Faubourg," said Frederic ; they would decline my acquaintance because my grandfather kept a shop, and they keep a shop between them." " A shop ! I am mistaken, then. Who are they ? " " Raoul and Enguerrand, sons of that mocker of man, the Count de Vandemar." " And they keep a shop ! You are jesting." " A shop at which you may buy gloves and perfumes, Rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. Of course they don't serve at the counter ; they only invest their pocket-money in tlje specula- tion, and, in so doing, treble at least their pocket-money, buy their horses, and keep their grooms." " Is it possible ! Nobles of such birth ! How shocked the Count would be if he knew it ! " 32 THE PARISIANS. "Yes, very much shocked if he was supposed to know it But he is too wise a father not to give his sons limited allow- ances and unlimited liberty, especially the liberty to add to the allowances as they please. Look again at them ; no better riders and more affectionate brothers since the date of Castor and Pollux. Their tastes indeed differ ; Raoul is religious and moral, melancholy and dignified ; Enguerrand is a lion of the first water, Elegant to the tips of his nails. These demigods are nevertheless very mild to mortals. Though Enguerrand is the best pistol-shot in Paris, and Raoul the best fencer, the first is so good-tempered that you would be a brute to quarrel with him, the last so true a Catholic that if you quarrelled with him you need fear not his sword. He would not die in the committal of what the Church holds a mortal sin." "Are you speaking ironically? Do you mean to imply that men of the name of Vandemar are not brave ? " "On the contrary, I believe that, though masters of their weapons, they are too brave to abuse their skill ; and I must add, that though they are sleeping partners in a shop, they would not cheat you of a farthing. Benign stars on earth, as Castor and Pollux were in heaven." " But partners in a shop ! " "Bah ! when a minister himself, like the late M. de M , kept a shop, and added the profits of bon-bons to his revenue, you may form some idea of the spirit of the age. 1 f young nobles are not generally sleeping partners in shops, still they are more or less adventurers in commerce. The Bourse is the profession of those who have no other profession. You have visited the Bourse ! " " No." " No ! this is just the hour. We have time yet for the Bois. Coachman, to the Bourse." " The fact is," resumed Frederic, " that gambling is one of the wants of civilized men. The rouge et noir and roulette tables, are forbidden the hells closed ; but the passion for making money without working for it must have its vent, and that vent is the Bourse. As instead of a hundred wax-lights you now have one jet of gas, so instead of a hundred hells you have now one Bourse, and it is exceedingly convenient ; always at hand ; no discredit being seen there as it was to be seen at Frascati's; on the contrary,_at once respectable, and yet the mode." The coup stops at the Bourse, our friends mount the steps, glide through the pillars, deposit their canes at a place destined to guard them, and the Marquis follows Frederic up a flight of THE PARISIANS. 33 stairs till he gains the open gallery round a vast hall below. Such a din ! Such a clamor ! Disputations, wrangling, wrathful. Here Lemercier distinguished some friends, whom he joined for'k few minutes. Alain, left alone, looked down into the hall. He thought himself in some stormy scene of the First Revolution. An English contested election in the market-place of a borough when the candidates are running close on each other, the result doubtful, passions excited, the whole borough in a civil war, is peaceful compared to the scene at the Bourse. Bulls and bears screaming, bawling, gesticulating, as if one were about to strangle the other ; the whole, to an uninitiated eye, a confusion, a Babel, which it seems absolutely impossible to reconcile to the notion of quiet mercantile transactions, the purchase and sale of shares and stock's. As Alain gazed be- wildered, he felt himself gently touched, and, looking round, saw the Englishman. "A lively scene ! " whispered Mr. Vane. "This is the heart of Paris : it beats very loudly." *' Js your Bourse in London like this ? " " I cannot tell you ; at our Exchange the general public are not admitted ; the privileged priests of that temple sacrifice their victims in closed penetralia, beyond which the sounds made in the operation do not travel to ears profane. But had we an Exchange like this open to all the world, and placed, not in a region of our metropolis unknown to fashion, but in some elegant square in St. James's or at Hyde Park Corner, I suspect that our national character would soon undergo a great change, and that all our idlers and sporting-men would make their books there every day, instead of waiting long months in ennui for the Doncaster and the Derby. At present we have but few men on the turf ; we should then have few men not on Exchange, especially if we adopt your law, and can contrive to be traders without risk of becoming bankrupts. Napoleon I. called us a shopkeeping nation. Napoleon III. has taught France to excel us in everything, and certainly he has made Paris a shopkeeping city." Alain thought of Raoul and Enguerrand, and blushed to find that what he considered a blot on his countrymen was so familiarly perceptible to a foreigner's eye. " And the Emperor has done wisely, at least for the time," continued the Englishman, with a more thoughtful accent. " He has found vent thus for that very dangerous class inParis society to which the subdivision of property gave birth, viz., 34 THE PARISIANS. the crowd of well-born, daring young men without fortune and without profession. He has opened the Bourse and said : ' There, I give you employment, resource, an avenir.' He has cleared the byways into commerce and trade, and opened new avenues of wealth to the noblesse, whom the great Revolution so unwisely beggared. What other way to rebuild a noblesse in France, and give it a chance of power because an access to fortune ? But to how many sides of your national character has the Bourse of Paris magnetic attraction ! You Frenchmen are so brave that you coo.ild not be happy without facing danger, so covetous of distinction that you would pine yourselves away without a dash, iofite que coiite, at celebrity and a red ribbon. - Danger ! Look below at that arena there it is ; danger, daily, hourly. But there also is celebrity ; win at the Bourse, as of old in a tournament, and" paladins smile on you, and ladies give you their scarves, or, what is much the same, they allow you to buy their cachemires. Win at the Bourse what follows? the Chamber, the Senate, the Cross, the Minister's portefcuillc. I might rejoice in all this for the sake of Europe, could it last, and did it not bring the consequences that follow the demoral- ization which attends it. The Bourse and the Credit Mobilicr keep Paris quiet ; at least a? quiet as it can be. These are the secrets of this reign of splendor ; these the two lions couchants on which rests the throne of the Imperial reconstructor." Alain listened surprised and struck. He had not given the Englishman credit for the cast of mind which such reflections evinced. Here Lemercier rejoined them, and shook hands with Graham Vane, who, taking him aside, said : "But you prom- ised to go to the Bois, and indulge my insane curiosity about the lady in the pearl-colored robe ? " " I have not forgotten ; it is not half-past two yet ; you said three. Soycz-tranquille ; I drive thither from the Bourse with Rochebriant." " Is it necessary to take with you that very good-looking Marquis ? " " 1 thought you said you were not jealous, because not yet in love. However, if Rochebriant occasions you the pang which your humble servant failed to inflict, I will take care that he do not see the lady." "No," said the Englishman ; "on consideration, I should be very much obliged to any one with whom she would fall in love. That would disenchant me. Take the Marquis by all means." THE PARISIANS. 35 Meanwhile Alain, again looking down, saw just under him, close by one of the pillars, Lucien Duplessis. He was standing apart from the throng a small space cleared round himself and two men who had the air of gentlemen of the beau monde, with whom he was conferring. Duplessis, thus seen, was not like the Duplessis at the restaurant. It would be difficult to explain what the change was, but it forcibly struck Alain : the air was more dignified, the expression keener ; there was a look of conscious power and command about the man even at that distance ; the intense, concentrated intelligence of his eye, his firm lip, his marked features, his projecting, massive brow, would have impressed a very ordinary observer. In fact, the man was here in his native element in the field in which his intellect gloried, commanded, and had signalized itself by successive triumphs. Just thus may be the change in the great orator whom you deemed insignificant in a drawing- room, when you see his crest rise above a reverential audience ; or the great soldier, who was not distinguishable from the sub- altern in a peaceful club, could you see him issuing the order to his aides-de-camp amidst the smoke and roar of the battle- field. " Ah, Marquis ! " said Graham Vane, " are you gazing at Duplessis ? He is the modern genius of Paris. He is at once the Cousin, the Guizpt, and the Victor Hugo of speculation. Philosophy, Eloquence, audacious Romance ; all Literature now is swallowed up in the sublime epic of Agiotage, and Du- plessis is the poet of the Empire." " Well said, M. Grarm Varn," cried Frederic, forgetting his recent lesson in English names. " Alain underrates that great man. How could an Englishman appreciate him so well ?" " Ma foi! " returned Graham quietly : " I am studying to think at Paris, in order some day or other to know how to act in London. Time for the Bois. Lemercier, we meet at seven Philippe's." CHAPTER V. " WHAT do you think of the Bourse ?" asked Lemercier, as their carriage took the way to the Bois. " I cannot think of it yet ; I am stunned. It seems to me as if I had been at a Sabbat, of which the wizards were agents de change, but not less bent upon raising Satan." " Pooh ! The best way to exorcise Satan is to get rich enough not to be tempted by him. The fiend always loved to haunt 36 THE PARISIANS. empty places ; and of all places nowadays he prefers empty purses and empty stomachs." " But do all people get rich at the Bourse ? Or is not one man's wealth many men's ruin ? " "That is a question not very easy to answer; but under our present system Paris gets rich, though at the expense of indi- vidual Parisians. I will try and explain. The average luxury is enormously increased even in my experience ; what were once considered refinements and fopperies are now called necessary comforts. Prices are risen enormously ; house-rent doubled within the last five or six years ; all articles of luxury are very much dearer; the very gloves I wear cost twenty per cent, more than I used to pay for gloves of the same quality. How the people we meet live, and live so well, is an enigma that would defy CEdipus if CEdipus were not a Parisian. But the main explanation is this : speculation and commerce, with the facilities given to all investments, have really opened more numerous and more rapid ways to fortune than were known a few years ago. "Crowds are thus attracted to Paris, resolved to venture a small capital in the hope of a large one ; they live on that capital, not on their income, as gamesters do. There is an idea among us that it is necessary to seem rich in order to be- come rich. Thus there is a general ex-travagance and profu- sion. English milords marvel at our splendor. Those who, while spending their capital as their income, fail in their schemes of fortune, after one, two, three, or four years, vanish. What becomes of them, I know no more than I do what be- comes of the old moons. Their place is immediately supplied by new candidates. Paris is thus kept perennially sumptuous and splendid by the gold it engulfs. But then some men succeed succeed prodigiously, preternaturally they make colossal fortunes, which are magnificently expended. They set an example of show and pomp, which is of course the more contagious because so many men say, 'The other day those millionnaires were as poor as we are ; they never economized ; why should we?' Paris is thus doubly enriched : by the fortunes it swallows up, and by the fortunes it casts up ; the last being always reproductive, and the first never lost except to the individuals." " I understand ; but what struck me forcibly at the scene we have left was the number of young men there ; young men whom I should judge by their appearance to be gentlemen, evidently not mere spectators, eager, anxious, with tablets in THE PARISIANS. 37 % their hands. That old or middle-aged men should find a zest in the pursuit of gain I can understand, but youth and avarice seem to me a new combination, which Moliere never divined in his 'Avare.'" " Young men, especially if young gentlemen, love pleasure ; and pleasure in this city is very dear. This explains why so many young men frequent the Bourse. In the old gaming- tables, now suppressed, young men were the majority; in the days of your chivalrous forefathers it was the young nobles, not the old, who would stake their very mantles and swords on a cast of the die. And, naturally enough, man cher; for is not youth the season of hope, and is not hope the goddess of gtrm- ing, whether at rouge et noir or the Bourse ? " Alain felt himself more and more behind his generation. The acute reasoning of Lemercier humbled his amour prof>re. At college Lemercier was never considered Alain's equal in ability or book-learning. What a stride beyond his schoolfel- low had Lemercier now made ! How dull and stupid the young provincial felt himself to be as compared with the easy cleverness and half-sportive philosophy of the Parisian's fluent talk ! He sighed with a melancholy and yet with a generous envy. He had too fine a natural perception not to acknowledge that there is a rank of mind as well as of birth, and in the first he felt that Lemercier might well walk before a Rochebriant ; but his very humility was a proof that he underrated himself. Lemercier did not excel him in mind, but in experience. And just as the drilled soldier seems a much finer fellow than the raw recruit, because he knows how to carry himself, but after a year's discipline the raw recruit may excel in martial air the upright hero whom he now despairingly admires, and never dreams he can rival ; so set a mind from a village into the drill of a capital, and see it a year after ; it may tower a head higher than its recruiting-sergeant. CHAPTER VI. " I BELIEVE," said Lemercier, as the coupe rolled through the lively alleys of the Bois de Boulogne, "that Paris is built on a loadstone, and that every Frenchman with some iron globules in his blood is irresistibly attracted towards it. The English never seem to feel for London the passionate devotion that we feel for Paris. On the contrary, the London middle class, the 38 THE PARISIANS. 4 commercialists, the shopkeepers, the clerks, even the superior artisans compelled to do their business in the capital, seem al- ways scheming and pining to have their home out of it, though but in a suburb." " You have been in London, Frederic ?" "Of course; it is the mode to visit that dull and hideous metropolis." " If it be dull and hideous, no wonder the people who are compelled to do business in it seek the pleasures of home out of it." "It is very droll that though the middle class entirely govern the melancholy Albion, it is the only country in Europe in which the middle class seem to have no amusements ; nay, they legislate against amusement. They have no leisure-day but Sunday ; and on that day they close all their theatres, e"ven their museums and picture-galleries. What amusements there may be in England are for the higher classes and the lowest." "What are the amusements of the lowest class?" "Getting drunk." "Nothing else ?" "Yes. I was taken at night under protection of a police- man to some cabarets, where I found crowds of that class which is the stratum below the working class ; lads who sweep crossings and hold horses, mendicants, and, I was told, thieves, girls whom a servant-maid would not speak to very merry dancing quadrilles and waltzes, and regaling themselves on sausages; the happiest-looking folks I found in all London, and, I must say, conducting themselves very decently." "Ah!" Here Lemercier pulled the check-string. "Will you object to a walk in this quiet alley ? I see some one whom I have promised the Englishman to But heed me, Alain; don't fall in love with her." CHAPTER VII. THE lady in the pearl-colored dress '. Certainly it was a face that might well arrest the eye and linger long on the re- membrance. There are certain "beauty-women" as there are certain "beauty-men," in whose features one detects no fault; who are the show figures of any assembly in which they appear ; but who, somehow or other, inspire no sentiment and excite no interest ; they lack some expression, whether of mind, or of THE PARISIANS. 39 soul, or of heart, without which the most beautiful face is but a beautiful picture. This lady was not, one of those "beauty- women." Her features taken singly were by no means per- fect, nor were they set off by any brilliancy of coloring ; but the countenance aroused and impressed the imagination with a belief that there was some history attached to it which you longed to learn. The hair, simply parted over a forehead un- usually spacious and high for a woman, was of lustrous dark- ness ; the eyes, of a deep violet blue, were shaded with long lashes. Their expression was soft and mournful, but unobservant. She did not notice Alain and Lemercier as the two men slowly passed her. She seemed abstracted, gazing into space as one absorbed in thought or revery. Her complexion was clear and pale, and apparently betokened, delicate health. Lemercier seated himself on a bench beside the path, and invited Alain to do the same. " She will return this way soon," said the Parisian, "and we can observe her more atten- tively and more respectfully thus seated than if we were on foot ; meanwhile, what do you think of her? Is she French ? Is she Italian ? Can she be English ? " "I should have guessed Italian, judging by the darkness of the hair and the outline of the features. But do Italians have so delicate a fairness of complexion ?" "Very rarely; and I should guess her to be French, judg- ing by the intelligence of her expression, the simple neatness of her dress, and by that nameless refinement of air in which a Parisienne excels all the descendants of Eve, if it were not for her eyes. I never saw a Frenchwoman with eyes of that peculiar shade of blue ; and if a Frenchwoman had such eyes, I flatter myself she would have scarcely allowed us to pass without making some use of them." '" Do you think she is married ?" asked Alain. " I hope so, for a girl of her age, if comme ilfaut, can scarce- ly walk alone in the Bois, and would not have acquired that look, so intelligent more than intelligent so poetic." '* But regard that air of unmistakable distinction ; regard that expression of face so pure, so virginal : comme il fant she must be." As Alain said these last words, the lady, who had turned back, was approaching them, and in full view of their gaze. She seemed unconscious of their existence as before, and Le- mercier noticed that her lips moved as if she were murmuring inaudibly to herself. 40 THE PARISIANS. She did not return again, but continued her walk straight on till at the end of the alley she entered a carriage in waiting for her. and was driven off. " Quick, quick ! " cried Lemercier, running towards his own coupe. " We must give chase." Alain followed somewhat less hurriedly, and, agreeably to instructions Lemercier had already given to his coachman, the Parisian's coup set off at full speed in the track of the strange lady's, which was still in sight. In less than twenty minutes the carriage in chase stopped at the grille of one of those charming little villas to be found in the pleasant suburb of A ; a porter emerged from the lodge, opened the gate ; the carriage drove in, again stopped at the door of the house, and the two gentlemen could not catch even a glimpse of the lady's robe as she descended from the carriage and disappeared within the house. " I see a cafe yonder," said Lemercier ; " let us learn all we can as to the fair unknown over a sorbet or a. petit rerre." Alain silently, but not reluctantly, consented. He felt in the fair stranger an interest new to his existence. They entered the little cafe, and in a few minutes Lemercier, with the easy savoir vivre of a Parisian, had extracted from the garfon as much as probably any one in the neighborhood knew of the inhabitants of the villa. It had been hired and furnished about two months previous- ly in the name of Signora Venosta ; but according to the report of the servants, that lady appeared to be the gourcrminte or guardian of a lady much younger, out of whose income the villa was rented and the household maintained. It was for her the coupe was hired from Paris. The elder lady very rarely stirred out during the day, but always accom- panied the younger in any evening visits to the theatre or the houses of friends. It was only within the last few weeks that such visits had been made. The younger lady was in delicate health, and under the care of an English physician famous for skill in the treatment of pulmonary ccwrtplaints. It was by his advice that she took daily walking exercise in the Bois. The establishment consisted of three servants, all Italians, and speaking but imperfect French. Tbe0/rf0* did not know whether either of the ladies was mar- ried, but their mode of life was free from all scandal or sus- picion ; they probably belonged to the literary or musical world, as the gar (on had observed as their visitors the eminent THE PARISIANS. 4! author M. Savarin and his wife ; and, still more frequently, an old man not less eminent as a musical composer. " It is clear to me no\v," said Lemercier, as the two friends reseated themselves in the carriage, "that our pearly ange is some Italian singer of repute enough in her own country to have gained already a competence ; and that, perhaps on account of her own health or her friend's, she is living quietly here in the expectation of some professional engagement, or the absence of some foreign lover." " Lover! Do you think that? " exclaimed Alain, in a tone of voice that betrayed pain. " It is possible enough ; and in that case the Englishman may profit little by the information I have promised to give him." " You have promised the Englishman ?" " Do you not remember last night that he described the lady, and said that her face haunted him ; and I " " Ah ! I remember now. What do you know of this English- man ? He is rich, I suppose." " Yes, I hear he is very rich now ; that an uncle lately left him an enormous sum of money. He was attached to the English Embassy many years ago, which accounts for his good French and his knowledge of Parisian life. He comes to Paris very often, and I have known him some time. Indeed he has intrusted to me a difficult and delicate commission. The English tell me that his father was one of the most eminent members of their Parliament, of ancient birth, very highly connected, but ran out his fortune and died poor ; that our friend had for some years to maintain himself, I fancy, by his pen ; that he is considered very able ; and, now that his uncle has enriched him, likely to enter public life and run a career as distinguished as his father's." " Happy man ! Happy are the English," said the Marquis, with a sigh ; and as the carriage now entered Paris, he pleaded the excuse of an engagement, bade his friend good- bye, and went his way musing through the crowded streets. CHAPTER VIII. Letter from Isaura Cicogna to Madame de Grantmesnil. VILLA D' . A I CAN never express to you, my beloved Eulalie, the strange charm which a letter from you throws -over my poor little 42 THE PARISIANS. lonely world for days after it is received. There is always ii it something that comforts, something that sustains, but alsc a something that troubles and disquiets me. I suppose Goeth* is right, " that it is the property of true genius to disturb all settled ideas," in order, no doubt, to lift them into a higher level when they settle down again. Your sketch of the new work you are meditating amid the orange groves of Provence interests me intensely ; yet, do you forgive me when I add that the interest is not without terror. I do not find myself able to comprehend how, amid those lovely scenes of nature, your mind voluntarily surrounds itself with images of pain and discoid. I stand in awe of the calm with which you subject to your analysis the infirmities of reason and the tumults of passion. And all those laws of the social state which seem to be so fixed and immovable you treat with so quiet a scorn, as if they were but the gossamer threads which a touch of your slight woman's hand could brush away. But I cannot venture to discuss such subjects with you. It is only the skilled enchanter who can stand safely in the magic circle, and compel the spirits that he summons, even if they are evil, to minister to ends in which he foresees a good. We continue to live here very quietly, and I do not as yet feel the worse for the colder climate. Indeed, my wonderful doctor, who was recommended to me as. American, but is in reality English, assures me that a single winter spent here under his care will suffice for my complete re-establishment. Yet that career, to the training for which so many years have been devoted, does not seem to me so alluring as it once did. I have much to say on this subject, which I defer till I can better collect my own thoughts onit; atpresent they are confused and struggling. The great Maestro has been most gracious. In what a radiant atmosphere his genius lives and breathes ! Even in his cynical moods, his very cynicism has in it the ring of the jocund music the laugh of Figaro, not of Mephistoph- eles. We went to dine with him last week ; he invited to meet us Madame S , who has this year conquered all opposition, and reigns alone, the great S . Mr. T , a pianist of admirable promise; your friend, M. Savarin, wit, critic, and poet, with his pleasant, sensible wife, and a few others whom the Maestro confided to me in a whisper were authorities in the press. After dinner S sang to us, magnificently, of course. Then she herself graciously turned to me, said how much she had h-eard from the Maestro in my praise, and so- THE PARISIANS. 43 and-so. I was persuaded to sing after her. I need not say to what disadvantage. But I forgot my nervousness ; I forgot my audience ; I forgot myself, as I always do when once my soul, as it were, finds wing in music, and buoys itself in air, re- lieved from the sense of earth. I knew not that I had suc- ceeded till I came to a close, and then my eyes resting on the face of the grand prima donna, I was seized with an inde- scribable sadness, with a keen pang of remorse. Perfect artiste though she be, and with powers in her own realm of art which admit of no living equal, I saw at once that I had pained her ; she had grown almost livid ; her lips were quivering, and it was only with a great effort that she muttered out some faint words intended for applause. I comprehended by an instinct how gradually there can grow upon the mind of an artist the most generous that jealousy which makes the fear of a rival annihilate the delight in art. If ever I should achieve S 's fame as a singer, should I feel the same jealousy ? I think not now, but I have not been tested. She went away abruptly. I spare you the -recital of the compliments paid to, me by my other auditors, compliments that gave me no pleasure ; for on all lips, except those of the Maestro, they implied, as the height of eulogy, that I had inflicted torture upon S . " If so," said he, " she would be as foolish as a rose that was jealous of the whiteness of a lily. You would do yourself great wrong, my child, if you tried to vie with the rose in its ow*h color." He patted my bended head as he spoke, with that kind of fatherly king-like fondness with which he honors me ; and I took his hand in mine and kissed it gratefully. "Neverthe- less," said Savarin, " when the lily comes out there will be a furious attack on it, made by the clique that devotes itself to the rose ; a lily clique will be formed en revanche, and I fore- see a fierce paper war. Do not be frightened at its first out- burst ; every fame worth having must be fought for." Is it so? have you had to fight for your fame, Eulalie ? And do you hate all contests as much as I do ? Our only other gayety since I last wrote was a soiree at M. Louvier's. That republican millionnaire was not slow in at- tending to the kind letter you addressed to him recommending us to his civilities. He called at once, placed his good offices at our disposal, took charge of my modest fortune, which he has invested, no doubt, as safely as it is advantageously in point of interest, hired our carriage for us, and in short has been most amiably useful. At his house we met many to me most pleasant, for they 44 THE PARISIANS. spoke with such genuine appreciation of your works and your- self. But there were others whom I should never have expect- ed to meet under the roof of a Croesus who has so great a stake in the order of things established. One young-man a noble whom he specially presented to me, as a politician who would be at the head of affairs when the Red Republic was estab- lished asked me whether I did not agree with him that all private property was public spoliation, and that the great enemy to civilization was religion, no matter in what form. He addressed to me these tremendous questions with an ef- feminate lisp, and harangued on them with small, feeble* ges- ticulations of pale, dainty fingers covered with rings. I asked him if there were many who in France shared his ideas. "Quite enough to carry them some day," he answered with a lofty smile. ''And the day may be nearer than the world thinks, when my confreres will be so numerous that they will have to shoot down each other for the sake of cheese to their bread." That day nearer than the world thinks ! Certainly, so far as one may judge the outward signs of the world at Paris, it does not think of such things at all. With what an air of self- content the beautiful city parades her riches ! "Who can gaze on her splendid palaces, her gorgeous shops, and believe that she will give ea*r to doctrines that would annihilate private rights of property ; or who can enter her crowded churches and dream that she can ever again instal a republic too civilized for religion ? Adieu. Excuse me for this dull letter. If I have written on much that has little interest even for me, it is that I wish to distract my mind from brooding over the question that interests me most, and on which I most need your counsel. I will try to approach it in my next. ISAURA. From the Same to the Same. Eulalie, Eulalie ! What mocking spirit has been permitted in this modern age of ours to place in the heart of woman the ambition which is the prerogative of men ? You indeed, so richly endowed with a man's genius, have a right to man's aspirations. But what can justify such ambition in me? Nothing but this one unintellectual, perishable gift t>f a voice that does but please in uttering the thoughts of others. Doubtless I could make a name familiar for its brief time to the talk ofEurope a name, what name ? A singer's name. Once I thought thaf THE PARISIANS. 45 name a glory. Shall I ever forget the day when you first shone upon me ; when, emerging from childhood as from a dim and solitary bypath, I stood forlorn on the great thoroughfare of life, and all the prospects before me stretched sad in mists and in rain ? You beamed on me then as the sun coming out from the cloud and changing the face of earth ; you opened to my sight the fairy-land of poetry and art ; you took me by the hand and said : " Courage ! There is at each step some green gap in the hedgerows, some soft escape from the stony thorough- fare. Beside the real life expands the ideal life to those who seek it. Droop not, seek it ; the ideal life has its sorrows, but it never admits despair ; as on the ear of him who follows the winding course of a stream, the stream ever varies the note of its music ; now loud with the rush of the falls ; now low and calm as it glides by the level marge of smooth banks ; now sighing through the stir of the reeds ; now bubbling with a fretful joy as some sudden curve on the shore stays its flight among the gleaming pebbles so to the soul of the artist is the voice of the art ever fleeting beside and before him. Nature gave thee the bird's gift of song ; raise the gift into art, and make the art thy companion. "Art and Hope were twin-born, and they die together." See how faithfully I remember, methinks, your very words. But the magic of the words, which I then but dimlytThder- stood, was in your smile and in your eye, and the queen- like wave of your hand as if beckoning to a world which lay before you, visible and familiar as your native land. And- how devotedly, with what earnestness of passjon, I gave my- self up to the task of raising my gift into an art ! I thought of nothing else, dreamed of nothing else ; and oh, how sweet to me then were words of praise! "Another year yet," at length said the masters, " and you ascend your throne among the queens of song." Then then I would have changed for no other throne on earth my hope of that to be achieved in the realms of my art. .And then came, that long fever: my strength broke down, and the Maest/o said, "Rest, or your voice is gone, and your throne is lost forever." How hate- ful that rest seemed to me ! You again came to my aid. You 'said: "The time you think lost should be but time im- proved. Penetrate your mind with other songs than the trash of libretti. The more you h'abituate yourself to the forms, the more you imbue yourself with the spirit, in which passions have been expressed and character delineated by great writers, the more completely you will accomplish yourself in your own spe- 46 THE PARISIANS. cial art of singer and actress." So, then, you allured me to a new study. . Ah ! in so doing did you dream that you diverted me from the old ambition ? My knowledge of French and Ital- ian, and my rearing in childhood, which had made English familiar to me, gave me the keys to the treasure houses of three languages. Naturally I began with that in which your master- pieces are composed. Till then I had not even read your works. They were the first I chose. How they impressed, how they startled me ! What depths in the mind of man, in the heart of woman, they revealed to me ! But I owned to you then, and I repeat it now, neither they nor any of the works in romance and poetry which form the boast of recent French literature, satis- fied yearnings for that calm sense of beauty, that divine joy in a world beyond this world, which you had led me to believe it was the prerogative of ideal art to bestow. And when I told you this with the rude frankness you had bid me exercise in talk with you, a thoughtful, melancholy shade fell over your face, and you said quietly : " You are right, child ; we, the French of our time, are the offspring of revolutions that settled nothing, unsettled all : we resemble those troubled States which rush into war abroad in order to re-establish peace at home. Our books suggest problems to men for reconstructing some social system in which the calm that belongs to art may be found at last : but such books should not be in your hands ; they are not for the innocence and youth of women, as yet unchanged by the sys- tems which exist." And the next day you brought me Tasso's great poem, the Gentsalemme Liberata, and said, smiling : ''Art in its calm is here." You remember that I was then at Sorrento by the order of my physician. Never shall I forget the soft autumn day when I sat amongst the lonely rocklets to the left of the town, the sea before me, with scarce a ripple ; my very heart steeped in the melodies of that poem, so marvellous for a strength dis- guised in sweetness, and for a symmetry in which eacn propor- tion blends into the -other with tnt perfectness of a Grecian statue. The whole place seemed co me filled with the pres- ence of the poet to whom it had given birth. Certainly the reading of that poem formed an era in my existence .; to this day I cannot acknowledge the faults or weaknesses which your criticisms pointed out I believe because they are in unison with my own nature, which yearns for harmony, and, finding that rests contented. I shrink from violent contrasts, and can discover nothing tame and insipid in a continuance of sweet- jiess and serenity. But it was not till after I had read La Geru- THE PARISIANS. 47 again and again, and then sat and brooded over it, that I recognized the main charm of the poem in the religion which clings to it as the perfume clings to a flower a religion sometimes melancholy, but never to me sad. Hope always pervades it. Surely if, as you said, " Hope is twin-born witii art," it is because art at its highest blends itself unconsciously with religion, and proclaims its affinity with hope by its faith in some future good more perfect than it has realized in the past. Be this as it may, it was in this poem, so pre-eminently Christian, that I found the something which I missed and craved for in modern French masterpieces, even yours a something spiritual, speaking to my own soul, calling it rorth ; distinguishing it as an essence apart from mere human reason ; soothing, even when it excited ; making earth nearer to heaven. And when I ran on in this strain to you after my own wild fashion, you took my head between your hands and kissed me, and said : " Happy are those who believe ! Long-may that happiness be thine ! " Why did I not feel in Dante the Christian charm that I felt in Tasso ? Dante in your eyes, as in those of most judges, is infinitely the greater genius, but re- flected on the dark stream of that genius the stars are so troubled, the heavens so threatening. Just as my year of holiday was expiring, I turned to English literature ; and Shakspeare, of course was the first English poet put into my hands. It proves how childlike my mind still was, that my earliest sensation in reading him was that ot disappointment. It was not only that, despite my familiarity with English (thanks chiefly to the care of him whom I call my second father), there is much in the metaphorical diction of Shakspeare which I failed to comprehend ; but he seemed to me so far like the modern French writers who affect to have found inspiration in his muse, that he obtrudes images of pain and suffering without cause or motive sufficiently clear to or- dinary understandings, as I had taught myself to think it ought to be in the drama. He make's fate so cruel that we lose sight of the mild deity behind her. Compare, in this, Corneille's " Polyeucte " with the "'Hamlet." In the first an equal calamity befalls the good, but in their calamity they are blessed. The death of the martyr is the triumph of his creed. But when we have put down the English tragedy when Hamlet and Ophelia arc confounded in death with Polonius and the fratricidal king, we see not what good end for humanity is achieved. ' The passages that fasten on our memory do not make us happier 48 THE PARISIANS. and holier; they suggest but terrible problems, to which give us no solution. In the " Horaces " of Corneille there are fierce contests, rude passions, tears drawn from some of the bitterest sources of human pity ; but then through all stands out, large and visible to the eyes of all spectators, the great ideal of devoted patriotism. How much of all that has been grandest in the life of France, redeeming even its worst crimes of revolution in the love of country, has had its origin in the " Horaces " of Corneille? But I doubt if the fates of Coriolanus, and Caesar, and Brutus, and Antony, in the giant tragedies of Shakespeare, have made Englishmen more willing to die for England. In fine, it was long before I will not say I understood or rightly appreciated Shakespeare, for no Englishman would admit that I or even you could ever do so but before I could recognize the justice of the place his country claims for him as the genius without an equal in the literature of Europe. Meanwhile the ardor I had put into study, and the wear and tear of the emotions which the study called forth, made themselves felt in a return of my former illness, with symptoms still more alarming ; and when the year was out I was ordained to rest for perhaps another year before I could sing in public, still less appear on the stage. How I rejoiced when I heard that fiat ! for I emerged from that year of study with a heart utterly estranged from the profession in which I had centred my hopes before . Yes, Eulalie, you had bid me accomplish myself for the arts of utterance by the study of arts in which thoughts originate the words they employ ; and in doing so, I had changed myself into another being. I was forbidden all fatigue of mind ; my books were banished, but not the new self which the books had formed. Recovering slowly through the summer, I came hither two months since, ostensibly for the advice of Dr. C , but really in the desire to commune with my own heart, and be still. And now I have poured forth that heart to you would you persuade me still to be a singer ? If you do, remember at least how jealous and absorbing the art of the singer and of the ac- tress is. How completely I must surrender myself to it, and live among books, or among dreams, no more. Can I be any- thing else but singer? And if not, should I be contented merely to read and to dream ? I must confide to you one ambition which during the lazy Italian summer took possession of me ; I must tell you the ambition, and add that I have renounced it as a vain one. I THE PARISIANS. 49 had hoped that I could compose, T mean in music. I was pleased with some things I did ; they expressed in music what I could not express in words ; and one secret object in coming here was to submit them to the great Maestro, He listened to them patiently ; he complimented me on my accuracy in the mechanical laws of composition ; he even said that my favorite airs were " touchants et gracieux." And so he would have left me, but I stopped him timidly, and said, " Tell me frankly, do you think that with time and study I could compose music such as singers equal to myself would sing to ? " " You mean as a professional composer ? " " Well, yes." "And to the abandonment of your vocation as a singer?" "Yes." " My dear child, I should be your worst enemy if I encouraged such a notion ; cling to the career in which you can be greatest ; gain but health, and I wager my reputation on your glorious success on the stage. What can you be as a composer ? You will set pretty music to pretty words, and will be sung in draw- ing-rooms with the fame a little more or less that generally at- tends the compositions of female amateurs. Aim at something higher, as I know you would do, and you will not succeed. Is there any instance in modern times, perhaps in any times, of a female composer who attains even to the eminence of a third- rate opera writer ? Composition in letters may be of no sex. In that Madame Dudevant and your friend Madame de Grant- mesnil can beat most men ; but the genius of musical compo- sition is homme, and accept it as a compliment when I say that you are essentially femme." He left me, of course, mortified and humbled ; but I feel he is right as regards myself, though whether in his deprecia- tion of our whole sex I cannot say. But as this hope has left me, I have become more disquieted, still more restless. Counsel me, dear Eulalie ; counsel, and, if possible, comfort me, ISAURA. From the Same to the Same. No letter from you yet, and I have left you in peace for ten days. How do you think I have spent them ? The Maestro called on us with M. Savarin, to insist on our accompanying them on a round of the theatres, I had not been to one since my arrival. I divined that the kind-hearted composer had a motive in this invitation. He thought that in witnessing the 50 THE PARISIAN? applauses bestowed on actors, and sharing in the fascination in which the theatrical illusion holds an audience, my old pas- sion for the stage, and with it the longing for an artiste 's fame, would revive. In my heart I wished that his expectations might be realized. Well for me if I could once more concentrate all my aspirations on a prize within my reach ! We went first to see a comedy greatly in vogue, and the author thoroughly understands the French stage of our day, The acting was excellent in its way. The next night we went to the Qdeon, a romantic melodrama in six acts, and I knov not how many tableaux. I found no fault with the acting there. I do not give you the rest of our programme. We visited all the principal theatres, reserving the opera and Madame S for the last. Before I speak of the opera, let me say a word or two on the plays. There is no country in which the theatre has so great a hold on the public as in France ; no country in which the successful dramatist has so high a fame ; no country perhaps in which the state of the stage so faithfully represents the moral and intellectual condition of the people. I say this_not, of course, from my experience of countries which I have not visited, but from all I hear of the stage in Germany and in England. The impression left on my mind by the performance I wit- nessed is, that the French people are becoming dwarfed. The comedies that please them are but pleasant caricatures of petty sections in a corrupt society. They contain no large types of human nature ; their witticisms convey no luminous flashes of truth ; their sentiment is not pure and noble, it is a sickly and false perversion of the impure and ignoble into travesties of the pure and noble. Their melodramas cannot be classed as literature ; all that really remains of the old French genius is its vaudeville. Great dramatists create great parts. One great part, such :-.s a Rachel would gladly have accepted, I have not seen in the dramas of the young generation. High art has taken refuge in the opera; but that is not French opera. I do not complain so much that French taste is less refined. I complain that French intellect is lowered. The descent from Polyeucte to Ruy Bias is great, not so mucii in the poetry of form as in the elevation of thought ; but the descent from Ruy Bias to the -best drama now produced is out of poetry altogether, and into those flats of prose which give not even the glimpse of a mountain -top. THE PARISIANS. 5-1 But now to the opera. S in Norma ! The house was crowded, and its enthusiasm as loud as it was genuine. You tell me that S never rivalled Pasta, but certainly her Norma is a great performance. Pier voice has lost less of its freshness than I had been told, and what is lost of it her practised man- agement conceals or carries off. The Maestro was quite right : I could never vie with her in her own line ; but conceited and vain as I may seem even to you in saying so, I feel in my own line that I could command as large an applause, of course taking into account my brief- lived advantage of youth. Her acting, apart from her voice, does not please me. It seems to me to want intelligence of the subtler feelings, the undercurrent of emotion which con- stitutes the chief beauty of the situation and the character. Am I jealous when I say this? Read on and judge. On our return that night, when I had seen the Venosta to bed, I went into my own room, opened the window, and looked out. A lovely night, mild as in spring at Florence ; the moon at her full, and the stars looking so calm and so high beyond our reach of their tranquillity. The evergreens in the gardens of the villas around me silvered over, and the summer boughs, not yet clothed with leaves, were scarcely visible amid the changeless smile of the laurels. At the distance lay Paris, only to be known by its innumerable lights. And then I said to myself : " No, I cannot be an actress ; I cannot resign my real self for that vamped-up hypocrite before the lamps. Out on those stage-robes and painted cheeks ! Out on that simulated utter- ance of sentiments learned by rote and practised before the looking-glass till every gesture has its drill ! " Then I gazed on those stars which provoke our questionings, and return no answer, till my heart grew full so full and I bowed my head and wept like a child. From the Same to the Same. And still no letter from you ! I see in'the journals that you have left Nice. Is it that you are too absorbed in your work to have leisure to write to me ? I know you are not ill ; for if you were, all Paris would know of it. All Europe has an interest in your health. Positively I will write to you no more till a word from yourself bids rne do so. I fear I must give up my solitary walks in the Bois de Boulogne : they were very dear to me, partly because the quiet path to which I confined myself was that to which you directed 52 THE PARISIANS. me as the one you habitually selected when at Paris, and in which you had brooded over and revolved the loveliest of your romances ; and partly because it was there that, catching, alas ! not inspiration, but enthusiasm, from the genius that had hal- lowed the place, and dreaming I might originate music, I nursed my own aspirations and murmured my own airs. And though so close to that world of Paris to which all artists must appeal for judgment or audience, the spot was so undisturbed, so sequestered. But of late that path has lost its solitude, and therefore its charm. Six days ago the first person I encountered in my walk was a man whom I did not then heed. He seemed in thought, or rather in revery, like myself ; we passed each other twice or thrice, and I did not notice whether he was young or old, tall or short ; but he came the next day, and a third day, and then I saw that he was young, and, in so regarding him, his eyes became fixed on mine. The fourth day he did not come, but two other men came, and the look of one was inquisitive and offensive. They sat themselves down on a bench in the walk, and though I did not seem to notice them I hastened home ; and the next day, in talking with our kind Madame Savarin, and alluding to these quiet walks of mine, she hinted, with the delicacy which is her characteristic, that the customs of Paris did not allow demoi- selles comme il faut to walk alone even in the most sequestered paths of the Bois. I begin now to comprehend your disdain of customs which impose chains so idly galling on the liberty of our sex. We dined with the Savarins last evening ; what a joyous nature he has ! Not reading Latin, I only know Horace by translations, which I am told are bad ; but Savarin seems to me a sort of half Horace. Horace on his town-bred side, so playfully well-bred, so good-humored in his philosophy, so affectionate to friends, and so biting to foes. But certainly Savarin could not have lived in a country farm upon endives and mallows. He is town-bred and Parisian, jusqu'au bout des oiigles. How he admires you, and how I love him for it ! Only in one thing he disappoints me there. It is your style that he chiefly praises : certainly that style is matchless ; but style is only the clothing of thought, and to praise your style seems to me almost as invidious as the compliment to some perfect beauty, not on her form and face, but on her taste and dress. We met at dinner an American and his wife a Colonel and Mrs. Morley ; she is delicately handsome, as the American THE PARISIANS. 53 women I have seen generally are, and with that frank vivacity of manner which distinguishes them from English women. She seemed to take a fancy to me, and we soon grew very good friends. She is the first advocate I have met, except yourself, of that doctrine upon the Rights of Women, of which one reads more in the journals than one hears discussed in salons. Naturally enough I felt great interest in that subject, more especially since my rambles in the Bois were forbidden ; and as long as she declaimed on the hard fate of the women who, feeling within them powers that struggle for air and light be- yond the close precinct of household duties, find themselves restricted from fair-rivalry with men in such fields of knowl- edge and toil and glory, as men since the world began have appropriated to themselves, I need not say that I went with her cordially: you can guess that by my former letters. But when she entered into the detailed catalogue of our exact wrongs and our exact fights, I felt all the pusillanimity of my sex, and shrank back in terror. Her husband, joining us when she was in full tide of elo* qence, smiled at me with a kind of saturnine mirth. " Made- moiselle, don't believe a word she says ; it is only tall talk ! In America the women are absolute tyrants, and it is I who, in concert with my oppressed countrymen, am going in for a platform agitation to restore the Rights of Men." Upon this there was a lively battle of words between the spouses, in which, I must own, I thought the lady was decidedly worsted. No, Eulalie, I see nothing in these schemes for altering our relations towards the other sex which would improve our con- dition. The inequalities we suffer are not imposed by law, not even by convention ; they are imposed by nature. Eulalie, you have had an experience unknown to me ; you have loved. In that day did you you, round whom poets and sages and statesmen gather, listening to your words as to an oracle did you feel that your pride of genius had gone out from you ; that your ambition lived in him whom you loved ; that his smile was more to you than the applause of the world? I feel as if love in a woman must destroy her rights of equality ; that it gives to her a sovereign even in one who would be inferior to herself if hep love did not glorify and crown him. Ah ! if I could but merge this terrible egotism which oppresses me, into the being of some one who is what I would wish to be were I man ! I would not ask him to achieve 54 THE PARISIANS. fame. Enough if I felt that he was worthy of it, and happier niethinks to console him when he failed than to triumph with him when he won. Tell me, have you felt this? When you loved did you stoop as to a slave, or did you bow down as to a master ? From Madame de Grantmesnil to Isaura Cicogna. Chlre enfant: All your four letters have reached me the same day. In one of my sudden whims I set off with a few friends on a rapid tour along the Riviera to Genoa, thence to Turin on to Milan. Not knowing where we should rest even for a day, my letters were not forwarded. 1 came back to Nice yesterday, consoled for all fatigues in having insured that accuracy in description of localities which my work necessitates. You are, my poor child, in that revolutionary crisis through which genius passes in youth before it knows its own self, and longs vaguely to do or to be a something other than it has done or has been before. For, not to be unjust to your own powers, genius you have that inborn undefinable essence, including talent, and yet distinct from it. Genius you have, but genius unconcentrated, undisciplined. I see, though you are too diffident to say so openly, that you shrink from the fame of singer, because, fevered by your reading, you would fain aspire to the thorny crown of author. I echo the hard saying of the Maestro, I should be your worst enemy did I encourage you to forsake a career in which a dazzling success is so assured, for one in which, if it were your true vocation, you would not ask whether you were fit for it ; you would be impelled to it by the terrible star which presides over the birth of poets. Have you, who are so naturally observant, and of late have become so reflective, never remarked that authors, however absorbed in their own craft, do not wish their children to adopt it ? The most successful author is perhaps the last person to whom neophytes should come for encouragement. This I think is not the case with the cultivators of the sister arts. The painter, the sculptor, the musician, seem disposed to invite disciples and welcome acolytes. As for those engaged in the practical affairs of life, fathers mostly wish their sons to be as they have been. The politician, the lawyer, the merchant, each says to his children, "Follow my steps." All parents in practical life would at least agree in this, they would not wish their sons to be poets. There must be some sound cause in the world's THE PARISIANS. 55 philosophy for this general concurrence of digression from a road of which the travellers themselves say to those whom they love best, " Beware ! " Rbmance in youth is, if rightly understood, the happiest nutriment of wisdom in after-years ; but I would never invite any one to look upon the romance of youth as a thing " To case in periods and embalm in ink." Enfant, have you need of a publisher to create romance ? Is it not in yourself ? Do not imagine that genius requires for its enjoyment the scratch of the pen and the types of the printer. Do not suppose that the poet, the romancier, is most poetic, most romantic, when he is striving, struggling, laboring, to check the rush of his ideas, and materialize the images which visit him as souls into such tangible likenesses of flesh and blood that the highest compliment a reader can bestow on them is to say that they are lifelike. No : the poet's real delight is not in the mechanism of composing ; the best ^part of that delight is in the sympathies he has established with innumera- ble modifications of life and form, and art and nature sympa- thies which are often found equally keen in those whohave not the same gift of language. The poet is but the interpreter. What of ? Truths in the hearts of others. He utters what they feel. Is the joy in the utterance ? Nay, it is in the feel- ing itself. So, my dear, dark-bright child of song, when I bade thee open, out of the beaten thoroughfare, paths into the meads and river-banks at either side of the formal hedgerows, rightly dost thou add that I enjoined thee to make thine art thy companion. In the culture of that art for which you are so eminently gifted, you will find the ideal life ever beside the real. Are you not ashamed to tell me that in that art you do but utter the thoughts of others ? You utter them in music ; through the music you not only give to the thoughts a new character, but you make them reproductive of fresh thoughts in your audience. You said very truly that you found in composing you could put into music thoughts which you could not put into words. That is the peculiar distinction of music. No genuine musician can explain in^vords exactly what he means to convey in his music. How little a libretto interprets an opera ; how little we care even to read it ! It is the music that speaks to us ; and how ? Through the human voice. We do not notice how poor are the words which the voice warbles. It is the voice itself interpret- ing the soul of the musician which enchants and enthrals us. 56 THE PARISIANS. And you who have that voice pretend to despise the gift. What ! Despise the power of communicating delight ! The power that we authors envy, and rarely, if ever, can we give delight with so little alloy as the singer. And when an audience disperses, can you guess what griefs the singer may have comforted ? What hard hearts he may have softened ? What high thoughts he may have awakened ? You say, "Out on the vamped-up hypocrite! Out on the stage-robes and painted cheeks ! " 1 say, "Out on the morbid spirit which so cynically regards the mere details by which a whole effect on the minds and hearts and souls of races and nations can be produced ! " There, have 1 scolded you sufficiently ? I should scold you more, if 1 did not see in the affluence of your youth and your intellect the cause of your restlessness. Riches are always restless. It is only to poverty that the gods give content. You question me about love ; you ask if I have ever bowed to a master, ever merged my life in another's ; expect no answer on this from me. Circe herself could give no answer to the simplest maid, who, never having loved, asks, "What is love ? " In the history of the passions each human heart is a world in itself ; its experience profits no others. In no two lives does love play the same part or bequeath the same record. I know not whether I am glad or sorry that the word " love " now falls on my ear with a sound as slight and as faint as the dropping of a leaf in autumn may fall on thine. I volunteer but this lesson, the wisest I can give, if thou canst understand it : as I bade thee take art into thy life, so learn to look on life itself as an art. Thou couldst discover the charm in Tasso ; thou couldst perceive that the requisite of all art, that which pleases, is in the harmony of proportion. We lose sight of beauty if we exaggerate the feature most beautiful. Love proportioned, adorns the homeliest existence ; love dis- proportioned, deforms the fairest. Alas ! Wilt thou remember this warning when the time comes in which it mav be needed ? E G . THE PARISIANS. 57 BOOK II. CHAPTER I. IT is several weeks after the date of the last chapter ; the lime-trees in the Tuileries are clothed in green. In a somewhat spacious apartment on the ground-floor in the quiet locality of the Rue d'Anjou a man was seated, very still, and evidently absorbed in deep thought, before a wriiing-table placed close to the window. Seen thus t^iere was an expression of great power, both of intellect and of character, in a face which, in ordinary social commune, might rather be noticeable for an aspect of hardy frankness, suiting well with the clear-cut, handsome profile and the rich, dark auburn hair, waving carelessly over one of those broad, open foreheads which, according to an old writer, seem the " frontispiece of a temple dedicated to Honor." The forehead, indeed, was the man's most remarkable fea- ture. It could not but prepossess the beholder. When, in private theatricals, he had need to alter the character of his countenance, he did it effectually, merely by forcing down his hair till it reached his eyebrows. He no longer then looked like the same man. The person I describe has been already introduced to the reader as Graham Vane. But perhaps this is the fit occasion to enter into some such details as to his parentage and position as may make the introduction more satisfactory and complete. His father, the representative of a very ancient family, came into possession, after a long minority, of what may be called a fair squire's estate, and about half a million in moneyed invest- ments, inherited on the female side. Both land and money were absolutely at his disposal, unencumbered by entail or set- tlement. He was a man of a brilliant, irregular genius, of princely generosity, of splendid taste, of a gorgeous kind of pride closely allied to a masculine kind of vanity. As soon as he was of age he began to build, converting his squire's hall into a ducal palace. He then stoqd for^ the county ; and in days before the first Reform Bill, when a county election was the estate of a candidate what a long war is to the debt of a nation. He won the election ; he obtained early successes in Parliament. It was said by good authorities in pojitical circles that, if he chose, he might aspire to lead his party, and ulti- mately to hold the first rank in the government of his country. 58 e my fault, for I like to start it. Id| s a relief to the languid small-talk of society to listen to any one thoroughly in earnest upon turning the world topsy-turvy." " Do you suppose poor Mrs. Morley would seek to do that if she had her rights ?" asked Isaura, with her musical laugh. " Not a doubt of it ; but perhaps you share her opinions." " I scarcely know what her opinions are, but " " Yes but ? " "There is a what shall I call it? a persuasion, asentiment, out of which the opinions probably spring that I do share." " Indeed ? A persuasion, a sentiment, for instance, that a woman should have votes in the choice of legislators, and, I presume, in the task of legislation ? " " No, that is not what I mean. Still, that is an opinion, right or wrong, which grows out of the sentiment I speak of." " Pray explain the sentiment." " It is always so difficult to define a sentiment, but does it wot strike you that in proportion as the tendency of modern civilization has been to raise women more and more to an in- tellectual equality with men in proportion as they read and study and think an uneasy sentiment, perhaps querulous, perhaps unreasonable, grows up within their minds that the conventions of the world are against the complete development of the faculties thus aroused and the ambition thus animated ; 1O4 THE PARISIANS. that they cannot but rebel, though it may be silently, against the notions of the former age, when women were not thus educated ; notions that the aim of the sex should be to steal through life unremarked ; that it is a reproach to be talked of ; that women are plants to be kept in a hothouse and forbidden the frank liberty of growth in the natural air and sunshine of heaven. This, at least, is a sentiment which has sprung up within myself, and I imagine that it is the sentiment which has given birth to many of the opinions or doctrines that seem absurd, and very likely are so, to the general public. I don't pretend even to have considered those doctrines. I don't pre- tend to say what may be the remedies for the restlessness and uneasiness I feel. I doubt if on this earth there be any remedies ; all I know is, that I feel restless and uneasy." Graham gazed on her countenance as .she spoke with an astonishment not unmingled with tenderness and compassion ; astonishment at the contrast between a vein of reflection so hardy, expressed in a style of language that seemed to him so masculine, and the soft velvet, dreamy eyes, the gentle tones, and delicate purity of hues rendered younger still by the blush that deepened their bloom. At this moment they had entered the refreshment-room ; but a dense group being round the table, and both perhaps forgetting the object for which Mrs. Morley had introduced them to each other, they had mechanically seated themselves on an ottoman in a recess while Isaura was yet speaking. It must seem as strange to the reader as it did to Graham that such a speech should have been spoken by so young a girl to an acquaintance so new. But in truth Isaura was very little conscious of Graham's presence. She had got on a subject that perplexed and tormented her solitary thoughts ; she was but thinking "fcloud. " I believe," said Graham, after a pause, " that I compre- hend your sentiment much better than I do Mrs. Morley's opinions ; but permit me one observation. You say, truly, that the course of modern civilization has more or less affected the relative position of woman cultivated beyond that level on which she was formerly contented to stand the nearer per- haps to the heart of man because not lifting her head to his height ; and hence a sense of restlessness, uneasiness. But do you suppose that, in this whirl and dance of the atoms which compose the rolling ball of the civilized world, it is only women that are made restless and uneasy ? Do you not see amid the masses congregated in the wealthiest cities of the THE PARISIANS. 105 world, writhings and struggles against the received order of things? In this sentiment of discontent there is a certain truthfulness, because it is an element of human nature ; and how best to deal with it is a problem yet unsolved. But in the opinions and doctrines to which, among the masses, the senti- ment gives birth, the wisdom of the wisest detects only the certainty of a common ruin, offering for reconstruction the same building materials as the former edifice materials not likely to be improved because they may be defaced. Ascend from the working classes to all others in which civilized cul- ture prevails, and you will find that same restless feeling ; the fluttering of untried wings against the bars between wider space and their longings. Could you poll all the educated ambitious young men in England, perhaps in Europe, at least half of them, divided between a reverence for the past and a curiosity as to the future, would sigh : " I am born a century too late or a century too soon ! " Isaura listened to this answer with a profound and absorbing interest. It was the first time that a clever young man talked thus sympathetically to her, a clever young girl. Then rising, he said : " I see your madre and our American friends are darting angry looks at me. They have made room for us at the table, and are wondering why I should keep you thus from the^good things of this little life. One word more ere we join them : Consult your own mind, and consider whether your uneasiness and unrest are caused solely by con- ventional shackles on your sex. Are they not equally common to the youth of ours ? common to all who seek in art, in let- ters, nay, in the stormier field of active life, to clasp as a reality some image yet seen but as a dream ? " CHAPTER VIII. No further conversation in the way of sustained dialogue took place that evening between Graham and Isaura. The Americans and theSavarins clustered round Isaura when they quitted the refreshment-room. The party was breaking up. Vane would have offered his arm again to Isaura, but M. Savarin had forestalled him. The American was despatched by his wife to see for the carriage ; and Mrs. Morley said, \vith her wonted sprightly tone of command : " Now, Mr. Vane, you have no option but to take care of me tc the shawl-room." 106 THE PARISIANS. Madame Savarin and Signora Venosta had each found their cavaliers, the Italian still retaining held of the portly connois- seur, and the Frenchwoman accepting the safeguard of the Vicomte de Breze. As they descended the stairs, Mrs. Mor- ley asked Graham what he thought of the young lady to whom she had presented him. " I think she is charming," answered Graham. " Of course ; that is the stereotyped answer to all such ques- tions, especially by you Englishmen. In public or in private, England is the mouthpiece of platitudes." " It is natural for an American to think so. Every child that has just learned to speak uses bolder expressions that its grand- mamma ; but I am rather at a loss to know by what novelty of phrase an American would have answered your question." "An American would have discovered that Isaura Cicogna had a soul, and his answer would have confessed it." " It strikes me that he would then have uttered a platitude more stolid than mine. Every Christian knows that the dullest human being has a soul. But, to speak frankly, I grant that my answer did not do justice to the Signorina, nor to the im- pression she makes on me ; and putting aside the charm of the face, there is a charm in a mind that seems to have gathered stores of reflection which I should scarcely have expected to find in a young lady brought up to be a professional singer." " You add prejudice to platitude, and are horribly prosaic to-night ; but here we are in the shawl-room. I must take an- other opportunity of attacking you. Pray dine with us to- morrow ; you will meet our rairjister and a few other pleasant friends." " I suppose I must not say, ' I shall be charmed," " answered Vane, " but I shall be." " Bon Dicu ! That horrid fat man has deserted Signora Venosta looking for his own cloak, I dare say. Selfish mon- ster ! Go and hand her to her carriage quick, it is an- nounced ! " Graham, thus ordered, hastened to offer his arm to the she- mountebank. Somehow she had acquired dignity in his eyes, and he did not feel the least ashamed of being in contact with the scarlet jacket. The Signora grappled to him with a confiding familiarity. " I am afraid," she said in Italian, as they passed along the spacious hall to the porte cochtre ; " I am afraid that I did not make a good effect to-night ; I was nervous ; did not you per- ceive it ? " THE PARISIANS. 107 " No, indeed ; you enchanted us all," replied the dissimu- lator. " How amiable you are to say so ! You must think that I sought for a compliment. So I did ; you gave me more than I deserve. Wine is the milk of old men, and praise of old women. But an old man may be killed by too much wine, and an old woman lives all the longer for too much praise bii'ina no tie" Here she sprang, lithesomely enough, into the carriage, and Isaura followed, escorted by M. Savarin. As the two men returned towards the shawl-room, the Frenchman said : " Ma- dame Savarin and I complain that you have not let us see so much of you as we ought. No doubt you are greatly sought after ; but are you free to take your soup with us the day after to morrow ? You will meet the Count von Rudesheim and a few others more lively, if less wise." " The day after to-morrow I will mark with a white stone. To dine with M. Savarin is an event to a man who covets dis- tinction." " Such compliments reconcile an author to his trade. You deserve the best return I can make you. You will meet la belle Isaure. I have just engaged her and her chaperon. She is a girl of true genius, and genius is like those objects of vertu which belong to a former age, and become every day more scarce and more precious." Here they encountered Colonel Morley and his wife hurry- ing to their carriage. The American stopped Vane, and whispered : " I am glad, sir, to hear from my wife that you dine with us to-morrow. Sir, you will meet Mademoiselle Cicogna, and I am not without a kinkle * that you will be enthused." " This seems like a fatality," soliloquized Vane as he walked through the deserted streets towards his lodging. " I strove to banish that haunting face from my mind. I had half forgotten it, and now " Here his murmur sank into silence. He was deliberating in very conflicted thought whether or not he should write to refuse the two invitations he had accepted. " Pooh ! " he said at last, as he reached the door of his lodging, " is my reason so weak that it should be influenced by a mere superstition ? Surely I know myself too well, and have tried myself too long, to fear that I should 'be untrue to the duty and ends of my life, even if I found my heart in danger of suffering."' * A notion. IO8 THE PARISIANS. Certainly the Fates do seem to mock our resolves to keep our feet from their ambush, and our hearts from their snare. How our lives may be colored by that which seems to us the most trivial accident, the merest chance ! Suppose that Alain de Rochebriant had been invited to the reunion at M. Louvier's, and Graham Vane had accepted some other invita- tion and passed his evening elsewhere, Alain would probably have been presented to Isaura what then'' might have hap- pened ? The impression Isaura had already made upon the young Frenchman was not so deep as that made upon Graham ; but then, Alain's resolution to efface it was but commenced that day, and by no means yet confirmed. And if he had been the first clever young man to talk earnestly to that clever young girl, who can guess what impression he might have made upon her ? His conversation might have had less phil- osophy and strong sense than Graham's but more of poetic sentiment and fascinating romance. However, the history of events that do not come to pass is not in the chronicle of the Fates. BOOK III. CHAPTER I. THE next day the fjueste at the Morleys' had assembled when Vane entered. His apology for unpunctuality was cut short by the lively hostess : " Your pardon is granted without the humiliation of asking for it ; we know that the character- istic of the English is always to be a little behindhand." She then proceeded to introduce him to the American Minister, to a distinguished American poet, with a countenance striking for mingled sweetness and power, and one or two other of her countrymen sojourning at Paris ; and this cere- mony over, dinner was announced, and she bade Graham offer his arm to Mademoiselle Cicogna. " Have you ever visited the United States, Mademoiselle ? * asked Vane, as they seated themselves at the table. " No." " It is a voyage you are sure to make soon." " Why so ? " THE PARISIANS. 109 " Because report says you will create a great sensation at the very commencement of your career ; and the New World is ever eager to welcome each celebrity that is achieved in the Old ; more especially that which belongs to your enchanting art." " True, sir," said an American senator, solemnly striking into the conversation ; " we are an appreciative people; and if that lady be as fine a singer as I am told, she might command any amount of dollars." Isaura colored, and turning to Graham, asked him in a low voice if he were fond of music. " I ought of course to say 'yes,' " answered Graham in the same tone; "but I doubt if that 'yes' would be an honest one. In some moods, music if a kind of music I like affects me very deeply ; in other moods, not at all. And I cannot bear much at a time. A concert wearies me shamefully ; even an opera always seems to me a great deal too long. But I ought to add that 1 am no judge of music ; that music was never admitted into my education ; and, between ourselves, I doubt if there be one Englishman in five hundred who would care for opera or concert if it were not the fashion to say he did. Does my frankness revolt you ? " "On the contrary, I sometimes doubt, especially of late, if I am fond of music myself." " Signorina pardon me it is impossible that you should not be. Genius can never be untrue~to itself, and must love that in which it excels; that ly \\ hich it communicates joy, and," he added, with a half-suppressed sigh, "attains to glory." " Genius is a divine word, and not to be applied to a singer," said Isaura, with a humility in which there was an earnest sad- ness. Graham was touched and startled ; but before he could answer, the American Minister appealed to him across the table, asking if he had quoted accurately a | assnge in a speech by Graham's distinguished father, in regard to tbe share which England ought to take in the political affaiis of Europe. The conversation now became general ; very political and very serious. Graham was drawn into it, and grew animated and eloquent. Isaura listened to him with admiration. She was struck by what seemed to her a nobleness of sentiment which elevated his theme above the level of commonplace polemics. She was pleased to notice, in the attentive silence of his intelligent list- eners, that they shared the effect produced on herself. In 110 THE PARISIANS. fact, Graham Vane was a born orator, and his studies had been those of a political thinker. In common talk he was but the accomplished man of the world, easy and frank and genial, with a touch of good-natured sarcasm ; but when the subject started drew him upward to those heights in which politics become the science of humanity, he seemed a changed being. His cheek glowed, his eye brightened, his voice mel- lowed into richer tones, his language became unconsciously adorned. In such moments there might scarcely be an audi- ence, .even differing from him in opinion, which would not have acknowledged his spell. When the party adjourned to the salon, Isaura said softly to Graham : "I understand why you did not cultivate music ; and I think, too, that I can now understand what effects the human voice can produce on human minds, without recurring to the art of song." " Ah," said Graham with a pleased smile, "do not make me ashamed of my former rudeness by the revenge of compliment, and, above all, do not disparage your own art by supposing that any prose effect of voice in its utterance of mind can in- terpret t-hat which music alone can express, even to listeners so uncultured as myself. Am I not told truly by musical com- posers, when I ask them to explain in words what they say in their music, that such explanation is impossible, that music has a language of its own, untranslatable by words?" "Yes," said Isaura, with thoughtful brow but brightening eyes, " you are told truly. It was only the other day that I was pondering over that truth." " But what recesses of mind, of heart, of soul, this untrans- latable language penetrates and brightens up ! How incom- plete the grand nature of man though man the grandest would be, if you struck out of his reason the comprehension o( poetry, music, and religion ! In each are reached and are sounded deeps in his reason otherwise concealed from himself. History, knowledge, science, stop at the point in which mys- tery begins. There they meet with the world of shadow. Not an inch of that world can they penetrate without the aid of poetry and religion, two necessities of intellectual man much more nearly allied than the votaries of the practical and the positive suppose. To the aid and elevation of both those necessities comes in music, and there has never existed a re- ligion in the world which has not demanded music as its ally. If, as I said. frankly, it is only in certain moods of my mind that I enjoy music, it is only because in certain moods of my THE PARISIANS. Ill mind I am capable of quitting the' guidance of prosaic reason for the world of shadow ; that I am so susceptible as at every hour, were my nature perfect, I should be to the mysterious influences of poetry and religion. Do you understand what I wish to express ?" " Yes, I do, and clearly." " Then, Signorina, you are forbidden to undervalue the gift of song. You must feel its power over the heart, when you enter the opera-house ; over the soul, when you kneel in a cathedral." " Oh," cried Isaura with enthusiasm, a rich glow mantling over her lovely face, " how I thank, you! Is it you who say you do not love music? How much better you understand it than I did till this moment ! " Here Mrs. Morley, joined by the American poet, came to the corner in which the Englishman arid the singer had niched themselves. The poet began to talk, the other guests gathered round, and every one listened reverentially till the party broke up. Colonel Morley handed Isaura to her carfiage, the she- mountebank again fell to the lot of Graham. " Signer," said -she, as he respectfully placed her shawl round her scarlet-and-gilt jacket, "are we so far from Paris that you cannot spare the time to call ? My child does not sing in public, but at home you can hear her. It is not every woman's voice that is sweetest at home." Graham bowed, and said he would call on the morrow. Isaura mused in silent delight over the words which had so extolled the art of the singer. Alas, poor child ! She could not guess that in those words, reconciling her to the profession of the-stage, the speaker was pleading against his own heart. There was in Graham's nature, as I think it commonly is in that of most true orators, a wonderful degree of intellectual con- science which impelled him to acknowledge the benignant in- fluences of song, and to set before the young singer the noblest incentives to the profession to which he deemed her assuredly destined. But in so doing he must have felt that he was widen- ing the gulf between her life and his own ; perhaps he wished to widen it in proportion as he dreaded to listen to any voice in his heart which asked if the gulf might not be overleapt. 112 THE PARISIANS. CHAPTER II. ON the morrow Graham called at the villa at A . The two ladies received him in Isaura's chosen sitting-room. Somehow or other, conversation at first languished. Graham was reserved and distant, Isaura shy and embarrassed. The Venosta had the /rat's of making talk to herself. Prob- ably at another time Graham would have been amused and interested in the observation of a character new to him, and thoroughly southern ; lovable, not more from its nai've sim- plicity of kindliness than from various little foibles and vani- ties, all of which were harmless, and some of them endearing as those of a child whom it is easy to make happy, and whom it seems so cruel to pain : and with all the Venosta's deviations from the polished and tranquil good taste of the beau monde, she had that indescribable grace which rarely deserts a Floren- tine, so that you might call her odd but not vulgar ; while, though uneducated, except in the way of her old profession, and never having troubled herself to read anything but a libretto, and the pious books recommended to her by her con- fessor, the artless babble of her talk every now and then flashed out with a quaint humor, lighting up terse fragments of the old Italian wisdom which had mysteriously embedded themselves in the groundwork of her mind. But Graham was not at this time disposed to judge the poor Venosta kindly or fairly. Isaura had taken high rank in his thoughts. He felt an impatient resentment mingled with anxiety and compassionate tenderness at a companionship which seemed to him derogatory to the position he would have as- signed to a creature so gifted, and unsafe as a guide amidst the perils and trials to which the youth, the beauty, and the destined profession of Isaura were exposed. Like most En- glishmen especially Englishmen wise in the knowledge of life he held in fastidious regard the proprieties and conven- tions by which the dignity of woman is fenced round ; and of those proprieties and conventions the Venosta naturally ap- peare.d to him a very unsatisfactory guardian and represen- tative. Happily unconscious of these hostile prepossessions, the elder Signora chatted on very gayly to the visitor. She was in excellent spirits ; people had been very civil to her both at Colonel Morley's and M. Louvier's. The American Minister had praised the scarlet jacket. She was convinced she had THE PARISIANS. 113 made a sensation two nights running. When the amour proprc is pleased, the tongue is freed. The Venosta ran on in praise of Paris and the Parisians, of Louvier and his soiree and the pistachio ice ; of the Americans and a certain creme de maraschino which she hoped the Signor Inglese had not failed to taste the creme de maraschino led her thoughts back to Italy. Then she grew mournful : how she missed the native beau del ! Paris was pleasant, but how ab- surd to call it " Le Paradis des Femmes" as if les Fernmes could find Paradise in a biouillard ! " But," she exclaimed, with vivacity of voice and gesticula- tion, " the Signor does not come to hear the parrot talk. He is engaged to come that he may hear the nightingale sing. A drop of honey attracts the fly more than a bottle of vinegar." Graham could not help smiling at this adage. " I submit," said he, "to your comparison, as regards myself ; but certainly anything less like a bottle of vinegar than your amiable con- versation I cannot well conceive. However, the metaphor apart, I scarcely know how I dare ask Mademoiselle to sing after the confession I made to her last night." " What confession ? " asked the Venosta. " That I know nothing of music, and doubt if lean honestly say that I am fond of it." " Not fond of music ! Impossible ! You slander yourself. He who loves not music would have a dull time of it in heaven. But you are English, and perhaps have only heard the music of -your own country. Bad, very bad a heretic's music ! Now listen." Seating herself at the piano, she began an air from the " Lucia^." crying out to Isaura to come and sing to her accom- paniment. " Do you really wish" it ? " asked Isaura of Graham, fixing on him questioning, timid eyes. " I cannot say how much I wish to hear you." Isaura moved to the instrument, and Graham stood behind her. Perhaps he felt that he should judge more impartially of her voice if not subjected to the charm of her face. But the first note of the voi.ce held him spellbound : in itself, the organ was of the rarest order, mellow and rich, but so soft that its power was lost in its sweetness, and so exquisitely fresh in every note. But the singer's charm was less in voice than in feeling ; she conveyed to the listener so much more than was said by the words, or even implied by the music. Her song in this caught 114 E PARISIANS. the art of the painter who impresses the mind with the con- sciousness of a something which the eye cannot detect on the canvas. She seemed to breathe out from the depths of her heart the intense pathos of the original romance, so far exceeding that of the opera ; the human tenderness, the mystic terror of a tragic love-tale more solemn in its sweetness than that of Verona. When her voice died away no applause came, not even a murmur. Isaura bashfully turned round to steal a glance at her silent listener, and beheld moistened eyes and quivering lips. At that moment she was reconciled to her art. Graham rose abruptly and walked to the window. "Do you doubt now if you are fond of music?" cried the Venosta. "This is more than music," answered Graham, still with averted face. Then, after a short pause, he approached Isaura, and said, with a melancholy half-smile : "I do not think, Mademoiselle, that I could dare to hear you often ; it would take me too far from the hard real world ; and he who would not be left behindhand on the road that he must journey cannot indulge frequent excursions into fairy- land." " Yet," said Isaura, in a tone yet sadder, " I was told in my childhood, by one whose genius gives authority to her words, that beside the real world lies the ideal. ,The real world then seemed rough to me. ' Escape,' said my counsellor, 'is grant- ed from that stony thoroughfare into the fields beyond its formal hedgerows. The ideal world has its sorrows, but it never admits despair.' That counsel, then, methought, de- cided my choice of life. I know not now if it has done so." "Fate," answered Graham slowly and thoughtfully "Fate, which is not the ruler but the servant of Providence, decides our choice of life, and rarely from outward circumstances. Usual- ly the motive power is within. We apply the word genius to the minds of a gifted few ; but in all of us there is a genius that is inborn, a pervading something which distinguishes our very identity, and dictates to the conscience that which we are best fitted to 1 do and to be. In so dictating it compels our choice of life ; or if we resist the dictate, we find at the close that we have gone astray. My choice of life thus compelled is on the stony thoroughfares, yours is the green fields." As he thus said, his face became clouded and mournful. The Venosta, quickly tired of a conversation in which she THE PARISIANS. Jig had no part, and having various little household matters to at- tend to, had during this dialogue slipped unobserved from the room ; yet neither Isaura nor Graham felt the sudden con- sciousness that they were alone which belongs to lovers. " Why," asked Isaura, with that magic smile reflected in countless dimples which, even when her words were those of man's reasoning, made them seem gentle with a woman's senti- ment ; "Why must your road through the world be so exclu- sively the stony one? It is not from necessity, it cannot be from taste. And whatever definition you give to genius, surely it is not your own inborn genius that dictates to you a constant exclusive adherence to the commonplace of life." " Ah, Mademoiselle, do not misrepresent me ! I did not say that I could not sometimes quit the real world for fairy- land ; I said that I could not do so often. My vocation is not that of a poet or artist." " It is that of an orator, I know," said Isaura, kindling ; "so they tell me, and I believe them. But is not the orator some- what akin to the poet ? Is not oratory an art ? " " Let us dismiss the word orator : as applied to English pub- lic life, it is a very deceptive expression. The Englishman who wishes to influence his countrymen by force of .words spoken must mix with them in their beaten thoroughfares ; must make himself master of their practical views and inter- ests ; must be conversant with their prosaic occupations and business ; must understand how to adjust their loftiest aspi- rations to their material welfare ; must avoid, as the fault most dangerous to himself and to others, that kind of eloquence which is called oratory in France, and which has helped to make the French the worst politicians in Europe. Alas, Mad- emoiselle, I fear that an English statesman would appear to you a very dull orator." " I see that I spoke foolishly ; yes, you show me that the world of the statesman lies apart from that of the artist. Yet " "Yet what?" " May not the ambition of both be the same ? " " How so ? " "To refine the rude, to exalt the mean; to identify their own fame with some new beauty, some new glory, added to th^treasure-house of all." Graham bowed his head reverently, and then raised it with the flush of enthusiasm on his cheek and brow. "Oh, Mademoiselle," he exclaimed, "what a sure guide and what a noble inspirer to a true Englishman's ambition Il6 THE PARISIANS. nature has fitted you to be were it not " He paused abruptly. This outburst took Isaura utterly by surprise. She had been accustomed to the language of compliment till it had begun to pall, but a compliment of this kind was the first that had ever reached her ear. She had no words in answer to it ; involun- tarily she placed her hand on her heart as if to still its beatings. But the unfinished exclamation, " Were it not," troubled her more than the preceding words had flattered ; and mechani- cally she murmured, " Were it not what ? " "Oh," answered Graham, affecting a tone of gayety, "I felt too ashamed of my selfishness as man to finish my sentence." " Do so, or I shall fancy you refrained lest you might wound me as a woman." " Not so on the contrary ; had I gone on, it would have been to say that a woman of your genius, and more especially of such mastery in the most popular and fascinating of all arts, could not be contented if she inspired nobler thoughts in a single breast ; she must belong to the public, or rather the pub- lic must belong to her: it is but a corner of her heart that an individual can occupy, and even that individual must merge his existence in hers; must be contented to reflect a ray of the light she sheds on admiring thousands. Who could dare to say to you, 'Renounce your career; confine your genius, your art, to the petty circle of home?" To an actress a singer with whose fame the world rings, home would be a prison. Pardon me, pardon " Isaura had turned away her face to hide tears that would force their way, but she held out her hand to him with a child- like frankness, and said softly, " I am not offended." Graham did not trust himself to continue the same strain of conversa- tion. Breaking into a new subject, he said, after a constrained pause : '' Will you think it very impertinent in so new an ac- quaintance, if I ask how it is that you, an Italian, know our language as a native? And is it by Italian teachers that you have been trained to think and to feel?" " Mr. S-lby, my second father, was an Englishman, and did not speak any other language with comfort to himself. He was very fond of me, and had he been really my father I could not have loved him more : we were constant companions till till I lost him." " And no mother left to console you." Isaura shook her head mournfully, and the Venosta here re-entered. THE PARISIANS. 117 Graham felt conscious that he had already stayed too long, and took leave. They knew that they were to meet that evening at the Savarins. To Graham that thought was not one of unmixed pleas- ure ; the more he knew of Isaura, the more he felt self- reproach that he had allowed himself to know her at all. But after he had left Isaura sang low to herself the song which had so affected her listener ; then she fell into abstracted revery, but-she felt a strange and new sort of happiness. In dressing for M. Savarin's dinner, and twining the classic ivy wreath into her dark locks, her Italian servant exclaimed, " How beautiful the Signorina looks to-night ! " CHAPTER III. M. SAVARIN was one of the most brilliant of that galaxy of literary men which shed lustre on the reign of Louis Philippe. His was an intellect peculiarly French in its lightness and grace. Neither England nor Germany nor America has pro- duced any resemblance to it. Ireland has, in Thomas Moore ; but then in Irish genius there is so much that is French. M. Savarin was free from the ostentatious extravagance which had come into vogue with the Empire. His house and establish- ment were modestly maintained within the limit t f an income * chiefly, perhaps entirely, derived from literary profits. Though he gave frequent dinners, it was but to few at a time, and without show or pretence. Yet the dinners, though simple, were perfect of their kind ; and the host so contrived to infuse his own playful gayety into the temper of his guests, that the feasts at his house were considered the pleasantest at Paris. On this occasion the party extended to ten, the largest number his table admitted. All the French guests belonged to the Liberal party, though in changing tints of the tricolor. Place anx dames, first to be named were the Countess de Craon and Madame Vertot, both without husbands. The Countess had buried the Count, Madame Vertot had- separated from Monsieur. The Countess was very handsome, but she was sixty. Madame Vertot was , twenty years younger, but she was very plain. She had quar- relled with the distinguished author for whose sake she had separated from Monsieur, and no man had since presumed to Il8 THE PARISIANS. think that he could console a lady so plain for the loss of an author so distinguished. Both these ladies were very clever. The Countess had writ- ten lyrical poems entitled " Cries of Liberty," and a drama of which Danton was the hero, and the moral too revolutionary for admission to the stage ; but at heart the Countess was not at all a revolutionist ; the last person in the world to do or desire anything that could bring a washerwoman an inch nearer to a countess. She was one of those persons who play with fire in order to appear enlightened. Madame Vertot was of severer mould. She had knelt at the feet of M. Thiers, and went into the historico-political line. She had written a remarkable book upon the modern Carthage (meaning England), and more recently a work that had ex- cited much attention upon the Balance of Power, in which she proved it to be the interest of civilization and the necessity of Europe that Belgium should be added toFrance, and Prussia circumscribed to the bound of its original margraviate. She showed how easily these two objects could have been effected by a constitutional monarch instead of an egostistical Emperor. Madame Vertot was a decided Orleanist. Both these ladies condescended to put aside authorship in general society. Next amongst our guests let me place the Count de Passy and Madame son e'foitse : the Count was seventy-one, and, it is needless to add, a type of Frenchman rapidly vanishing, and not likely to find itself renewed. How shall I describe him so as to make my English reader under- stand ? Let me try by analogy. Suppose a man of great birth and fortune, who in his youth had been an enthusiastic friend of Lord Byron and a jocund companion of George IV. ; who had in him an immense degree of lofty, romantic sentiment with an equal degree of well-bred, worldly cynicism, but who, on account of that admixture, which is rare, kept a high rank in either of the two societies into which, speaking broadly, civilized life divides itself, the romantic and the cynical. The Count de Passy had been the most ardent among the young disciples of Chateaubriand, the most brilliant among the young courtiers of Charles X. Need I add that he had been a terri- ble lady-killer ? . But in spite of his admiration of Chateaubriand and his al- legiance to Charles X., the Count had been always true to those caprices of the French noblesse from which he descend- ed caprices which destroyed them in the old Revolution ; caprices belonging to the splendid ignorance of their nation in THE PARISIANS. 1 19 general and their order in particular. Speaking without re- gard to partial exceptions, the French gentilhomnu is essen- tially a Parisian ; a Parisian is essentially impressionable to the impulse or fashion of the moment. Is it a la mode for the moment to be Liberal or anti-Liberal ? Parisians embrace and kiss each other, and swear through life and death to adhere forever to the mode of the moment. The Three Days were the mode of the moment ; the Count de Passy became an en- thusiastic Orleanist. Louis Philippe was very gracious to him. He was decorated, he was named prefet of his depart- ment ; he was created senator ; he was about to be sent minis- ter to a German court when Louis Philippe fell. The Re- public was proclaimed. The Count caught the popular con- tagion, and after exchanging tears and kisses with patriots whom a week before he had called canaille, he swore eternal fidelity to the Republic. The fashion of the moment suddenly became Napoleonic, and with the coup aetat the Republic was metamorphosed into an Empire. The Count wept on the bosoms of all the Vicilles Moustaches he could find, and re- joiced that the sun of Austerlitz had rearisen. But after the affair of Mexico the sun of Austerlitz waxed very sickly. Im- perialism was fast going out of fashion. ^ The Count trans- ferred his affection to Jules Favre, and joined the ranks of the advanced Liberals. During all these political changes, *be Count had remained very much the same man in private life; agreeable, good-natured, witty, and, above all, a devotee of the fair sex. When he had reached the age of sixty-eight he was still fort bel homme unmarried, with a grand presence and charming manner. At that age he said, " Je me range" and married a young lady of eighteen. She adored her husband, and was wildly jealous of him ; while the Count did not seem at all jealous of her, and submitted to her adoration with a gentle shrug of the shoulders. The three other guests who, with Graham and the two Italian ladies, made up the complement of ten, were the Ger- man Count von Rudesheim, a celebrated French physician named Bacon rt, and a young author whom Savarin had admit- ted into his clique, and declared to be of rare promise. This author, whose real name was Gustave Rameau, bnt who, to prove, I suppose, the sincerity of that scorn for ancestry which he professed, published his verses under the patrician designa- tion of Alphonse de Valcour, was about twenty-four, and might have passed at the first glance for younger ; but, looking 120 THE PARISIANS. at him closely, the signs of old age were already stamped on his visage. He was undersized, and of a feeble, slender frame. In the eyes of women and artists the defects of his frame were re- deemed by the extraordinary beauty of the face. His black hair, carefully parted in the centre, and worn long and flowing, contrasted the whiteness of a high, though narrow forehead, and the delicate pallor of his cheeks. His features were very regular, his eyes singularly bright ; but the expression of the face spoke of fatigue and exhaustion ; the silky locks were already thin, and interspersed with threads of silver ; the bright eyes shone out from sunken orbits ; the lines round the mouth were marked as they are in the middle age of one who has lived too fast. It was a countenance that might have excited a compassion- ate and tender interest, but for something arrogant and super- cilious in the expression something that demanded not tender pity -but enthusiastic admiration. Yet that expression was displeasing rather to men than to women ; and one could well conceive that, among the latter, the enthusiastic admiration it challenged would be largely conceded. The conversation at dinner was in complete contrast to that at the American's the day before. There the talk, though animated, had been chiefly earnest and serious ; here it was all td*lich and go, sally and repartee. The subjects were the light on dits and lively anecdotes of the day, not free from literature and politics, but both treated as matters of persiflage, hovered round with a jest and quitted with an epigram. The two French lady authors, the Count de Passy, the physician, and the host, far outshone all the other guests. Now and then, however, the German Count struck in with an ironical remark condensing a great deal of grave wisdom, and the young author with ruder and more biting sarcasm. If the sarcasm told, he showed his triumph by a low-pitched laugh ; if it failed, he evinced his displeasure by a contemptuous sneer or a grim scowl. Isaura and Graham were not seated near each other, and were for the most part contented to be listeners. On adjourning to the salon after dinner, Graham, however, was approaching the chair in which Isaura had placed herself, when the young author, forestalling him,' dropped into the seat next to her, and began a conversation in a voice so low that it might have passed for a whisper. The Englishman drew back and observed them. He soon perceived, with a pang of jeal- ousy not unmingled with scorn, that the author's talk appeared THE PARISIANS. 121 to interest Isanra. She listened with evident attention ; and when she spoke in return, though Graham did not hear her words, he could observe on "her expressive countenance an increased gentleness of aspect. " I hope," said the physician, joining Graham, as most of the other guests gathered round Savarin, who was in his liveli- est vein of anecdote and wit " I hope that the fair Italian will not allow that ink-bottle imp to persuade her that she has fallen in love with him." " Do young ladies generally find him so seductive ? " asked Graham, with a forced smile. " Probably enough. He has the reputation of being very clever and very wicked, and that is a sort of character which has the serpent's fascination for the daughters of Eve." " Is the reputation merited ? " " As to the cleverness, I am not a fair judge. I dislike that sort of writing which is neither manlike nor womanlike, and in which young Rameau excels. He has the knack of finding very exaggerated phrases by which to express commonplace thoughts. He writes verses about love in words so stormy that you might fancy that Jove was descending upon Semele. But when you examine his words, as a sober pathologist like myself is disposed to do, your fear for the peace of households vanishes : they are ' Vox et prater ea ni/ril'; no man really in love would use them. He writes prose about the wrongs of humanity. You feel for humanity. You say, ' Grant the wrongs, now for the remedy,' and you find nothing but balderdash. Still I am bound to say that both in verse and prose Gustave Rameau is in unison with a corrupt taste of the day, and therefore he is coming into vogue. So much as to his writings ; as to his wickedness, you have only to look at him to feel sure that he is not a hundredth part so wicked as he wishes to see.m. In a word, then, Mons. Gustave Rameau is a type of that somewhat numerous class among the youth of Paris, which I call 'the lost tribe of Absinthe.' There is a set of men who begin to live full gallop while they are still boys. As a general rule they are "originally of the sickly frames which can scarcely even trot, much less gallop, without the spur of stimulants, and no stimulant so fascinates their peculiar nervous system as ab- sinthe. The number of patients in this set who at the age of thirty are more worn out than septuagenarians, increases so rapidly as to make one dread to think what will be the next race of Frenchmen. To the predilection for absinthe young Rameau and the writers of his set add the imitation of Heine, 122 THE PARISIANS. after, indeed, the manner of caricaturists, who effect a likeness striking in proportion as it is ugly. It is not easy to imitate the pathos and the wit of Heine p4jut it is easy to imitate his defiance of the Deity, his mockery of right and wrong, his re- lentless war on that heroic standard of thought and action which the writers who exalt their nation intuitively preserve. Rameau cannot be a ?Ieine, but he can be to Heine what a misshapen, snarling dwarf is to a mangled, blaspheming Titan. Yet he interests the women in general, and he evidently inter- ests the fair Signorina in especial." Just as Bacourt finished that last sentence, Isa*ura lifted the head which had hitherto bent in an earnest listening attitude that seemed to justify the Doctor's remarks, and looked round. Her eyes met Graham's with the fearless candor which made half the charm of their bright yet soft intelligence. But she dropped them suddenly with a half-start and a change of color, for the expression of Graham's face was unlike that which she had hitherto seen on it ; it was hard, stern, some- what disdainful. A minute or so afterwards she rose, and in passing across the room towards the group round the host, paused at a table covered with books and prints near to which Graham was standing, alone. The doctor had departed in company with the German Count. Isaura took up one of the prints. " Ah ! " she exclaimed, " Sorrento my Sorrento. Have you ever visited Sorrento, Mr. Vane?" Her question and her movement were evidently in concilia- tion. Was the conciliation prompted by coquetry, or by a sentiment more innocent and artless? Graham doubted, and replied coldly, as he bent over the print : " I once stayed there a few days, but my recollection of it is not sufficiently lively to enable me to recognize its features in this design." "That is the house, at least so they say, of Tasso's father ; of course you visited that?" "Yes, it was a hotel in my time ; I lodged there." "And I too. There I first read the ' Gerusalemme.'" The last words were said in Italian, with a low, measured tone, in- wardly and dreamily. A somewhat sharp and incisive voice speaking in French here struck in and prevented Graham's rejoinder: " Quel joli dessin! What is it, Mademoiselle?" Graham recoiled : the speaker was Gustave Rameau, who THE PARISIANS. 12$ had, unobserved, first watched Isaura, then rejoined her side. "A view of Sorrento, Monsieur, but it does not do justice to the place. I was pointing out the house which belonged to Tasso's father." "Tasso! Hein! And which is the fair Eleonora's ?" "Monsieur," answered Isaura, rather startled at that question from a professed homme de lettres, " Eleonora did not live at Sorrento." " Tant pis pour Sorrente" said the homme de lettres carelessly. " No one would care for Tasso if it were not for Eleonora." "I should rather have thought," said Graham, "that no one would have cared for Eleonora if it was not for Tasso." Rameau glanced at the Englishman superciliously. "Pardon, Monsieur, in every age a love-story keeps its inter- est ; but who cares nowadays for le clinquant du Tasse?" " Le clinquant du Tassef" exclaimed Isaura indignantly. "The expression is Boileau's, Mademoiselle, in ridicule of the ' Sot de qualite,' who prefers ' Le clinquant du Tasse a tout 1'or de Virgile.' But for my part *I have as little faith in the last as the first." " I do not know Latin, and have therefore not read Virgil," said Isaura. "Possibly," remarked Graham, "Monsieur does not know Italian, and has therefore not read Tasso." "If that be meant in sarcasm," retorted Rameau, "I con- strue it as a compliment. A Frenchman who is contented to study the masterpieces of modern literature need learn no lan- guage and read no authors but his own." Isaura laughed her pleasant, silvery laugh. " I should admire the frankness of that boast, Monsieur, if in our talk just now you had not spoken as contemptuously of what we are accus- tomed to consider French masterpieces as you have done of Virgil and Tasso." "Ah, Mademoiselle, it is not my fault if you have had teach- ers of taste so rococo as to bid you find masterpieces in the tiresome, stilted tragedies of Corneille and Racine. Poetry of a court, not of a people ; one simple novel, one simple stanza that probes the hidden recesses of the human heart, reveals the sores of this wretched social state, denounces the evils of superstition, kingcraft, and priestcraft, is worth a library of the rubbish whicji pedagogues call 'the classics.' We agree, at 124 THE PARISIANS. least, in one tiling, Mademoiselle ; we both do homage to the genius of your friend, Madame de Grantmesnil." " Your trend, Signorina ! " said Graham incredulously ; " Is Madame de Grantmesnil your friend? " " The dearest I have in the world." G rah. im's face darkened ; he turned away in silence, and in another minute vanished from the room, persuading himself that he felt not one pang of jealousy in leaving Gustave Rameau by the side of Isaura. " Her dearest friend Madame de Grantmesnil ! " he muttered. A word now on Isaura's chief correspondent. Madame de Grantmesnil was a woman of noble birth and ample fortune. She had separated from her husband in the second year after marriage. She was a singularly eloquent writer, surpassed among contemporaries of her sex in popularity and renown only by Georges Sand. At least as fearless as that great novelist in the frank exposi- tion of her view>, she had commenced her career in letters by a work of astonishing power and pathos, directed against the institution of marriage as regulated in Roman Catholic com- munities. I do not know that it said more on this delicate subject than the English Milton has said ; but then Milton did not write for a Roman Catholic community, nor adopt a style likely to captivate the working classes. Madame de Grant- rnesmil's first book was deemed an attack on the religion of the country, and captivated those among the working classes who had already abjured that religion. This work was followed up by others more or less in defiance of " received opinions "; some with political, some with social revolutionary aim and tendency, but always with a singular purity of style. Search all her bodies, and however you might revolt from her doctrine, you could not find a hazardous expresssion. The navels of English young ladies are naughty in comparison. Of late years, whatever might be hard or audacious in her political or social doctrines softened itself into charm amid the golden haze of romance. Her writings had grown more and more purely artistic poetizing what is good and beautiful in the realities of life, rather than creating a false ideal out of what is vicious and deformed. Such a woman, separated young from her husband, could not enunciate such opinions and lead a life so independent and uncontrolled as Madame de Grant- mesnil had done, without scandal, without calumny. Nothing, however, in her actual life, had ever been so proved against her as to lower the high position she occupied in right of birth, THE PARISIANS. 1 25 fortune, renown. Wherever she went she wasfetie; as ins England foreign princes, and in America foreign authors, are fetes. Those who knew her well concurred in praise of her lofty, generous, lovable qualities. Madame de Grantmesnil had known Mr. Selby ; and when at his death, Isaura, in the inno-ent age between childhood and youth, had been left the most sorrowful and most lonely creature on the face of the earth, this famous woman, worshipped by the rich for her in- tellect, adored by the poor for her beneficence, came to the orphan's friendless side, breathing love once more into her pining heart, and waking for the first time the desires of genius, the aspirations of art, in the dim self-consciousness of a soul between sleep and waking. But, my dear Englishman, put yourself in Graham's place, and; suppose that you were beginning to fall in love with a gill whom for many good reasons you ought not to marry ; suppose that in the same hour in which you were angrily conscious of jealousy on account of a man whom it wounds your self-esteem to consider a rival, the girl tells you that her dearest friend is a woman who is famed for her hostility to the institution of marriage ! CHAPTER IV. ON the same day in which Graham dined with the Savarins, M. Louvier assembled round his table the elite of the young. Parisians who constituted the oligarchy of fashion, to meet whom he had invited his new friend the Marquis de Roche- briant. Most of them belonged to the Legitimist party the noblesse of the faubourg ; those who did not belonged to no political party at all indifferent to the cares of mortal States as the gods of Epicurus. Foremost among this jeunesse doree were Alain's kinsmen, Raoul and Enguerrand de Vandemar. To these Louvier introduced him with a burly parental bon- homie, as if he were the head of the family. "I need not bid you, young folks, to make friends with each other. A Vande- mar and a Rochebriant are not made friends, they are born friends." So saying he turned to his other guests. Almost in an instant Alain felt his constraint melt away in the cordial warmth with which his cousins greeted him. These young men had a striking family likeness to each other, and yet in feature, coloring, and expression, in all save that strange family likeness, they were contrasts. iz6 THE PARISIANS. Raoul was tall, and, though inclined to be slender, with sufficient breadth of shoulder to indicate no inconsiderable strength of frame. His hair worn short, and his silky beard worn long, were dark ; so were his eyes, shaded by curved drooping lashes ; his complexion was pale, but clear and healthful. In repose the expression of his face was that of a somewhat melancholy indolence, but in speaking it became singularly sweet, with a smile of the exquisite urbanity which no artificial politeness can bestow ; it must emanate from that native high breeding which has its source in goodness of heart. Enguerrand was fair, with curly locks of a golden chestnut. He wore no beard, only a small moustache rather darker than his hair. His complexion might in itself be called effeminate, its bloom was so fresh and delicate, but there was so much of boldness and energy in the play of his countenance, the hardy outline of the lips, and the open breadth of the forehead, that " effeminate " was an epithet no one ever assigned to his aspect. He was somewhat under the middle height, but beautifully proportioned, carried himself well, and somehow or other did not look short even by the side of tall men. Altogether he seemed formed to be a mother's darling, and spoiled by women, yet to hold his own among men with a strength of will more evident in his look and his bearing than it was in those of his graver and statelier brother. Both were considered by their young co-equals models in dress, but in Raoul there was no sign that care or thought upon dress had been bestowed ; the simplicity of his costume was absolute and severe. On his plain shirt front there gleamed not a stud, on his fingers there sparkled not a ring. Enguer- rand, on the contrary, was not without pretension in his attire ; the broderie in his shirt-front seemed woven by the Queen of the Fairies. His rings of turquoise and opal, his studs and wrist-buttons of pearl and brilliants, must have cost double the rental of Rochebriant, but probably they cost him nothing. He was one of those happy Lotharios to whom Calistas make constant presents. All about him was so bright that the at- mosphere around seemed gayer for his presence. In one respect at least the brothers closely resembled each other ; in that exquisite graciousness of manner for which the genuine French noble is traditionally renowned a gracious- ness that did not desert them even when they came reluctantly into contact with roiuriers or Republicans ; but the gracious- ne.ss became Sgalite, fraternile towards one of their caste and kindred. THE PARISIANS. 127 " We must do our best to make Paris pleasant to you," said Raoul, still retaining in his grasp the hand he had taken. " Vilain cousin" said the livelier Enguerrand, " to have been in Paris twenty-four hours, and without letting us know;" " Has not your father told you that I called upon him ? " " Our father," answered Raoul, " was not so savage as to conceal that fact, but he said you were only here on business for a day or two, had declined his invitation, and would not give your address. Pauvre pcre ! we scolded him well for let- ling you escape from us thus. My mother has not forgiven him yet ; we must present you to her-to-morrow. I answer for your liking her almost as much as she will like you." Before Alain could answer dinner was announced. Alain's place at dinner was between his cousins. How pleasant they made themselves ! It was the first time in which Alain had been brought into such familiar conversation with countrymen of his own rank as well as his own age. His heart warmed to them. The general talk of the other guests was strange to his ear ; it ran much upon horses and races, upon the opera and the ballet ; it was enlivened with satirical anecdotes of persons whose names were unknown to the Provincial ; not a word was said that showed the smallest interest in politics or the slightest acquaintance with literature. The world of these well-born guests seemed one from which all that concerned the great mass of mankind was excluded, yet the talk was that which could only be found in a very polished society ; in it there was not much wit, but there was a prevalent vein of gayety, and the gayety was never violent, the laughter was never loud ; the scandals circulated might imply cynicism the most absolute, but in language the most refined. The Jockey Club of Paris has its perfume. Raoul did not mix in the general conversation ; he devoted himself pointedly to the amusement of his cousin, explaining to him the point of the anecdotes circulated, or hitting off in terse sentences the characters of the talkers. Enguerrand was evidently of temper more vivacious than his brother, and contributed freely to the current play of light gossip and mirthful sally. Louvier, seated between a duke and a Russian prince, said little, except to recommend a wine or an entree, but kept his eye constantly on the Vandemars and Alain. Immediately after coffee the guests departed. Before they did so, however, Raoul introduced his cousin to those of the party most distinguished by hereditary rank or social position. 128 THE PARISIANS. / With these the name of Rochebriant was too historically famous not to insure respect of its owner ; they welcomed him among them as if he were their brother. The French duke claimed him as a connection by an alli- ance in the .fourteenth century ; the Russian prince had known the late Marquis, and " trusted that the son would allow him to improve into friendship the acquaintance he had formed with the father." Those ceremonials over, Raoul linked his arm in Alain's, and said : " I am not going to release you so soon after we have caught you. You must come with me to a house in which I at least spend an hour or two every evening. I am at home there. Bah ! I take no refusal. Do not suppose I carry you off to Bohemia, a country which, I am sorry to say, En- guerrand now and then visits, but which is to me as unknown as the mountains of the moon. The house I speak of is coinme il faut to the utmost. It is that of the Contessa di Rimini ; a charming Italian by marriage, but by birth and in character on ne peut plus Fran$aise. My mother adores her.'' That dinner at M. Louvier's had already effected a great change in the mood and temper of Alain de Rochebriant ; he felt, as if by magic, the sense of youth, of rank, of station, which had been so suddenly checked and stifled, warmed to life within his veins. He should have deemed himself a boor had he refused the invitation so frankly tendered. But on reaching the coupe which the brothers kept in com- mon, and seeing it only held two, he drew back. " Nay, enter, man cher" said Raoul, divining the cause of his hesitation, " Enguerrand has gone on to his club." CHAPTER V. " TELL me," said Raoul, when they were in the carriage, "how you came to know M. Louvier." " He is my chief mortgagee." " H'm ! that explains it. But you might be in worse hands ; the man has a character for liberality." "Did" your father mention to you my circumstances, and the reason that brings me to Paris?" " Since you put the question point-blank, my dear cousin, he did." " He told you how poor I am, and how keen must be my lifelong struggle to keep Rochebriant as the home of my race." THE PARISIANS. If 9 " He told us all that could make us still more respect the \ [arquis de Rochebriant, and still more eagerly long to know bdr cousin and the head of our house," answered Raoul, with a certain nobleness of tone and manner. Alain pressed his kinsman's hand with grateful emotion. " Yet," he said falteringly, " your father agreed with me that my circumstances would not allow me to " ' Bah ! " interrupted Raoul with a gentle laugh ; " my father is a very clever man, doubtless, but he knows only the world of his own day, nothing of the world of ours. I and Enguer- rand will call on you to-morrow, to take you to my mother, and before doing so, to consult as to affairs in general. On, this last matter Enguerrand is an oracle. Here we are at the Contessa's.'- CHAPTER VI. THE Contessa di Rimini received her visitors in a boudoir furnished with much apparent simplicity, but a simplicity by no means inexpensive. The draperies were but of chintz, and the walls covered with the same material, a lively pattern, in which the prevalent tints were rose-color and white ; but the or- naments on the mantel-piece, the china stored in the cabinets or arranged on the shelves, the small nicknacks scattered on the tables, were costly rarities of art. The Contessa herself was a woman who had somewhat passed her thirtieth year, not strikingly handsome, bu>: exqui- sitely pretty. " There is," said a great French writer, " only one way in which a woman can be handsome, but a hundred thousand ways in which she can be pretty"; and it would be impossible to reckon up the number of ways in which Adeline di Rimini carried off the prize in prettiness. Yet it would be unjust to the personal attractions of the Contessa to class them all underthe word " prettiness." When regarded more attentively, there was an expression in her countenance that might almost be called divine, it spoke so unmistakably of a sweet nature and an untroubled soul. An English poet once described her by repeating the old lines : " Her face is like the milky way i' the sky A meeting of gentle lights without a name." She was not alone ; an elderly lady sate on an arm-chair by the fire, engaged in knitting ; and a man, also elderly, and 130 THE PARISIANS. whose dress proclaimed him an ecclesiastic, sate at the opposite corner with a large Angora cat on his lap. " I present to you, Madame," said Raoul, " my new-found cousin, the seventeenth Marquis de Rochebriant, whom I am proud to consider, on the male side, the head of our house, representing its eldest branch : welcome him for my sake ; in future he will be welcome for his own." The Contessa replied very graciously to this introduction, and made room for Alain on the divan from which she had risen. The old lady looked up from her knitting ; the ecclesiastic removed the cat from his lap. Said the old lady : "I an- nounce myself to M. le Marquis ; I knew his mother well enough to be invited to his christening ; otherwise I have no pretension to the acquaintance of si beau a cavalier, being old, rather deaf, very stupid, exceedingly poor " "And," interrupted Raoul, "the woman in all Paris the most adored for bonte, and consulted for savoir vivre by the young cavaliers whom she deigns to receive. Alain, 'I present you to Madame de Maury, the widow of a distinguished au- thor and academician, and the daughter of the brave Henri de Gerval, who fought for the good cause in La Vendee. I present you also to the Abbe Vertpre, who has passed his life in the vain endeavor to make other men as good as himself." " Base flatterer ! " said the Abbe", pinching Raoul's ear with one hand, while he extended the other to Alain. " Do not let your cousin frighten you from knowing me, M. le Marquis ; when he was my pupil, he so convinced me of the incorrigi- bility of perverse human nature, that I now chiefly address my- self to the moral improvement of the brute creation. Ask the Contessa if I have not achieved a beau succes with her Angora cat. Three months ago that creature had the two worst pro- pensities of men. He was at once savage and mean ; he bit, he stole. Does he ever bite now ? No. Does he ever steal ? No. Why ? I have awakened in that cat the dormant con- science, and that done, the conscience regulates his actions : once made aware of the difference between wrong and right, the cat maintains it unswervingly, as if it were a law of nature. But if, with prodigious labor, one does awaken conscience in a human sinner, it has no steady effect on his conduct ; he con- tinues to sin all the same. Mankind at Paris, Monsieur le Mar- quis, is divided between two classes : one bites and the other steals ; shun both ; devote yourself to cats." The Abbe delivered this oration with a gravity of mien and THE PARISIANS. 13! tone which made it difficult to guess whether he spoke in sport or in earnest ; in simple playfulness or with latent sarcasm. But on the brow and in the eye of the priest there was a gen- eral expression of quiet benevolence, which made Alain incline to the belief that he was only speaking as a pleasant humorist ; and the Marquis replied gayly : " Monsieur 1'Abbe, admitting the superior virtue of cats, when taught by so intelligent a preceptor, still the business of human life is not transacted by cats ; and since men must deal with men, permit me, as a preliminary caution, to inquire in which class I must rank yourself. Do you bite or do you steal ? " This sally, which showed that the Marquis was already shak- ing off his provincial reserve, met with great success. Raoul and the Contessa laughed merrily ; Madame de Maury clapped her hands, and cried, "Bien ! " The Abbe replied, with unmoved gravity : " Both. I am a priest ; it is my duty to bite the bad and steal from the good, as you will see, M. le Marquis, if you will glance at this paper." Here he handed to Alain a memorial on behalf of an afflicted family who had been burnt out of their home, and reduced from comparative ease to absolute want. There was a list ap- pended of some twenty subscribers, the last being the Contessa, fifty francs, and Madame de Maury, five. "Allow me, Marquis," said the Abbe, "to steal from you; bless you twofold, monjtts!" (taking the napoleon Alain ex- tended to him) " first for your charity, secondly, for the effect of its example upon the heart of your cousin. Raoul de Van- demar, stand and deliver. Bah ! what ! only ten francs." Raoul made a sign to the Abbe, unperceived by the rest, as he answered : " Abbe, I should excel your expectations of my career if I always continue worth half as much as my cousin." Alain felt to the bottom of his heart the delicate tact of his richer kinsman in giving less than himself, and the Abbe re- plied : " Niggard, you are pardoned. Humility is a more dif- ficult virtue to produce than charity, and in your case an in- stance of it is so rare that it merits encouragement." The " tea equipage " was now served in what at Paris is called the English fashion ; the Contessa presided over it, the guests gathered round the table, and the evening passed away in the innocent gayety of a domestic circle. The talk, if not especially intellectual, was at least not fashionable ; books were not discussed, neither were scandals ; yet somehow or other, it was cheery and animated, like that of a happy family in a coun- try house. Alain thought still the better of Raoul that, Parisian IJ2 THE PARISIANS. X though he was, he could appreciate the charm of an evening so innocently spent. On taking leave, the Contessa gave Alain a general invita- tion to drop in whenever he was not better engaged. "I except only the opera nights," said she. "My husband has gone to Milan on his affairs, and during his absence I do not go to parties ; the opera I cannot resist." Raoul set Alain down at his lodgings. "Au revoir; to-mor- row at one o'clock expect Enguerrand and myself." CHAPTER VII. RAOUL and Enguerrand called on Alain at the hour fixed. "In the first place," said Raoul, ''I must beg you to accept my mother's regrets that she cannot receive you to-day. She and the Contessa belong to a society of ladies formed for visit- ing the poor, and this is their day ; but to-morrow you must dine with us en famille. Now to business. Allow me to light my cigar while you confide the whole state of affairs to Enguer- rand : whatever he counsels, I am sure to approve." Alain, as briefly as he could, stated his circumstances, his mortgages, and the hopes which his ?w//had encouraged him to place in the friendly disposition of M. Louvier. When he had concluded, Enguerrand mused for a few moments before replying. At last he said, " Will you trust me to call on Louvier on your behalf ? I shall but inquire if he is inclined to take on himself the other mortgages ; and if so, on what terms. Our relationship gives me the excuse for my interference; and to say truth, I have had much familiar intercourse with the man. I too am a speculator, and have often profited by Lou- vier's advice. You may ask what can be his object in serving me ; he can gain nothing by it. To this I answer, the key to his good offices is in his character. Audacious though he be as a speculator, he is wonderfully prudent as a politician. This belle France of ours is like a stage tumbler ; one can never be sure whether it will stand on its head or its feet. Louvier very wisely wishes to feel himself safe whatever party comes upper- most. He has no faith in the duration of the Empire ; and as at all events the Empire will not confiscate his millions, he takes no trouble in conciliating Imperialists. But on the prin- ciple which induces certain savages to worship the devil and neglect the bon Dieu, because the devil is spiteful and the bon Dicu is too beneficent to injure them, Louvier, at heart de- THE PARISIANS. 133 testing as well as dreading a republic, lays himself out to secure friends with the Republicans of all classes, and pretends to es- pouse their cause. Next to them, he is very conciliatory to the Orleanists. Lastly, though he thinks the Legitimists have no chance, he desires to keep well with the nobles of that party, because they exercise a considerable influence over that sphere of opinion which belongs to fashion ; for fashion is never powerless in Paris. Raoul and myself are no mean authoities in salons and clubs ; and a good word from us is worth having. " Besides, Louvier himself in his youth set up for a dandy ; and that deposed ruler of dandies, our unfortunate kinsman, Victor de Mauleon, shed some of his own radiance on the money-lender's son. But when Victor's star was eclipsed, Lou- vier ceased to gleam. The dandies cut him. In his heart he exults that the dandies now throng to his soirees, Bref, the millionnaire is especially civil to me the more so as I know in- timately two or three eminent journalists ; and Louvier takes pains to plant garrisons in the press. I trust Thave explained the grounds on which I may be a better diplomatist to employ than your avoue / and with your leave I will go to Louvier at once." "Let him go," said Raoul. "Enguerrand never fails in any- thing he undertakes, especially," he added, with a smile half sad, half tender, "when one wishes to replenish one's purse." " I too gratefully grant such an ambassador all powers to treat," said Alain. "I am only ashamed to consign to him a post so much beneath his genius," and his "birth" he was about to add, but wisely checked himself. Enguerrand said, shrugging his shoulders : "You can't do me a greater kindness than by setting my wits at work. I fall a martyr to ennui when I am not in action," he said, and was gone. "It makes me very melancholy at times," said Raoul, fling- ing away the end of his cigar, "to think that a man so clever and so energetic as Enguerrand should be as much excluded from the service of his country as if he were an Iroquois In- dian. He would have made a great diplomatist." "Alas!" replied Alain, with a sigh, "I begin to doubt whether we Legitimists are justified in maintaining a useless loyalty to a sovereign who renders us morally exiles in the land of our birth." " I have no doubt on the subject," said Raoul. " We are not justified on the score of policy, but we have no option at present on the score of honor. We should gain so much for ourselves if we adopted the State livery and took the State 134 THE PARISIANS. wages that no man would esteem us as patriots; we should only be despised as apostates. So long as Henry V. lives, and does not resign his claim, we cannot be active citizens ; we must be mournful lookers-on. But what matters it ? We nobles of the old race are becoming rapidly extinct. Under any form of government likely to be established in France we are equally doomed. The French people, aiming at an impos- sible equality, will never again tolerate a race of gentilshommes. They cannot prevent, without destroying commerce and capital altogether, a quick succession of men of the day, who form nominal aristocracies much more opposed to equality than any hereditary class of nobles. But they refuse these fleeting sub- stitutes of born patricians all permanent stake in the country, since whatever estate they buy must be subdivided at their death. My poor Alain, you are making it the one ambition of your life to preserve to your posterity the home and lands of your forefathers. How is that possible, even supposing you could redeem the mortgages? You marry someday ; you have children, and Rochebriant must then be sold to pay for their separate portions. How this condition of things, while render- ing us so ineffective to perform the normal functions of a noblesse in public life, affects us in private life, may be easily conceived. "Condemned to a career of pleasure and frivolity, we can scarcely escape from the contagion of extravagant luxury which forrrfs the vice of the time. With grand names to keep up, and small fortunes whereon to keep them, we readily incur embarrassment and debt. Then neediness conquers pride. We cannot be great merchants, but we can be small gamblers on the Bourse, or, thanks to the Credit Mobilier, imitate a cabi- net minister, and keep a shop under another name. Perhaps you have heard that Enguerrand and I keep a shop. Pray, buy your gloves there. Strange fate for men whose ancestors fought in the first Crusade mat's que voulez vous?" "I was told of the shop," said Alain, "but the moment I knew you I disbelieved the story." " Quite true. Shall I confide to you why we resorted to that means of finding ourselves in pocket-money ? My father gives us rooms in his hotel ; the use of his table, which we do not. much profit by ; and an allowance, on which we could not live as young men of our class live at Paris. Enguerrand had his means of spending pocket-money, I mine ; but it came to the same thing the pockets were emptied. We incurred debts. Two years ago my father straitened himself to pay them, THE PARISIANS. 135 saying, ' The next time you come to me with debts, however small, you must pay them yourselves, or you must marry, and leave it to me to find you wives.' This threat appalled us both. A month afterwards, Enguerrand made a lucky hit at the Bourse, and proposed to invest the proceeds in a shop. I re- sisted as long as I could, but Enguerrand triumphed over me, as he always does. He found an excellent deputy in a bonne who had nursed us in childhood, and married a journeyman perfumer who understands the business. It answers well ; we are not in debt, and we have preserved our freedom." After these confessions Raoul went away, and Alain fell into a mournful revery, from which he was roused by a loud ring at his bell. He opened the door, and beheld M. Louvier. The burley financier was much out of breath after making so steep an ascent. It was in gasps that he muttered, " J5 on/our ; excuse me if I derange you." Then entering and seating him- self on a chair, he took some minutes to recover speech, roll- ing his eyes staringly round the meagre, unluxurious room, and then concentrating their gaze upon its occupier. " Peste, my dear Marquis ! " he said at last, " I hope the next time I visit you the ascent may be less arduous. One would think you were in training to ascend the Himalaya." The haughty noble writhed under this jest, and the spirit inborn in his order spoke in his answer. " I am accustomed to dwell on heights, M. Louvier ; the castle of Rochebriant is not on a level with the town." An angry gleam shot from the eyes of the millionnaire, but there was no other sign of displeasure in his answer. " Bien dit, won cher ; how you remind me of your father ! Now, give me leave to speak on affairs. I have seen your cousin Enguerrand de Vandemar. Homme de moyens though foli gar f on. He proposed that you should call on me. I said 'no ' to the cher petit Enguerrand a visit from me was due to you. To cut matters short, M. Gandrin has allowed me to look into your papers. I was disposed to serve you from the first ; I am still more disposed to serve you now. I undertake to pay off all your other mortgages, and become sole mort- gagee, and on terms that I have jotted down on this paper, and which I hope will content you." He placed a paper in Alain's hand, and took out a box, from which he extracted a jujube, placed it in his mouth, folded his hands, and reclined back in his chair, with his eyes half closed, as if exhausted alike by his ascent and his gen- erosity. 1^ THE PARISIANS. In effect, the terms were unexpectedly liberal. The reduced interest on the mortgages would leave the Marquis an income of ;iooo a year instead of ^400. Louvier proposed to take on himself the legal cost of transfer, and to pay to the Mar- quis 25,000 francs, on the completion of the deed, as a bonus. The mortgage did not exempt the building-land, as Hebert de- sired. In all else it was singularly advantageous, and Alain could but feel a thrill of grateful delight at an offer by which his stinted income was raised to comparative affluence. " Well, Marquis," said Louvier, " what does the caslle say to the town ? " "M. Louvier," answered Alain, extending his hand with cordial eagerness, "accept my sincere apologies for the indis- cretion of my metaphor. Poverty is proverbially sensitive to jests on it. I owe it to you if I cannot hereafter make that excuse for any words of mine that may displease you. The terms you propose are most liberal, and I close with them at once." "Bon" said Louvier, shaking vehemently the hand offered to him ; "I will take the paper to Gandrin, and instruct him accordingly. And now, may I attach a condition to the agree- ment which is not put down on paper? It may have surprised you perhaps that I should propose a gratuity of 25,000 francs on completion of the contract. It is a droll thing to do, and not in the ordinary way of business, therefore I must explain. Marquis, pardon the liberty I take, but you have inspired me with an interest in your future. With your birth, connections, and figure, you should push your way in the world far and fast. But you can't do so in a province. You must find your open- ing at Paris. I wish you to spend a year in the capital, and live, not extravagantly, like a nouveau riche, but in a way not unsuited to your rank, and permitting you all the social advan- tages that belong to it. These 25,000 francs, in addition to your improved income, will enable you to gratify my wish in this respect. Spend the money in Paris ; you will want every sou of it in the course of the year. It will be money well spent. Take my advice, cher Marquis. Au plaisir." The financier bowed himself out. The young Marquis for- got all the mournful reflections with which Raoul's conversa- tion had inspired him. He gave a new touch to his toilette, and sallied forth with the air of a man on whose morning of life a sun heretofore clouded has burst forth and bathed the landscape in its light. THE PARISIANS. 137 CHAPTER VIII. SINCE the evening spent at the Savarins', Graham had seen no more of Isaura. He had avoided all chance of seeing her ; in fact, the jealousy with which he had viewed her manner to- wards Kameau, and the angry amaze with which he had heard her proclajm her friendship for Madame deGrantmesnil, served to strengthen the grave and secret reasons which made him de- sire to keep his heart yet free and his hand yet unpledged. But, alas, the heart was enslaved already ! It was under the most fatal of all spells first love conceived at first sight. He was wretched ; and in his wretchedness his resolves became involuntarily weakened. He found himself making excuses for the beloved. What cause had he, after all, for that jealousy of the young poet which had so offended him ? And if, in her youth and inexperience, Isaura had made her dearest friend of a great writer by whose genius she might be dazzled, and of whose opinions she might scarcely be aware, was it a crime that necessitated her eternal banishment from the reverence which belongs to all manly love ? Certainly he found no satisfactory answers to such self-questionings. And then those grave rea- sons known _only to himself, and never to be confided to another, why he should yet reserve his hand unpledged, were not so imperative as to admit of no compromise. They might entail a sacrifice, and not a small one to a man of Graham's views and ambition. But what is love if it can think any sacri- fice, short of duty and honor, too great to offer up unknown, uncomprehended, to the one beloved ? Still while thus softened in his feelings towards Isaura, he became, perhaps in conse- quence of such softening, more and more restlessly impatient to fulfil the object for which he had come to Paris, the great step towards which was the discovery of the undiscoverable Louise Duval. He had written more than once to M. Renard since the interview with that functionary already recorded, demanding whether Renard had not made some progress in the research on which he was employed, and had received short, unsatis- factory replies preaching patience and implying hope. The plain truth, however, was, that M. Renard had taken no further pains in the matter. He considered it utter waste of time and thought to attempt a discovery to which the traces were so faint and so obsolete. If the discovery were effected, it must be by one of those chances which occur without labor 138 THE PARISIANS. or forethought of our own. He trusted only to such a chance in continuing the charge he had undertaken. But during the last day or two Graham had become yet more impatient than before, and peremptorily requested another visit from this dil- atory confidant. In that visit, finding himself pressed hard, and though natu- rally willing, if possible, to retain a client unusually generous, yet being, on the whole, an honest member of his profession, and feeling it to be somewhat unfair to accept large remuneration for doing nothing, M. Renard said frankly : " Monsieur, this affair is beyond me ; the keenest agent of our police could make nothing of it. Unless you can tell me more than you have done, I am utterly without a clue. I resign, therefore, the task with which you honored me, willing to resume it again if you can give me information that could render me of use." " What sort of information ? " " At least the names of some of the lady's relations who may yet be living." "But it strikes me that, if I could get at that piece of knowl- edge, I should not require the services of the police. The rela- tions would tell me what had become of Louise Duval quite as readily as they would tell a police agent." " Quite true, Monsieur. It would really be picking your pockets if I did not at once retire from your service. Nay, Monsieur, pardon me, no further payments ; I have already accepted too much. Your most obedient servant." Graham, left alone, fell into a very gloomy revery. He could not but be sensible of the difficulties in the way of the object which had brought him to Paris, with somewhat sanguine expectations of success founded on a belief in the omniscience of the Parisian police, which is only to be justified when they have to deal with a murderess or a political incendiary. But the name of Louise Duval is about as common in France as that of Mary Smith in England ; and the English reader may judge what would be the likely result of inquiring through the ablest of our detectives after some Mary Smith of whom you could give little more information than that she was the daughter of a drawing master who had died twenty years ago ; that it was about fifteen years since anything had been heard of her ; that you could not say if, through marriage or for other causes, she had changed her name or not, and you had reasons for declining resort to public advertisements. In the course of inquiry so instituted, the probability would be that you might hear of a great many Mary Smiths., in the pursuit of whom your THE PARISIANS. IJ9 employe would lose all sight and scent of the one Mary Smith for whom the chase was instituted. In the midst of Graham's despairing reflections his laquais announced M. Frederic Lemercier. "Cher Grarm-Varn. A thousand pardons if I disturb you at this late hour of the evening ; but you remember the request you made me when you first arrived in Paris this season?" " Of course I do ; in case you should ever chance in your wide round of acquaintance to fall in with a Madame or Mademoiselle Duval of about the age of forty, or a year or so less, to let me know : and you did fall in with two ladies of that name, but they were not the right one not the person whom my friend begged me to discover' both much too young." " Eh bien, mon cher* If you will come with me to the bal champetre in the Champs Elysees to-night, I can show you a third Madame Duval ; her Christian name is Louise, too, of the age you mention ; though she does her best to look younger, and is still very handsome. You said your Duval was handsome. It was only last evening that I met this lady at a wir-Je given by Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin, coryphee dis- tingufay'vn. love with young Rameau." "In love with young Rameau? I am very glad to hear it. He returns the love ? " " I suppose so. He seems very proud of it. But apropos of Madame Duval, she has been long absent from Paris ; just returned, and looking out for conquests. She says she has a great penchant for the English ; promises me to be at this ball come." " Hearty thanks, my dear Lemercier. I am at your service." CHAPTER IX. THE bal champetre was gay and brilliant, as such festal scenes are at Paris. A lovely night in the midst of May lamps below and stars above : the society mixed, of course. Evidently, when Graham has singled out Frederic Lemercier from all his acquaintances at Paris, to conjoin with the official aid of M. Renard in search of the mysterious lady, he had conjectured the probability that she might be found in the Bohemian world so familiar to Frederic ; if not as an in- habitant, at least as an explorer. Bohemia was largely repre- sented at the $al champetre^ but not without a fair sprinkling 140 THE PARISIANS. of what we call the " respectable classes," especially English and Americans, who brought their wives there to take care of them. Frenchmen, not needing such care, prudently left their wives at home. Among the Frenchmen of station were the Comte de Passy and the Vicomte de Breze". On first entering the gardens, Graham's eye was attracted and dazzled by a brilliant form. It was standing under a fes- toon of flowers extended from tree to tree, and a gas jet opposite shone full upon the face the face of a girl in all the freshness of youth. If the freshness owed anything to art, the art was so well disguished that it seemed nature. The beauty of the countenance was Hebe-like, joyous, and radiant, and yet one could not look at the girl without a sentiment of deep mournfulness. She was surrounded by a group of young men, and the ring of her laugh jarred upon Graham's ear. He pressed Frederic's arm, and directing his attention to the girl, asked who she was. "Who? Don't you know? That is Julie Caumartin. A little while ago her equipage was the most admired in the Bois, and great ladies condescended to copy her dress or her coiffure. But she has lost her splendor, and dismissed the rich admirer who supplied the fuel for its blaze, since she fell in love with Gustave Rameau. Doubtless she is expecting him to-night. You ought. to know her ; shall I present you ?" "No," answered Graham, with a compassionate expression in his manly face. "So young; seemingly so gay. How I pity her ! " "What! for throwing herself away on Rameau? True. There is a great deal of good in that girl's nature, if she had been properly trained. Rameau wrote a pretty poem on her which turned her head and won her heart, in which she is styled the ' Ondine of Paris/ a nymph-like type of Paris itself." "Vanishing type, like her namesake; born of the spray, and vanishing soon into the deep," said Graham. " Pray go and look for the Duval ; you will find me seated yonder." Graham passed into a retired alley, and threw himself on a soli- tary bench, while Lemercier went in search of Madame Duval. In a few minutes the Frenchman reappeared. By his side was a lady well dressed, and as she passed under the lamps Graham perceived that, though of a certain age, she was undeniably handsome. His heart beat more quickly. Surely this was the Louise Duval he sought. He rose from his seat, and was presented in due form to the Jady, with whom Frederic then discreetly left him. THE PARISIANS. 141 "Monsieur Lemercier tells me that you think that we were once acquainted with each other." " Nay, Madame ; I should not fail to recognise you were that the case. A friend of mine had the honor of knowing a lady of your name ; and should I be fortunate enough to meet that lady, I am charged with a commission that may not be unwel- come to her. M. Lemercier tells me your nom de bapteme is Louise." " Louise Corinne, Monsieur." "And I presume that Duval is the name you take from your parents ? " " No ; my father's name was Bernard. I married, when I was a mere child, M. Duval, in the wine trade at Bordeaux." " Ah, indeed ! " said Graham, much disappointed, but look- ing at her with a keen, searching eye, which she met with a decided frankness. Evidently, in his judgment, she was speak- ing the truth. " You know English, I think, Madame," he resumed, address- ing her in that language. " A leetle speak un pcu." " Only a little ? " Madame Duval looked puzzled, and replied in French with a laugh. " Is it that you were told that I spoke English by your countryman, Milord Sare Boulby ? Petit sc/lerat, I hope he is well. He sends you a commission for me so he ought : he behaved to me like a monster." " Alas, I know nothing of Milord Sir Boulby ! Were you never in England yourself? " " Never," with a coquettish side-glance ; " I should like so much to go. I have a foible for the English in spite of that vilain petit Boulby. Who is it gave you the commission for me ? Ha ! I guess le Capitaine Nelton." '" No. What year, Madame, if not impertinent, were you at Aix-la-Chapelle ?" " You mean Baden ? I was there seven years ago when I met le Capitaine Nelton bel homme aux cheveux rouges" " But you have been at Aix ? " " Never." " I have, then, been mistaken, Madame, and have only to offer my most humble apologies." " But perhaps you will favor me with a visit, and we may on further conversation find that you are not mistaken. 1 can't stay now, for I am engaged to dance with the Belgian of whom, no doubt, M. Lemercier has told you." 142 THE PARISIANS. " No, Madame, he has not." " Well, then, he will tell you. The Belgian is very jealous. But I am always at home between three and four ; this is my card." Graham eagerly took the card, and exclaimed, " Is this your own handwriting, Madame ? " " Yes, indeed." " Tres belle ecriture" said Graham, and receded with a cere- monious bow. " Anything so unlike her handwriting. Another disappointment," muttered the Englishman as the lady went back to the ball. A few minutes later Graham joined Lemercier, who was talk- ing with De Passy and De Breze. " Well," said Lemercier, when his eye rested on Graham, " I hit the right nail on the head this time, eh ? " Graham shook his head. " What ! Is she not the right Louise Duval ? " " Certainly not." The Count de Passy overheard the name, and turned. " Louise Duval," he said ; " does Monsieur Vane know a Louise Duval ? " " No, but a friend asked me to inquire after a lady of that name whom he had met many years ago at Paris." The Count mused a moment, and said, " Is it possible that your friend knew the family De Mauleon ?" " I really can t say. What then ? " " The old Vicomte de Mauleon was one of my most inti- mate associates. In fact, our houses are connected. And he was extremely grieved, poor man, when his daughter Louise married her drawing-master, Auguste Duval." " Her drawing-master, Auguste Duval ? Pray say on. I think the Louise Duval my friend knew must have been her daughter. She was the only child of a drawing-master or artist named Auguste Duval, and probably enough her Chris- tian name would have been derived from her mother. A Mad- emoiselle de Mauleon, then, married M. Auguste Duval?" " Yes ; the old Vicomte had espoused en premieres voces Mademoiselle Camille de Chavigny, a lady of birth equal to his own ; had by her one* daughter, Louise. I recollect her well : a plain girl, with a high nose and a sour expression. She was just of age when the first Vicomtesse died, and by the marriage settlement she succeeded at once to her mother's for- tune, which was not large. The Vicomte was, however, so poor, that the loss of that income was no trifle to him. Though I-HE PAkisiANS, 143 much past fifty, he was still very handsome. Men of that gen- eration did not age soon, Monsieur," said the Count, expand- ing his fine chest and laughing exultingly. " He married, en secondes noces, a lady of still higher birth than the first, and with a much larger dot. Louise was indignant at this, hated her stepmother ; and when a son was born by the second marriage she left the paternal roof, went to reside with an old female relative near the Luxembourg, and there married this drawing-master. Her father and the family did all they could to prevent it ; but in these democratic days, a woman who has attained her majority can, if she persist in her determination, marry to please herself and disgrace her ances- tors. After that mesalliance her father never would see her again. I tried in vain to soften him. All his parental affec- tions settled on his handsome Victor. Ah, you are too young to have known Victor de Mauleon during his short reign at Paris as roi des viveurs." " Yes, he was before my time ; but I have heard of him as a young man of great fashion : said to be very clever, a duellist, and a sort of Don Juan." " Exactly." " And then I remember vaguely to have heard that he com- mitted, or was said to have committed, some villanous action connected with a great lady's jewels, and to have left Paris in consequence." " Ah, yes a sad scrape. At that time there was a political crisis ; we were under a Republic ; anything against a noble was believed. But I am sure Victor de Mauleon was not the man to commit a larceny. However, it is quite true that he left Paris, and I don't know what has become of him since." Here he touched De Breze, who, though still near, had not been listening to this conversation, but interchanging jest and laughter with Lemercier on the motley scene of the dance. " De Breze, have you ever heard what became of poor dear Victor de Mauleon? You knew him." "Knew him? I should think so. Who could be in the great world and not know le beau Victor ? No ; after he van- ished I never heard more of him doubtless long since dead. A good-hearted fellow, in spite of all his sins." " My dear M. de Breze, did you know his half-sister ? ' asked one whom you do not." All such self-communes were unknown to Isaura. She lived in the bliss of the hour. If Graham could have read her heart, he would have dismissed all doubt whether he could dominate her life. Could a Fate or an angel have said to her "Choose, on one side I promise you the glories of a Catalani, a Pasta, a Sappho, a De Stae'l, a Georges Sand, all combined into one immortal name : or, on the other side, the whole heart of the man who would estrange himself from you if you had such combination of glories," her an- swer would have brought Graham Vane to her feet : all scru- ples, all doubts would have vanished ; he would have exclaimed, with the generosity inherent in the higher order of man : "Be glorious, if your nature wills it so. Glory enough to me that you would have resigned glory itself to become mine." But how is it that men worth a woman's loving become so diffident when they love intensely? Even in ordinary cases of love there is so ineffable a delicacy in virgin woman, that a man, be he how refined soever, feels himself rough and rude and coarse in comparison. And while that sort of delicacy was pre-emi- nent in this Italian orphan, there came, to increase the humility of the man so proud and so confident in himself when he had only men to deal with, the consciousness that his intellectual nature was hard and positive beside the angel-like purity and the fairy-like play of hers. There was a strong wish on the part of Mrs. Morley to bring about the union of these two. She had a great regard and a great admiration for both. To her mind, unconscious of all Graham's doubts and prejudices, they were exactly suited to each other. A man of intellect so cultivated as Graham's, if married to a commonplace English "Miss," would surely feel as if life had no sunshine and no flowers. The love of an Isaura would steep it in sunshine, pave it witli flowers. Mrs. Morley admitted all American Republicans of gentle birth do admit the instincts which lead " like " to match with " like," an equality of blood and race. With all her assertion of the Rights of Woman, I do not think that Mrs. Morley would ever have con- 168 THE PARISIANS. ceived the possibility of consenting that the richest, and pret- tiest, and cleverest girl in the States could become the wife of a son of hers if the girl had the taint of negro blood, even though shown nowhere save in the slight distinguishing hue of her finger- nails. So, had Isaura's merits been threefold what they were, and she had been the wealthy heiress of a retail grocer, this fair Republican would have opposed (more strongly than many an English duchess, or at least a Scotch duke would do, the wish of a son), the thought of an alliance between Graham Vane and the grocer's daughter ! But Isaura was a Cicogna, an off- spring of a very ancient and very noble house. Disparities of fortune, or mere worldly position, Mrs. Morley supremely de- spised. Here were the great parities of alliance parities in years and good looks and mental culture. So, in short, she, in the invitation given to them, had planned for the union be- tween Isaura and Graham. To this plan she had an antagonist, whom she did not even guess, in Madame Savarin. That lady, as much attached to Isaura as wa's Mrs. Morley herself, and still more desirous of seeing a girl, brilliant and parentless, transferred from the companionship of Signora Venosta to the protection of a hus- band, entertained no belief in the serious attentions of Graham Vane. Perhaps she exaggerated his worldly advantages ; per- haps she undervalued the warmth of his affections ; but it was not within the range of her experience, confined much to Parisian life, nor in harmony with her notions of the frigidity and morgue of the English national character, that a rich and high-born young man, to whom a great career in practical public life was predicted, should form a matrimonial alliance with a foreign orphan girl who, if of gentle birth, had no use- ful connections, would bring no corresponding dot, and had been reared and intended for the profession of the stage. She much more feared that the result of any attentions on the part of such a man would be rather calculated to compromise the orphan's name, or at least to mislead her expectations, than to secure her the shelter of a wedded home. Moreover, she had cherished plans of her own for Isaura's future. Madame Savarin had conceived for Gustave Rameau a friendly regard, stronger than that which Mrs. Morley entertained for Graham Vane, for it was more motherly. Gustave had been familiar- ized to her sight and her thoughts since he had first been launched into the literary world under her husband's auspices; he had confided to her his mortification in his failures, his joy in his successes. His beautiful countenance, his delicate THE PARISIANS. 169 health, his very infirmities and defects, had endeared him to her womanly heart. Isaura was the wife of all others who, in ftjadame Savarin's opinion, was made for Rameau. Her for- tune, so trivial beside the wealth of the Englishman, would be a competence to Rameau ; then that competence might swell into vast riches if Isaura succeeded on the stage. She found with extreme displeasure that Isaura's mind had become estranged from the profession to which she had been destined, and divined that a deference to the Englishman's prejudices had something to do with that estrangement. It was not to be expected that a Frenchwoman, wife to a sprightly man of let- ters, who had intimate friends and allies in every department of the artistic world, should cherish any prejudice whatever against the exercise of an art in which success achieved riches and renown. But she was prejudiced, as most Frenchwomen are, against allowing to unmarried girls the same freedom and independence of action that are the rights of women French women when married. And she would have disapproved the entrance of Isaura on her professional career until she could enter it as a wife the wife of an artist, the wife of Gustave Rameau. Unaware of the rivalry between these friendly diplomatists and schemers, Graham and Isaura glided hourly more and more down the current, which as yet ran smooth. No words by which love is spoken were exchanged between them ; in fact, though constantly together, they were very rarely, and then but for moments, alone with each other. Mrs. Morley artfully schemed more than once to give them such opportunities for that mutual explanation of heart which, she saw, had not yet taken place ; with art more practised and more watchful, Madame Savarin contrived to baffle her hostess's intention. But, indeed, neither Graham nor Isaura sought to make oppor- tunities for themselves. He, as we know, did not deem him- self wholly justified in uttering the words of love by which a man of honor binds himself for life ; and she ! What girl, pure-hearted and loving truly, does not shrink from seeking the opportunities which it is for the man to court ? Yet Isaura needed no words to tell her that she was loved ; no, nor even a pressure of the hand, a glance of the eye ; she felt it instinct- ively, mysteriously, by the glow of her own being in the pres- ence of her lover. She knew that she herself could not so love unless she were beloved. Here woman's wit is keener and truthfuller than man's. Graham, as I have said, did not feel confident that he had 170 THE PARISIANS. reached the heart of Isaura : he was conscious that he had engaged her interest, that he had attracted her fancy ; but often, when charmed by the joyous play of her imagination, he would sigh to himself, " To natures so gifted what single mortal can be the all in all ? " They spent the summer mornings in excursions round the beautiful neighborhood, dined early, and sailed on the calm lake at moonlight. Their talk was such as might be expected from lovers of books in summer holidays. Savarin was a critic by profession ; Graham Vane, if not that, at least owed such literary reputation as he had yet gained to essays in which the rare critical faculty was conspicuously developed. It was pleasant to hear the clash of these two minds encoun- tering each other; they differed perhaps less in opinions than in the mode by which opinions are discussed. The English- man's range of reading was wider than the Frenchman's, and his scholarship more accurate ; but the Frenchman had a com- pact neatness of expression, a light and nimble grace, whether in the advancing or the retreat of his argument, which covered deficiencies, and often made them appear like merits. Graham was compelled, indeed, to relinquish many of the forces of superior knowledge or graver eloquence, which, with less lively antagonists, he could have brought into the field, for the witty sarcasm of Savarin would have turned them aside as pedantry or declamation. But though Graham was neither dry nor diffuse, and the happiness at his heart brought out the gayety of humor which had been his early characteristic, and yet rendered his familiar intercourse genial and playful, still there was this distinction between his humor and Savarin's wit, that in the first there was always something earnest, in the last always something mocking. And in criticism Graham seemed ever anxious to bring out a latent beauty, even in writers com- paratively neglected. Savarin was acutest when dragging forth a blemish never before discovered in writers universally read. Graham did not perhaps notice the profound attention with which Isaura listened to him in these intellectual skirmishes with the more glittering Parisian. There was this distinction she made between him and Savarin : when the last spoke she often chimed in with some happy sentiment of her own ; but she never interrupted Graham ; never intimated a dissent from his theories of art, or the deductions he drew from them ; and she would remain silent and thoughtful for some minutes when his voice ceased. There was passing from his mind into hers an ambition which she imagined, poor girl, that he would be THE PARISIANS. i;i pleased to think he had inspired, and which might become a new bond of sympathy between them. But as yet the ambi- tion was vague and timid ; an idea or a dream to be fulfilled in some indefinite future.. The last night of this short-lived holiday time, the party, after staying out on the lake toji later hour than usual, stood lingering still on the lawn of the villa ; and their host, who was rather addicted to superficial studies of the positive sciences, including, of course, the most popular of all, astronomy, kept his guests politely listening to speculative conjectures on probable size of the inhabitants of Sirius, that very distant and very gigantic inhabitant of heaven who has led philosophers into mortifying reflections upon the utter insignificance of our own poor little planet, capable of producing nothing greater than Shakspeares and New-tons, Aristotles and Caesars, mani- kins, no doubt, beside intellects proportioned to the size of the world in which they flourish. As it chanced, Isaura and Graham were then standing close to each other and a little apart from the rest. " It is very strange," said Graham, laughing low, " how little I care about Sirius. He is the sun of some other system, and is perhaps not habitable at all, except by salamanders. He cannot be one of the stars with which I have established familiar acquaintance, associated with fancies and dreams and hopes, as most of us do, for instance, with Hesperus, the moon's harbinger and comrade. But amid all those stars there is one not Hesperus which has always had, from my childhood, a mysterious fascination for me. Knowing as little of astrology as I do of astronomy, when I gaze upon that star I become credulously superstitious, and fancy it has an influence on my life. Have you, too, any favorite star?" "Yes," said Isaura ; "and I distinguish it now, but I do not even know its name, and never would ask it." " So like me. I would not vulgarize my unknown source of beautiful illusions by giving it the name it takes in technical catalogues. For fear of learning that name I never have pointed it out to any one before. I too at this moment dis- tinguish it apart from all its brotherhood. Tell me which is yours." Isaura pointed and explained. The Englishman was startled. By what strange coincidence could they both have singled out from all the host of heaven the same favorite star ? " Cher Vane," cried Savarin, " Colonel Morley declares that what America is to the terrestrial system Sirius is to the 172 THE PARISIANS. heavenly. America is to extinguish Europe, and then Sirius is to extinguish the world." "Not for some millions of years ; time to look about us," said the Colonel gravely. " But I certainly differ from those who maintain that Sirius recedes from us. I say that he ap- proaches. The principles of a body so enlightened must be those of progress." Then addressing Graham in English, he added, " There will be a mulling in this fogified planet some day, I predicate. Sirius is a keener ! " "I have not imagination lively enough to interest myself in the destinies of Sirius in connection with our planet at a date so remote," said Graham, smiling. Then he added in a whis- per to Isaura : " My imagination does not carry me farther than to wonder whether this day twelvemonth the 8th of July we two shall both be singling out that same star, and gazing on it as now, side by side." This was the sole utterance of that sentiment in which the romance of love is so rich that the Englishman addressed to Isaura during those memorable summer days at Enghien. CHAPTER V. THE next morning the party broke up. Letters had been delivered both to Savarin and to Graham, which, even had the day fof departure not been fixed, would have summoned them away. On reading his letter, Savarin's brow became clouded. He made a sign to his wife after breakfast, and wandered away with her down an alley in the little garden. His trouble was of that nature which a wife either soothes or aggravates, accord- ing sometimes to her habitual frame of mind, sometimes to the mood of temper in which she may chance to be a household trouble, a pecuniary trouble. Savarin was by no means an extravagant man. His mode of living, though elegant and hospitable, was modest compared to that of many French authors inferior to himself in the fame which at Paris brings a very good return in francs. But his station itself as the head of a powerful literary clique necessi- tated many expenses which were too congenial to his extreme good-nature to be regulated by strict prudence. His hand was always open to distressed writers and struggling artists, and his sole income was derived from his pen and a journal in which he was chief editor and formerly sole proprietor. But that journal had of late not prospered. He had sold or pledged a THE PARISIANS. 173 Considerable share in the proprietorship. He had been com- pelled also to borrow a sum large for him, and the debt ob- tained from a retired bourgeois who lent out his moneys, " by way," he said, " of maintaining an excitement and interest in life," would in a few days become due. The letter was tfot from that creditor, but it was from his publisher, containing a very disagreeable statement of accounts, pressing for settlement, and declining an offer of Savarin's for a new book (not yet be- gun) except upon terms that the author valued himself too highly to accept. Altogether, the situation was unpleasant. There were many times in which Madame Savarin presumed to scold her distinguished husband for his want of prudence and thrift. But those were never the times when scolding could be of no use. It would clearly be of no use now. Now was the moment to cheer and encourage him, to reassure him as to his own undiminished powers and popularity, for he talked deject- edly of himself as obsolete and passing out of fashion ; to con- vince him also of the impossibility that the ungrateful publisher whom Savarin's more brilliant successes had enriched could encounter the odium of hostile proceedings ; and to remind him of all the authors, all the artists, whom he, in their earlier difficulties, had so liberally assisted, and from whom a sum suf- ficing to pay off the bourgeois creditor when the day arrived could now be honorably asked and would be readily contributed. In this last suggestion the homely, prudent good sense of Ma- dame Savarin failed her. She did not comprehend that deli- cate pride of honor which', with all his Parisian frivolities and cynicism, dignified the Parisian man of genius. Savarin could not, to save his neck from a-rope, have sent round the begging- hat to friends whom he had obliged. Madame Savarin was one of those women with large-lobed ears, who can be wonderfully affectionate, wonderfully sensible, admirable wives and mothers, and yet are deficient in artistic sympathies with artistic natures. Still, a really good honest wife is such an incalculable bless- ing to her lord, that, at the end of the talk in the solitary alle'e, this man of exquisite finesse, of the undefinably high-bred temperament, and, alas ! the painfully morbid susceptibility, which belong to the genuine artistic character, emerged into the open sunlit lawn with his crest uplifted, his lip curled upward in its joyous mockery, and perfectly persuaded that somehow or other he should put down the offensive pub- lisher, and pay off the unoffending creditor when the day for payment came. Still he had judgment enough to know that to do this he must get back to Paris, and could not 174 THE PARISIANS, dawdle away precious hours in discussing the principles of poetry with Graham Vane. There was only one thing, apart from " the begging-hat," in which Savarin dissented from his wife. She suggested his starting a new journal in conjunction with Gustave Rameau, upon whose genius and the expectations to be formed from it (here she was tacitly thinking of Isaura wedded to Rameau, and more than a Malibran on the stage) she insisted vehemently. Savarin did not thus estimate Gustave Rameau : thought him a clever, promising young writer in a very bad school of writing, who might do well some day or other. But that a Rameau could help a Savarin to make a fortune ! No ; at that idea he opened his eyes, patted his wife's shoulder, and called her "enfant." Graham's letter was from M. Renard, and ran thus : " MONSIEUR : " I had the honor to call at your apartment this morning, and I write this line to the address given to me by your concierge to say that I have been fortunate enough to ascertain that the re- lation of the missing lady is now at Paris. I shall hold myself in readiness to attend your summons. Deign to accept, Mon- sieur, the assurance of my profound consideration. "J. RENARD." This communication sufficed to put Graham into very high spirits. Anything that promised success to his research seemed to deliver his thoughts from a burthen and his will from a fet- ter. Perhaps in a few days he might frankly and honorably say to Isaura words which would justify his retaining longer, and pressing more ardently, the delicate hand which trembled in his as they took leave. On arriving at Paris, Graham despatched a note to M. Renard requesting to see him, and received a brief line in re- ply that M. Renard feared he should be detained on other and important business till the evening, but hoped to call at eight o'clock. A few minutes before that hour he entered Graham's apartment. " You have discovered the uncle of Louise Duval ! " ex- claimed Graham ; " of course you mean M. de Mauleon, and he is at Paris?" " True so far, Monsieur ; but do not be too sanguine as to the results of the information I can give you. Permit me, as briefly as possible, to state the circumstances. When you ac- THE PARISIANS. 175 quuinted me with the fact that M. cle Mauleon was the uncle of Louise Duval, I told you that 1 was not without hopes of finding him out, though so long absent from Paris. I will now explain why. Some months ago, one of my colleagues engaged in the political department (which I am not) was sent to Lyons, in consequence of some suspicions conceived by the loyal au- thorities there of a plot against the Emperor's life. The sus- picions were groundless, the plot a mare's nest. But my col- league's attention was especially drawn towards a man, not mixed up with the circumstances from which a plot had been inferred, but deemed in some way or other a dangerous enemy to the government. Ostensibly he exercised a modest and small calling as a sort of courtier or agent d'affaires; but it was noticed that certain persons familiarly frequenting his apart- ment, or to whose houses he used logo at night, were disaffected to the government not by any means of the lowest rank some of them rich malcontents who had been devoted Orlean- ists ; others, disappointed aspirants to office or the "cross"; one or two well-born and opulent fanatics dreaming of another Republic. Certain very able articles in the journals of the ex- citable Midi, though bearing another signature, were composed or dictated by this man articles evading the censure and penalties of the law, but very mischievous in their tone. All who had come into familiar communication with this person were impressed with a sense of his powers ; and also with a vague belief that he belonged to a higher class in breeding and education than that of a petty agent d'affaires. My colleague set himself to watch the man, and took occasions of business at his little office to enter into talk with him. Not by personal appearance, but by voice, he came to a conclusion that the man was not wholly a stranger to him ; a peculiar voice with a slight Norman breath of pronunciation, though a Parisian accent, a voice very low yet very distinct, very masculine yet very gen- tle. My colleague was puzzled, till late one evening he ob- served the man coming out of the house of one of these rich malcontents, the rich malcontent himself accompanying him. My colleague, availing himself of the dimness of light, as the two passed into a lane which led to the agent's apartment, con- trived to keep close behind and listen to their conversation. But of this he heard nothing ; only, when at the end of the lane, the rich man turned abruptly, shook his companion warmly by the hand, and parted from him, saying, ' Never fear ; all shall go right with you, my dear Victor.' At the sound of that name ' Victor,' my colleague's memories, before so con- fjG THE PARISIANS. fused, became instantaneously clear. Previous to entering our service, he had been in the horse business a votary of the turf ; as such he had often seen the brilliant ' sportman,' Victor de Mauleon ; sometimes talked to him. Yes, that was the voice ; the slight Norman intonation (Victor de Mauleon's father had it strongly, and Victor had passed some of his early childhood in Normandy), the subdued modulation of speech which had made so polite the offence to men, or so winning the courtship to women ; that was Victor de Mauleon. But why there in that disguise? What was his real business and object? My con- frbre had no time allowed to him to prosecute such inquiries. Whether Victor or the rich malcontent had observed him at their heels, and feared he might have overheard their words, I know not, but the next day appeared in one of the popular journals circulating among the ouvriers, a paragraph stating that a Paris spy had been seen at Lyons, warning all honest men against his machinations, and containing a tolerably accu- rate description of his person. And that very day, on ventur- ing forth, my estimable colleague suddenly found himself hustled by a ferocious throng, from whose hands he was with great difficulty rescued by the municipal guard. He left Lyons that night ; and for recompense of his services received a sharp reprimand from his chief. He had committed the worst offence in our profession, trop de zele. Having only heard the outlines of this story from another, I repaired to my confrere after my last interview with Monsieur, and learned what I now tell you from his own lips. As he was not in my branch of the service, I could not order him to return to Lyons ; and I doubt whether his chief would have allowed it. But I went to Lyons myself, and there as- certained that our supposed Vicomte had left that town for Paris some months ago, not long after the adventure of my colleague. The man bore a very good character generally ; was said to be very honest and inoffensive ; and the notice taken of him by persons of higher rank* was attributed generally to a respect for his talents, and not on account of any sympathy in political opinions. I found that* the confrere mentioned, and who alone could identify M. de Mauleon in the disguise which the Vicomte had assumed, was absent on one of those missions abroad in which he is chiefly employed. I had to wait for his return, and it was only the day before yesterday that I obtained the fol- lowing particulars : M. de Mauleon bears the same name as he did at Lyons that name is Jean Lebeau ; he exercises the ostensible profession of a ' letter-writer,' and a sort of adviser on business among the workmen and petty bourgeoisie, and he THE PARISIANS. 177 nightly frequents the Cafe Jean Jacques, Rue , Faubourg Montmartre. It is not yet quite half-past eight, and no doubt you could see. him at-the cafe" this very night, if you thought proper to go." " Excellent ! I will go ! Describe him ! " " Alas ! that is exactly what I cannot do at present. For after hearing what I now tell you, I put the same request you do to my colleague, when, before he could answer me, he was summoned to the bureau of his chief, promising to return and give me the requisite description. He did not return. And I find that he was compelled, on quitting his chief, to seize the first train starting for Lille upon an important political in- vestigation which brooked no delay. He will be back in a few days, and then Monsieur shall have the description." " Nay ; I think I will seize time by the forelock, and try my chance to-night. If the man be really a conspirator, and it looks likely enough, who knows but what he may see quick reason to take alarm and vanish from Paris at any hour ? Cafe Jean Jacques, Rue . I will go. Stay ; you have seen Victor de Maule'on in his youth : what was he like then?" " Tall, slender, but broad-shouldered ; very erect carrying his head high; a profusion of dark curls, a small, black mous- tache ; fair, clear complexion, light-colored eyes with dark lashes fort bel homme. But he will not look like that now." " His present age ? " " Forty-seven or forty-eight. But before you go I must beg you to consider well what you are about. It is evident that M. de Mauleon has some strong reason, whatever it be, for merging his identity in that of Jean Lebeau. I presume, therefore, that you could scarcely go up to M. Lebeau, when you have discovered him, and say : ' Pray, M. le Vicomte, can you give me some tidings of your niece, Louise Duval ? ' If you thus accosted him, you might possibly bring some danger on yourself, but you would certainly gain no information from him." ;' True." " On the other hand, if you make his acquaintance as M. Lebeau, how can you assume him to know anything about Louise Duval?" " Par 'bleu ! M. Renard, you try to. toss me aside on both horns of the dilemma ; but it seems to me that, if I once make his acquaintance as M. Lebeau, I might gradually and cau- tiously feel my way as to the best mode of putting the question to which I seek reply. I suppose, too, that the man must be 178 THE PARISIANS. in very poor circumstances to adopt so humble a calling, and that a small sum of money may smooth all difficulties. " "I am not so sure of that," said M. Renard thoughtfully ; "but grant that money may do so, and grant also that the Vi- comte, being a needy man, has become a very unscrupulous one, is there anything in your motives for discovering Louise Duval which might occasion you trouble and annoyance, if it were divined by a needy and unscrupulous man ? anything which might give him a power of threat or exaction? Mfnd, I am not asking you to tell me any secret you have reasons for concealing, but I suggest that it might be prudent if you did not let M. Lebeau know your real name and rank ; if, in short, you could follow his example, and adopt a disguise. But no ; when I think of it, you would doubtless be so unpractised in the art of disguise, that he would detect you at once to be other than you seem ; and if suspecting you of spying into his secrets, and if those secrets be really of a political nature, your very life might not be safe." "Thank you for your hint ; the disguise is an excellent idea, and combines amusement with precaution. That this Victor de Mauleon must be a very unprincipled and dangerous man is, I think, abundantly clear. Granting that he was innocent of all design of robbery in the affair of the jewels, still, the of- fence which he did own that of admitting himself at night by a false key into the rooms of a wife whom he sought to surprise or terrify into dishonor was a villanous action ; and his pres- ent course of life is sufficiently mysterious to warrant the most unfavorable supposition. Be'sides, there is another motive for concealing my name from him : you say that he once had a duel with a Varie, who was very probably my father, and I have no wish to expose myself to the chance of his turning up in London some day, and seeking to renew there the acquaint- ance that I had courted at Paris. As for my skill in playing any part I may assume, do not fear ; I am no novice in that. In my younger days I was thought clever in private theatri- cals, especially in the transformations of appearance which be- long to light comedy and farce. Wait a few minutes and you shall see." Graham then retreated into his bedroom, and in a few min- utes reappeared, so changed that Renard at first glance took him for a stranger, He had doffed his dress, which habitu- ally, when in capitals, was characterized by the quiet, indefin- able elegance that to a man of the great world, high-bred and young, seems " to the manner born," for one of those coarse THE PAklSlANS, 179 Suits which Englishmen are wont to wear in their travels, and by which they are represented in French or German carica- tures ; loose jacket of tweed, with redundant pockets, waist- coat to match, short dust-colored trousers. He had combed his hair straight over his forehead, which, as I have said some- where before, appeared in itself . to alter the character of his countenance, and, without any resort to paints or cosmetics, had somehow or other given to the expression of his face an impudent, low-bred expression, with a glass screwed on to his right eye such a look as a cockney journeyman, wishing to pass for a "swell" about town, may cast on a servant-maid in the pit of a surburban theatre. "Will it do, old fellow?" he exclaimed, in a rollicking, swaggering tone of voice, speaking French with a villanous British accent. " Perfectly," said Renard, laughing. " I offer my compli- ments, and if ever you are ruined, Monsieur, I will promise you a place in our police. Only one caution take care not to overdo your part." " Right. A quarter to nine I'm off." CHAPTER VI. THERE is a general brisk exhilaration of spirits in the return to any special amusement or light accomplishment, associated with the pleasant memories of earlier youth ; and remarkably so, I believe, when the amusement or accomplishment has been that of the amateur stage-player. Certainly I have known persons of very grave pursuits, of very dignified character and position, who seem to regain the vivacity of boyhood when dis- guising look and voice for a part in some drawing-room comedy or charade. I might name statesmen of solemn repute rejoicing* to raise and to join in a laugh at their expense in such travesty of their habitual selves. The reader must not therefore be surprised, nor, I trust, deem it inconsistent with the more serious attributes of Graham's character, if the Englishman felt the sort of joyous excitement I describe, as, in his way to the Cafe Jean Jacques, he meditated the role he had undertaken ; and the joyousness was heightened beyond the mere holiday sense of humoristic pleasantry by the sanguine hope that much to effect his lasting happiness might result from the success of the object for which his disguise was assumed. It was just twenty minutes past nine when he arrived at the 180 THE PARISIANS. Cafe Jean Jacques. He dismissed the fiacre and entered. The apartment devoted to customers comprised two large rooms. The first was the cafe properly speaking ; the second, opening on it, was the billiard-room. Conjecturing that he should probably find the person of whom he was in quest em- ployed at the billiard-table, Graham passed thither at once. A tall man, who might be seven-and-forty, with a long black beard, slightly grizzled, was at play with a young man of per- haps twenty-eight, who gave him odds as better players of twenty-eight ought to give odds to a player, though originally of equal force, whose eye is not so quick, whose hand is not so steady, as they were twenty years ago. Said Graham to himself : " The bearded man is my Vicomte." He called for a cup of coffee, and seated himself on a bench at the end of the room. The bearded man was far behind in the game. It was his turn to play ; the balls were placed in the most awkward posi- tion for him. Graham himself was a fair billiard player, both in the English and the French game. He said to himself : " No man who can make a cannon there should accept odds." The bearded man made a cannon ; the bearded man continued to make cannons ; the bearded man did not stop till he had won the game. The gallery of spectators was enthusiastic. Taking care to speak in very bad, very English, French, Graham ex- pressed to one of the enthusiasts seated beside him his admi- ration of the bearded man's playing, and ventured to ask if the bearded man were a professional or an amateur player. "Monsieur," replied the enthusiast, taking a short cutty-pipe from his mouth, " it is an amateur, who has been a great player in his day, and is so proud that he always takes less odds than he ought of a younger man. It is not once in a month that he comes out as he has done to-night ; but to-night he has steadied his hand. He has had six petits verres." "Ah, indeed ! Do you know his name ? " " I should think so : he burred my father, my two aunts, and my wife." "Buried?" said Graham, more and more British in his accent ; " I don't understand." "Monsieur, you are English." "I confess it." "And a stranger to the Faubourg Montmartre." " True." " Or you would have heard of M. Giraud, the liveliest mem- ber of the State Company for conducting funerals. They are going to play La Poule" THE PARISIANS. l8l Much disconcerted, Graham retreated into the cafe, and seated himself haphazard at one of the small tables. Glancing round the room, lie saw no one in whom he could conjecture the once brilliant Vicomte. The company appeared to him sufficently decent, and especially what may be called local. There were some blouses drinking wine, no doubt of the cheapest and thinnest ; some in rough, coarse dresses, drinking beer. These were evidently English, Belgian, or German artisans. At one table, four young men, who looked like small journeymen, were playing cards. At three other tables, men older, better dressed, prob- ably shopkeepers, were playing dominoes. Graham scrutinized tiiese last, but among them all could detect no one correspond- ing to his ideal of the Vicomte de Mauleon. "Probably," thought he, " I am too late, or perhaps he will not be here this evening. At all events, I will wait a quarter of an hour." Then t\\e garfon approaching his table, he deemed it necessary to call for something, and, still in strong English accent, asked for lemonade and an evening journal. The garfon nodded and went his way. A monsieur at the round table next his own politely handed to him the "Galignani," saying in very good English, though unmistakably the good English of a Frenchman, " The English journal at your service." Graham bowed his head, accepted the " Galignani," and in- spected his courteous neighbor. A more respectable-looking man no Englishman could see in an English country town. He wore an unpretending flaxen wig, with limp whiskers that met at the chin, and might originally have been the same color as the wig, but were now of a pale gray no beard, no mous- tache. He was dressed with the scrupulous cleanliness of a sober citizen ; a high, white neckcloth, with a large, old-fash- ioned pin, containing a little knot of hair, covered with glass or crystal, and bordered with a black framework, in which were inscribed letters evidently a mourning pin, hallowed to the memory of lost spouse or child a man, who, in England, might be the mayor of a cathedral town, at least the town- clerk. He seemed suffering from some infirmity of vision, for he wore green spectacles. The expression of his face was very mild and gentle ; apparently he was about sixty years old somewhat more. Graham took kindly to his neighbor, insomuch that, in return for the " Galignani," he offered him a cigar, lighting one him- . His neighbor refused politely. 182 THE PARISIANS. " Merei! I never "smoke never ; man mcdccin forbids it. If I could be tempted, it would be by an English cigar. Ah, how you English beat us in all things your ships, your iron, your tabac ; which you do not grow ! " This speech, rendered literally as we now render it, may give the idea of a somewhat vulgar speaker. But there was something in the man's manner, in his smile, in his courtesy, which did not strike Graham as vulgar ; on the contrary, he thought within himself: "How instinctive to all Frenchmen good breeding is ! " Before, however, Graham had time to explain to his amiable neighbor the politico-economical principle according to which England, growing no tobacco, had tobacco much better than France, which did grow it, a rosy, middle-aged monsieur made his appearance, saying hurriedly to Graham's neighbor: "I'm afraid I'm late, but there is still a good half-hour before us if you will give me my revenge." , " Willingly, M. Georges. Garfon, the dominoes." " Have you been playing at billiards ? " asked M. Georges. " Yes, two games." " With success? " " I won the first, and lost the second through the defect of my eyesight ; the game depended on a stroke which would have been easy to an infant I missed it." Here the dominoes arrived, and M. Georges began shuffling them ; the other turned to Graham and asked politely if he understood the game. " A little, but not enough to comprehend why it is said to require so much skill." " It is chiefly an affair of memory with me ; but M. Georges, my opponent, has the talent of combination, which I have not." " Nevertheless," replied M. Georges gruffly, " you are not easily beaten ; it is for you to play first, M. Lebeau." Graham almost started. Was it possible ! This mild, limp- whiskered, flaxen-wigged man, Victor de Mauleon, the Don Juan of his time; the last person in the room he should have guessed. Yet, now examining his neighbor with more atten- tive eye, he wondered at his stupidity in not having recognized at once the ci-devant gcntilhomme and beau gar f on. It happens frequently that our imagination plays us this trick ; we form to ourselves an idea of some one eminent for good or for evil : a poet, a statesman, a general, a murderer, a swindler, a thief ; the man is before us, and our ideas have gone into so different groove that he does not excit? a suspicion. We are told who THE PARISIANS. 183 he is, and immediately detect a thousand things that ought to have proved his identity. Looking thus again with rectified vision at the false Lebeau, Graham observed an elegance and delicacy of feature which might, in youth, have made the countenance very handsome, and rendered it still good-looking, nay, prepossessing. He now noticed, too, the slight Norman accent, its native harshness of breadth subdued into the modulated tones which bespoke the habits of polished society. Above all, as M. Lebeau moved his dominoes with one hand, not shielding his pieces with the other (as M. Georges warily did), but allowing it to rest care- lessly on the table, he detected the hands of the French aristo- crat ; hands that had never done work ; never (like those of the English noble of equal birth) been embrowned or freckled, or roughened, or enlarged by early practice in athletic sports ; but hands seldom seen save in the higher c>cles of Parisian life partly perhaps of hereditary formation, partly owing their texture to great care begun in early youth, and continued me- chanically in after-life with long, taper fingers and polished nails ; white and delicate as those of a woman, but not slight, not feeble ; nervous and sinewy as those of a practised swords- man. Graham watched the play, and Lebeau good-naturedly .ex- plained to him its complications as it proceeded ; though the explanation, diligently attended to by M. Georges, lost Lebeau the game. The dominoes were again shuffled, and during that operation M. Georges said : "By the way, M. Lebeau, you promised to find me a locataire for my second floor ; have you succeeded ? " " Not yet. Perhaps you had better advertise in Les Petites Affiches. You ask too much for the habitues of this neighbor- hood 100 francs a month." "But the lodging is furnished, and well too, and has four rooms. One hundred francs are not much." A thought flashed upon Graham : "Pardon, Monsieur," lie said, " have-you an appartement de gar con to let furnished ?" " Yes, Monsieur, a charming one. Are you in search of an apartment ? " " I have some idea of taking one, but only by the month. I am but just arrived at Paris, and I have business which may keep me here a few weeks. I do but require a bedroom and a small cabinet, and the rent must be modest. I am not a milord." "| am sure we could arrange, Monsieur," said M. Georges, 184 THE PARISIANS. " though I could not well divide my logcmenl. But 100 francs a month is not much ! " " I fear it is more than I can afford : however, if you will give me your address, I will call and see the rooms, say the day after to-morrow. Between this and then I expect letters which may more clearly decide my movements." " If the apartments suit you," said M. Lebeau, "you will at least be in the house of a very honest man, which is more than can be said of every one who lets furnished apartments. The house, too, has a concierge, with a handy wife who will arrange your rooms and provide you with coffee or tea, which you English prefer if you breakfast at home." Here M. Georges handed a card to Graham, and asked what hour he would call. "About twelve, if that hour is convenient," said Graham, rising. " I presume there is a restaurant in the neighborhood, where I could dine reasonably." " Je crois bien half a dozen. I can recommend to you one where you can dine enprince for thirty sous. And if you are at Paris on business, and want any letters written in private, I can also recommend to you my friend here, M. Lebeau. Ay, and on affairs his advice is as good as a lawyer's, and his fee a bagatelle." " Don't believe all that M. Georges so flatteringly says of me," put in M. Lebeau, with a modest half-smile, and in English. "I should tell you that I, like yourself, am recently arrived at Paris, having bought the business and good-will of my predecessor in the apartment I occupy ; and it is only to the respect due to his antecedents, and on the score of a few letters of recommendation which I bring from Lyons, that I can attribute the confidence shown to me, a stranger in this neigh- borhood. Still I have some knowledge of the world, and I am always glad if I can be of service to the English. I love the English," he said this with a sort of melancholy earnestness which seemed sincere; and then added in a more careless tone: " I have met with much kindness from them in the course of a checkered life." " You seem a very good fellow in fact, a regular trump, M. Lebeau," replied Graham, in the same language. " Give me your address. To say truth, I am a very poor French scholar, as you must have seen, and am awfully bother-headed how to manage some correspondence on matters with which I am entrusted by my employer, so that it is a lucky chance which has brought me acquainted with you," THE PARISIANS. 185 M. Lebeau inclined his head gracefully, and drew from a very neat morocco case a card, which Graham took and pocketed. Then he paid for his coffee and lemonade, and returned home, well satisfied with the evening's adventure. CHAPTER VII. THE next morning Gt^iham sent for M. Renard, and con- sulted with that experienced functionary as to the details of the plan of action which he had revolved during the hours of a sleepless night. " In conformity with your advice," said he, " not to expose myself to the chance of future annoyance, by confiding to a man so dangerous as the false Lebeau my name and address, I propose to take the lodging offered to me, as Mr. Lamb, an attorney's clerk, commissioned to get in certain debts, and transact other matters of business, on behalf of his employer's clients. I suppose there will be no difficulty with the police in this change of name, now that passports for the English are hot necessary ! " " Certainly not. You will have no trouble in that respect." " I shall thus be enabled very naturally to improve acquaint- ance with the professional letter-writer, and find an easy op- portunity to introduce the name of Louise Duval. My chief difficulty, I fear, not being a practical actor, will be to keep up consistently the queer sort of language I have adopted, both in French and in English. I have too sharp a critic in a man so consummate himself in stage trick and disguise as M. Lebeau, not to feel the necessity of getting through my r6le as quickly as I can. Meanwhile, can you recommend me to some magasin where I can obtain a suitable change of costume? I can't always wear a travelling suit, and I must buy linen of coarser texture than mine, and with the initials of my new name in- scribed on it." " Quite right to study such details ; I will introduce you to a magasin near the Temple, where you will find all you want." " Next, have you any friends or relations in the provinces unknown to M. Lebeau, to whom I might be supposed to write about debts or business matters, and from whom I might have replies ? " " I will think over it, and manage that for you very easily. Your letters shall find their way to me, and I will dictate the answers." l86 THE PARISIANS. After some further conversation on that business, M. Renard made an appointment to meet Graham at a cafe near the Temple later in the afternoon, and took his departure. Graham then informed his laquais de place that, though he kept on his lodgings- he was going into the country for a few days, and should not want the man's services till he returned. He therefore dismissed and paid him off at once, so that the Idquais might not observe, when he quitted his rooms the next day, that he took with him no change of clothes, etc. CHAPTER VIII. GRAHAM VANE had been for some days in the apartment rented of M. Georges. He takes it in the name of Mr. Lamb a name wisely chosen, less common than Thompson and Smith, less likely to be supposed an assumed name, yet common enough not to be able easily to trace it to any special family. He appears, as he had proposed, in the character of an agent employed by a solicitor in London to execute sundry com- missionspand to collect certain outstanding debts. There is no need to mention the name of the solicitor ; if there were, he could give the name of his own solicitor, to whose discretion he could trust implicitly. He dresses and acts up to his assumed character with the skill of a man who, like the illustri- ous Charles Fox, has, though in private representations, prac- tised the stage-play in which Demosthenes said the triple art of oratory consisted ; who has seen a great deal of the world, and has that adaptability of intellect which knowledge of the world lends to one who is so thoroughly in earnest as to his end that he agrees to be sportive as to his means. The kind of language he employs when speaking EngHsh to Lebeau is that suited to the role of a dapper young underling of vulgar mind habituated to vulgar companionships. I feel it due, if not to Graham himself, at least to the name of the digni- fied orator whose name he inherits, so to modify and soften the hardy style of that peculiar diction in v/hich he disguises his birth and disgrace his culture, that it is only here and there that I can venture to indicate the general tone of it. But in order to supply my deficiencies therein, the reader has only to call to mind the forms of phraseology which polite novelists in vogue, especially young-lady novelists, ascribe to well-born gentlemen, and more emphatically to those in the higher ranks of the Peerage. No doubt Graham, in his capacity of critic, THE PARISIANS. 187 had been compelled to read, in order to review, those contribu- tions to refined literature, and had familiarized himself to a vein of conversation abounding with "swell," and " stunner," and "awfully jolly," in its libel on manners and outrage on taste. He has attended nightly the Cafe Jean Jacques ; he has improved acquaintance with M. Georges and M. Lebeau ; he has played at billiards, he has played at dominoes, with the latter. He has been much surprised at the unimpeachable honesty which M. Lebeau has exhibited in both these games. In billiards, indeed, a man cannot cheat except by disguising his strength ; it is much the same in dominoes it is skill com- bined with luck, as in whist ; but in whist there are modes of cheating which dominoes do not allow : you can't mark a domino as you can a card. It was perfectly clear to Graham that M. Lebeau did not gain a livelihood by billiards or dominoes at the Cafe Jean Jacques. Irj the former he was not only a fair but a generous player. He played exceedingly well, despite his spectacles ; but he gave, with something of a Frenchman's \Q(\.y JanfaroniiLide, larger odds to his adversary than his play jus- tified. In dominoes, where such odds could not well be given, he insisted on playing such small stakes as two or three francs might cover. In short, M. Lebeau puzzled Graham. All about M. Lebeau, iiis manner, his talk, was irreproachable, and baffled suspicion ; except in this, Graham gradually dis- covered that the cafe had a guast-poYnical character. Listen- ing to talkers around him, he overheard much that might well have shocked the notions of a moderate Liberal ; much that held in disdain the objects to which, in 1869, an English Radi- cal directed his aspirations. Vote by ballot, universal suf- frage, etc. such objects the French had already attained. By the talkers at the Cafe Jean Jacques they were deemed to be the tricky contrivances of tyranny. In fact, the talk was more scornful of what Englishmen understand by radicalism or de- mocracy than Graham ever heard from the lips of an ultra- Tory. It assumed a strain of philosophy far above the vulgar squabbles of ordinary party politicians a philosophy which took for its fundamental principles the destruction of religion and of private property. These two objects seemed dependent the one on the other. The philosophers of the Jean Jacques held with that expounder of Internationalism,\Eugene Dupont, " Nous ne voulons plus de religion, car les religions etouffent l'intelligence.' M Now and then, indeed, A dissentient voice was raised as to the existence of a Supreme Being, but, with one * Discours par Eugene Dupont a la Cloture du Congrt-s de Bruxelles, Sept. 3, 1868. l88 THE PARISIANS. exception, it soon sank into silence. No voice was raised in defence of private property. These sages appeared for the most part to belong to the class of ouvi'iers or artisans. Some of them were foreigners Belgian, German, English ; all seemed well off for their calling. Indeed they must have had comparatively high wages to judge by their dress and the money they spent on regaling themselves. The language of several was well chosen, at times eloquent. Some brought with them women who seemed respectable, and who often joined in the conversation, especially when it turned upon the law of marriage as a main obstacle to all personal liberty and social improvement. If this was a subject on which the women did not all agree, still they discussed it without preju- dice and with admirable sang-froid. Yet many of them looked like wives and mothers. Now and then a young journeyman brought with him a young lady of more doubtful aspect, but such a couple kept aloof from the others. Now and then, too, .a man evidently of higher station than that of ouvrier, and who was received by the philosophers with courtesy and respect, joined one of the tables and ordered a bowl of punch for general participation. In such occasional visitors, Graham, still listening, detected a writer of the press ; now and then a small artist, or actor, or medical student. Among the habitues there was one man, an ouvrier, in whom Graham could not help feeling an interest. He was called Monnier, sometimes more familiarly Armand, his baptismal appellation. This man had a bold and honest expression of countenance. He talked like one who, if he had not read much, had thought much on the subjects he loved to discuss. He argued against the capi- tal of employers quite as ably as Mr. Mill has argued against the rights of property in land. He was still more eloquent against the laws of marriage and heritage. But his was the one voice not to be silenced in favor of a Supreme Being. He had at least the courage of his opinions, and was ahvays thoroughly in earnest. M. Lebeau seemed to know this man, and honored him with a nod and a smile, when passing by him to the table he generally occupied. This familiarity with a man of that class, and of opinions so extreme, excited Gra- ham's curiosity. One evening he said to Lebeau : "A queer fellow that you have just nodded to." " How so ? " "Well, he has que'er notions." "Notions shared, I believe, by many of your countrymen ?" "I should think not many. Those poor simpletons yonder THE PARISIANS. 189 may have caught them from their French fellow-workmen, but I don't think that even the gobemouchcs in our National Reform Society open their mouths to swallow such wasps." "Yet I believe the association to which most of those ou- vriers belong had its origin in England." " Indeed ! What association ?" "The International." "Ah, I have heard of that." Lebeau turned his green spectacles full on Graham's face as he said slowly, "And what do you think of it?" Graham prudently checked the disparaging reply that first occurred to him, and said : "I know so little about it that I would rather ask you." "I think it might become formidable if it found able leaders who knew how to use it. Pardon me how came you to know of this cafe? Were you recommended to it?" " No ; I happened to be in this neighborhood on business, and walked in, as I might into any other cafe." "You don't interest yourself in the great social questions which are agitated below the surface of this best of all possible worlds ? " " I can't say that I trouble my head much about them." " A game at dominoes before M. Georges arrives?" "Willingly. Is M. Georges one of those agitators below the surface?" " No, indeed. It is for you to play." Here M. Georges arrived, and no further conversation on political or social questions ensued. Grahim had already called more than once at M. Lebeau's office, and asked him to put into good French various letters on matters of business, the subjects of which had been fur- nished by M. Renard. The office was rather imposing and stately, considering the modest nature of M. Lebeau's ostensi- ble profession. It occupied the entire ground-floor of a corner house, with a front door at one angle and a back-door at the other. The ante-room to his cabinet, and in which Graham had generally to wait some minutes before he was introduced, was generally well filled, and not only by persons who, by their dress and outward appearance, might be fairly supposed sufficiently illiterate to require his aid as polite letter-writers not only by servant maids and griseties, by sailors, zouaves, and journeymen workmen but not unfrequently by clients evi- dently belonging to a higher, or at least a richer, class of soci- ety men with clothes made by a fashionable tailor ; men again, 190 THE PARISIANS. who, less fashionably attired, looked like opulent tradesmen and fathers of well-to-do families the first generally young, the last generally middle-aged. All these denizens of a higher world were introduced by a saturnine clerk into M. Lebeau's reception-room, very quickly and in precedence of the ouvriers and gr is cites. "What can this mean?" thought Graham. "Is it really that this humble business avowed is the cloak to some political conspiracy concealed the International Association?" And, so pondering, the clerk one day singled him from the crowd and admitted him into M. Lebeau's cabinet. Graham thought the time had now arrived when he might safely approach the subject that had brought him to the Faubourg Montmartre. " You are very good," said Graham, speaking in the English of a young earl in our elegant novel* ; "You are very good to let me in while you have so many swells and nobs, waiting for you in the other room. But, I say, old fellow, you have not the cheek to tell me that they want you to correct their cocker or spoon for them by proxy ?" " Pardon me," answered M. Lebeau in French, " if I prefer my own language in replying to you. I speak the English I learned many years ago, and your language in the beau monde, to which you evidently belong, is strange to me. You are quite right, however, in your surmise that I have other clients than those who, like yourself, think I could correct their verbs or their spelling. I have seen a great deal of the world ; I know something of it, and something of the law ; so that many persons come to -me for advice and for legal information on terms more moderate than those of an aroue. But my ante- chamber is full, I am pressed for time ; excuse me if I ask you to say at once in what I can be agreeable to you to- day." "Ah!" said Graham, assuming a very earnest look, " you do know the world, that is clear; and you do know the law of France eh ? " " Yes, a little." " What I wanted to say at present may have something to do with French law, and I meant to ask you either to recommend to me a sharp lawyer, or to tell me how I can best get at your famous police here." " Police ! " " I think I may require the service of one of those officers whom we in England call detectives ; but if you are busy now, I can call to-morrow." THE PARISIANS. 19! " I spare you two minutes. Say at once, dear Monsieur, what you want with law or police ? " " I am instructed to find out the address of a certain Louise Duval, daughter of a drawing-master named Adolphe Duval, living in the Rue in the year 1848." Graham, while he thus said, naturally looked Lebeau in the face not pryingly, not significantly, but as a man generally does look in the face the other man whom he accosts seriously. The change in the face he regarded was slight, but it was un- mistakable. It was the sudden meeting of the eyebrows, accompanied with the sudden jerk of the shoulder and bend of the neck, which betoken a man taken by surprise, and who pauses to reflect before he replies. His pause was but momen- tary. " For what object is this address required ? " " That I don't know ; but evidently for some advantage to Madame or Mademoiselle Duval, if still alive, because my employer authorizes me to spend no less than ^100 in ascer- taining where she is, if alive, or where she was buried, if dead ; and if other means fail, I am instructed to advertise to the effect, ' That if Louise Duval, or, in case of her death, any children of hers living in the year 1849, will communicate with some person whom I may appoint at Paris, such intelligence, authenticated, may prove to the advantage of the party advertised for.' I am, however, told not to resort to this means, without consulting either with a legal adviser or the police." " Hem ! Have you inquired at the house where this lady was, you say, living in 1848 ? " "Of course I have done that ; but very clumsily, I dare say through a friend and learned nothing. But I must not keep you now. I think I shall apply at once to the police. Wljat should I say when I get to the bureau ?" " Stop, Monsieur, stop. I do not advise you to apply to the police. It would be waste of time and money. Allow me to think over the matter. I shall see you this evening at the Cafe Jean Jacques at eight o'clock. Till then do nothing." " All right ; I obey you. The whole thing is out of my way of business awfully. Bon jour" CHAPTER IX. PUNCTUALLY at eight o'clock Graham Vane had taken his seat at a corner table at the remote end of the Cafe" Jean Jacques, IQ2 THE PARISIANS. called for his cup of coffee and his evening journal, and awaited the arrival of M. Lebeau. His patience was not tasked long. In a few minutes the Frenchman entered, paused at the comp- toir, as was his habit, to address a polite salutation to the well- dressed lady who there presided, nodded as usual to Armand Monnier, then glanced round, recognized Graham with a smile, and approached his table with the quiet grace of movement by which he was distinguished. Seating himself opposite to Graham, and speaking in a voice too low to be heard by others, and in French, he then said : "In thinking over your communication this morning, it strikes me as probable, perhaps as certain, that this Louise Duval or her children, if she have any, must be entitled to some moneys bequeathed to her by a relation or friend in England. What say you to that assumption, M. Lamb ?" "You are a sharp fellow," answered Graham. "Just what I say to myself. Why else should I be instructed to go to such expense in finding her out? Most likely, if one can't trace her, or her children born before the date named, any such moneys will go to some one else ; and that some one else, who- ever he be, has commissioned my employer to find out. But I don't imagine any sum due to her or her heirs can be much, or that the matter is very important ; for, if so, the thing would not be carelessly left in the hands of one of the small fry like myself, and clapped in along with a lot of other business as an off-hand job." "Will you tell me who employed you ?" "No, I don't feel authorized to do that at present; and I don't see the necessity of it. It seems to me, on consideration, a matter for the police to ferret out ; only, as I asked before, how should I get at the police?" "That is not difficult. It is just possible that I might help you better than any lawyer, or any detective." " Why, did you ever know this Louise Duval ?" " Excuse me, M. Lamb : you refuse me your full confidence ; allow me to imitate your reserve." "Oho !" said Graham ; "shut up as close as you like ; it is nothing to me. Only observe, there is this difference between us, that I am employed by another. He does not authorize me to name him ; and if I did commit that indiscretion, I might lose my bread and cheese. Whereas you have nobody's secret to guard but your own, in saying whether or not you ever knew a Madame or Mademoiselle Duval. And if you have some reason for not getting me the information I am in- THE PARISIANS. 193 structed to obtain, that is also a reason for not troubling you farther. And after all, old boy (with a familiar slap on Le- beau's stately shoulder), after all, it is I who would employ you ; you don't employ me. And if you find out the lady, it is you who would get the one hundred pounds, not I." M. Lebeau mechanically brushed, with a light movement of hand, the shoulder which the Englishman had so pleasantly touched, drew himself and chair some inches back, and said slowly : " M. Lamb, let us talk as gentleman to gentleman. Put aside the question of money altogether, I- must first know why your employer wants to hunt out this poor Louise Duval. It may be to her injury, and I would do her none if you offered thousands where you offer pounds. I forestall the condition of mutual confidence ; I own that I have known her it is many years ago ; and, M. Lamb, though a Frenchman very often injures a woman from love, he is in a worse plight for bread and cheese than I am if he injures her for money." " Is he thinking of the duchess's jewels?" thought Graham. "Bravo, mon vieux" he said aloud ; "but as I don't know what my employer's motive in his commission is, perhaps you can enlighten me. How could his inquiry injure Louise Du- val?" " I cannot say ; but you English have the power to divorce your wives. Louise Duval may have married an Englishman, separated from him, and he wants to know where he can find, in order to criminate and divorce her, or it may be to insist on her return to him." " Bosh ! That is not likely." " Perhaps, then, some English friend she may have known has left her a bequest, which would of course lapse to some one else if she be not living." "By gad !" cried Graham, " I think you . hit the right nail on the head : c'est cela. But what then ?" " Well, if I thought any substantial benefit to Louise Duval might result from the success of your inquiry, I would really see if it were in my power to help you. But I must have time to consider." " How long ?" " I can't exactly say ; perhaps three or four days." "Bon! I will wait. Here comes M. Georges. I leave you to dominoes and him. Good-night." Late that night M. Lebeau was seated alone in the chamber connected with the cabinet in which he received visitors. A i 9 4 THE PARISIANS. ledger was open before him, which he scanned with careful eyes, no longer screened by spectacles. The survey seemed to satisfy him. He murmured : " It suffices the time has come"; closed the book, returned it to his bureau, which he locked up, and then wrote in cipher the letter here reduced into English : " DEAR AN\V NOBLE FRIEND : " Events march ; the Empire is everywhere undermined. Our treasury has thriven in my hands ; the sums subscribed and received by me through you have become more than quad- rupled by advantageous speculations, in which M. Georges has been a most trustworthy agent. A portion of them I have continued to employ in the mode suggested, viz., in bringing together men discreetly chosen as being in their various ways representatives and ringleaders of the motley varieties that, when united at the right moment, form a Parisian mob. But from that right moment we are as yet distant. Before we can call passion into action, we must prepare opinion for change. I propose now to devote no inconsiderable portion of our fund towards the inauguration of a journal which shall gradually give voice to our designs. Trust to me to insure its success, and obtain the aid of writers who will have no notion of the uses to which they ultimately contribute. Now that the time has come to establish for ourselves an organ in the press, addressing higher orders of intelligence than those which are needed to destroy, and incapable of reconstructing, the time has also arrived for the reappearance in his proper name and rank of the man in whom you take so gracious an interest. In vain you have pressed him to do so before ; till now he had not amassed together, by the slow process of petty gains and con- stant savings, with such additions as prudent speculations on his own account might contribute, the modest means necessary to his resumed position. And as he always contended against your generous offers, no consideration should ever tempt him either to appropriate to his personal use a single sou intrusted to him for a public purpose, or to accept from friendship the pecuniary aid which would abase him into the hireling of a cause. No ! Victor de Mauleon despises too much the tools that he employs to allow any man hereafter to say, ' Thou also wert a tool, and hast been paid for thy uses.' " But to restore the victim of calumny to his rightful place in this gaudy world, stripped of youth and reduced in fortune, is a task that may well seem impossible. To-morrow he takes THE PARISIANS. 195 the first step towards the achievement of the impossible. Ex- perience is no bad substitute for youth, and ambition is made Stronger by the goad of poverty. " Thou shall hear of his news soon." BOOK V. CHAPTER I. THE next day at noon M. Louvier was closeted in his study with M. Gandrin. " Yes," cried Louvier, "I have behaved very handsomely to the beau Marquis. No one can say to the contrary." " True," answered Gandrin. " Besides the easy terms for the transfer of the mortgages, that free bonus of 1000 louis is a generous and noble act of munificence." " Is it not ! And my youngster has already begun to do with it as I meant and expected. He has taken a fine apartment ; he has bought a coupe and horses ; he has placed himself in the hands of the Chevalier de Finisterre ; he is entered at the Jockey Club. Farbleu, the 1000 louis will be soon gone." " And then ? " " And then ! Why, he will have tasted the sweets of Pa- risian life. He will think with disgust of the vieux manoir. He can borrow no more. I must remain sole mortgagee, and I shall behave as handsomely in buying his estate as I have be- haved in increasing his income." Here a clerk entered and said " that a monsieur wished to see M. Louvier for a few minutes in private, on urgent business." " Tell him to send in his card." " He has declined to do so, but states that he has already the honor of your acquaintance." " A writer in the press, perhaps ; or is he an artist ? " "I have not seen him before, Monsieur, but he has the air trts comme il faut." " Well, you may admit him. I will not detain you longer, my dear Gandrin. My homages to Madame. Bon jour." Louvier bowed out M. Gandrin, and then rubbed his hands complacently. He was in high spirits. " Aha, my dear Mar- quis, thou art in my trap now. Would it were thy father in- stead," he muttered chucklingly, and then took his stand on the 196 THE PARISIANS. hearth, with his back to the fireless grare There entered a gentleman exceedingly well dressed dressed according to the fashion, but still as became one of ripe middle age, not desiring to pass for younger than he was. He was tall, with a kind of lofty ease in his air and his move- ments ; not slight of frame, but spare enough to disguise the strength and endurance which belong to sinews and thews of steel, freed from all superfluous flesh, broad across the shoul- ders, thin in the flanks. His dark hair had in youth'been lux- uriant in thickness and curl ; it was now clipped short, and had become bare at the temples, but it still retained the lustre of its color and the crispness of its ringlets. He wore neither beard nor moustache, and the darkness of his hair was contrasted by a clear fairness of complexion, healthful, though somewhat pale, and eyes of that rare gray tint which has in it no shade of blue peculiar eyes, which give a very distinct character to the face. The man must have been singularly handsome in youth ; he was handsome still, though probably in his forty-seventh or forty-eighth year, doubtless a very different kind of comeli- ness. The form of the features and the contour of the face were those that suit the rounded beauty of the Greek outline, and such beauty would naturally have been the attribute of the countenance in earlier days. But the cheeks were now thin, and with lines of care and sorrow between nostril and lip, so that the shape of the face seemed lengthened, and the features had become more salient. Louvier gazed at his visitor with a vague idea that he had seen him before and could not remember where or when ; but at all events he recognized at the first glance a man of rank and of the great world. " Pray be seated, Monsieur ! " he said, resuming his own easy-chair. The visitor obeyed the invitation with a very graceful bend of his head, drew his chair near to the financier's, stretched his limbs with the ease of a man making himself at home, and fix- ing his calm, bright eyes quietly on Louvier, said, with a bland smile : " My dear old friend, do you not remember me ? You are less altered than I am." Louvier stared hard and long ; his lip fell, his cheek paled, and at last he faltered out : " del ! is it possible ! Victor the Vicomte de Mauleon ? " "At your service, my dear Louvier." There was a pause ; the financier was evidently confused and THE PARISIANS. 197 embarrassed, and not less evidently the visit of the "dear old friend " was unwelcome. "Vicomte," he said at last, "this is indeed a surprise; I thought you had long since quitted Paris for good." " ' Uhomme propose,' etc. I have returned, and mean to en- joy the rest of my days in the metropolis of the Graces and the Pleasures. What though we are not so young as we were, Louvier, we have more vigor in us than the new generation ; and though it may no longer befit us to renew the gay carousals of old, life has still excitements as vivid for the social temper- ament and ambitious mind. Yes, the rot des viveurs returns to Paris for a more solid throrie than he filled before." " Are you serious ? " " As serious as the French gayety will permit one to be." " Alas, M. le Vicomte, can you flatter yourself that you will regain the society you have quitted and the name you have " Louvier stopped short ; something in the Vicomte's eye daunted him. " The name I have laid aside for convenience of travel. Princes travel in-cognito, and so may a simple gentilhomme. ' Regain my place in society,' say you ? Yes ; it is not that which troubles me." " What does ? " " The consideration whether on a very modest income I can be sufficiently esteemed for myself to render that society more pleasant than ever. Ah, man c/ier,\vhy recoil ? Why so fright- ened ? Do you think I am going to ask you for money ? Have I ever done so since we parted ? And did I ever do so before without repaying you ? Bah ! you roturiers are worse than the Bourbons. You never, learn or unlearn. ' Fors non mutat genus.' " The magnificent millionnaire, accustomed to the homage of grandees from the faubourg and lions from the Chaussee d'An- tin, rose to his feet in superb wrath, less at the taunting words than at the haughtiness of mien with which they were uttered. " Monsieur, I cannot permit you to address me in that tone. Do you mean to insult me ? " "Certainly not. Tranquillize your nerves, reseat yourself, and listen ; reseat yourself, I say." Louvier dropped into his chair. " No," resumed the Vicomte politely, " I do not come here to insult you, neither do I come to ask money ; I assume that I am in my rights when I ask M. Louvier what has become of Louise Duval ?" 198 THE PARISIANS. " Louise Duval ! I know nothing about her." " Possibly not now ; but you did know her well enough, when we two parted, to be a candidate for her hand. You did know her enough to solicit my good offices in promotion of your suit ; and you did, at my advice, quit Paris to seek her at Aix-la-Chapelle." " What, have you, M. de Mauleon, not heard news of her since that day ? " " I decline to accept your question as an answer to mine. You went to Aix-la-Chapelle ; you saw Louise Duval ; at my urgent request she condescended to accept your hand." "No, M. de Mauleon, she did not accept my hand. I did not even see her. The day before I arrived at Aix-la Chapelie she had left it not alone left it with her lover." " Her lover ! Ypu do not mean the miserable Englishman who " " No Englishman," interrupted Louvier fiercely. "Enough that the step she took placed an eternal barrier between her and myself. I have never even sought to hear of her since that day. Vicomte, that woman was the one love of my life. I loved her, as you must have known, to folly, to madness. And how was my love requited? Ah, you open a very deep wound, M. le Vicomte." "Pardon me, Louvier ; I did not give you credit for feelings so keen and so genuine, nor did I think myself thus easily af- fected by matters belonging to a past life so remote from the present. For whom did Louise forsake you?" "It matters not he is dead." "I regret to hear that ; I might have avenged you." "I need no one to avenge my wrong. Let this pass." " Not yet. Louise, you say, fled with a seducer? So proud as she was, I can scarcely believe it." ".Oh, it was not with a roturier she fled; her pride would not have allowed that." " He must have deceived her somehow. Did she continue to / live with him ? " " That question, at least, I can answer ; for though I lost all trace of her life, his life was pretty well known to me till its end ; and a very few months after she fled he was enchained to another. Let us talk of her no more." "Ay, ay," muttered De Mauleon, " some disgraces are not to be redeemed, and therefore not to be discussed. To me, though a relation, Louise Duval was but little known, and after what you tell me, I cannot dispute your right to say, ' talk of THE PARISIANS. 1$9 lier no more/ You loved her, and she wronged you. My poor Louvier, pardon me if I made an old wound bleed afresh." These words were said with a certain pathetic tenderness ; they softened Louvier towards the speaker. After a short pause the Vicomte swept his hand over his brow, as if to dismiss from his mind a painful and obtrusive thought ; then with a changed expression of countenance an expression frank and winning with voice and manner in which no vestige remained of the irony or the haughtiness with which he had resented the frigidity of his reception, he drew his chair still nearer to Louvier's, and resumed : "Our situations, Paul Louvier, are much changed since we two became friends. I then could say, 'Open sesame' to whatever recesses, forbidden to vulgar footsteps, the adventurer whom I took by the hand might wish to explore. In those days my heart was warm ; I jiked you, Louvier honestly liked you. I think our personal acquaintance commenced in some gay gathering of young viveurs, whose behavior to you offended my sense of good breeding?" Louvier colored and muttered inaudibly. De Mauleon continued : " I felt it due to you to rebuke their incivilities, the more so as you evinced on that occasion your own superiority in sense and temper, permit me to add, with no lack of becoming spirit." . Louvier bowed his head, evidently gratified " From that day we became familiar. If any obligation to me were incurred, you would not have been slow to return it. On more than one occasion when I was rapidly wasting money and money was plentiful with you you generously offered me your purse. On more than one occasion I accepted the offer ; and you would never have asked repayment if I had not insisted on repaying. I was no less grateful for your aid." Louvier made a movement as if to extend his hand, but he checked the impulse. "There was another attraction which drew me towards you. I recognized in your character a certain power in sympathy with that power which I imagined lay dormant in myself, and not to be found among the freluqucts and lions who were my more habitual associates. Do you not remember some hours of serious talk we -have had together when we lounged in the Tuileries, or sipped our coffee in the garden of the Palais Royal ? hours when we forgot that those were the haunts of idlers, and thought of the stormy actions affecting the history 200 THE PARISIANS. of the world of which they had been the scene hours when I confided to you, as I confided to no other man, the ambitious hopes for the future which my follies in the present, alas, were hourly tending to frustrate ?" " Ay, I remember the starlit night ; it was not in the gardens of the Tuileries nor in the Palais Royal it was on the Pont de la Concorde, on which we had paused, noting the starlight on the waters, that you said, pointing towards the walls of the Corps Le'gislatif : ' Paul, when I once get into the Chamber, how long will it take me to become First Minister of France ? " " Did I say so ? Possibly ; but I was too young then for admission to the Chamber, and I fancied I had so many years yet to spare in idle loiterings at the Fountain of Youth. Pass over these circumstances. You became in love with Louise. I told you her troubled history ; it did not diminish your love ; and then I frankly favored your suit. You set out for Aix-la- Chapelle a day or two afterwards ; then fell the thunderbolt which shattered my existence, and we have never met again till this hour. You did not receive me kindly, Paul Louvier." " But," said Louvier falteringly ; " But since you refer to that thunderbolt, you cannot but be aware that that " " I was subjected to a calumny which I expect those who have known me as well as you did to assist me now to refute." " If it be really a calumny." "Heavens, man, could you ever doubt that?" cried De Mauleon, with heat ; " ever doubt that I would rather have blown out my brains than allowed them even to conceive the idea of a crime so base ? " " Pardon me," answered Louvier meekly, " but I did not return to Paris for months after you had disappeared. My mind was unsettled by the news that awaited me at Aix ; I sought to distract it by travel ; visited Holland and England ; and when I did return to Paris, all that I heard of your story was the darker side of it. I willingly listen to your own ac- count. You never took, or at least never accepted, the Duch- esse de 's jewels ; and your friend M. de N. never sold them to one jeweller and obtained their substitutes in paste from another ? " The Vicomte made a perceptible effort to repress a$ impulse of rage ; then reseating himself in his chair, and with that slight shrug of the shoulder by which a Frenchman implies to himself that rage would be out of place, replied calmly : "M. de N. did ac you say, but, of course, not employed by me, nor with my knowledge. Listen ; the truth is this the time has THE PARISIANS. 2OI come to tell it : Before you left Paris for Aix I found myself on the brink of ruin. I had glided towards it with my charac- teristic recklessness ; with that scorn of money for itself, that sanguine confidence in the favor of fortune, which are vices common to every roi des viveurs. Poor, mock Alexanders that we spendthrifts are in youth ! We divide all we have among others, and when asked by some prudent friend, 'What have you left for your own share?' answer 'Hope.' I knew, of course, that my patrimony was rapidly vanishing ; but then my horses were matchless. I had enough to last me for years on their chance of winning ; of course they would win. But you may recollect when we parted that I was troubled cred- itors' bills before me usurers' bills too, and you, my dear Louvier, pressed on me your purse ; were angry when I re- fused it. How could I accept ? All my chance for repayment was in the speed of a horse. I believed in that chance for my- self ; but for a trustful friend, no.. Ask your own heart now nay, I will not say heart ask your own common-sense, wheth- er a man who then put aside your purse spendthrift, vauricn, though he might be was likely to steal or accept a woman's jewels Vas, mon pauvre Louvier, again I say, ' Fors non mutat genus.' " Despite the repetition of the displeasing patrician motto, such reminiscences of his visitor's motley character irregular, turbulent, the reverse of severe, but, in its own loose way, grandly generous and grandly brave struck both on the com- mon-sense and the heart of the listener ; and the Frenchman recognized the Frenchman. Louvier doubted De Mauleon's word no more, bowed his head, and said : "Victor de Mau- leon, I have wronged you go on." " On the day after you left for Aix came that horse-race on which my all depended : it was lost. The loss absorbed the whole of my remaining fortune; it absorbed about 20,000 francs in excess, a debt of honor to De N., whom you called my friend : friend he was not ; imitator, follower, flatterer, yes. Still I deemed him enough my friend to say to him : ' Give me a little time to pay the money ; I must sell my stud, or write to my only living relation from whom I have expectations.' You remember that relation, Jacques de Mauleon, old and unmar- ried. By De N.'s advice I did write to my kinsman. No- answer came ; but what did come were fresh bills from cred- itors. I then calmly calculated my assets. The sale of my stud and effects might suffice to pay every sou that I owed, in- clud'ng my debt to Pe N.; but that was not quite certain ; at 202 THE PARISIANS. all events, when the debts were paid I should be beggared. Well, you know, Louvier, what we Frenchmen are : how Na- ture has denied to us the quality of patience ; how involunta- rily suicide presents itself to us when hope is lost, and suicide seemed to me here due to honor, viz., to the certain discharge of my liabilities ; for the stud and effects of Victor de Mauleon, roi dcs vtveurs, would command much higher prices if he died like Cato than if he ran away from his fate like Pompey. Doubtless De N. guessed my intention from my words or my manner ; but on the very day in which I had made all prepa- rations for quitting the world from which sunshine had van- ished, I received in a blank envelope banknotes amounting to 70,000 francs, and the post-mark on the envelope was that of the town of Fontainebleau, near to which lived my rich kins- man Jacques. I took it for granted that the sum came from him. Displeased as he might have been with my wild career, still I was his natural heir. The sum sufficed to pay my debt to De N., to all creditors, and leave a surplus. My san- guine spirits returned. I would sell my stud ; I would re- trench, reform, go to my kinsman as the penitent son. The fatted calf would be killed, and I should wear purple yet. You understand that, Louvier?" "Yes, yes ; so like you. Go on." " Now, then, came the thunderbolt ! Ah ! in those sunny days you used to envy me for being so spoilt by women. The Duchesse de had conceived for me one of those romantic fancies which women without children, and with ample leisure for the waste of affection, do sometimes conceive for very or- dinary men younger than themselves, but in whom they im- agine they discover sinners to reform or heroes to exalt. I had been honored by some notes from the Duchesse in which this sort of romance was owned. I had not replied to them encouragingly. In truth, my heart was then devoted to another, the English girl whom I had wooed as my wife ; who, despite her parents' retractation of their consent to our union when they learned how dilapidated were my fortunes, pledged herself to remain faithful to me, and wait for better days." Again De Mauleon paused in suppressed emotion, and then went on hur- riedly : "No, the Duchesse did not inspire me with guilty pas- sion, but she did inspire me with an affectionate respect. I felt that she was by nature meant to be a great and noble creature, and was, nevertheless, at that moment wholly misled from her right place amongst women by an illu- sion of mere imagination about a man who happened then to THE PARISIANS. 203 be very much talked about, and perhaps resembled some Lo- thario in the novels which she was always reading. We lodged, as you may remember, in the same house." " Yes, I remember. I remember how you once took me to a great ball given by the Duchesse ; how handsome I thought her, though no longer young ; and you say right how I did envy you that night ! " " From that night, however, the Due, not unnaturally, be- came jealous. He reproved the Duchesse for her too amiable manner towards a mauvais sujet like myself, and forbade her in future to receive my visits. It was then that these notes be- came frequent and clandestine, brought to me by her maid, who took back my somewhat chilling replies. "But to proceed. In the flush of my high spirits, and in the insolence of magnificent ease with which 1 paid De N. the trifle I owed him, something he said made my heart stand still. I told him that the money received had come from Jacques de Mauleon, and that I was going down to his house that day to thank him. He replied, ' Don't go ; it did not come from hint.' ' It must ; see the postmark of the envelope Fontainebleau.* ' I posted it at Fontainebleau.' 'You sent me the money, you !' ' Nay, that is beyond my means. Where it came from," said this miserable, ' much more may yet come '; and then he nar- rated, with that cynicism so in vogue in Paris, how he had told the Duchesse (who knew him as my intimate associate) of my stress of circumstance, of his fear that I meditated something desperate ; how she gave him the jewels to sell and to substi- tute ; how, in order to baffle my suspicion and frustrate my scru- ples, he had gone to Fontainebleau and there posted the envelope containing the banknotes, out of which he secured for himself the payment he deemed otherwise imperilled. De N. having made this confession, hurried down the stairs swiftly enough to save himself a descent by the window. Do you believe me still ?" '' Yes ; you were always so hot-blooded, and De N. so con- siderate of self, I believe you implicitly." "Of course I did what any man would do ; I wrote a hasty letter to the Duchesse, stating all my gratitude for an act of pure friendship so noble ; urging also the reasons that rendered it impossible for a man of honor to profit by such an act. Un- happily, what had been sent was paid away ere I knew the facts ; but I could not bear the thought of life till my debt to her was acquitted ; in short, Louvier, conceive for yourself the sort of letter which I which any honest ma.n would write, under circumstances 50 cruel," 204 THE PARISIANS. "H'm ! " grunted Louvier. " Something, however, in my letter, conjoined with what De N. had told her as to my state of mind, alarmed this poor woman, who -had deigned to take in me an interest so little de- served. Her reply, very agitated and incoherent, was brought to me by her maid, who had taken my letter, and by whom, as I before said, our correspondence had been of late carried on. In her reply she implored me to decide, to reflect on nothing till I had seen her ; stated how the rest of her day was pre- engaged ; and since to visit her openly had been made impossi- ble by the Due's interdict, enclosed the key to the private entrance to her rooms, by which I could gain an interview with her at ten o'clock that night, an hour at which the Due had informed her he should be out till late at his club. Now, how- ever great the indiscretion which the Duchesse here committed, it is due to her memory to say that I am convinced that her dominant idea was that I meditated self-destruction ; that no time was to be lost to save me from it ; and for the rest she trusted to the influence which a woman's tears and adjurations and reasonings have over even the strongest and hardest men. It is only one of those coxcombs in whom the world of fashion abounds who could have admitted a thought that would have done wrong to the impulsive, generous, imprudent eagerness of a woman to be in time to save from death by his own hand a fellow-being for whom she had conceived an interest. I so construed her note. At the hour she named I admitted myself into the rooms by the key she sent. You know the rest : I was discovered by the Due and by the agents of police in the cabinet in which the Duchesse's jewels were kept. The key that admitted me into the cabinet was found in my possession." De Mauleon's voice here faltered, and he covered his face with a convulsive hand. Almost in the same breath he recov- ered from visible sigiTs of emotion, and went on with a half- laugh. " Ah ! you envied me, did you, for being spoiled by the women ? Enviable position indeed was mine that night. The Due obeyed the first impulse of his wrath. He imagined that I had dishonored him : he would dishonor me in return. Easier to his pride, too, a charge against the robber of jewels, than against a favored lover of his wife. But when I, obeying the first necessary obligation of honor, invented on the spur of the moment the story by which the Duchesse's reputation was cleared from suspicion, accused myself of a frantic passion and the trickery of a fabricated key, the Due's, true nature of gctp THE PARISIANS. 20$ tilhomnie Came back. He retracted the charge which he could scarcely eveu_at the first blush have felt to be well-founded ; and as the sole charge left was simply that which men commc ilfaut do not refer to criminal courts and police investigations, I was left to make my bow unmolested and and retreat to my own rooms, awaiting there such communications as the Due might deem it right to convey to me on the morrow. " But on the morrow the Due, with his wife and personal suite, quitted Paris en route for Spain ; the bulk of his retinue, including the offending abigail, was discharged ; and, whether through these servants or through the police, the story before evening was in the mouth of every gossip in club or cafe ex- aggerated, distorted, to my ignominy and shame. My detec- tion in the cabinet, the sale of the jewels, the substitution of paste by De N., who was known to be my servile imitator, and reputed to be my abject tool ; all my losses on the turf, my debts, all these scattered fibres of flax were twisted together in a rope that would have hanged a dog with a much better name than mine. If some disbelieved that I could be a thief, few of those who should have known me best held me guiltless of a baseness almost equal to that of theft the exaction of profit from the love of a foolish woman." "But you could have told your own tale, shown the letters you had received from the Duchesse, and cleared away every stain on your honor." " How ? Shown her letters, ruined her character, even stated that she had caused her jewels to be sold for the uses of a young roue ! Ah no, Louvier ! I would rather have gone to the galleys." " H'm ! " grunted Louvier again. " The Due generously gave me better means of righting my- self. Three days after he quitted Paris I received a letter from him, .very politely written, expressing his great regret that any words implying the suspicion too monstrous and absurd to need refutation should have escaped him in the surprise of the mo- ment ; but stating that since the offence I had owned was one that he could not overlook, he was under the necessity of ask- ing the only reparation I could make. That if it ' deranged ' me to quit Paris, he would return to it for the purpose re- quired ; but that if I would give him the additional satisfac- tion of suiting his convenience, he should prefer to await my arrival at Bayonne, where he was detained by the indisposition of the Duchesse." "You have still that letter ?" asked Louvier quickly. 206 THE PARISIANS. " Yes ; with other more important documents constituting what I may call my pieces justificatives. "I need not say that I replied stating the time at which I should arrive at Bayonne, and the hotel at which I should await the Due's command. Accordingly I set out that same day, gained the hotel named, despatched to the Due the an- nouncement of my arrival, and was considering how I should obtain a second in some officer quartered in the town for my soreness and resentment at the marked coldness of my former acquaintances at Paris had forbidden me to seek a second among any of that faithless number when the Due himself entered my room. Judge of my amaze at seeing him in per- son ; judge how much greater the amaze became when he ad- vanced with a grave but cordial smile, offering me his hand ! " M. de Mauleon," said he, ' since I wrote to you, facts have become known to me which would induce me rather to ask your friendship than call on you to defend your life. Madame la Duchesse has been seriously ill since we left Paris, and I re- frained from all explanations likely to add to the hysterical ex- citement under which she was suffering. It is only this day that her mind became collected, and she herself then gave me her entire confidence. Monsieur, she insisted on my reading the letters that you addressed to her. Those letters, Monsieur, suffice to prove your innocence of any design against my peace. The Duchesse has so candidly avowed her own indiscretion, has so clearly established the distinction between indiscretion and guilt, that I have granted her my pardon with a lightened heart and a firm belief that we shall be happier together than we have been yet.' " The Due continued his journey the next day, but he sub- sequently honored me with two or three letters written as friend to friend, and in which you will find repeated the substance of what I have stated him to say by word of mouth." " But why not then have returned to Paris ? Such letters, at least, you might have shown, and in braving your calumniators you would have soon lived them down." " You forget that I was a ruined man. When, by the sale of my horses, etc., my debts, including what was owed to the Duchesse, which I remitted to the Due, were discharged, the balance left to me would not have maintained me a week at Paris. Besides, I felt so sore, so indignant. Paris and the Parisians had become to me so hateful. And to crown all, that girl, that En- glish girl whom I had so loved, on whose fidelity I had so counted well, I received a letter from her, gently but coldly THE PARISIANS. 2O^ bidding me farewell forever. I do not think she believed me guilty of theft, but doubtless the offence I had confessed, in order to save the honor of the Duchesse, could but seem to her all-sufficient ! Broken in spirit, bleeding at heart to the very core, still self-destruction was no longer to be thought of. I would not die till I could once more lift up my head as Victor de Mauleon." " What then became of you, my poor Victor ? " "Ah ! that is a tale too long for recital. I have played so many parts that I am puzzled to recognize my own identity with the Victor de Mauleon whose name I abandoned. I have been a soldier in Algeria, and won my cross on the field of battle that cross and my colonel's letter are among my pieces justificatives. I have been a gold-digger in California, a specu- lator in New York, of late in callings obscure and humble. But in all my adventures, under whatever name, I have earned testimonials of probity, could manifestations of so vulgar a virtue be held of account by the enlightened people of Paris. I come now to a close. The Vicomte de Mauleon is about to reappear in Paris, and the first to whom he announces that sub- lime avatar is Paul Louvier. When settled in some modest apartment, I shall place in your hands my pieces justificatives. I shall ask you to summon my surviving relations or connections, among which are the Counts de Vandemar, Beauvilliers, Des Passy, and the Marquis de Rochebriant, with any friends of your own who sway the opinions of the Great World. You will place my justification before them, expressing your own opinion that it suffices ; in a word, you will give me the sanction of your countenance. For the rest I trust to myself to propitiate the kindly and to silence the calumnious. I have spoken ; what say you ?" " You overrate my power in society. Why not appeal your- self to your high-born relations ? " " No, Louvier ; I have too well considered the case to alter my decision. It is through you, and you alone, that I shall approach my relations. My vindicator must be a man of whom the vulgar cannot say, 'Oh, he's a relation, a fellow-noble: those aristocrats whitewash each other.' It must be an authority with the public at large a. bourgeois, a millionnaire, a roi de la Bourse. I choose you, and that ends the discussion." Louvier could not help laughing good-humoredly at the sang- froid 'of the Vicomte. He was once more under the domination of a man who had for a time dominated all with whom he lived. De Mauleon continued : " Your task will be easy enough. 2o8 THE PAktSlANS. Society changes rapidly at Paris. Few persons now exist who have more than a vague recollection of the circumstances which can be so easily explained to my complete vindication when the vindication comes from a man of your solid respect- ability and social influence. Besides, I have political objects in view. You are a Liberal ; the Vandemars and Rochebriants are Legitimists. I prefer a godfather on the Liberal side. Pardieu, man ami, why such coquettish hesitation ? Said and done. Your hand on it." " There is my hand, then. I will do all I can to help you." " I know you will, old friend ; and you do both kindly and wisely." Here De Mauleon cordially pressed the hand he held, and departed. On gaining the street, the Vicomte glided into a neighboring courtyard, in which he had left his fiacre, and bade the coach- man drive towards the Boulevard Sebastopol. On the way, he took from a small bag that he had left in the carriage the flaxen wig and pale whiskers which distinguished M. Lebeau, and mantled his elegant habiliments in an immense cloak, which he had also left in the fiacre. Arrived at the Boulevard Sebastopol he drew up the collar of the cloak so as to conceal much of his face, stopped the driver, paid him quickly, and, bag in hand, hurried on to another stand of fiacres at a little distance, en- tered one, and drove to the Faubourg Montmartre, dismissed the vehicle at the mouth of a street not far from M. Lebeau's office, and gained on foot the private side-door of the house, let himself in with his latch-key, entered the private room on the inner side of his office, locked the door, and pro- ceeded leisurely to exchange the brilliant appearance which the Vicomte de Mauleon had borne on his visit to the million- naire, for the sober raiment and bourgcoise air of M. Lebeau, the letter-writer. Then after locking up his former costume in a drawer of his secretaire, he sat himself down and wrote the following lines: " DEAR M. GEORGES : " I advise you strongly, from information that has just reached me; to lose no time in pressing M. Savarin to repay the sum I recommended you to lend htm, and for which you hold his bill due this day. The scandal of legal measures against a writer so distinguished should be avoided if possible. He will avoid it, and get the money somehow. But he must be urgently pressed. If you neglect this warning, my responsibility is past. Agrtez mes sentimens les plus sindrcs. J. L." THE PARISIANS. 209 CHAPTER II. THE Marquis de Rochebriant is no longer domiciled in an attic in the gloomy faubourg. See him now in a charming appartement de gar f on au premier in the Rue du Helder, close by the promenades and haunts of the mode. It had been fur- nished and inhabited by a brilliant young provincial from Bor- deaux, who, coming into an inheritance of 100,000 francs, had rushed up to Paris to enjoy himself, and make his million at the Bourse. He had enjoyed himself thoroughly he had been a darling of the demi-monde. He had been a successful and an inconstant gallant. Zelie had listened to his vows of eternal love, and his offers of unlimited cachemires. Desiree, succeed- ing Zelie, had assigned to him her whole heart, or all that was left of it, in gratitude for the ardor of his passion, and the dia- monds and coupe which accompanied and attested the ardor. The superb Hortense, supplanting Desiree, received his visits in the charming apartment he furnished 1 for her, and entertained him and his friends at the most delicate little suppers, for the moderate sum of 4000 francs a month. Yes, he had enjoyed himself thoroughly, but he had not made a million at the Bourse. Before the year was out, the 100,000 francs were gone. Com- pelled to return to his province, and by his hard-hearted rela- tions ordained, on penalty of starvation, to marry the daughter of an avoue", for the sake of her dot and a share in the hated drudgery of the avoue s business his apartment was to be had for a tenth part of the original cost of its furniture. A certain Chevalier de Finisterre, to whom Louvier had introduced the Marquis as a useful fellow, who knew Paris, and would save him from being cheated, had secured this bijou of an apartment for Alain, and concluded the bargain for the bagatelle of ^500. The Chevalier took the same advantageous occasion to pur- chase the English well-bred hack and the neat coupe and horses which the Bordelais was also necessitated to dispose of. These purchases made, the Marquis had some 5000 francs (^200) left out of Louvier' s premium of ^1000. The Mar- quis, however, did not seem alarmed or dejected by the sudden diminution of capital so expeditiously effected. The easy life thus commenced seemed to him too natural to be fraught with danger ; and easy though it was, it was a very simple and mod- est sort of life compared with that of many other men of his age to whom Enguerrand had introduced him, though most of them had an income less than his, and few, indeed, of them 2IO THE PARISIANS. were his equals in dignity of birth. Could a Marquis de Roche- briant, if he lived at Paris at all, give less than 3000 francs a year for his apartment, or mount a more humble establishment than that confined to a valet and a tiger, two horses for his coupe and one for the saddle? "Impossible," said the Chev- alier de Finisterre decidedly ; and the Marquis bowed to so high an authority. He thought within himself, "If I find an a few months that I am exceeding my means, I can but dispose of my rooms and my horses, and return to Rochebriant a richer man by far than I left it." To say truth, the brilliant seductions of Paris had already produced their effect, not only on the habits, but on the char- acter and cast of thought, which the young noble had brought with him from the feudal and melancholy Bretagne. Warmed by the kindness with which, once introduced by his popular kinsmen, he was everywhere received, the reserve or shyness which is the compromise between the haughtiness of self-esteem and the painful doubt of appreciation by others, rapidly melted away. He caught insensibly the polished tone, at once so light and so cordial, of his new_-made friends. With all the efforts of the democrats to establish equality and fra- ternity, it is among the aristocrats that equality and fraternity are most to be found. All gentilshommes in the best society are equals ; and whether they embrace or fight each other, they embrace or fight as brothers of the same family. But with the tone of manners, Alain de Rochebriant imbibed still more insensibly the lore of that philosophy which young idlers in pursuit of pleasure teach to each other. Probably in all civilized and luxurious capitals that philosophy is very much the same among the same class of idlers at the same' age ; probably it flourishes in Pekin not less than at Paris. If Paris has the credit, or discredit, of it more than any other capital, it is because in Paris more than in any other capital it charms the eye by grace and amuses the ear by wit. A philosophy which takes the things of this life very easily ; which has a smile and a shrug of the shoulders for any pretender to the heroic ; which subdivides the wealth of passion into the pocket-money of caprices ; is always in or out of love, ankle-deep, never ventur- ing a plunge ; which, light of heart as of tongue, turns "the solemn plausibilities " of earth into subjects for epigrams and bons mots it jests at loyalty to kings, and turns up its nose at enthusiasm for commonwealths ; it abjures all grave studies ; it shuns all profound emotions. We have crowds of such philosophers in London ; but there they are less noticed, because THE PARISIANS. 211 the agreeable attributes of the sect are there dimmed and obfus- cated. It is not a philosophy that flowers richly in the reek of fogs, and in the tee,th of east winds ; it wants for full develop- ment the light atmosphere of Paris. Now this philosophy began rapidly to exercise its charms upon Alain de Rochebriant. Even in the society of professed Legitimists, he felt that faith had deserted the Legitimist creed or taken refuge only as a companion of religion in the hearts of high-born women and a small minority of priests. His chivalrous loyalty still strug- gled to keep its ground, but its roots were very much loosened. He saw for his natural intellect was keen that the cause of the Bourbon was hopeless, at least for the present, because it had ceased, at least for the present, to be a cause. His political creed thus shaken, with it was shaken also that adherence to the past which had stifled his ambition of a future. That ambition began to breathe and to stir, though he owned it not to others * though, as yet, he scarce distinguished its whispers, much less directed its movements towards any definite object. Meanwhile, all that he knew of his ambition was the new-born desire for social success. We see him, then, under the quick operation of this change in sentiments and habits, reclined on the fauteuil before his fireside, and listening to his college friend, of whom we have so long lost sight, Frederic Lemercier. Frederic had break- fasted with Alain a breakfast such as might have contented the author of the " Almanach des Gourmands," and provided from the Cafe Anglais. Frederic has just thrown aside his regalia. " Pardieu, my dear Alain ! If Louvier has no sinister object in the generosity of his dealings with you, he will have raised himself prodigiously in my estimation. I shall forsake, in his favor, my allegiance to Duplessis, though that clever fellow has just made a wondrous coiip in the Egyptians, and I gain 40,000 francs by having followed his advice. But if Duplessis has a head as long as Louvier's, he certainly has not an equal greatness of soul. Still, my dear friend, will you pardon me, if I speak frankly, and in the way of a warning homily ? " " Speak ; you cannot oblige me more." "Well, then, I know that you can no more live at Paris in the way you are doing, or mean to do, without some fresh ad- dition to your income, than a lion could live in the Jardin des Plantes upon an allowance of two mice a week." "I don't see that. Deducting what I pay to my aunt and I cannot get her to take more than 6000 francs a year I have 212 THE PARISIANS. 700 napoleons left, net and clear. My rooms and stables are equipped, and I have 2500 francs in hand. On 700 napoleons a year, I calculate that I can very easily live as I do ; and if I fail well, I must return to Rochebriant. Seven hundred na- poleons a year will be a magnificent rental there." Frederic shook his head. " You do not know how one expense leads to another. Above all, you do not calculate the chief part of one's expenditure the unforeseen. You will play at the Jockey Club and lose half your income in a night." " I shall never touch a card." " So you say now, innocent as a lamb of the force of example. At all events, beau seigneur, I presume you are not going to re- suscitate the part of the Ermite de la Chaussee d" Antin ; and the fair Parisiennes are demons of extravagance." " I have never written anything of the kind before, and this is a riddle to me. I know not," she added with a sweet, low laugh, " why I began, nor how I should end it." " So much the better," said Savarin ; and he took the MS., withdrew to a recess by the further window, and seated him- self there, reading silently and quickly, but now and then with a brief pause of reflection. Rameau placed himself beside Isaura on the divan, and began talking with her earnestly earnestly, for it was about himself and his aspiring hopes. Isaura, on the other hand, more woman-like than author-like, ashamed even to seem ab- sorbed in herself and her hopes, and with her back turned, in the instinct of that shame, against the reader of her MS. Isaura listened and sought to interest herself solely in the young fellow-author. Seeking to do so she succeeded genu- inely, for ready sympathy was a prevailing characteristic of her nature. " Oh," said Rameau, " I am at the turning-point of my life. Ever since boyhood I have been haunted with the words of THE PARISIANS. 247 Andre Chenier on the morning he was led to the scaffold : 'And yet there was something here,' striking his forehead. Yes, I, poor, low-born, launching myself headlong in the chase of a name ; I, underrated, uncomprehended, indebted even for a hearing to the patronage of an amiable trifler like Savarin, ranked by petty rivals in a grade below themselves I now see before me, suddenly, abruptly presented, the expanding gates into fame and fortune. Assist me, you ! " "But how?" said Isaura, already forgetting her MS. ; and certainly Rameau did not refer to that. " How ! " echoed Rameau ; " How ! But do you not see or, at least, do you not conjecture this journal of which Savarin speaks contains my present and my future? Present independence, opening to fortune and renown. Ay, and who shall say? renown beyond that of the mere writer. Behind the gaudy scaffolding of vhis rickety Empire, a new social edi- fice unperceived arises ; and in that edifice the halls of State shall be given to the men who help obscurely to build it to men like me." Here, drawing her hand into his own, fixing on her the most imploring gaze of his dark persuasive eyes, and utterly unconscious of bathos in his adjuration, he added : " Plead for me with your whole mind and heart ; use your ut- termost influence with the illustrious writer, whose pen can as- sure the fates of my journal." Here the door suddenly opened, and following the servant, who announced unintelligibly his name, there entered Graham Vane. CHAPTER X. THE Englishman halted at the threshold. His eyes, pass- ing rapidly over the figure of Savarin reading in the window- niche, rested upon Rameau and Isaura seated on the same divan, he with her hand clasped in both his own, and bending his face towards hers so closely that a loose tress of her hair seemed to touch his forehead. The Englishman halted, and no revolution which changes the habitudes and forms of States was ever so sudden as that which passed without a word in the depths of his unconjectured heart. The heart has no history which philosophers can rec- ognize. An ordinary political observer, contemplating the condition of a nation, may very safely tell us what effects must follow the causes patent to his eyes. But the wisest and most far-seeing sage, looking at a man at one o'clock, cannot tell us 248 THE PARISIANS. what revulsions of his whole being may be made ere the clock strike two. As Isaura rose to greet her visitor, Savarin came from the window-niche, the MS. in his hand. " Son of perfidious Albion," said Savarin gayly, "we feared you had deserted the French alliance. Welcome back to Paris, and the entente cordiale." " Would I could stay to enjoy such welcome. But I must again quit Paris." " Soon to return, nest-ce pas? Paris is an irresistible magnet to It-s beaux esprits. Apropos of beaux efprits, be sure to leave orders with your bookseller, if you have one, to enter your name as a subscriber to a new journal." " Certainly, if M. Savarin recommends it." " He recommends it as a matter of course ; he writes in it," said Rameau. *'A sufficient guarantee for its excellence. What is the name of the journal? " " Not yet thought of," answered Savarin. " Babes must be born before they are christened ; but it will be instruction enough to your bookseller to order the new journal to be edited by Gustave Rameau." Bowing ceremoniously to the editor in prospect, Graham said, half ironically, " May I hope that in the department of criticism you will not be too hard upon poor Tasso?" " Never fear ; theSignorina, who adores Tasso, will take him under her special protection," said Savarin, interrupting Ra- meau's sullen and embarrassed reply. Graham's brow slightly contracted. "Mademoiselle," he said, "is then to be united in the conduct of this journal with M. Gustave Rameau? " " No, indeed ! " exclaimed Isaura, somewhat frightened at the idea. "But I hope," said Savarin, "that the Signorina may become a contributor too important for an editor to offend by insulting her favorites, Tasso included. Rameau and I came hither to entreat her influence with her intimate and illustrious friend, Madame de Grantmesnil, to insure the success of our under- taking by sanctioning the announcement of her name as a con- tributor." " Upon social questions such as the laws of marriage ? " said Graham, with a sarcastic smile, which concealed the quiver of his lip and the pain in his voice. "Nay," answered Savarin, "our journal will be too sportive, THE PARISIANS. 249 I hope, for matters so profound. We would rather have Madame de Grantmesnil's aid in some short rowan, which will charm the fancy of all and offend the opinions of none. But since I came into the room, I care less for the Signorina's influence with the great authoress," and he glanced significantly at the MS. " How so ? "uisked Graham, his eye following the glance. " If the writer of this MS. will conclude what she has begun, we shall be independent of Madame de Grantmesnil." " Fie ! " cried Isaura impulsively, her face and neck bathed in blushes " Fie ! such words are a mockery." Graham gazed at her intently, and then turned his eyes on Savarin. He guessed aright the truth. " Mademoiselle then is an author? In the style of her friend Madame de Grant- mesnil ? " " Bah ! " said Savarin, " I should indeed be guilty of mockery if I paid the Signorina so false a compliment as to say that in a first effort she attained to the style of one of the most finished sovereigns' of language that has ever swayed the literature of France. When I say, ' Give us this tale completed, and I shall be consoled if the journal does not gain the aid of Madame de Grantmesnil,' I mean that in these pages there is that nameless charm oT freshness and novelty which compensates for many faults never committed by a practised pen like Madame de Grantmesnil's. My dear young lady, go on with this story finish it. When finished, do not disdain any suggestions I may offer in the way of correction. And I will venture to predict to you so brilliant a career as author, that you will not regret should you resign for that career the bravos you could com- mand as actress and singer." The Englishman pressed his hand convulsively to his heart, as if smitten by a sudden spasm. But as his eyes rested on Isaura's face, which had become radiant with the enthusiastic delight of genius when the path it would select opens before it as if- by a flash from heaven, whatever of jealous irritation, whatever of selfish pain he might before have felt, was gone, merged in a sentiment of unutter- able sadness and compassion. Practical man as he was, he knew so well all the dangers, all the snares, all the sorrows, all the scandals menacing name and fame, that in the world of Paris must beset the fatherless girl who, not less in authorship than on the stage, leaves the safeguard of private life forever behind her, who becomes a prey to the tongues of the public. At Paris, how slender is the line that divides the authoress from the Bohe'mienne ! He sank into his chair silently, and 250 THE PARISIANS. passed his hand over his eyes as if to shut out a vision of the future. Isaura in her excitement did not notice the effect on her English visitor. She could not have divined such an effect as possible. On the contrary, even subordinate to her joy at the thought that she had not mistaken the instincts which led her to a nobler vocation than that of the singer, that the cage-bar was opened, and space bathed in sunshine was inviting the new-felt wings subordinate even to that joy was a joy more wholly, more simply woman's. " If," thought she in this joy, " if this be true, my proud ambition is realized ; all disparities of worth and fortune are annulled between me and him to whom I would bring no shame of mesalliance /" Poor dream- er, poor child ! " You will let me see what you have written," said Rameau, somewhat imperiously, in the sharp voice habitual to him, and which pierced Graham's ear like a splinter of glass. "No, not now; when finished." " You will finish it ? " " Oh, yes ; how can I help ijt, after such encouragement ? " She held out her hand to Savarin, who kissed it gallantly ; then her eyes intuitively sought Graham's. By that time he had re- covered his self-possession : he met her look tranquilly and with a smile ; but the smile chilled her she knew not why. The conversation then passed upon books and authors of the day, and was chiefly supported by the satirical pleasantries of Savarin, who was in high good spirits. Graham, who, as we know, had come with the hope of see- ing Isaura alone, and with the intention of uttering words which, however guarded, might yet in absence serve as links of union, now no longer coveted that interview, no longer medi- tated those words. He soon rose to depart. " Will you dine with me to-morrow ? " asked Savarin. " Per- haps I may induce the Signorina and Rameau to offer you the temptation of meeting them." " By to-morrow I shall be leagues away." Isaura's heart sank. This time the MS. was fairly forgotten. " You never said you were going so soon," cried Savarin. "When do you come back, vile deserter ?" "I cannot even guess. Monsieur Rameau, count meamong your subscribers. Mademoiselle, my best regards to Signora Venosta. When I see you again, no doubt you will have be- come famous." Isaura here could not control herself. She rose impulsively, THE PARISIANS. 2^1 and approached him, holding out her hand and attempting a smile. "But not famous in the way that you warned me from, "she said, in whispered tones. "You are friends with me still?" It was like the piteous wail of a child seeking to make it up with one who wants to quarrel, the child knows not why. Graham was moved, but what could he say ? Could he have the right to warn her from this profession also ; forbid all desires, all roads of fame to this brilliant aspirant?- Even a declared and accepted lover might well have deemed that that would be to ask too much. He replied, " Yes, always a friend if you could ever need one." Her hand slid from his, and she turned away, wounded to the quick. ' Have you your coupe at the door?" asked Savarin. 'Simply a fiacre." 'And are you going back at once to Paris ? " ' Yes." 'Will you kindly drop me in the Rue de Rivoli ?" ' Charmed to be of use." CHAPTER XI. As the nacre bore to Paris Savarin and Graham, the former said, "I cannot conceive what rich simpleton could entertain so high an opinion of Gustave Rameau as to select a man so young, and of reputation, though promising, so undecided, for an enterprise which requires such a degree of tact and judg- ment as the conduct of a new journal ; and a journal, too, which is to address itself to the beau monde. However, it is not for me to criticise a selection which brings a godsend to myself." " To yourself? You jest ; you have a journal of your own. It can only be through an excess of good-nature thatyou lend your name and pen to the service of M. Gustave Rameau." "My good-nature does not go to that extent. It is Rameau who confers a service upon me. Peste ! mon cher, we Frnch authors have not the rehts of you rich English milords. And though I am the most economical of our tribe, yet that journal of mine has failed me of late ; and this morning I did not ex- actly see how I was to repay a sum I had been obliged to bor- row of a money-lender for I am too proud to borrow of friends, and too sagacious to borrow of publishers when in walks ce cher petit Gustave with an offer fora few trifles towards 252 THE PARISIANS. Starting this new-born journal, which makes a new man of nlj. Now 1 am in the undertaking, my amour propre and my repu- tation are concerned in its success ; and I shall take care that callaborateurs of whose company I am not ashamed are in the same boat. But that charming girl, Isaura ! What an enigma the gift of the pen is ! No one can ever guess who has it until tried." " The.^oung lady's MS., then, really merits the praise you bestowed on it ? " " Much more praise, though a great deal of blame, which I did not bestow. For in a first work faults insure success as much as beauties. Anything better than tame correctness. Yes, her first work, to judge by what is written, must make a hit a great hit. And that will decide her career ; a singer, an actress may retire, often does when she marries an author. But once an author always an author." " Ah ! is it so ? If you had a beloved daughter, Savarin, would you encourage her to be an author?" "Frankly, no ; principally because in that case the chances are that she would marry an author; and French authors, at least in the imaginative school, make very uncomfortable husbands." "Ah ! you think the Signorina will marry one of those un- comfortable husbands M. Rameau, perhaps?" " Rameau ! Hein! nothing more likely. That beautiful face of his has its fascination. And to tell you the truth, my wife, who is a striking illustration of the truth that what woman wills heaven wills, is bent upon that improvement in Gustave's moral life which she thinks a uniqn with Mademoi- selle Cicogna would achieve. At all events, the fair Italian would have in Rameau a husband who would not suffer her to bury her talents under a bushel. If she succeeds as a writer (by succeeding I mean making money), he will see that her ink-bottle is never empty ; and if she don't succeed as a writer, he will take care that the world shall gain an actress or a singer. For Gustave Rameau has a great taste for luxury and show ; and whatever his wife can make, I will venture to say that he will manage to spend." " I thought you had an esteem and regard for Mademoiselle Cicogna. It is Madame your wife, I suppose, who has a grudge against her ? " " On the contrary, my wife idolizes her." " Savages sacrifice to their idols the things they deem of value.. Civilized Parisians sacrifice their idols themselves and to a thing that is worthless." THE PARISIANS. 253 "Rameau is not worthless ; he has beauty, and youth, and talent. My wife thinks more highly of him than I do ; but I must respect a man who has found admirers so sincere as to set him up in a journal, and give him carte blanche for terms to contributors. I know no man in Paris more valuable to me. His worth to me this morning is 30,000 francs. I own I do not think him likely to be a very safe husband ; but then French female authors and artists seldom take any husbands except upon short leases. There are no vulgar connubial prejudices in the pure atmosphere of art. Women of genius, like Madame de Grantmesnil, and perhaps like our charming young friend, resemble canary-birds to sing their best you must separate them from their mates." The Englishman suppressed a groan, and turned the con- versation. When he had set down his lively companion, Vane dismissed his fiacre, and walked to his lodgings musingly. " No," he said inly ; " I must wrench myself from the very memory of that haunting face the friend and pupil of Ma- dame de Grantmesnil, the associate of Gustave Rameau, the rival of Julie Caumartin, the aspirant to that pure atmosphere of art in which there are no vulgar connubial prejudices ! Could I, whether I be rich or poor, see in her the ideal of an English wife ? As it is as it is with this mystery which oppresses me, which, still solved, leaves my own career insolu- ble as it is, how fortunate that I did not find her alone ; did not utter the words that would fain have leaped from my heart ; did not say, ' I may not be the rich man 1 seem, but in that case I shall be yet more ambitious, because struggle and labor are the sinews of ambition ! Should I be rich, will you adorn my station ? Should I be poor, will you enricli poverty with your smile ? And can you, in either case, forego really, painlessly forego, as you led me to hope the pride in your own art ? ' My ambition were killed did I marry an actress, a singer. Better that than the hungerer after excitements which are never allayed, the struggler in a career which admits of no re- tirement the woman to whom marriage is no goal ; who remains to the last the property of the public, and glories to dwell in a house of glass into which every bystander has a right to peer. Is this the ideal of an Englishman's wife and home ? No, no ! Woe is me, no ! " 254 THE PARISIANS. BOOK VI. CHAPTER I. A FEW weeks after the date of the preceding chapter, a gay party of men were assembled at supper in one of the private salons of the Maison Doree. The supper was given by Fred- eric Lemercier, and the guests were, though in various ways, more or less distinguished. Rank and fashion were not un- worthily represented by Alain de Rochebriant and Enguer- rand de Vandemar, by whose supremacy as 'lion' Frederic still felt rather humbled, though Alain had contrived to bring them familiarly together. Art, Literature, and the Bourse had also their representatives in Henri Bernard, a rising young portrait-painter, whom the Emperor honored with his patron- age ; the Vicomte de Breze, and M. Savarin. Science was not altogether forgotten, but contributed its agreeable delegate in the person of the eminent physician to whom we have been before introduced, Dr. Bacourt. Doctors in Paris are not so serious as they mostly are in London ; and Bacourt, a pleasant philosopher of the school of Aristippus, was no unfrequent nor ungenial guest at any banquet in which the Graces re- laxed their zones. Martial glory was also represented at that social gathering by a warrior, bronzed and decorated, lately ar- rived from Algiers, on which arid soil he had achieved many laurels and the rank of Colonel. Finance contributed Duplessis. Well it might ; for Duplessis had just assisted the host to a splendid coup at the Bourse. "Ah, cher M. Savarin," says Enguerrand de Vandemar, whose patrician blood is so pure from revolutionary taint that he is always instinctively polite, "what a masterpiece in its way is that little paper of yours in the Sens Commun, upon the con- nection between the national character and the national diet so genuinely witty ! For wit is but truth made amusing." "You natter me," replied Savarin modestly ; "but I own I do think there is a smattering of philosophy in that trifle. Perhaps, however, the character of a people depends more on its drink than its food. The wines of Italy heady, irritable, ruinous to the digestion contribute to the character which belongs to active brains and disordered livers. The Italians conceive great plans, but they cannot digest them. The En- THE PARISIANS. 255 glish common people drink beer, and the bearish character is stolid, rude, but stubborn and enduring. The English middle class imbibe port and sherry ; and with these strong potations their ideas become obfuscated. Their character has no liveli- ness ; amusement is not one of their wants ; they sit at home after dinner and doze away the fumes of their beverage in the dulness of domesticity. If the English aristocracy are more vivacious and cosmopolitan, it is thanks to the wines of France, which it is the mode with them to prefer; but still, like all pla- giarists, they are imitators, not inventors ; they borrow our wines and copy our manners. The Germans " " Insolent barbarians ! " growled the French Colonel, twirl- ing his moustache ; "if the Emperor were not in his dotage, their Sadowa would ere this have cost them their Rhine." " The Germans," resumed Savarin, unheeding the interrup- tion, "drink acrid wines, varied with beer, to which last their* commonalty owes a quasi resemblance in stupidity and endur- ance to the English masses. Acrid wines rot the teeth : Ger- mans are afflicted with toothache from infancy. All people subject to toothache are sentimental. Goethe was a martyr to toothache. Werter was written in one of those paroxysms which predispose genius to suicide. But the German charac- ter is not all toothache ; beer and tobacco step in to the relief of Rhenish acridities, blend philosophy with sentiment, and give that patience in detail which distinguishes their pro- fessors and their generals. Besides, the German wines in themselves have other qualities than that of acridity. Taken with sour krout and stewed prunes, they produce fumes of self- conceit. A German has little of French vanity ; he has Ger- man self-esteem. He extends the esteem of self to those around him ; his home, his village, his city, his country all belong to him. It is a duty he owes to himself to defend them. Give him his pipe and his sabre, and, M. le Colonel, believe me, you will never take the Rhine from him." " P-r-r," cried the Colonel ; " but we have had the Rhine." "We did not keep it. And I should not say I had a franc piece if I borrowed it from your purse and had to give it back the next day." Here there arose a very general hubbub of voices, all raised against M. Savarin. Enguerrand, like a man of good/tf#, hast- ened to change the conversation. " Let us leave these poor wretches to their sour wines and toothaches. We drinkers of the champagne, all our own, have 256 THE PARISIANS. only pity foi the rest of the human race. This new journal, Le Sens Comtnun, has a strange title, M. Savarin." " Yes ; Le Sens Commun is not common in Paris, where we all have too much genius for a thing so vulgar." "Pray," said the young painter, "tell me what you mean by the title Le Sens Commun. It is mysterious." "True," said Savarin ; "it may mean the Sensus Communis of the Latins, or the Good Sense of the English. The Latin phrase signifies the sense of the common interest ; the English phrase, the sense which persons of understanding have in com- mon. I suppose the inventor of our title meant the latter sig- nification." "And who was the inventor?" asked Bacourt. " That is a secret which I do not know myself," answered Savarin. "I guess," said Enguerrand, " that it must be the same per- son who writes the political leaders. They are most remarka- ble ; for they are so unlike the articles in other journals, whether those journals be the best or the worst. For my own part, I trouble my head very little about politics, and shrug my shoulders at essays which reduce the government of flesh and blood into mathematical problems. But these articles seem to be written by a man of the world, and, as a man of the world myself, I read them." "But," said the Vicomte de Bre'ze, who piqued himself on the polish of his style, " they are certainly not the composition of any eminent writer. No eloquence, no sentiment ; though I ought not to speak disparagingly of a fellow-contributor." " All that may be very true," said Savarin, " but M. Enguer- rand is right. The papers are evidently the work of a man of the world, and it is for that reason that they have startled the public, and established the success of Le Sens Commun. But wait a week or two' longer, Messieurs, and then tell me what you think of a new roman by a new writer, which we shall an- nounce in our impression to-morrow. I shall be disappointed, indeed, if that does not charm you. No lack of eloquence and sentiment there." " I am rather tired of eloquence and sentiment," said Enguer- rand. " Your editor, Gustave Rameau, sickens me of them with his ' Starlit Meditations in the Streets of Paris,' morbid imitations of Heine's enigmatical ' Evening Songs.' Your jour- nal would be perfect if you could suppress the editor." " Suppress Gustave Rameau ! " cried Bernard, the painter^ *' J adore his poems, full of heart for poor suffering humanity," THE PARISIANS. 257 " Suffering humanity so far as it is packed up in himself," said the physician drily, " and a great deal of the suffering is bile. But apropos of your new journal, Savarin, there is a paragraph in it to-day which excites my curiosity. It says that the Vicomte de Mauleon has arrived in Paris, after many years of foreign travel ; and then referring modestly enough to the reputation for talent which he had acquired in early youth, proceeds to indulge in a prophecy of the future political career of a man who, if he have a grain of sens commun, must think that the less said about him the better. I remember him well ; a terrible mauvais sujet, but superbly handsome. There was a shocking story about the jewels of a foreign duchess, which obliged him to leave Paris." "But," said Savarin, "the paragraph you refer to hints that that story is a groundless calumny, and that the true reason for De Mauleon's voluntary self-exile was a very common one among young Parisians he had lavished away his fortune. He returns, when, either by heritage or his own exertions, he has secured elsewhere a competence." " Nevertheless I cannot think that society will-receive him," said Bacourt. " When he left Paris, there was one joyous sigh of relief among all men who wished to avoid duels, and keep their wives out of temptation. Society may welcome back a lost sheep, but not a reinvigorated wolf." " I beg your pardon, mon c/ier" said Enguerrand ; " society has already opened its fold to this poor, ill-treated wolf. Two days ago Louvier summoned to his house the surviving relations or connections of De Mauleon among whom are the Marquis de Rochebriant, the Counts de Passy, De Beauvilliers, De Chavi- gny, my father, and of course his two sons and submittt/1 to us the proofs which completely clear the Vicomte de Mauleon of even a suspicion of fraud or dishonor in the affair of the jewels. The proofs include the written attestation of the Duke himself, and letters from that nobleman after De Mauleon's disappearance from Paris, expressive of great esteem, and, in- deed, of great admiration, for the Vicomte's sense of honor and generosity of character. The result of this family council was, that we all went in a body to call on De Mauleon. And he dined with my father that same day. You know enough of the Count de Vandemar, and, I may add, of my mother, to be sure that they are both, in their several ways, too regardful of social conventions to lend their countenance even to a relation without well weighing \\iepros and cons. And as for Raoul, Bay- ard himself could not be a greater stickler on the point of honor." 258 THE PARISIANS. This declaration was followed by a silence that had the character of stupor. At last Duplessis said : " But what has Louvier to do in this galcre? L-ouvier is no relation of that well-born vaurien j why should he summon your family council ?" " Louvier excused his interference on the ground of early and intimate friendship with De Mauleon, who, he said, came to consult him on arriving at Paris, and who felt too proud or too timitl to address relations with whom he had long dropped j all intercourse. An intermediary was required, and Louvier volunteered to take that part on himself ; nothing more natural, nor more simple. By the way, Alain, you dine with Louvier to morrow, do you not ? A dinner in honor of our rehabili- tated kinsman. I and Raoul go." " Yes, I shall be charmed to meet again a man who, what- ever might be his errors in youth, on which," added Alain slightly coloring, " it certainly does not become me to be severe, must have suffered the most poignant anguish a man of honor can undergo, viz., honor suspected ; and who now, whether by years or sorrow, is so changed that I cannot recog- nize a likeness to the character I have just heard given to him as mauvais snjet and vaurien." " Bravo ! " cried Enguerrand ; " All honor to courage ! And at Paris it requires great courage to defend the absent." " Nay," answered Alain in a low voice. "The gentilhomme who v/ill not defend another geniilhomme traduced would, as a soldier, betray a citadel and desert a flag." "You say M. de Mauleon is changed," said De Breze ; " Yes, he must be growing old. No trace left of his good looks ?" " Pardon me," said Enguerrand, " he is Men conserve", and has still a very handsome head and an imposing presence. But one cannot help doubting whether he deserved the formidable rep- utation he acquired in youth; his manner is so singularly mild and gentle, his conversation so winningly modest, so void of pretence, and his mode of life is as simple as that of a Spanish hidalgo." " He does not, then, affect the rdle of Monte Christo," said Du- plessis, "and buy himself into notice like that hero of romance ? " " Certainly not ; but he says very frankly that he has but a very small income, but more than enough for his wants richer than in his youth ; for he has learned content. We may dis- miss the hint in 'Le Stns Commun* about his future political career ; at least he evinces no such ambition." " How could he as a Legitimist ?" said Alain bitterly. " What department would elect him ?" THE PARISIANS. 259 " But is he a Legitimist ? " asked De Breze. " I take it for granted that he must be that," answered Alain h ughtily, " for he is a De Mauleon." ' His father was as good a De Mauleon as himself, I pre- sume," rejoined De Breze drily ; "and he enjoyed a place at the Court of Louis Philippe, which a Legitimist could scarcely accept. Victor did not, 1 fancy, trouble his head about poli- tics at all, at the time I remember him ; but to judge by his chief associates, and the notice he received from the Princes of the House of Orleans, I should guess that he had no pre- dilections in favor of Henry V." " I should regret to think so," said Alain, yet more haughtily, " since the De Mauleons acknowledge the head of their house in the representative of the Rochebriants." " At all events," said Duplessis, " M. de Mauleon appears to be a philosopher of rare stamp. A Parisian who has known riches and is contented to be poor is a phenomenon I should like to study.'' . " You have that chance to-morrow evening, M. Duplessis," said Enguerrand. " What ! At M. Louvier's dinner ? Nay, I have no other acquaintance with M. Louvier than that of the Bourse, and the acquaintance is not cordial." " I did not mean at M. Louvier's dinner, but at the Duchesse de Tarascon's ball. You, as one of her special favorites, will doubtless honor her reunion." " Yes ; I have promised my daughter to go to the ball. But the Duchesse is Imperialist. M. de Mauleon seems to be either a Legitimist, according to M. le Marquis, or an Orleanist, ac- cording to our friend, De Breze." " What of that ? Can there \,nme and a kinsman duly per- formed, he desired to see as little as possible of the Vicomte de Mauleon. He reasoned thus : "Of every charge which so- ciety made against this man he is guiltless. But of all tin 262 THE PARISIANS. claims to admiration which society accorded to him, before it erroneously condemned, there are none which make me covet Ins friendship, or suffice to dispel doubts as to what he may be when society once more receives him. And the man is so cap- tivating that I should dread his influence over myself did I see much of him." Raoul kept his reasonings to himself, for he had that sort of charity which indisposes an amiable man to be severe on bygone offences. In the eyes of Enguerrand and Alain, and such young votaries of the mode as they could influence, Victor de Maule"on assumed almost heroic proportions. In the affair which had inflicted on him a calumny so odious, it was clear that he had acted with chivalrous delicacy of honor. And the turbulence and recklessness of his earlier years, redeemed as they were, in the traditions of his contem- poraries, by courage and generosity, were not offences to which young Frenchmen are inclined to be hapsh. All question as to the mode in which his life might have been passed during his long absence from the capital, was merged in the respect due to the only facts known, and these were clearly proved in \i\spticesjustificatives. Firstly, That he had served under another name in the ranks of the army in Algiers ; had distinguished himself there for signal valor, and received, with promotion, the decoration of the cross. His real name was known only to his colonel, and on quitting the service the colonel placed in his hands a letter of warm eulogy, on his conduct, and identifying him as Victor de Mauleon. Secondly, That in California he had saved a wealthy family from mid- night murder, fighting single-handed against and overmastering three ruffians, and declining all other reward from those he had preserved than a written attestation of their gratitude. In all countries, valor ranks high in the list of virtues ; in no country does it so absolve from vices as it does in France. But as yet Victor de Mauleon's vindication was only known by a few, and those belonging to the gayer circles of life. How he might be judged by the sober middle class, which constitutes the most important section of public opinion to a candidate for public trusts and distinctions, was another ques- tion. The Duchesse stood at the door to receive her visitors. Duplessis was seated near the entrance, by the side of a dis- tinguished member of the Imperial Government, with whom he was carrying on a whispered conversation. The eye of the financier, however, turned towards the doorway as Alain and THE PARISIANS. 263 Enguerrand entered, and passing over their familiar faces, fixed itself attentively on that of a much older man whom Enguerrand was presenting to the Duchesse, and in whom Du- plessis rightly divined the Vicomte de Mauleon. Certainly if no one could have recognized M. Lebeau in the stately per- sonage who had visited Louvier, still less could one who had heard of the wild feats of the roi des viveurs in his youth rec- oncile belief in such tales with the quiet modesty of mien which distinguished the cavalier now replying, with bended head and subdued accents, to the courteous welcome of the brilliant hostess. But for such difference in attributes be- tween the past and the present De Mauleon, Duplessis had been prepared by the conversation at the Maison Doree. And now, as the Vicomte, yielding his place by the Duchesse to some new-comer, glided on, and, leaning against a column, contemplated the gay scene before him with that expression of countenance, half sarcastic, half mournful, with which men re- gard, after long estrangement, the scenes of departed joys, Duplessis felt that no change in that man had impaired the force of character which had made him the hero of reckless coevals. Though wearing no beard, not even a moustache, there was something emphatically masculine in the contour of the close-shaven cheek and resolute jaw, in a forehead broad at the temples, and protuberant in those organs over the eyebrows which are said to be significant of quick perception and ready action ; in the lips, when in repose compressed, perhaps somewhat stern in their expression, but pliant and mobile when speaking, and wonderfully fascinating when they smiled. Altogether, about this Victor de Mauleon there was a name- less distinction, apart from that of conventional elegance. You would have said : " That is a man of some marked in- dividuality, an eminence of some kind in himself." You would not be surprised to hear that he was a party-leader, a skilled diplomatist, a daring soldier, an adventurous traveller ; but you would not guess him to be a student, an author, an artist. While Duplessis thus observed the Vicomte de Mauleon, all the while seeming to lend an attentive ear to the whispered voice of the Minister by his side, Alain passed on into the ballroom. He was fresh enough to feel the exhilaration of the dance. Enguerrand (who had survived that excitement, and who habitually deserted any assembly at an early hour for the cigar and whist of his club) had made his way to De Mauleon, and there stationed himself. The lion of one generation has 264 THE PARISIANS, always a mixed feeling of curiosity and respect for the lion of a generation before him, and the young Vandemar had con- ceived a strong and almost an affectionate interest in this dis- crowned king of that realm in fashion which, once lost, is never to be regained ; for it is only Youth that can hold its sceptre and command its subjects. " In this crowd, Vicomte," said Enguerrand, "there must be many old acquaintances of yours ?" " Perhaps so, but as yet I have only seen new faces." As he thus spoke, a middle-aged man, decorated with the grand cross of the Legion and half a dozen foreign orders, lending his arm to a lady of the same age radiant in diamonds, passed by towards the ball-room, and in some sudden swerve of his person, occasioned by a pause of his companion to adjust her train, he accidentally brushed against De Mauleon, whom he had not before noticed. Turning round to apologize for his awkwardness, he encountered the full gaze of the Vicomte, started, changed countenance, and hurried on his companion. " Do you not recognize his Excellency ?" said Enguerrand, smiling. " His cannot be a new face to you." " Is it the Baron de Lacy ? " asked De Maule"on. " The Baron de Lacy, now Count d'Epinay, ambassador at the Court of , and, if report speak true, likely soon to ex- change that post for the portefeuille of Minister." " He has got on in life since I saw him last, the little Baron. He was then my devoted imitator, and I was not proud of the imitation." " He has got on by always clinging to the skirts of some one stronger than himself ; to yours, I dare say, when, being a par- venu despite his usurped title of Baron, he aspired to the entree into clubs and salons. The entree thus obtained, the rest followed easily : he became a millionnaire through a wife's dot, and an ambassador through the wife's lover, who is a power in the State." " But he must have substance in himself. Empty bags can- not be made to stand upright. Ah, unless I mistake, I see some one I know better ! Yon pale, thin man, also with the grand cross surely that is Alfred Hennequin. Is he too a decorated Imperialist ? I left him a socialistic republican." " But, I presume, even then an eloquent avocctt. He got into the Chamber, spoke well, defended the coup-d'ttat. He has just been made Prtfet of the great department of , a popular appointment. He bears a high character. Pray re- new your acquaintance with him ; he is coming this way." THE PARISIANS. 265 " Will so grave a dignitary renew acquaintance with me ? I doubt it." But as De Mauleon said this, he moved from the column, and advanced towards the Pre'fet. Enguerrand followed him, and saw the Vicomte extend his hand to his old acquaintance. The Pre'fet stared, and said, with frigid courtesy : " Pardon me some mistake." " Allow me, M. Hennequin," said Enguerrand, interposing, and wishing good-naturedly to save De Mauleon the awkward- ness of introducing himself ; " Allow me to reintroduce you to my kinsman, whom the lapse of years may well excuse you for forgetting, the Vicomte de Mauleon." Still the Pre'fet did not accept the hand. He bowed with formal ceremony, said, " I was not aware that M. le Vicomte had returned to Paris," and, moving to the doorway, made his salutation to the hostess and disappeared. " The insolent ! " muttered Enguerrand. " Hush !" said De Mauleon quietly, " I can fight no more duels especially with a Pre'fet. But I own I am weak enough to feel hurt at such a reception from Hennequin, for he owed me some obligations small, perhaps, but still they were such as might have made me select him, rather than Louvier, as the vindicator of my name, had I known him to be so high placed. But a man who has raised himself into an authority may well be excused for forgetting a friend whose character needs de- fence. I forgive him." There was something pathetic in the Vicomte's tone which touched Enguerrand's warm if light heart. But De Mauleon did not allow him time to answer. He went on quickly through an opening in the gay crowd, which immediately closed behind him, and Enguerrand saw him no more that evening. Duplessis ere this had quitted his seat by the Minister, drawn thence by a young and very pretty girl resigned to his charge by a cavalier with whom she had been dancing. She was the only daughter of Duplessis, and he valued her even more than the millions he had made at the Bourse. " The Princess," she said, " has been swept off in the train of some German Royalty ; so, petit plre, I must impose myself on thee." The Princess, a Russian of high rank, was the chaperon that evening of Mademoiselle Valerie Duplessis. "And I suppose I must take thee back into the ball-room," said the financier, smiling proudly, "and find thee partners." ' I don't want your aid for that, Monsieur ; except this quadrille, my list is pretty well filled up." 266 THE PARISIANS. " And I hope the partners will be pleasant. Let me know who they are," he whispered, as they threaded their way into the ball-room. The girl glanced at her tablet. " Well, the first on the list is milord somebody, with an un- pronounceable English ame." " Beau cavalier ?" " No ; ugly, old too thirty at least." Duplessis felt relieved. He did not wish his daughter to fall in love with an Englishman. "And the next?" " The next," she said hesitatingly, and he observed that a soft blush accompanied the hesitation. " Yes, the next. Not English, too ?" " Oh, no, the Marquis de Rochebrianf." " Ah, who presented him to thee? " " Thy friend, petit ptre, M. de Breze." Duplessis again glanced at his daughter's face ; it was bent over her bouquet. " Is he ugly also ? " " Ugly ! " exclaimed the girl indignantly ; " Why, he is " she checked herself and turned away her head. Duplessis became thoughtful. He was glad that he had accompanied his child into the ball-room ; he would stay there, and keep watch on her and Rochebriant also. Up to that moment he had felt a dislike to Rochebriant. That young noble's too obvious pride of race had nettled him, not the less that the financier himself was vain of his ancestry. Perhaps -he stil) disliked Alain, but the dislike was now accom- panied with a certain, not hostile, interest ; and if he became connected with the race, the pride in it might grow contagious. They had not been long in the ball-room before Alain came up to claim his promised partner. In saluting Duplessis, his manner was the same as usual not more cordial, not less cere- moniously distant. A man so able as the financier cannot be without quick knowledge of the human heart. " If disposed to fall in love with Valerie," thought Duplessis, "he would hive taken more pains to please her father. Well, thank Heaven, there are better matches to be found for her than a noble without fortune, and a Legitimist without career." In fact, Alain felt no more for Valerie than for any other pretty girl in the room. In talking with the Vicomte de Brez in the intervals of the dance, he had made some passing remark on her beauty ; De Breze had said ; " Yes, she is charming ; THE PARISIANS. 267 I will present you," and hastened to do so before Rochebriant even learned her name. So introduced, he could but invite her to give him her first disengaged dance, and when that was fixed, he had retired, without entering into conversation. Now, as they took their places in the quadrille, he felt that effort of speech had become a duty, if not a pleasure ; and, of course, he began with the first commonplace which presented itself to his mind. " Do you not think it a very pleasant ball, Mademoiselle ?" " Yes," dropped, in almost inaudible reply, from Valerie's rosy lips. "And not overcrowded, as most balls are ?" Valerie's lips again moved, but this time quite inaudibly.. The obligations of the figure now caused a pause. Alain racked his brains, and began : " They tell me the last season was more than usually gay ; of that I cannot judge, for it was well-nigh over when I came to Paris for the first time." Valerie looked up with a more animated expression than her childlike face had yet shown, and said, this time distinctly : " This is my first ball, Monsieur le Marquis." " One has only to look at Mademoiselle to divine that fact," replied Alain gallantly. Again the conversation was interrupted by the dance, but the ice between the two was now broken. And when the quadrille was concluded, and Rochebriant led the fair Valerie back to her father's side, she felt as if she had been listening to the music of the spheres, and that the music had now suddenly stopped. Alain, alas for her, was under no such pleasing illu- sion. Her talk had seemed him artless indeed, but very in- sipid, compared with the brilliant conversation of the wedded Parisiennes with whom he more habitually danced ; and it was with rather a sensation of relief that he made his parting bow, und receded into the crowd of bystanders. Meanwhile De Mauleon had quitted the assemblage, walking slowly through the deserted streets towards his apartment. The civilities he had met at Louvier's dinner-party, and the marked distinction paid to him by kinsmen of rank and position BO unequivocal as Alain and Enguerrand, had softened his mood and cheered his spirits. He had begun to question him- self whether a fair opening to his political ambition was really forbidden to him under the existent order of things, whether it necessitated the employment of such dangerous tools as those \Q which anger and despair had reconciled his intellect. But 268 THE PARISIANS. the pointed way in which he had been shunned or slighted by the two men who belonged to political life to men who in youth had looked up to himself, and whose dazzling career of honors was identified with the Imperial system reanimated his fiercer passions and his more perilous designs. The frigid accost of Hennequin more especially galled him ; it wounded not only his pride but his heart ; it had the venom of ingrati- tude and it is the peculiar privilege of ingratitude to wound hearts that have learned to harden themselves to the hate or contempt of men to whom no services have been ren- dered. In some private affair concerning his property, De Mauleon had had occasion to consult Hennequin, then a rising young avocat. Out of that consultation a friendship had sprung up, despite the differing habits and social grades of the two men. One day, calling on Hennequin, he found him in a state of great nervous excitement. The arocal had received a pub- lic insult in the salon of a noble, to whom De Mauleon had in- troduced him, from a man who pretended to the hand of a young lady to whom Hennequin was attached, and indeed al- most affianced. The man was a notorious spadassin a duel- list little less renowned for skill in all weapons than De Mau- leon himself. The affair had been such that Hennequin's friends assured him he had no choice but to challenge this bravo. Hennequin, brave enough at the bar, was no hero be- fore sword-point or pistol. He was utterly ignorant of the use of either weapon ; his death in the encounter with an antago- nist so formidable seemed to him certain, and life was so pre- cious ; an honorable and distinguished career opening before him, marriage with the woman he loved: still he had the Frenchman's point of honor. He had been told that he must fight ; well, then, he must. He asked De Mauleon to be one of his seconds, and in asking him, sank in his chair, covered his face with his hands, and burst into tears. " Wait till to-morrow," said De Mauleon ; " take no step till then. Meanwhile, you are in my hands, and I answer for your honor." On leaving Hennequin, Victor sought the spadassin at the club of which they were both members, and contrived without reference to Hennequin to pick a quarrel with him. A chal- lenge ensued ; a duel with swords took place the next morning. De Mauleon disarmed and wounded his antagonist, not gravely, but sufficiently to terminate the encounter. He assisted to convey the wounded man to his apartment, and planted hirn- ejf by his bedside, as if he were a friend, THE PARISIANS. 269 "Why on eaith did you fasten a quarrel on me ? " asked the spadassin ; " And why, having done so, did you spare my life ; for your sword was at my heart when you shifted its point, and pierced my shoulder?" " I will tell you, and in so doing, beg you to accept my friendship hereafter, on one condition. In the course of the day, write or dictate a few civil words of apology to M. Hen- neqtiin. Ma foi ! every one will praise you for a generosity so becoming in a man who has given such proofs of courage and skill, to an avocat who has never handled a sword nor fired a pistol." That same day De Mauleon remitted to Hennequin an apol- ogy for heated words freely retracted, which satisfied all his friends. For the service thus rendered by De Mauleon, Hennequin declared himself everlastingly indebted. In fact, he entirely owed to that friend his life, his marriage, his honor, his career. "And now," thought De Mauleon, "Now, when he could so easily requite me now he will not even take my hand. Is human nature itself at war with me ? " CHAPTER III. NOTHING could be simpler than the apartment of the Vi- comte de Mauleon, in the second story of a quiet, old-fashioned street. It had been furnished at small cost out of his savings. Yet, on the whole, it evinced the good taste of a man who had once been among the exquisites of the polite world. You felt that you were in the apartment of a gentleman, and a gentleman of somewhat severe tastes, and of sober, matured years. He was sitting the next morning in the room which he used as a private study. Along the walls were arranged dwarf bookcases, as yet occupied by few books, most of them books of reference, others cheap editions of the French classics in prose, no poets, no romance-writers, with a few Latin authors also in prose Cicero, Sallust, Tacitus. He was engaged at his desk writing a book with its leaves open before him, " Paul Louis Courier," that model of political irony and masculine style of composition. There was a ring at his door-bell. The Vicomte kept no servant. He rose and answered the sum- mons. He recoiled a few paces on recognizing his visitor in M. Hennequin. The Pr/fet this time did not withdraw his hand; he ex- tended it, but it was with a certain awkwardness and timidity. 270 THE PARISIANS. "I thought it my duty to call on you, Vicomte, thus early, having already seen M. Enguerrand de Vandemar. He has shown me the copies of the pieces which were inspected by your distinguished kinsmen, and which completely clear you of the charge that, grant me your pardon when I say, seemed to me still to remain unanswered when I had the honor to meet you last night." " It appears to me, M. Hennequin, that you, as an avocat so eminent, might have convinced yourself very readily of that fact." "M. le Vicomte, I was in Switzerland with my wife at the time of the unfortunate affair in which you were involved." "But when you returned to Paris, you might perhaps have deigned to make inquiries so affecting the honor of one you had called a friend, and for whom you had professed" I)e Mauleon paused; he disdained to add "an eternal grati- tude." Hennequin colored slightly, but replied with self-possession, "I certainly did inquire. J did hear that the charge against you with regard to the abstraction of the jewels was withdrawn ; that you were therefore acquitted by law ; but I heard also that society did not acquit you, and that, finding this, you had quitted France. Pardon me again, no one would listen to me when I attempted to speak on your behalf. But now that so many years have elapsed ; that the story is imperfectly remem- bered ; that relations so high-placed receive you so cordially now I rejoice to think that you will have no difficulty in re- gaining a social position never really lost, but for a time re- signed." ''I am duly sensible of the friendly joy you express. I was reading the other day in a lively author some pleasant remarks on the effects of medisance or calumny upon our impressionable Parisian public. ' If,' says the writer, 'I found myself accused of having put the two towers of Notre Dame into my waistcoat- pocket, I should not dream of defending myself ; I should take to flight. And,' adds the writer, 'if my best friend were under the same accusation, I should be so afraid of being considered his accomplice that I should put my best friend outside the door.' Perhaps, M. Hennequin, I was seized with the first alarm. *Vhy should 1 blame you if seized with the second ? Happily tnrs good city of Paris has its reactions. And you can now offer me your hand. Paris has by this time discovered that the two towers of Notre Dame are not in my pocket/' There was a pause. De Mauleon had resettled himself at THE PARISIANS. 271 his desk, bending over his papers, and his manner seemed to imply that he considered the conversation at an end. But a pang of shame, of remorse, of tender remembrance, shot across the heart of the decorous, worldly, self-seeking man, who owed all that he now was to the ci-devant vaurien be- fore him. Again he stretched forth his hand, and this time grasped De Mauleon's warmly. " Forgive me," he said, feel- ingly and hoarsely ; " Forgive me. I was to blame. By char- acter, and perhaps by the necessities of my career, I am over- timid to public opinion public scandal forgive me. Say if in anything now I can requite, though but slightly, the service 1 owe you." De Mauleon looked steadily at the Prefet, and said slowly : " Would you serve me in turn ? Are you sincere ?" The Prtfet hesitated a moment, then answered firmly, "Yes." " Well, then, what I ask of you is a frank opinion not as lawyer, not as Prefet, but as a man who knows the present state of French society. Give that opinion without respect to my feelings one way or other. Let it emanate solely from your practised judgment." "Be it so," said Hennequin, wondering what was to come. De Mauleon resumed : " As you may remember, during my former career I had no political ambition. I did not meddle with politics. In the troubled times that immediately succeeded the fall of Louis Philippe I was but an epicurean looker-on. Grant that, so far as admission to the salons are concerned, I shall encounter no difficulty in regaining position. But as regaids the Chamber, public life, a political career can I have my fair opening under the Empire ? You pause. Answer as you have promised, frankly." " The difficulties in the way of a political career wolild be very great." " Insuperable." " I fear so. Of course, in my capacity of Pr/fet, I have no small influence in my department in support of a government candidate. But I do not think that the Imperial Government could, at this time especially, in which it must be very cautious in selecting its candidates, be induced to recommend you. The affair of the jewels would be raked up ; your vindication disputed, denied ; the fact that for so many years you have acquiesced in that charge without taking steps to refute it ; your antecedents, even apart from that charge your present want of property (M. Enguerrand tells me your income is but 272 THE PARISIANS. ^ moderate); the absence of all previous repute in public life. No ; relinquish the idea of political contest ; it would expose you to inevitable mortifications, to a failure that would even jeopardize the admission to the salons which you are now gain- ing. You could not be a government candidate." " Granted. I may have no desire to be one ; but an oppo- sition candidate, one of the Liberal .party?" "As an Imperialist," said Hennequin, smiling gravely, "and holding the office I do, it would not become me to encourage a candidate against the Emperor's government. But speaking with the frankness you solicit, I should say that your chances there are infinitely worse. The, opposition are in a pitiful mi- nority ; the most eminent of the Liberals can scarcely gain seats for themselves ; great local popularity or property, high estab- lished repute for established patriotism, or proved talents of oratory and statesmanship, are essential qualifications for a seat in the opposition, and even these do not suffice for a third of the persons who possess them. Be again what you were before, the hero of salons, remote from the turbulent vulgarity of poli- tics." " I am answered. Thank you once more. The service I rendered you once is requited now." " No, indeed no ; but will you dine with me quietly to-day, and allow me to present to you my wife and two children, born since we parted ? I say to-day, for to-morrow I return to my Prefecture." " I am infinitely obliged by your invitation, but to-day I dine with the Count de Beauvilliers to meet some of the Corps Dip- lomatique. I must make good my place in the salons, since you so clearly show me that I have no chance of one in the Legislature unless " " Unfess what ?" " Unless there happen one of those revolutions in which the scum comes uppermost." " No fear of that. The subterranean barracks and railway have ended forever the rise of the scum the reign of \\\Q ca- naille and its barricades." " Adieu, my dear Hennequin. My respectful hommages a Madame" After that day, the writing of Pierre Firmin in Le Sens Com- mun, though still keeping within the pale of the law, became more decidedly hostile to the Imperial system, still without committing their author to any definite programme of the sort of government that should succeed it. THE PARISIANS. CHAPTER IV. 4 THE weeks glided on. Tsaura's MS. had passed into print : it came out in the French fashion of feuilletons a small detach- ment at a time. A previous flourish of trumpets by Savarin and the clique at his command insured it attention, if not from the general public, at least from critical and literary coteries. Before the fourth instalment appeared it had outgrown the patronage of the coteries ; it seized hold of the public. It was not in the last school of fashion ; incidents were not crowded and violent, they were few and simple, rather appertaining to an elder school, in which poetry of sentiment and grace of diction prevailed. That very resemblance to old favorites gave it the attraction of novelty. In a word, it excited a pleased admira- tion, and great curiosity was felt as to the authorship. When it oozed out that it was by the young lady whose future success in the musical world had been so sanguinely predicted by all who had heard her sing, the interest wonderfully increased. Petitions to be introduced to her acquaintance were showered upon Savarin : before she scarcely realized her dawning fame she was drawn from her quiet home, and retired habits ; she was fetie and courted in the literary circle of which Savarin was a chief. That circle touched, on one side, Bohemia ; on the other, that realm of politer fashion which, in every intel- lectual metropolis, but especially in Paris, seeks to gain bor- rowed light from luminaries in art and letters. But the very admiration she obtained somewhat depressed, somewhat troub- led, her ; after all, it did not differ from that which was at her command as a singer. On the one hand, she shrank instinctively from the caresses of female authors and the familiar greetings of male authors, who frankly lived in philosophical disdain of the con- ventions respected by sober, decorous mortals. On the other hand, in the civilities of those who, while they courted a rising celebrity, still held their habitual existence apart from the ar- tistic world, there was a certain air of condescension, of patronage towards the young stranger with no other protector but Sig- nora Venosta, the ci-devant public singer, and who had made her debnt in a journal edited by M. Gustave Rameau, which, how- ever disguised by exaggerated terms of praise, wounded her pride of woman in flattering her vanity as author. Among this latter set were wealthy, high-born men, who addressed her as woman as woman beautiful and young with words of PARISIANS. gallantry that implied love, but certainly no thought of mar- riage : many of the most ardent were indeed married already. But once launched into the thick of Parisian hospitalities, it was difficult to draw back. The Venosta wept at the thought of missing some lively soiree, and Savarin laughed at her shrink- ing fastidiousness as that of a child's ignorance of the world. But still she had her mornings to herself ; and in those morn- ings, devoted to the continuance of her work (for the com- mencement was in print before a third was completed), she forgot the commonplace world that received her in the even- ings. Insensibly to herself the tone of this work had changed as it proceeded. It had begun seriously indeed, but in the seriousness there was a certain latent joy. It might be the joy of having found vent of utterance ; it might be rather a joy still more latent, inspired by the remembrance of Graham's words and looks, and by the thought that she had renounced all idea of the professional career which he had evidently dis- approved. Life then seemed to her a bright possession. We have seen that she had begun her roman without planning how it should end. She had, however, then meant it to end, some- how or other, happily. Now the lustre had gone from life ; the tone of the work was saddened ; it foreboded a tragic close. But for the general reader it became, with every chapter, still more interesting; the poor child had a singularly musical gift of style a music which lent itself naturally to pathos. Every very young writer knows how his work, if one of feeling, will color itself from the views of some truth in his innermost self; and in proportion as it does so, how his absorption in the work increases, till it becomes part and parcel of his own mind and heart. The presence of a hidden sorrow may change the fate of the beings he has, created, and guide to the grave those whom, in a happier vein, he would have united at the altar. It is not till a later stage of experience and art that the writer escapes from the influence of his individual personality, and lives in existences that take no colorings from his own. Genius usually must pass through the subjective process before it gains the objective. Even a Shakspeare represents himself in the Sonnets before no trace of himself is visible in a Falstaff or a Lear. No news of the Englishman not a word. Isaura could not but feel that in his words, his looks, that day in her own gar- den, and those yet happier days at Enghien, there had been more than friendship : there had been love love enough to justify her own pride in whispering to herself, " And I love THE PARISIANS. 275 too." But then that last parting ! How changed he was how cold ! She conjectured that jealousy of liameau might, in some degree, account for the coldness when he first entered the room, but surely not when he left ; surely not when she had overpassed the reserve of her sex, and implied, by signs rarely misconstrued by those who love, that he had no cause for jealousy of another. Yet he had gone ; parted with her pointedly as a friend, a mere friend. How foolish she had been to think this rich, ambitious foreigner could ever have meant to be more ! In the occupation of her work she thought to banish his image ; but in that work the image was never absent ; there were passages in which she pleadingly addressed it, and then would cease abruptly, stifled by passionate tears. Still she fancied that the work would re- unite them ; that in its pages he would hear her voice and comprehend her heart. And thus all praise of the work be came very, very dear to her. At last, after many weeks, Savarin heaid from Graham. The letter was dated Aix-la-Chapelle, at which the English , man said he might yet be some time detained. In the letter Graham spoke chiefly of the new journal : in polite compli- ment of Savarin's own effusions ; in mixed praise and condem- nation of the political and social articles signed Pierre Fir- min praise of their intellectual power, condemnation of theii moral cynicism. "The writer," he said, "reminds me of a passage in which Montesquieu compares the heathen philoso- phers to those plants which the earth produces in places that have never seen the heavens. The soil of his experience does not grow a single belief; and as no community can exist with- out a belief of some kind, so a politician without belief can but help to destroy ; he cannot reconstruct. Such writers cor- rupt a society ; they do not reform a system." He closed his letter with a reference to Isaura : " Do, in your reply, my dear Savarin, tell me something about your friends Signora Venosta and the Signorina, whose work, so far as yet published, I have read with admiring astonishment at the power of a female writer so young to rival the veteran practitioners of fiction in the creation of interest in imaginary characters, and in sen- timents which, if they appear somewhat over-romantic and exaggerated, still touch very fine chords in human nature not awakened in our trite, everyday existence. I presume that the beauty of the roman has been duly appreciated by a public so refined as the Parisian, and that the name of the author is p^"- exally kaown. No doubt she is now much die rage of the liter- 276 THE fARtSlANS. ary circles, and her career as a writer may be considered fixed. Pray present my congratulations to the Signorina when you see her." Savarin had been in receipt of this letter some days before he called on Isaura, and carelessly showed it to her. She took it to the window to read, in order to conceal the trembling of her hands. In a few minutes she returned it silently. "Those Englishmen," said Savarin, "have not the heart of compliment. I am by no means flattered by what he says of my trifles, and I dare say you are still less pleased with this chilly praise of your charming tale; but the man means to be civil." "Certainly," said Isaura, smiling faintly. "Only think of Rameau," resumed Savarin; "on the strength of his sdtary in the Sens Commun, and on the chateaux en Espagne which he constructs thereon he has already fur- nished an apartment in the Chaussee d'Antin, and talks of set- ting up a coupe in order to maintain the dignity of letters when he goes to dine with the duchesses who are some day or other to invite him. Yet I admire his self-confidence though I laugh at it. A man gets on by a spring in his own mechanism, and he should always keep it wound up. Rameau will make a figure. I used to pity him. I begin to respect ; nothing suc- ceeds like success. But I see I am spoiling your morning. Au revoir, mon enfant.' 1 Left alone, Isaura brooded in a sort of mournful wonderment over the words referring to herself in Graham's letter. Read though but once, she knew them by heart. What ! Did he consider those characters she had represented as wholly imag- inary ? In one the most prominent, the most attractive could he detect no likeness to himself ? What! Did he con- sider so "over-romantic and exaggerated," sentiments which couched appeals from her heart to his? Alas! in matters of sentiment it is the misfortune of us men that even the most refined of us often grate upon some sentiment in a woman, though she may not be romantic not romantic at all, as people go, some sentiment which she thought must be so obvious, if we cared a straw about her, and which, though we prize her above the Indies, is, by our dim, horn-eyed, masculine vision, undiscernible. It may be something in itself the airiest of trifles : the anniversary of a day in which the first kiss was interchanged, nay, of a violet gathered, a misunderstanding cleared up"; and of that anniversary we remember no more than we do of our bells and coral. But she she remembers it ; it is no bells and coral to her. Of course, much is to be THE PARISIANS. 277 said in excuse of man, brute though he be. Consider the mul- tiplicity of his occupations, the practical nature of his cares. But granting the validity of all such excuse, there is in man an original obtuseness of fibre as regards sentiment in comparison with the delicacy of woman's. It comes, perhaps, from the same hardness of constitution which forbids us the luxury of ready tears. Thus it is very difficult for the wisest man to under- stand thoroughly a woman. Goethe says somewhere that the highest genius in man must have much of the woman in it. If this be true, the highest genius alone in man can com- prehend and explain the nature of woman ; because it is not remote from him, but an integral part of his masculine self. I am not sure, however, that it necessitates the highest genius, but rather a special idiosyncrasy in genius which the highest may or may not have. I think Sophocles a higher genius than Euripides ; but Euripides has that idiosyncrasy, and Sophocles not. I doubt whether women would accept Goethe as their interpreter with the same readiness with which they would ac- cept Schiller. Shakspeare, no doubt, excels all poets in the comprehension of women, in his sympathy with them in the woman-part of his nature which Goethe ascribes to the highest genius; but, putting aside that "monster," I do not remember any English poet whom we should consider conspicuously emi- nent in that lore, unless it be the prose poet, nowadays gen- erally underrated and little read, who wrote the letters of Cla- rissa Harlowe. I say all this in vindication of Graham Vane, if, though a very clever man in his way, and by no means unin- structed in human nature, he had utterly failed in comprehend- ing the mysteries which to this poor woman-child seemed to need no key for one who really loved her. But we have said somewhere before in this book that music speaks in a lan- guage which cannot explain itself except in music. So speaks, in the human heart, much which is akin to music. Fiction (that is, poetry, whether in form of rhyme or prose) speaks thus pretty often. A reader must be more commonplace than, I trust, my gentle readers are, if he suppose that when Isaura symbolized the real hero of her thoughts in the fabled hero of her romance, she depicted him as one of whom the world could say, " That is Graham Vane." I doubt if even a male poet would so vulgarize any woman whom he thoroughly rever- enced and loved. She is too sacred to him to be thus unveiled to the public stare ; as the sweetest of all ancient love-poets says well " Qui sapit in tacito gaudeat ille iny," 278 THE PARISIANS. But a girl, a girl in her first untold, timid love, to let the world know, " that is the man I love and would die for ! " if such a girl be, she has no touch of the true woman-genius, and cer- tainly she and Isaura have nothing in common. Well, then, in Isaura's invented hero, though she saw the archetypal form of. Graham Vane saw him as in her young, vague, romantic dreams, idealized, beautified, transfigured he would have been the vainest of men if he had seen therein the reflection of him- self. On the contrary, he said, in the spirit of that jealousy to which he was too prone : " Alas ! this, then, is some ideal, already seen, perhaps, compared to which how commonplace am I !" and thus persuading himself, no wonder that the senti- ments surrounding this unrecognized archetype appeared to him over-romantic. His taste acknowledged the beauty of form which clothed them ; his heart envied the ideal that inspired them. But they seemed so remote from him ; they put the dreamland of the writer farther and farther from his workday real life. In this frame of mind, then, he had written to Savarin, and the answer he received hardened it still more! Savarin had replied, as was his laudable wont in correspondence, the very day he received Graham's letter, and therefore before he had, even seen Isaura. In his reply, he spoke much of the success her work had obtained ; of the invitations showered upon her, and the sensation she caused in the salons : of her future career, with hope that she might even rival Madame de Grant- mesnil some day, when her ideas became emboldened by maturer experience, and a closer study of that model of elo- quent style, saying that the young editor was evidently becom- ing enamoured of his fair contributor ; and that Madame Savarin had ventured the prediction that the Signorina's roman would end in the death of the heroine, and the marriage of the writer. CHAPTER V. AND still the weeks glided on : autumn succeeded to sum- mer, the winter to autumn ; the season of Paris was at its height. The wondrous capital seemed to repay its Imperial embellisher by the splendor and the joy of its / 284 THE PARISIANS. thus afflicted. There seemed but one alternative to that of abandoning her altogether, viz., to make her my wife, to con- clude the studies necessary to obtain my diploma, and purchase some partnership in a small country practice with the scanty surplus that might be left of my capital. I placed this option before Louise timidly, for I could not bear the thought of forcing her inclinations. She seemed much moved by what she called my generosity : she consented ; we were married. I was, as you may conceive, wholly ignorant of French law. We were married according to the English ceremony and the Protestant ritual. Shortly after our marriage we all three re- turned to Paris, taking an apartment in a quarter remote from that in which we had before lodged, in order to avoid any har- assment to which such small creditors as Duval had left behind him might subject us. I resumed my studies with redoubled energy, and Louise was necessarily left much alone with her poor father in the daytime. The defects in her character be- came more and more visible. She reproached me for the soli- tude to which I condemned her ; our poverty galled her ; she had no kind greeting for me when I returned at evening, wearied out. Before marriage she had not loved me after marriage, alas ! I fear she hated. We had been returned to Paris some months when poor Duval died : he had never re- covered his faculties, nor had we ever learned from whom his pension had been received. Very soon after her father's death I observed a singular change in the humor and manner of Louise. She was no longer peevish, irascible, reproachful ; but taciturn and thoughtful. She seemed to me under the in- fluence of some suppressed excitement : her cheeks flushed and her eye abstracted. At length, one evening when I re- turned I found her gone. She did not come back that night nor the next day. It was impossible for me to conjecture what had become of her. She had no friends, so far as I knew no one had visited at our squalid apartment. The poor house in which we lodged had no concierge \\\\om I could question ; but the ground-floor was occupied by a small tobacconist's shop, and the woman at the counter told me that for some days before my wife's disappearance she had observed her pass the shop window in going out in the afternoon and returning to- wards the evening. Two terrible conjectures beset me : either in her walk she had met some admirer, with whom she had fled ; or, unable to bear the companionship and poverty of a union which she had begun to loathe, she had gone forth tc drown herself in the Seine. On the third day from her flight / THE PARISIANS. 285 received the letter I enclose. Possibly the handwriting may serve you as a guide in the mission I intrust to you : " ' MONSIEUR : You have deceived me vilely taken advant- age of my inexperienced youth and friendless position to decoy me into an illegal marriage. My only consolation under my ca- lamity and disgrace is, that I am at least free from a detested bond. You will not see me again ; it is idle to attempt to do so. I have obtained refuge with relations whom I have been fortunate enough to discover, and to whom I intrust my fate. And even if you could learn the shelter I have sought, and have the audacity to molest me, you would but subject your- self to the chastisement you so richly deserve. " ' LOUISE DUVAL,' "At the perusal of this cold-hearted, ungrateful letter, the love I had felt for this woman already much shaken by her wayward and perverse temper vanished from my heart, never to return. But as an honest man, my conscience was terribly stung. Could it be possible that I had unknowingly deceived her that our marriage was not legal ? " When I recovered from the stun which was the first effect of her letter, I sought the opinion of an avout'vn. the neighbor- hood, named Sartiges, and, to my dismay, I learned that while I, marrying according to the customs of my own country, was legally bound to Louise in England, and could not marry an- other, the marriage was in all ways illegal for her being with- out the consent of her relations while she was under age ; with- out the ceremonials of the Roman Catholic Church, to which, though I never heard any profession of religious belief from her or her father, it might fairly be presumed that she belonged; and, above all, without the form of civil contract which is in- dispensable to the legal marriage of a French subject. " The avoud said that the marriage, therefore, in itself was null, and that Louise could, without incurring legal penalties for bigamy, marry again in France according to the French laws ; but that, under the circumstances, it was probable that her next of kin would apply on her behalf to the proper court for the formal annulment of the marriage, which would be the most ef- fectual mode of saving her from any molestation on my part, and remove all possible question hereafter as to her single state and absolute right to remarry. I had better remain quiet, and wait for intimation of further proceedings. I knew not what else to do, and necessarily submitted. " From this wretched listlessness of mind, alternated now by 286 THE PARISIANS. vehement resentment against Louise, now by the reproach of my own sense of honor in leaving that honor in so questionable a point of view, I was aroused by a letter from the distant kins- man by whom hitherto I had been so neglected. In the previ- ous year he had lost one of his two children ; the other was just dead : no nearer relation now surviving stood between me and my chance of inheritance from him. He wrote word of his domestic affliction with a manly sorrow which touched me, said that his health was failing, and begged me, as soon as possible, to come and visit him in Scotland. I went, and con- tinued to reside with him till his death, some months after- wards. By his will I succeeded to his ample fortune on con- dition of taking his name. " As soon as the affairs connected with this inheritance per- mitted, I returned to Paris, and again saw M. Sartiges. 1 had never heard from Louise, nor from any one connected with her, since the letter you have read. No steps had been taken to annul the marriage, and sufficient time had elapsed to render it improbable that such steps would be taken now. But if no such steps were taken, however free from the marriage-bond Louise might be, it clearly remained binding on myself. " At my request, M. Sartiges took the most vigorous meas- ures that occurred to him to ascertain where Louise was, and what and who was the relation with whom she asserted she had found refuge. The police were employed, advertisements were issued, concealing names, but sufficiently clear to be intelligi- ble to Louise if they came under her eye, and to the effect that if any informality in our marriage existed, she was implored for her own sake to remove it by a second ceremonial answer to be addressed to the avout. No answer came ; the police had hitherto failed of discovering her, but were sanguine of success, when a few weeks after these advertisements a packet reached M. Sartiges, enclosing the certificates annexed to this letter, of the death of Louise Duval at Munich. The certificates, as you will see, are to appearance officially attested and unquestion- ably genuine. So they were considered by M. Sartiges as well as by myself. Here, then, all inquiry ceased ; the police were dismissed. I was free. By little and little I overcame the painful impressions which my ill-starred union and the an- nouncement of Louise's early death bequeathed. Rich, and of active mind, I learned to dismiss the trials of my youth as a gloomy dream. I entered into public life ; I made myself a creditable position ; became acquainted with your aunt ; we were wedded, and the beauty of her nature embellished mine, THE PARISIANS. 287 Alas, alas ! two years after our marriage nearly five years after I had received the certificates of Louise's death I and your aunt made a summer excursion into the country of the Rhine ; on our return we rested at Aix la-Chapelle. One day while there I was walking alone in the environs of the town, when, on the road, a little girl, seemingly about five years old, in chase of a butterfly, stumbled and fell just before my feet ; I took her up, and as she was crying more from the shock of the fall than any actual hurt, I was still trying my best to com- fort her, when a lady some paces behind her came up, and in taking the child from my arms as I was bending over her, thanked me in a voice that made my heart stand still ; I looked up and beheld Louise. " It was not till I had convulsively clasped her hand and uttered her name that she recognized me. I was, no doubt, the more altered of the two ; prosperity and happiness had left little trace of the needy, careworn, threadbare student. But if she were the last to recognize she was the first to recover self- possession. The expression of her face became hard and set. I cannot pretend to repeat with any verbal accuracy the brief con- verse that took place between us as she placed the child on the grass bank beside the path, bade her stay there quietly, and walked on with me some paces, as if she did not wish the child to hear what was said. " The purport of what passed was to this effect : She re- fused to explain the certificates of her death further than that, becoming aware of what she called the ' persecution ' of the adver- tisements issued and inquiries instituted, she had caused those documents to be sent to the address given in the advertisement, in order to terminate all further molestation. But how they could have been obtained, or by what art so ingeniously forged as to deceive the acuteness of a practised lawyer, I know not to this day. She declared, indeed, that she was now happy, in e'asy circumstances, and that if I wished to make some repara- tion for the wrong I had done her, it would be to leave her in peace ; and in case which was not likely we ever met again, to regard and treat her as a stranger ; that she, on her part, never would molest me, and that the certified death of Louise Duval left me as free to marry again as she considered herself to' be, "My mind was so confused, so bewildered, while she thus talked, that I did not attempt to interrupt her. The blow had so crushed me that I scarcely struggled under it ; only, as she turned to leave me, I suddenly recollected that the child, when taken from my arms, had called her ' Mamcm] and, judging by 288 w THE PARISIANS. the apparent age of the child, it must have been born but a few months after Louise had left me that it must be mine. And so, in my dreary woe, I faltered out : ' But what of your infant ? Surely that has on me a claim that you relinquish for yourself. You were not unfaithful to me while you deemed you were my wife ? ' "'Heavens ! Can you insult me by such a doubt? No ! ' she cried out, impulsively and haughtily. ' But as I was not legally your wife, the child is not legally yours ; it is mine, and only mine. Nevertheless, if you wish to claim it,' here she paused as in doubt. I saw at once that she was prepared to resign to me the child if I had urged her to do so. I must own, with a pang of remorse, that I recoiled from such a proposal. What could I do with the child ? How explain to my wife the cause of my interest in it ? If only a natural child of mine, I should have shrunk from owning to Janet a youthful error. But, as it was the child- by a former marriage, the former wife still living ! my blood ran cold with dread. And if I did take the child, invent what story 1 might as to its parent- age, should I not expose myself, expose Janet, to terrible, con- stant danger ? The mother's natural affection might urge her at any time to seek tidings of the child, and in so doing she might easily discover my new name, and, perhaps years hence, establish on me her own claim. " ' No, I could not risk such perils,' I replied sullenly. ' You say rightly ; the child is yours only yours.' I was about to add an offer of pecuniary provision for it, but Louise had already turned scornfully towards the bank on which she had left the infant. I saw her snatch from the child's hand some wild flowers the poor thing had been gathering ; and how often have I thought of the rude way in which she did it not as a mother who loves her child. Just then other pas- sengers appeared on the road ; two of them I knew---an Eng- lish couple very intimate with Lady Janet and myself. They stopped to accost me, while Louise passed by with the infant towards the town. I turned in the opposite direction, and strove to collect my thoughts. Terrible as was the discovery thus suddenly made, it was evident that Louise had as strong an interest as myself to conceal it. There was little chance that it would ever be divulged. Her dress and that of the child were those of persons in the richer classes of life. After all, doubtless, the child needed not pecuniary assistance from me, and was surely best off under the mother's care. Thus I sought to comfort and delude myself. THE PARISIANS. 289 " The next day Janet and I left Aix-la-Chapelle and re- v turned to England. But it was impossible for me to banish the dreadful thought that Janet was not legally my wife ; that could she even guess the secret lodged in my breast she would be lost to me forever, even though she died of the separation (you know well how tenderly she loved me). My nature un- derwent a silent revolution. I had previously cherished the ambition common to most men in public life the ambition for fame, for place, for power. That ambition left me ; I shrank from the thought of becoming too well known, lest Louise or her connections, as yet ignorant of my new name, might more easily learn what the world knew, viz., that I had previously borne another name the name of her husband and finding me wealthy and honored, might hereafter be tempted to claim for herself or her daughter the ties she ab- jured for both while she deemed me poor and despised. But partly my conscience, partly the influence of the angel by my side, compelled me to seek whatever means of doing good to others position and circumstances placed at my disposal. I was alarmed when even such quiet exercise of mind and for- tune acquired a sort of celebrity. How painfully I shrank from it ! The world attributed my dread of publicity to un- affected modesty. The world praised me, and I knew myself an impostor. But the years stole on. I heard no more of Louise or her child, and my fears gradually subsided. Yet I was consoled when the two children born to me by Janet died in their infancy. Had they lived, who can tell whether some- thing might not have transpired to prove them illegitimate? " " I must hasten on. At last came the great and crushing calamity of my life : I lost the woman who was my all in all. At least she was spared the discovery that would have deprived me of the right of attending her deathbed, and leaving within her tomb a place vacant for myself. "But after the first agonies that followed her loss, the con- science I had so long sought to tranquillize became terribly re- proachful. Louise had forfeited all right to my consideration, but my guiltless child had not done so. Did it live still? If so, was it not the heir to my fortunes the only child left to me? True, I have the absolute right to dispose of my wealth: it is not in land ; it is not entailed ; but was not the daughter I had forsaken morally the first claimant ? Was no reparation due to her? You remember that my physician ordered me, some little time after your aunt's death, to seek a temporary change of scene. I obeyed, and went away no one knew 290 THE PARISIANS. whither. Well, I repaired to Paris; there I sought M. Sartiges, the avoue. I found he had been long dead. I discovered his executors, and inquired if any papers or correspondence be- tween Richard Macdonald and himself many years ago were in existence. All such documents, with 'others not returned to correspondents at his decease, had been burned by his desire. No possible clue to the whereabouts of Louise, should any have been gained since I last saw her, was left. What then to do I kne-v not. I did not dare to make inquiries through strangers, which, if discovering my child, might also bring to light a marriage that would have dishonored the memory of my lost saint. I returned to England, feeling that my days were num- bered. It is to you that I transmit the task of those researches which I could not institute. I bequeath to you, with the ex- ception of trifling legacies "and donations to public charities, the whole of my fortune. But you will understand by this letter that it is to be held on a trust which I cannot specify in my will. I could not, without dishonoring the venerated name of your aunt, indicate as the heiress of my wealth a child by a wife living at the time I married Janet. I cannot form any words for such a devise which would not arouse gossip and suspicion, and furnish ultimately a clue to the discovery I would shun. I calculate that, after all deductions, the sum that will devolve to you will be about ^220,000. That which I mean to be absolutely and at once yours is the comparatively trifling legacy of ^20,000. If Louise's child be not living, or if you find full reason to suppose that, despite appearances, the child is not mine, the whole of my for- tune lapses to you : but should Louise be surviving and need pecuniary aid, you will contrive that she may have such an an- nuity as you may deem fitting, without learning whence it come. You perceive that it is your object, if possible, even more than mine, to preserve free from slur the name and mem- ory of her who was to you a second mother. All ends we de- sire would be accomplished could you, on discovering my lost child, feel that, without constraining your inclinations, you could make her your wife. She would then naturally share with you my fortune, and all claims of justice and duty would be quietly appeased. She would now be of age suitable to yours. When I saw her at Aix she gave promise of inheriting no small share of her mother's beauty. If Louise's assurance of her easy circumstances were true, her daughter has possibly been educated and reared with tenderness and care. You have already assured me that you have no prior attachment. THE PARISIANS. 29! But if, on discovering this child, you find her already married, or one whom you could not love nor esteem, I leave it implicit- .ly to your honor and judgment to determine what share of the ^200,000 left in your hands should be consigned to her. She may have been corrupted by her mother's principles. She may Heaven forbid ! have fallen into evil courses, and wealth would be misspent in her hands. In that case a competence sufficing to save her from further degradation, from the tempta- jrions of poverty, would be all that I desire you to devote from my wealth. On the contrary, you may find in her one who, in all respects, ought to be my chief inheritor. All this I leave in full confidence to you, as being, of all the men I know, the one who unites the highest sense of honor with the largest share of practical sense and knowledge of life. The main difficulty, whatever this lost girl may derive from my substance, will be in devising some means to convey it to her, so that neither she nor those around her may trace the bequest to me. She can never be acknowledged as my child never ! Your reverence for the beloved dead forbids that. This difficulty your clear strong sense must overcome : mine is blinded by the shades of death. You, too, will deliberately consider how to institute the inquiries after mother and child so as not to betray our secret. This will require great caution. You will probably commence at Paris, through the agency of the police, to whom you will be very guarded in your communications. It is most unfortunate that I have no miniature of Louise, and that any description of her must be so vague that it may not serve to discover her ; but such as it is, it may prevent your mistaking for her some other of her name. Louise was above the com- mon height, and looked taller than she was, with the peculiar combination of very dark hair, very fair complexion, and light gray eyes. She would now be somewhat under the age of forty. She was. not without accomplishments, derived from the companionship with her father. She spoke English fluent-. ly ; she drew with taste, and even with talent. You will see the prudence of confining research at first to Louise, rather than to the child who is the principal object of it ; for it is not till you can ascertain what has become of her that you can trust the accuracy of any information respecting the daughter, whom I assume, perhaps after all erroneously, to be mine. Though Louise talked with such levity of holding herself free to marry, the birth of her child might be sufficient injury to her reputation to become a serious obstacle to such second nuptials, not having taken formal steps to annul her marriage 292 THE PARISIANS. with myself. If not thus re-married, there would be no reason why she should not resume her maiden name of Duval, as she did in the signature of her letter to me : finding that I had ceased to molest her by the inquiries, to elude which she had invented the false statement of her death. It seems probable, therefore, that she is residing somewhere in Paris, and in the name of Duval. Of course the burden of uncertainty as to your future cannot be left to oppress you for an indefinite length of time. If at the end, say, of two ) r ears, your re- searches have wholly failed, consider three-fourths of my whole fortune to have passed to you, and put by the fourth to ac- cumulate, should the child afterwards be discovered, and satisfy your judgment as to her claims on me as her father. Should she not, it will be a reserve fund for your own children. But oh, if my child could be found in time ! And oh, if she be all that could win your heart, and be the wife you would select from free choice ! I can say no more. Pity me, and judge leniently of Janet's husband. R. K." The key to Graham's conduct is now given ; the deep sor- row that took him to the tomb of the aunt he so revered, and whose honored memory was subjected to so great a risk ; the slightness of change in his expenditure and mode of life, after an inheritance supposed to be so ample ; the abnegation of his political ambition ; the subject of his inquiries, and the cautious reserve imposed upon them ; above all, the position towards Isaura in which he was so cruelly placed. Certainly, his first thought in revolving the conditions of his trust had been that of marriage with this lost child of Richard King's, should she be discovered single, disengaged, and not repulsive to his inclination. Tacitly he subscribed to the rea- sons for this course alleged by the deceased. It was the sim- plest and readiest plan of uniting justice to the rightful inher- itor with care for a secret so important to the honor of his aunt, of Richard King himself his benefactor of the illustrious house from which Lady Janet had sprung. Perhaps, too, the. consideration that by this course a fortune so useful to his ca- reer was secured, was not without influence on the mind of a man naturally ambitious. But on that consideration he for- bade himself to dwell. He put it away from him as a sin. Yet to marriage with any one else, until his mission was fulfilled, and the uncertainty as to the extent of his fortune was dis- pelled, there interposed grave practical obstacles. How could he honestly present himself to a girl and to her parents in the THE PARISIANS. $9$ light of a rich man, when in reality he might be but a poor man ? How could he refer to any lawyer the conditions which rendered impossible any settlement that touched a shilling of the large sum which at any day he might have to transfer to another ? Still, when once fully conscious how deep was the love with which Isaura had inspired him, the idea of wedlock with the daughter of Richard King, if she yet lived and was single, became inadmissible. The orphan condition of the young Italian smoothed away the obstacles to proposals ot marriage which would have embarrassed his addresses to girls of his own rank, and with parents who would have demanded settlements. And if he had found Isaura alone on that day on which he had seen her last, he would doubtless have yielded to the voice of his heart, avowed his love, wooed her own, and committed both to the tie of betrothal. We have seen how rudely such yearnings of his heart were repelled on that last interview. His English prejudices were so deeply rooted, that, even if he had been wholly free from the trust bequeathed to him, he would have recoiled from marriage with a girl who, in the ardor for notoriety, could link herself with such associates as Gustave Rameau, by habits a Bohemian, and by principles a Socialist. In flying from Paris, he embraced the resolve to banish all thought of wedding Isaura, and to devote himself sternly to the task which had so sacred a claim upon him. Not that he could endure the idea of marrying another, even if the lost heiress should be all that his heart could have worshipped, had that heart been his own to give ; but he was impatient of the burden heaped on him ; of the fortune which might not be his, of the uncertainty which paralyzed all his ambitious schemes for the future. Yet, strive as he would and no man could strive mo:e reso- lutely he could not succeed in banishing the image of Isaut^i. It was with him always ; and with it a sense of irreparable loss, of a terrible void, of a pining anguish. And the success of his inquiries at Aix-la-Chapelle, while sufficient to detain him in the place, was so slight, and ad- vanced by such slow degrees, that it furnished no continued occupation to his restless mind. M. Renard was acute and painstaking. But it was no easy matter to obtain any trace of a Parisian visitor to so popular a spa so many years ago. The name Duval, too, was so common, that at Aix, as we have seen at Paris, time was wasted in the chase of a Duval who proved not to be the lost Louise. At last M. Renard chanced on a house 294 THE PARISIANS. in which, in the year 1849, two ladies from Paris had lodged for three weeks. One was named Madame Duval, the other Madame Marigny. They were both young, both very hand- some, and much of the same height and coloring. But Madame Marigny was the handsomer of the two. Madame Duval fre- quented the gaming-tab lo ,s, and was apparently of very lively temper. Madame Marigny lived very quietly, rarely or never stirred out, and seemed in delicate health. She, however, quitted the apartment somewhat abruptly, and, to the best of the lodging-house keeper's recollection, took rooms in the country ne.| - Aix she could not remember where. About two months aft fr the departure of Madame Marigny, Madame Duval also left Aix, and in company with a French gentleman who had visited her much of late a handsome man of striking appear- ance. The lodging-house keeper did not know what or who he was. She remembered that he used to be announced to Madame Duval by the name of M. Achille. Madame Duval had never been seen again by the lodging-house keeper after she had left. But Madame Marigny she had once seen, nearly five years after she had quitted the lodgings seen her by chance at the rail- way station, recognized her at once, and accosted her, offering her the old apartment. Madame Marigny had, however, briefly replied that she was only at Aix for a few hours, and should quit it the same day. The inquiry now turned towards Madame Marigny. The date on which the lodging-house keeper had last seen her coincided with the year in which Richard King had met Louise. Possi- bly, therefore, she might have accompanied the latter to Aix at that time, and could, if found, give information as to her subse- quent history and present whereabouts. After a tedious search throughout all the environs of Aix, Graham himself came, by the merest accident, upon the vestiges of Louise's friend. He had been wandering alone in the coun- try round Aix,when a violent thunderstorm drove him to ask shel- ter in the house of a small farmer, situated in a field, a little off the byway which he had taken. While waiting for the cessation of the storm, and drying his clothes by the fire in a room that adjoined the kitchen, he entered into conversation with the far- mer's wife, a pleasant, well-mannered person, and made some complimentary observation on a small sketch of the house in water-colors that hung upon the wall. " Ah," said the farmer's wife, "that was done by a French lady who lodged here many years ago. She drew very prettily, poor thing." " A lady who lodged here many years ago how many ? " THE PARISIANS. 295 "Well, I guess somewhere about twenty." " Ah, indeed ! Was it a Madame Marigny ? " "BonDieu! That was indeed her name. Did you know her ? I should be so glad to hear she is well and I hope happy." " I do not know where she is now, and am making inquiries to ascertain. Pray help me. How long did Madame Marigny lodge with you ? " " I think pretty well two months ; yes, two months. She left a month after her confinement." " She was confined here ? " " Yes. When she first came, I had no idea that she was en- ciente. She had a pretty figure, and no one would have guessed it, in the way she wore her shawl. Indeed I only began to sus- pect it a few days before it happened ; and that was so sud- denly, that all was happily over before we could send for the accoucheur" " And the child lived ? A girl or a boy ? " "A girl the prettiest baby." " Did she take the child with her when she went? " " No ; it was put out to nurse with a niece of my husband's who was confined about the same time. Madame paid liberally in advance, and continued to send money half-yearly, till she came herself and took away the little girl," " When was that? A little less than five years after she had left it?" " Why, you know all about it, Monsieur ; yes, not quite five years after. She did not come to see me, which I thought unkind, but she sent me, through my niece-in-law, a real gold watch and a shawl. Poor, dear lady for lady she was all over with proud ways, and would not bear to be questioned. But I am sure she was none of your French light ones, but an honest wife like myself, although she never said so." " And have you no idea where she was all the five years she was away, or where she went after reclaiming her child ? " " No, indeed, Monsieur." ''But her remittances for the infant must have been made by letters, and the letters would have had post-marks ?" " Well, I dare say : I am no scholar myself. But suppose you see Marie Hubert, that is my niece-in-law, perhaps she has kept the envelopes." %< Where does Madame Hubert live ? " " It is just a league off by the short path ; you can't miss the way. Her husband has a bit of land of his own, but he ii also 596 THE PARISIANS. a carrier ' Max Hubert, carrier,' written over the door, just opposite the first church you get to. The rain has ceased, but it may be too far for you to-day." " Not a bit of it. Many thanks." " But if you find out the dear lady and see her, do tell her how pleased I should be to hear good news of her and the little one." Graham strode on under the clearing skies to the house in- dicated. He found Madame Hubert at home, and ready to answer all questions ; but, alas ! she had not the envelopes. Madame Marigny, on removing the child, had asked for all the envelopes or letters, and carried them away with her. Madame Hubert, who was as little of a scholar as her aunt-in-law was, had never paid much attention to the postmarks on the envel- opes ; and the only one that she did remember was the first, that contained a banknote, and that postmark was " Vienna." " But did not Madame Marigny's letters ever give you an address to which to write with news of her child?" " I don't think she cared much for her child, Monsieur. She kissed it very coldly when she came to take it away. I told the poor infant that that was her own mamma ; and Madame said, ' Yes, you may call me maman,' in a tone of voice well, not at all like that of a mother. She brought with her a little bag which contained some fine clothes for the child, and was very impatient till the child had got them on." " Are you quite sure it was the same lady who left the child ? " "Oh, there is no doubt of that. She was certainly ires belle, but I did not fancy- her as aunt did. She carried her head very high, and looked rather scornful. However, I must say she behaved very generously." " Still you have not answered my question whether her let- ters contained no address." "She never wrote -more than two letters. One enclosing the first remittance was but a few lines, saying that if the child was well and thriving, I need not write ; but if it died or became dangerously il), I might at any time write a line to Madame M , Poste Restante, Vienna. 'She was travelling about, but the letter would be sure to reach her sooner or later. The only other letter I had was to apprise me that she was coming to remove the child, and might be expected in three days after the receipt of her letter. " And all the other communications from her were merely remittances in blank envelopes?" "Exactly so." THE PARISIANS. ' 297 Graham, finding he could learn no more, took his departure. On his way home, meditating the new idea that his adventure that day suggested, he resolved to proceed at once, accom- panied by M. Renard, to Munich, and there learn what par- ticulars could be yet ascertained respecting those certificates of the death of Louise Duvalto which (sharing Richard King's very natural belief that they had been skilfully forged) he had hitherto attached no importance. CHAPTER VII, No satisfactory result attended the inquiries made at Munich, save indeed this certainly the certificates attesting the decease of some person calling herself Louise Duval had not been forged. They were indubitably genuine. A lady bearing that name had arrived at one of the principal hotels late in the evening, and had there taken handsome rooms. She was attended by no servant, but accompanied by a gentle- man, who, however, left the hotel as soon as he had seen her lodged to her satisfaction. The books of the hotel still re- tained the entry of her name Madame Duval, Fran$aise rentiere. On comparing the handwriting of this entry with the letter from Richard King's first wife, Graham found it differ ; but then it was not certain, though probable, that the entry had been written by the alleged Madame Duval herself. She was visited the next day by the same gentleman who had accompanied her on arriving. He dined and spent the even- ing with her. But no one at the hotel could remember what was the gentleman's name, nor even if he were announced by any name. He never called again. Two days afterwards, Madame Duval was taken ill ; a doctor was sent for, and at- tended her till her death. This doctor was easily found. He remembered the case perfectly : congestion of the lungs, apparently caused by cold caught on her journey. Fatal symptoms rapidly manifested themselves, and she died on the third day from the seizure. She was a young and handsome woman. He had asked her during her short illness if he should not write to her friends ; if there were no one she would wish to be sent for. She replied that there was only one friend, to whom she had already written, and who would arrive in a day or two. And on inquiring, it appeared that she had written such a letter, and taken it herself to the post op th other man did not, however, observe him, went his way with quick step along the street, and entered another house some yards distant. " What can that pious Bourbonite do here ? " muttered the first comer. "Can he be a conspirator? Diable ! 'tis as dark as Erebus on that staircase." Taking cautious hold of the banister, the man now ascended the stairs. On the landing of the first floor there was a gas- lamp which threw upward a faint ray that finally died at the third story. But at that third story the man's journey ended ; he pulled a bell at the door to the right, and in another mo- ment or so the door was opened by a young woman of twenty- eight or thirty, dressed very simply, but with a certain neat- ness not often seen in the wives of artisans in the Faubourg Montmartre. Her face,which, though pale and delicate, retained much of the beauty of youth, became clouded as she recognized the visitor ; evidently the visit was not welcome to her. 320 THE' PARISIANS. " Monsieur Lebeau again ! " she exclaimed, shrinking back. "At your service, chtre dame. The goodman is of course at home? Ah, I catch sight of him," and sliding by the woman, M. Lebeau passed the narrow lobby in which she stood, through the open door conducting into the room in which Ar- niand Monnier was seated, his chin propped on his hand, his elbow resting on a table, looking abstractedly into space. In a corner of the room two small children were playing languidly with a set of bone tablets, inscribed with the letters of the alphabet. But whatever the children were doing with the alphabet, they were certainly not learning to read from it. The room was of fair size and height, and by no means barely or shabbily furnished. There was a pretty clock on the mantelpiece. On the wall were hung designs for the decora- tion of apartments, and shelves on which were ranged a few books. The window was open, and on the sill were placed flower- pots ; you could scent the odor they wafted into the roo'n. Altogether it was an apartment suited to a skilled artisan earning high wages. From the room we are now in branched on one side a small but commodious kitchen ; on the other side, on which the door was screened by a portiere, with a border prettily worked by female hands some years ago, for it was faded now was a bedroom, communicating with one of less size in which the children slept. We do not enter these additional rooms, but it may be well here to mention them as indications of the comfortable state of an intelligent skilled artisan of Paris, who thinks he can better that state by some revolution which may ruin his employer. Monnier started up at the entrance of Lebeau, and his face showed that he did not share the dislike to the visit which that of the female partner of his life had evinced. On the con- trary, his smile was cordial, and there was a hearty ring in the voice which cried out : " I am glad to see you something to do ? Eh ? " " Always ready to work for liberty, mon brave." " I hope so : What's in the wind now ?" "O Armand, be prudent be prudent ! " cried the woman piteously. "Do not lead him into further mischief, Monsieur Lebeau": as she faltered forth the last words, she bowed her head over the two little ones, and her voice died in sobs. " Monnier," said Lebeau gravely, " Madame is right. I ought not to lead you into further mischief ; there are three in the room who have better claims on you than " THE PARISIANS. 32! " The cause of the millions," interrupted Monnier. " No." He approached the woman and took up one of the children very tenderly, stroking back its curls and kissing the face, which, if before surprised and saddened by the mother's sob, now smiled gayly under the father's kiss. " Canst thou doubt, my Heloise," said the artisan mildly, " that whatever I do thou and these are not uppermost in my thoughts ? I act for thine interest and theirs the world as it exists is the foe of you three. The world I will replace it by will be more friendly." The poor woman made no reply, but as he drew her towards him, she leant her head upon his breast and wept quietly. Monnier led her thus from the room whispering words of sooth- ing. The children followed the parents into the adjoining chamber. In a few minutes Monnier returned, shutting the door behind him, and drawing the portiere close. " You will excuse me, Citizen, and my poor wife wife she is to me and to all who visit here, though the law says she is not." " I respect Madame the more for her dislike to myself," said Lebeau, with a somewhat melancholy smile. " Not dislike to you personally, Citizen, but dislike to the business which she connects with your visits, and she is more than usually agitated on that subject this evening, because, just before you came, another visitor had produced a great effect on her feelings poor dear Heloise." "Indeed! How?" " Well, I was employed in the winter in redecorating the salon and boudoir of Madame de Vandemar ; her son, M. Raoul, took great interest in superintending the details. He would sometimes talk to me very civilly, not only on my work, but on other matters. It seems that Madame now wants something done to the salle-a-manger, and asked old Gerard my late master, you know to send me. Of course he said that was impossible ; for, though I was satisfied with my own wages, I had induced his other men to strike, and was one of the ringleaders in the recent strike of artisans in general a dangerous man, and he would have nothing more to do with me. So M. Raoul came to see and talk with me scarce gone before you rang at the bell ; you might almost have met him on the stairs." " I saw a beau monsieur come out of the house. And so his talk has affected Madame/' 322 THE PARISIANS. \ " Very much ; it was quite brother-like. He is one of the religious set, and they always get at the weak -side of the soft sex." " Ay," said Lebcau thoughtfully ; " if religion were banished from the laws of men, it would still find a refuge in the hearts of women. But Raoul de Vandemar did not presume to preach to Madame upon the sin of loving you and your children ?" "I should like to have heard him preach to her," cried Monnier fiercely. " No, he only tried to reason with me about matters he could not understand." "Strikes?" "Well, not exactly strikes; he did not contend that we workmen had not full right to combine and to strike for obtain- ing fairer money's worth for our work ; but he tried to per- suade me that where, as in my case, it was not a matter of wages, but of political principle, of war against capitalists, I could but injure myself and mislead others. He wanted to reconcile me to old Gerard, or to let him find me employment elsewhere ; and when I told him that my honor forbade me to make terms for myself till those with whom I was joined were satisfied, he said, ' But if this lasts much longer your children will not look so rosy'; then poor Heloise began to wring her hands and cry, and he took me aside and wanted to press money on me as a loan. He spoke so kindly that I could not be angry ; but when he found I would take nothing, he asked me about some families in the street of whom he had a list, and who, he was informed, were in great distress. That is true ; I am feeding some "of them myself out of my savings. You see, this young Monsieur belongs to a society of men, many as young as he is, which visits the poor and dispenses charity. I did not feel I had a right to refuse aid for others, and I told him where his money would be best spent. I suppose he went there when he left me." " I know the society you mean, that of St. Franfois de Sales. It comprises some of the most ancient of that old noblesse, to which the ouvriers in the great Revolution were so remorse- less." "We ouvriers are wiser now ; we see that in assailing t/iem, we gave ourselves worse tyrants in the new aristocracy of the capitalists. Our quarrel now is that of artisans against em- ployers." " Of course, I am aware of that ; but to leave general pol" itics, tell me frankly, How has the strike affected you as yet ? I mean in purse. Can you stand its pressure ? If not, you are THE PARISIANS. 323 above the false pride of not taking help from me, a fellow- conspirator, though you were justified in refusing it when of- fered by Raoul de Vandemar, the servant of the Church." " Pardon, I refuse aid from any one, except for the common cause. But do not fear for me, I ani not pinched as yet. I have had high wages for some years, and since I and Heloise came together, I have not wasted a sou out of doors, except in the way of public duty, such as making converts at the Jean Jacques and elsewhere ; a glass of beer and a pipe don't cost much. And Heloise is such a housewife, so thrifty, scolds me if I buy her a ribbon, poor love ! No wonder that I would pull down a society that dares to scoff at her dares to say she is not my wife, and her children are base-born. No, I have some savings left yet. War to society, war to the knife ! " "Monmer," said Lebeau, in a voice that evinced emotion, ''listen to me : I have received injuries from society which, when they were fresh, half-maddened me that is twenty years ago. I would then have thrown myself into any plot against society that proffered revenge ; but society, my friend, is a wall of very strong masonry, as it now stands ; it may be sapped in the course of a thousand years, but stormed in a day no. You dash your head against it you scatter your brains, and you dislodge a stone. Society smiles in scorn, effaces the stain, and replaces the stone. I no longer war against society. I do war against a system in that society which is hostile to me systems in France are easily overthrown. I say this because I want to use you, and I do not want to de- ceive." " Deceive me, bah ! You are an honest man," cried Mon- nier ; and he seized Lebeau's hand, and shook it with warmth and vigor. " But for you I should have been a mere grumbler. No doubt I should have cried out where the shoe pinched, and railed against laws that vex me ; but from the moment you first talked to me I became a new man. You taught me to act, as Rousseau and Madame de Grantmesnil had taught me to think and to feel. There is my brother, a grumbler, too, but professes to have a wiser head than mine. Pie is always warning me against you; against joining a strike; against doing anything to endanger my skin. I always went by his advice till you taught me that it was well enough for women to talk and complain ; men should dare and do." " Nevertheless," said Lebeau, " your brother is a safer councillor to a.ptre de famille than I. I repeat what I have so often said before : I desire and I resolve, that the Empire of 324 THE PARISIANS. M. Bonaparte shall be overthrown. I see many concurrent circumstances to render that desire and resolve of practicable fulfilment. You desire and resolve the same thing. Up to that point we can work together. I have encouraged your action only so far as it served my design ; but I separate from you the moment you would ask me to aid your design in the hazard of experiments which the world has never yet favored, and trust me, Monnier, the world never will favor." " That remains to be seen," said Monnier, with compressed, obstinate lips. " Forgive me, but you are not young ; you be- long to an old school." "Poor young man ! " said Lebeau, readjusting his spectacles, "I recognize in you the genius of Paris, be the genius good or evil. Paris is never warned by experience. Be it so. I want you so much, your enthusiasm is so fiery, that I can concede no more to the mere sentiment which makes me say to myself, ' It is a shame to use this great-hearted, wrong-headed creature for my personal ends.' 1 come at once to the point that is, the matter on which I seek you this evening. At my sugges- tion, you have been a ringleader in strikes which have terribly shaken the Imperial system, more than its Ministers deem ; now I want a man like you to assist in a bold demonstration against the Imperial resort to a rural priest-ridden suffrage, on the part of the enlightened working class of Paris." "Good ! " said Monnier. " In a day or two the result of the plebiscite will be known. The result of universal suffrage will be enormously in favor of the desire expressed by one man." "I don't believe it," said Monnier stoutly. "France can- not be so hoodwinked by the priests." " Take what I say for granted," resumed Lebeau calmly. " On the 8th of this month we shall know the amount of the majority some millions of French votes. I want Paris to separate itself from France, and declare against those blunder- ing millions. I want an e'meute, or rather a menacing ddmon- stration, not a premature revolution, mind. You must avoid bloodshed." " It is easy to say that beforehand ; but when a crowd of men once meets in the streets of Paris " "It can do much by meeting, and cherishing resentment if the meeting be dispersed by an armed force, which it would be waste of life to resist." "We shall see when the time comes," said Monnier, with a fierce gleam in his bold eyes. THE PARISIANS. 325 " I tell you, all that is required at this moment is an evidenv protest of the artisans of Paris against the votes of the ' rurals' of France. Do you comprehend me?" " I think so ; if not, I obey. What we ouvriers want is what we have not got a head to dictate action to us." "See to this, then. Rouse the men you can command. I will take care that you have plentiful aid from foreigners. We may trust to the confreres of our council to enlist Poles and Italians ; Gaspard le Noy will turn out the volunteer rioters at his command. Let the emeute be within, say a week, after the vote of the plebiscite is taken. You will need that time to prepare." " Be contented it shall be done." " Good-night, then." Lebeau leisurely took up his hat and drew on his gloves, then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned briskly on the artisan, and said in quick, blunt tones: " Armand Monnier, explain to me why it is that you, a Parisian artisan, the type of a class the most insubordinate, the most self-conceited, that exists on the face of earth, take without question, with so docile a submission, the orders of a man who plainly tells you he does not sympathize in your ulti- mate objects, of whom you really know very little, and whose views you candidly own you think are those of an old and ob- solete school of political reasoners." "You puzzle me to explain," said Monnier, with an ingenuous laugh, that brightened up features stern and hard, though comely when in repose. " Partly, because you are so straight- forward, and do not talk blague; partly, because I don't think the class I belong to would stir an inch unless we had a leader of another class, and you give me at least that leader. Again, you go to that first stage which we all agree to take, and well, do you want me to explain more? " " YesT" "Eh bicn! you have warned me like an honest man ; like an honest man I warn you. That first step we take together ; I want to go a step further; you retreat, you say 'No': I reply you are committed ; that further step you must take, or I cry ' Traitre ! a la lanterne ! ' You talk of ' superior experi- ence': bah! what does experience really tell you ? Do you suppose that Philippe Egalite", when he began to plot against Louis XVI., meant to vote for his kinsman's execution by the guillotine? Do you suppose that Robespierre, when he com- menced his career as the foe of capital punishment, foresaw that he should be the Minister of the Reign of Terror ? Not a 326 THE PARISIANS. bit of it. Each was committed by his use of those he designed for his tools : so must you be or you perish." Lebeau, leaning against the door, heard the frank avowal he had courted without betraying a change of countenance. But when Armand Monnier had done, a slight movement of his lips showed emotion ; was it of fear or disdain ? " Monnier," he said gently ; " I am so much obliged to you for the manly speech you have made. The scruples which my conscience had before entertained are dispelled. I dreaded lest I, a declared wolf, might seduce into peril an innocent sheep. I see I have to deal with a wolf of younger vigor and sharper fangs than myself so much the better : obey my orders now ; leave it to time to say whether I obey yours later. A u revoir" CHAPTER VI. ISAURA'S apartment, on the following Thursday evening, was more filled than usual. Besides her habitual devotees in the artistic or literary world, there were diplomatists and deputies commixed with many fair chiefs of la jeunesse dore'e ; amongst the latter the brilliant Enguerrand de Vandemar, who, deeming the acquaintance of every celebrity essential to his own celeb- rity, in either Carthage, the beau monde or the demi-monde, had, two Thursdays before, made Louvier attend her soiree and present him. Louvier, though gathering to his own salons authors and artists, very rarely favored their rooms with his presence ; he did not adorn Isaura's party that evening. But Duplessis was there, in compensation. Jt had chanced that Vale'rie had met Isaura at some house in" the past winter, and conceived an enthusiastic affection for her : since then, Valerie came very often to see her, and made a point of dragging with her to Isaura's Thursday reunions her obedient father. "Soir/es, musical or literary, were not much in his line ; but he had no pleasure like that of pleasing his spoilt child. Our old friend Frederic Lemercier was also one of Isaura's guests that night. He had become more and more intimate with Duplessis, and Duplessis had introduced him to the fair Valerie as " unjeune homme plein de moyens, qui ira loin" Savarin was there of course, and brought with him an English gentleman of the name of Bevil, as well known at Paris as in London invited every where, popular everywhere one of those welcome contributors to the luxuries of civilized society who trade in gossip, sparing no pains to get the pick of it, and THE PARISIANS, 327 ftxhanging it liberally sometimes (or a haunch of vension, some- times for a cup of tea. His gossip not being adulterated with malice was in high repute for genuine worth. If Bevil said, "This story is a. fact," you no more thought of doubting him^than you would doubt Rothschild if he said, " This is Lafitte of "48." Mr. Bevil was at present on a very short stay at Paris, and, naturally wishing to make the most of his time, he did not tarry beside Savarin, but, after being introduced to Isaura, flitted here and there through the assembly. " Apis Matinee More modoque Grata carpenlis thyma " The bee proffers honey, but bears a sting. The room was at its fullest when Gustave Rameau entered, accompanied by Monsieur de Mauleon. Isaura was agreeably surprised by the impression made on her by the Vicomte's appearance and manner. His writings, and such as she had heard of his earlier repute, had prepared her to see a man decidedly old, of withered aspect and sar- donic smile, aggressive in demeanor, forward or contemptuous in his very politeness a Mephistopheles engrafted on the stem of a Don Juan. She was startled by the sight of one who, despite his forty-eight years and at Paris a man is generally older at forty-eight than he is elsewhere seemed in the zenith of ripened manhood ; startled yet more by the singular moflesty of a deportment too thoroughly highbred not to be quietly simple ; startled most by a melancholy expres- sion in eyes that could be at times soft, though always so keen, and in the grave, pathetic smile which seemed to disarm cen- sure of past faults in saying, "I have known sorrows." He did not follow up his introduction to his young hostess by any of the insipid phrases of compliment to which she was accustomed ; but, after expressing in grateful terms his thanks for the honor she had permitted Rameau to confer on him, he moved aside, as if he had no right to detain her from other guests more worthy her notice, towards the doorway, taking his place by Enguerrand amidst a group of men of whom Duplessis was the central figure. At that time the first week in May, 1870 all who were then in Paris will remember there were two subjects upper- most in the mouths of men : first, the plebiscite; secondly, the conspiracy to murder the Emperor, which the disaffected con- 328 THE PARISIANS. <.idered to be a mere fable, a pretence got up in time to serve the plebiscite and prop the Empire. Upon this latter subject Duplessis had been expressing him- self with unwonted animation. A loyal and earnest Imperial- ist, it was only with effort that he could repress his scorn of that meanest sort of gossip which is fond of ascribing petty motives to eminent men. To him nothing could be more clearly evident than the real- ity of this conspiracy, and he had no tolerance for the malig- nant absurdity of maintaining that the Emperor or his Minis- ters could be silly and wicked enough to accuse seventy-two persons of a crime which the police had been instructed to in- vent. As De Mauleon approached, the financier brought his speech to an abrupt close. He knew in the Vicomte de Maul- e"on the writer of articles which had endangered the govern- ment, and aimed no pointless shafts against its Imperial head. " My cousin," said Enguerrand gayly, as he exchanged a cordial shake of the hand with Victor, " ^congratulate you on the fame of journalist, into which you have vaulted, armed cap-a-pie, like a knight of old into his saddle ; but I don't sym- pathize with the means you have taken to arrive at that re- nown. I am not myself an Imperialist a Vandemar can be scarcely that. But if I am compelled to be on board a ship, I don't wish to take out its planks and let in an ocean, when all offered to me instead is a crazy tub and a rotten rope." " Trh bicn" said Duplessis, in parliamentary tone and phrase. "But," said De Mauleon, with his calm smile, "would you like the captain of the ship, when the sky darkened and the sea rose, to ask the common sailors ' whether they approved his conduct on altering his course or shortening his sail ' ? Better trust to a crazy tub and a rotten rope than to a ship in which the captain consults a plebiscite." "Monsieur," said Duplessis, "your metaphor is ill-chosen no metaphor indeed is needed. The head of the State was chosen by the voice of the people, and, when required to change the form of administration which the people had sanc- tioned, and inclined to do so from motives the most patriotic and liberal, he is bound again to consult the people from whom he holds his power. It is not, however, of the plebiscite we were conversing, so much' as of the atrocious conspiracy of assas- sins so happily discovered in time. I presume that Monsieui de Mauleon must share the indignation which true Frenchmen THE PARISIANS. 329 of every party must feel against a combination united by the purpose of murder." The Vicomte bowed, as in assent. " But do you believe," asked a Liberal Depute, " that such a combination existed, ex- cept in the visions of the police or the cabinet of a Minister ? " Duplessis looked keenly at De Mauleon while this question was put to him. Belief or disbelief in the conspiracy was with him, and with many, the test by which a sanguinary revolu- tionist was distinguished from an honest politician. " Ma f" interrupted De Finisterre; " Louvier take pro- THE PARISIANS. 35! ceedings ! Louvier, the best fellow in the world ! But don't I see his handwriting on that envelope ? No doubt an invita- tion to dinner." Alain took up the letter thus singled forth from a miscellany of epistles, some in female handwritings, unsealed but inge- niously twisted into Gordtan knots some also in female hand- writings, carefully sealed others in ill-looking envelopes, addressed in bold, legible, clerklike caligraphy. Taken alto- gether, these epistles had a character in common ; they be- tokened the correspondence of a viveur, regarded from the female side as young, handsome, well-born ; on the male side, as a viveur who had forgotten to pay his hosier and tailor. Louvier wrote a small, not very intelligible, but very mascu- line hand, as most men who think cautiously and act promptly do write. The letter ran thus : " Cher petit Marquis " (at that commencement Alain haughtily raised his head and bit his lips) " CHER PETIT MARQUIS : "It is an age since I have seen you. No doubt my humble soirees are too dull for a beau seigneur so courted. I forgive you. Would I were a beau seigneur at your age ! Alas ! I am only a commonplace man of business, growing old, too. Aloft from the world in which I dwell, you can scarcely be aware that I have embarked a great part of my capital in building spec- ulations. There is a Rue de Louvier that runs its drains right through my purse. I am obliged to call in the moneys due to me. My agent informs me that I am just 7000 louis short of the total I need all other debts being paid in and that there is a trifle more than 7000 louis owed to me as interest on my hypotheque on Rochebriant ; kindly pay into his hands before the end of this week that sum. You have been too lenient to Collot, who must owe you more than that. Send agent to him. Z>/iW/to trouble you, and am au cttsespoir to think that my own pressing necessities compel me to urge you to take so much trouble. Mais que faire ? The Rue de Louvier stops the way, and I must leave it to my agent to clear it. " Accept all my excuses, with the assurance of my senti- ments the most cordial. PAUL LOUVIER." Alain tossed the letter to De Finisterre. " Read that from the best fellow in the world." The Chevalier laid down his cigarette and read. "Diable /" he said, when he returned the letter and resumed the cigarette. 352 THE .PARISIANS. "Diable! Louvier must be much pressed for money, or he would not have written in this strain. What does it matter ? . Collot owes you more than 7000 louis. Let your lawyer get them, and go to sleep with both ears on your pillow." " Ah ! you think Collot can pay if he will ? " " Ma foi! did not M. Gandrin tell you that M. Collot was safe to buy your wood at more money than any one else would give ? " "Certainly," said Alain, comforted. "Gandrin left that impression on my mind. I will set him on the man. All will come right, I dare say : but if it does not come right, what would Louvier do ? " " Louvier do !" answered Finisterre reflectively. "Well, do you ask my opinion and advice ? " " Earnestly, I ask." " Honestly, then, I answer. lam a little on the Bourse my- self most Parisians are. Louvier has made a gigantic specu- lation in this new street, and with so many other irons in the fire he must want all the money he can get at. I dare say that if you do not pay him what you owe, he must leave it to his agent to take steps for announcing the sale of Rochebriant. But he detests scandal ; he hates the notion of being severe ; rather than that, in spite of his difficulties, he will buy Roche- briant of you at a better price than it can command at public sale. Sell it to him. Appeal to him to act generously, and you will flatter him. -You will get more than the old place is worth. Invest the surplus ; live as you have done or better ; and marry an heiress. Morbleu ! a Marquis de Rochebriant, if he were sixty years old, would rank high in the matrimonial market. The more the democrats have sought to impoverish titles and laugh down historical names, the more do rich demo- crat fathers-in-law seek to decorate their daughters with titles and give their grandchildren the heritage of historical names. You look shocked, pauvre ami. Let us hope, then, that Collot will pay. Set your dog I mean your lawyer at him ; seize him by the throat ! " Before Alain had recovered from the stately silence with which he had heard this very practical counsel, the valet again appeared, and ushered in M. Frederic Lemercier. There was no cordial acquaintance between the visitors. Lemercier was chafed at finding himself supplanted in Alain's intimate companionship by so new a friend, and De Finisterre affected to regard Lemercier as a would-be exquisite of low birth and bad taste. THE PARISIANS. 353 Alain, too, was a little discomposed at the sight of Lemer- cier, remembering the wise cautions which that old college friend had wasted on him at the commencement of his Paris- ian career, and smitten with vain remorse that the cautions had been so arrogantly slighted. It was with some timidity that he extended his hand to Frederic, and he was surprised as well as moved by the more than usual warmth with which it was grasped by the friend he had long neglected. Such affectionate greeting was scarcely in keeping with the pride which characterized Frederic Lemer- cier. "Afa foi /" said the Chevalier, glancing towards the clock, "how time flies ! I had no idea it was so late. I must leave you now, my dear Rochebriant. Perhaps we shall meet at the club later I dine there to-day. Au plaisir, M. Lemercier." CHAPTER III. WHEN the door had closed on the Chevalier, Frederic's countenance became very grave. Drawing his chair near to Alain, he said : " We have not seen much of each other lately nay, no excuses ; I am well aware that it could scarcely be otherwise. Paris has grown so large and so subdivided into sets, that the best friends belonging to different sets become as divided as if the Atlantic flowed between them. I come to- day in consequence of something 1 have just heard from Duplessis. Tell me have you got the money for the wood you sold to M. Collot a year ago ? " " No," said Alain falteringly. " Good heavens ! none of it ? " " Only the deposit of ten per cent., which of course I spent, for it formed the greater part of my income. What of Collot ? Is he really unsafe ? " " He is ruined, and has fled the country. His flight was the talk of the Bdurse this morning. Duplessis told me of it." Alain's face paled. " How is Louvier to be paid ? Read that letter ! " Lemercier rapidly scanned his eye over the contents of Louvier's letter. " It is true, then, that, you owe this rnan a year's interest more than 7000 louis ? " " Somewhat more yes. But that is not the first care that troubles me Rochebriant may be lost, but with it not my 354 THE PARISIANS. honor. I owe the Russian Prince 300 louis, lost to him last night at /carte. I must find a purchaser for my coupe" and horses ; they cost me 600 louis last year, do you know any one who will give me three ? " " Pooh ! I will give you six ; your alezan alone is worth half the money ! " " My dear Frederic, I will not sell them to you on any ac- count. But you have so many friends " "Who would give their soul to say, ' I bought these horses of Rochebriant.' Of course I do. Ha! young Rameau, you are acquainted with him ?" " Rameau ! I never heard of him ! " " Vanity of vanities, then what is fame ! Rameau is the editor of Le Sens Commun. You read that journal ? " "Yes, it has clever articles, and I remember how I was ab- sorbed in the eloquent roman which appeared in it." "Ah ! by the Signora Cieogna, with whom I think you were somewhat smitten last year." " Last year was I ? How a year can alter a man ! But my debt to the Prince. What has Le Sens Commun to do with my horses ? " " I met Rameau at Savarin's the other evening. He was making himself out a hero and a martyr ; his coupe had been taken from him to assist in a barricade in that senseless e"mcute ten days ago ; the coupe got smashed, the horses disappeared. He will buy one of your horses and coupe". Leave it to me ! I know where to dispose of the other two horses. At what hour do you want the money ? " " Before I go to dinner at the club." " You shall have it within two hours ; but you must not dine at the club to-day. I have a note from Duplessis to invite you to dine with him to-day ! " " Duplessis ! I know so little of him ! " "You should know him better. He is the only man who can give you sound advice as to this difficulty with Louvier, and he will give it the more carefully and zealously because he has iliat enmity to Louvier which one rival financier has to another. 1 dine with him too. We shall find an occasion to consult him quietly ; he speaks of you most kindly. What a lovely girl his daughter is ! " " I daresay. Ah ! I wish I had been less absurdly fastidious. I wish I had entered the army as a private soldier six months ago ; I should have been a corporal by this time. Still it is not too late. When Rochebriant is gone, I can yet say with THE PARISIANS. 355 the Mousquetaire in the mtfodrame : ' I am rich I have my honor and my sword ! ' ' " Nonsense ! Rochebriant shall be saved ; meanwhile I hasten to Rameau. Au revoir, at the Hotel Duplessis seven o'clock." Lemercier went, and in less than two hours sent the Marquis bank-notes for 600 louis, requesting an order for the delivery of the horses and carriage. That order written and signed, Alain hastened to acquit him- self of his debt of honor, and contemplating his probable ruin with a lighter heart, presented himself at the Hotel Du- plessis. Duplessis made no pretensions to vie with the magnificent existence of Louvier. His house, though agreeably situated and flatteringly styled the Hotel Duplessis, was of moderate size, very unostentatiously furnished ; nor was it accustomed to receive the brilliant, motley crowds which assembled in the salons of the elder financier. Before that year, indeed, Duplessis had confined such enter- tainments as he gave to quiet men of business, or a few of the more devoted and loyal partisans of the Imperial dynasty ; but since Valerie came to live with him he had extended his hospitalities to wider and livelier circles, including some celeb- rities in the-world of art and letters as well as of fashion. Of the party assembled that evening at dinner were Isaura, with the Signora Venosta, one of the Imperial Ministers, the Colonel whom Alain had already met at Lemercier's supper, Deputes (ardent Imperialists), and the Duchesse de Tarascon ; these, with Alain and Frederic, made up the party. The conversa- tion was not particularly gay. Duplessis himself, though an exceedingly well-read and able man, had not the genial accom- plishments of a brilliant host. Constitutionally grave and habitually taciturn, though there were moments in which he was roused out of his wonted self into eloquence or wit, he seemed to-day absorbed in some engrossing train of thought. The Minister, the Deputes, and the Duchesse de Tarascon talked politics, and ridiculed the trumpery tmeuteoi the i4th ; exulted in the success of \\\z. plebiscite, and admitting, with indignation, the growing strength of Prussia and with scarcely less indig- nation, but more contempt, censurirrg the selfish egotism of England in disregarding the due equilibrium of the European balance of power hinted at the necessity of annexing Belgium as a set-off against the results of Sadowa. Alain found himself seated next to Isaura to the woman 356 THE PARISIANS. who had so captivated his eye and fancy on his first arrival in Paris. . Remembering hisjast conversation with Graham nearly a year ago, he felt some curiosity to ascertain whether the rich Englishman had proposed to her, and if so, been refused or accepted. The first words that passed between them were trite enough, but after a little pause in the talk, Alain said : " I think Mademoiselle and myself have an acquaintance in common, Monsieur Vane, a distinguished Englishman. Do you know if he be in Paris at present ? I have not seen him for many months." " I believe he is in London ; at least, Colonel Morley met the other day a friend of his who said so." Though Isaura strove to speak in a tone of indifference, Alain's ear detected a ring of pain in her voice ; and watching her countenance, he was impressed with a saddened change in its expression. He was touched, and his curiosity was mingled with a gentler interest as he said : " When I last saw M. Vane I should have judged him to be too much under the spell of an enchantress to remain long without the pale of the circle she draws around her." Isaura turned her face quickly towards the speaker, and her lips moved, but she said nothing audibly. "Can there have been quarrel or misunderstanding?" thought Alain ; and after that question his heart asked itself : " Supposing Isaura were free, her affections disengaged, could he wish to woo and to win her? "and his heart answered: "Eighteen months ago thou wert nearer to her than now. Thou wert removed from her forever when thou didst accept the world as a barrier between you ; then, poor as thou wert, thou wouldst have preferred her to riches. Thou wert then sensible only of the ingenuous impulses of youth, but the moment thou saidst, ' I am Rochebriant, and having once owned the claims of birth and station, I cannot renounce them for love,' Isaura became but a dream. Now that ruin stares thee in the face ; now that thou must grapple with the sternest difficulties of adverse fate ; thou hast lost the poetry of senti- ment which could alone give to that dream the colors and the form of human life." He could not again think of that fair creature as a prize that he might even dare to covet. And as he met her inquiring eyes, and saw her quivering lip, he felt instinctively that Graham was dear to her, and that the tender THti PARISIANS. 3$ 7 interest with which she inspired himself was untroubled by one pang of jealousy. He resumed : " Yes, the last time I saw the Englishman he spoke with such respectful homage of one lady, whose hand he would deem it the highest reward of ambition to secure, that I can- not but feel deep compassion for him if that ambition has been foiled ; and thus only do I account for his absence from Paris." "You are an intimate friend of Mr. Vane's?" " No, indeed, I have not that honor ; our acquaintance is but slight, but it impressed me with the idea of a man of vigorous intellect, frank temper, and perfect honor." Isaura's face brightened with the joy we feel when we hear the praise of those we love. At this moment, Duplessis, who had been observing the Italian and the young Marquis, for the first time during dinner, broke silence. 'Mademoiselle," he said, addressing Isaura across the table, "I hope I have not been correctly informed that your literary triumph has induced you to forego the career in which all the best judges concur that your successes would be no less brilliant ; surely one art does not exclude another." Elated by Alain's report of Graham's words, by the convic- tion that these words applied to herself, and by the thought that her renunciation of the stage removed a barrier between them, Isaura answered, with a sort of enthusiasm : " I know not, M. Duplessis, if one art excludes another ; if there be desire to excel in each. But I have long lost all de- sire to excel in the art you refer to, and resigned all idea of the career in which it opens." "So M. Vane told me," said Alain, in a whisper. " When ? " " Last year on the day that he spoke in terms of admiration so merited of the lady whom M. Duplessis had just had the honor to address." All this while, Valerie, who was seated at the further end of the table beside the Minister, who had taken her in to dinner, had been watching, with eyes, the anxious, tearful sorrow of which none but her father had noticed, the low-voiced confi- dence between Alain and the friend whom till that day she had so enthusiastically loved. Hitherto she had been answer- ing in monosyllables all attempts of the great man to draw her into conversation ; but now, observing how Isaura blushed and looked down, that strange faculty in women, which >r* 358 THE PARISIANS. men call dissimulation, and which in them is truthfulness to their own nature, enabled her to carry off the sharpest anguish she had ever experienced by a sudden burst of levity of spirit. She caught up some commonplace the Minister had adapted to what he considered the poverty of her understanding, with a quickness of satire which startled that grave man, and he gazed at her astonished. Up to that moment he had secretly admired her as a girl well brought up as girls fresh from a French convent are supposed to be ; now, hearing her brilliant rejoinder to his stupid observation, he said inly: "Dame! the low birth of a financier's daughter shows itself." But, being a clever man himself, her retort put him on his mettle, and he became, to his own amazement, brilliant him- self. With that matchless quickness which belongs to Paris- ians, the guests around him siezed the new esprit de conversation which had been evoked between the statesman and the child- like girl beside him ; and as they caught up the ball lightly flung among them, they thought within themselves how much more sparkling the financier's pretty, lively daughter was than that dark-eyed young muse, of whom all the journalists of Paris were writing in a chorus of welcome and applause, and who seemed not to have a word to say worth listening to, ex- cepting to the handsome young Marquis, whom, no doubt, she wished to fascinate. Valerie fairly outshone Isaura in intellect and in wit ; and neither Valerie nor Isaura cared, to the value of a bean-straw, about that distinction. Each was thinking only of the prize which the humblest peasant women have in common with the most brilliantly accomplished of their sex the heart of a man beloved. CHAPTER IV. ON the Continent generally, as we all know, men do not sit drinking wine together after the ladies retire, so when the sig- nal was given all the guests adjourned to the salon ; and Alain quitted Isaura to gain the ear of the Duchesse de Tarascon. " It is long at least long for Paris life," said the Marquis, "since my first visit to you, in company with Enguerrandde Van- demar. Much that you then said rested on my mind, disturb- ing the prejudices I took from Bretagne." " I am proud to hear it, my kinsman." " You know that I would have taken military service undep THE PARISIANS. 359 the Emperor, but for the regulation which would have com- pelled me to enter the ranks as a private soldier." " I sympathize with that scruple ; but you are aware that the Emperor himself could not have ventured to make an excep- tion in your favor." " Certainly not. I repent me of my pride ; perhaps I may enlist still in some regiment sent to Algiers." " No ; there are other ways in which a Rochebriantcan serve a throne. There will be an office at Court vacant soon, which would not misbecome your birth." " Pardon me ; a soldier serves his country, a courtier owns a master ; and I cannot take the livery of the Emperor, though I could wear the uniform of France." " Your distinction is childish, my kinsman," said the Du- chesse impetuously. "You talk as if the Emperor had an inter- est apart -from the nation. I tell you that he has not a corner of his heart, not even one reserved for his son and his dynasty, in which the thought of France does not predominate." " I do not presume, Madame la Duchesse, to question the truth of what you say ; but I have no reason to suppose that the same thought does not predominate in the heart of the Bourbon. The Bonrbon would be the first to say to me : " If France needs your sword against her foes, let it not rest in the scabbard." But would the Bourbon say: 'The place of a Rochebriant is among the valetaille of the Corsican's suc- cessor ' ? " "Alas for poor France ! " said the Duchesse ; "and alas for men like you, my proud cousin, if. the Corsican's successors or successor be " " Henry V. ? " interrupted Alain, with a brightening eye. " Dreamer ! No ; some descendant of the mob-kings who gave Bourbons and nobles to the guillotine." While the Duchesse and Alain were thus conversing, Isaura had seated herself by Valerie, and, unconscious of the offence she had given, addressed her in those pretty, caressing terms with which young lady-friends are wont to compliment each other; but Vale'rie answered curtly or sarcastically, and turned aside to converse with the Minister. A few minutes more and the party began to break up. Lemercier, however, detained Alain, whispering, " Duplessis will see us on your business so soon as the other guests have gone." 360 THE PARISIANS. CHAPTER V. "MONSIEUR LE MARQUIS," said Duplessis, when the salon was cleared of all but himself and the two friends. " Lemer- cier has confided to me the state of your affairs in connection with M. Louvier, and flatters me by thinking my advice may be of some service ; if so, command me." " I shall most gratefully accept your advice," answered Alain, "but I fear my condition defies even your ability and skill." " Permit me to hope not, and to ask a few necessary ques- tions. M. Louvier has constituted himself your sole mort- gagee ; to what amount, at what interest, and from what annual proceeds is the interest paid ? " Herewith Alain gave details already furnished to the reader. Duplessis listened, and noted down the replies. " I see it all," he said, when Alain had finished. " M. Lou- vier had predetermined to possess himself of your estate ; he makes himself sole mortgagee at a rate of interest so low that I tell you fairly, at the present value of money, I doubt if you could find any capitalist who would accept the transfer of the mortgage at the same rate. This is not like Louvier, unless he had an object to gain, and that object is your land. The rev- enue from your estate is derived chiefly from wood, out of which the interest due to Louvier is to be paid. M. Gandrin, in a skilfully guarded letter, encourages you to sell the wood from your forests to a man -who offers you several thousand francs more than it could command from customary buyers. I say nothing against M. Gandrin, but every man who knows Paris as I do knows that M. Louvier can put, and has put, a great deal of money into M. Gandrin's pocket. The purchaser of your wood does not pay more than his deposit, and has just left the country insolvent. Your purchaser, M. Collot, was an adventurous speculator ; he would have bought anything at any price, provided he had time to pay ; if his speculations had been lucky he would have paid. M. Louvier knew, as I knew, that M. Collot was a gambler, and the chances were that he would not pay. M. Louvier allows a year's interest on his hypotheque to become due notice thereof duly given to you by his agent now you come under the operation of the law. Of course, you know what the law is ? " " Not exactly," answered Alain, feeling frostbitten by the con- gealing words of his counsellor; "but I take it for granted THE PARISIANS. 361 that if I cannot pay the interest of a sum borrowed on my property, that property itself is forfeited." ''No, not quite that; the law is mild. If the interest which should be paid half-yearly remains unpaid at the end of a year, the mortgagee has a right to be impatient, has he not ? " "Certainly. he has." " Well then, on fait un commandement tendant a saisie immobi- lity e viz.: the mortgagee gives a notice that the property shall' be put up for sale. Then it is put up for sale, and in most cases the mortgagee buys it in. Here, certainly, no competitors in the mere business way would vie with Louvier ; the mort- gage at sYz per cent, covers more than the estate is appa- rently worth. Ah ! but stop, M. le Marquis ; the notice is not yet served ; the whole process would take six months from the day it is served to the taking possession after the sale ; in the mean while, if you pay the interest due, the action drops. Courage, M. le Marquis ! Hope yet, if you condescend to call me friend." "And me," cried Lemercier ; "I will sell out of my railway shares to-morrow see to it, Duplessis enough to pay off the damnable interest. See to it, mon ami." " Agree to that, M. le Marquis, and you are safe for another year," said Duplessis, folding up the paper on which he had made his notes, but fixing on Alain quiet eyes half concealed under dropping lids. " Agree to that ! " cried Rochebriant, rising ; "Agree to allow even my worst enemy to pay for me moneys I could never hope to repay ; agree to allow the oldest and most con- fiding of my friends to do so M. Duplessis, never ! If I car- ried the porter's knot of an Auvergnat, I should still remain gentilhomme and Breton" Duplessis, habitually the driest of men, rose with a moistened eye and flushing cheek ; " Monsieur le Marquis, vouchsafe me the honor to shake hands with you. I, too, am by descent gentilhomme, by profession a speculator on the Bourse. In both capacities I approve the sentiment you have uttered. Certainly if our friend Frederic lent you 7000 louis or so this year, it would be impossible for you even to foresee the year in which you could repay it ; but," here Duplessis paused a minute, and then lowering the tone of his voice, which had been some- what vehement and enthusiastic, into that of a colloquial good- fellowship, equally rare to the measured reserve of the finan- cier, he asked, with a lively twinkle of his gray eye, " pid you 362 THE PARISIANS. never hear, Marquis, of a little encounter between me and M. Louvier ? " "Encounter at arms does Louvier fight?" asked Alain innocently. " In his own way he is always fighting ; but I speak meta- phorically. You see this small house of mine so pinched in by the houses next to it that I can neither get space for a ball- room for Valerie, nor a dining-room for more than a friendly party like that which has honored me to-day. Eh bien ! I bought this house a few years ago, meaning to buy the one next to it, and throw the two into one. I went to the propri- etor of the next house, who, as I knew, wished to sell. 'Aha,' he thought, 'this is the rich Monsieur Duplessis'; and he asked me 2000 louis more than the house was worth. We men of business cannot bear to be too much cheated ; a little cheat- ing we submit to, much cheating raises our gall. Bref this was on Monday. I offered the man 1000 louis above the fair price, and gave him till Thursday to decide. Somehow or other Louvier heard of this. ' Hillo ! ' says Louvier, ' here is a financier who desires a hotclto vie with mine ! ' He goes on Wednesday to my next-door neighbor. ' Friend, you want to sell your house. I want to buy the price ? ' The proprietor, who does not know him by sight, says : 'It is as good as sold. M. Duplessis and I shall agree.' 'Bah! What sum did you ask M. Duplessis?' He names the sum; 2000 louis more than he can get elsewhere. ' But M. Duplessis will give me the sum.' 'You ask too little. I will give 3000. A fig for M. Duplessis ! I am Monsieur Louvier.' So when I call on Thursday the house is sold. I reconcile myself easily enough to the loss of space for a larger dining- room ; but though Valerie was then a child at a convent, I was sadly disconcerted by the thought that I could have no salle de bal ready for her when she came to reside with me. Well, I say to myself, patience ; I owe M. Louvier a good turn ; rny time to pay him off will come. It does come, and very soon. M. Louvier buys an estate near Paris ; builds a superb villa. Close to his property is a rising forest ground for sale. He goes to the proprietor : says the proprietor to himself : ' The great Louvier wants this,' and adds 5000 louis to its mar- ket price. Louvier, like myself, can't bear to be cheated egre- giously. Louvier offers 2000 louis more than the man could fairly get, and leaves him till Saturday to consider. I hear of this ; speculators hear of everything, On Friday night I go to the man and I give him 6000 louis where he had asked 5000, THE PARISIANS. Fancy Louvier's face the next day ! But there my revenge only begins," continued Duplessis, chuckling inwardly. "My forest looks down on the villa he is building. I only wait till his villa is built, in order to send to my architect and say, Build me a villa at least twice as grand as M. Louvier's, then clear away the forest trees, so that every morning he may see my palace dwarfing into significance his own." "Bravo ! " cried Lemercier, clapping his hands. Lemercier had the spirit of party, and felt for Duplessis, against Louvier, much as in England Whig feels against Tory, or vice versa. " Perhaps now," resumed Duplessis more soberly " Perhaps now, M. le Marquis, you may understand why I humiliate you by no sense of obligation if I say that M. Louvier shall not be the Seigneur de Rochebriant if I can help it. Give me a line of introduction to your Breton lawyer and to Mademoiselle your aunt ; let me have your letters early to-morrow. I will take the afternoon train. I know not how many days I may be absent, but I shall not return till I have carefully examined the nature and conditions of your property. If I see my way to save your estate, and give a mauvais quart d'heure to Lou- vier, so much the better for you, M. le Marquis ; if I cannot, I will say frankly, ' Make the best terms you can with your creditor.' " " Nothing can be more delicately generous than the way you put it," said Alain ; " but pardon me, if I say that the pleas- antry with which you narrate your grudge against M. Louvier does not answer its purpose in diminishing my sense of obliga- tion." So, linking his arm in Lemercier's, Alain made his bow and withdrew. When his guests had gone, Duplessis remained seated in meditation apparently pleasant meditation, for he smiled while indulging it ; he then passed through the reception- rooms to one at the far end appropriated to Valerie as a bou- doir or morning-room, adjoining her bed-chamber ; he knocked gently at the door, and, all remaining silent within, he opened it noiselessly and entered. Valerie was reclining on the sofa near the window, her head drooping, her hands clasped on her knees. Duplessis neared her with tender, stealthy steps, passed his arm round her, and drew her head towards his bosom. "Child ! " he murmured ; " my child ! my only one ! " At that soft, loving voice, Valerie flung her arms round him, and wept aloud like an infant in trouble. He seated himself beside her, and wisely suffered her to weep on, till her passion had exhausted itself ; he then said, half fondly, half ghidingly : THE PARISIANS. " Have you forgotten our conversation only three days ago ? Have you forgotten that I then drew forth the secret of your heart ? Have you forgotten what I promised you in return for your confidence ? And a promise to you have I ever yet broken ? " " Father ! father ! I am so wretched, and so ashamed of myself for being wretched ! Forgive me. No, I do not for- get your promise ; but who can promise to dispose of the heart of another ? And that heart will never be mine. But bear with me a little, I shall soon recover." " Valerie, when I made you the promise you now think I cannot keep, I spoke only from that conviction of power to promote the happiness of a child which nature implants in the heart of parents ; and it may be also from the experience of my own strength of will, since that which I have willed I have always won. Now I speak on yet surer ground. Before the year is out you shall be the beloved wife of Alain de Rochebriant. Dry your tears and smile on me, Valerie. If you will not see in me mother and father both, I have double love for you, motherless child of her who shared the poverty of my youth, and did not live to enjoy the wealth which I hold as a trust for that heir to mine all which she left me." As this man thus spoke you would scarcely have recognized in him the cold, saturnine Duplessis, his countenance became so beautified by the one soft feeling which care and contest, am- bition and money-seeking had left . unaltered in his heart. Perhaps there is no country in which the love of parent and child, especially of father and daughter, is so strong as it is in France ; even in the most arid soil, among the avaricious, even among the profligate, it forces itself into flower. Other loves fade away : in the heart of the true Frenchman that parent love blooms to the last. Valerie felt the presence of that love as a divine protecting guardianship. She sank on her knees and -covered his hand with grateful kisses. " Do not torture yourself, my child, with jealous fears of the fair Italian. Her lot and Alain de Rochebriant's can never unite ; and whatever you may think of their whispered con- verse, Alain's heart at this moment is too filled with anxious troubles to leave one spot in it accessible even to a frivolous gal- lantry. It is for us to remove these troubles ; and then, when he turns his eyes towards you, it will be with the gaze of one vho beholds his happiness. You do not weep now, Valerie," THE PARISIANS. 3*0 BOOK IX. CHAPTER I. ON waking some morning, have you ever felt, reader, as if a change for the brighter in the world, without and within you, had suddenly come to pass ; some new glory has been given to the sunshine, some fresh balm to the air; you feel younger, and happier, and lighter, in the very beat of your heart ; you almost fancy you hear the chime of some spiritual music far off, as if in the deeps of heaven ? You are not at first con- scious how, or wherefore, this change has been brought about. Is it the effect of a dream in the gone sleep, that has made this morning so different from mornings that have dawned be- fore ? And while vaguely asking yourself that question, you become aware tftat the cause is no mere illusion, that it has its substance in words spoken by living lips, in things that belong to the work-day world. It was thus that Isaura woke the morning after the conver- sation with Alain de Rochebriant, and as certain words, then spoken, echoed back on her ear, she knew why she was so happy, why the world was so changed. In those words she heard the voice of Graham Vane no ! she had not deceived herself she was loved ! she was loved ! What mattered that long, cold interval of absence ? She had not forgotten, she could not believe that absence had brought forgetfulness. There are moments when we insist on judg- ing another's heart by our own. All would be explained some day all would come right. How lovely was the face that reflected itself in the glass as she stood before it smoothing back her long hair, murmuring sweet snatches of Italian love-song, and blushing with sweeter love-thoughts as she sang ! All that had passed in that year so critical to her outer life the authorship, the fame, the pub- . lie career, the popular praise vanished from her mind as a vapor that rolls from the face of a lake to which the sunlight restores the smile of a brightened heaven. She was more the girl now than she had ever been since the day on which she sat reading Tasso on the craggy shore of Sorrento. Singing still as she passed from her chamber, and entering 3>"o THE PARISIANS. the sitting-room which fronted the east, and seemed bathed irt the sunbeams of deepening May, she took her bird from its cage, and stopped her song to cover it with kisses, which per- haps yearned for vent somewhere. Later in the day she went out to visit Valerie. Recalling the altered manner of her young friend, her sweet nature be- came troubled. She divined that Valerie had conceived some jealous pain which she longed to heal ; she could not bear the thought of leaving any one that day unhappy. Ignorant be- fore of the girl's feelings towards Alain, she now partly guessed them one woman who loves in secret is clairvoyante as to such secrets in another. Valerie received her visitor with a coldness she did not at- tempt to disguise. Not seeming to notice this, Isaura com- menced the conversation with frank mention of Rochebriant. " I have to thark you so much, dear Valerie, for a pleasure you could not anticipate that of talking about an absent friend, and hearing the praise he deserved from one so capable of appreciating excellence as M. de Rochebriant' appears to be." " You were talking to M. de Rochebriant of an absent friend. Ah ! you seemed indeed very much interested in the con- versation " " Do not wonder at that, Valerie ; and do not grudge me the happiest moments I have known for months." " In talking with M. de Rochebriant ! No doubt, Made- moiselle Cicogna, you found him very charming." To her surprise and indignation, Valerie here felt the arm of Isaura tenderly entwining her waist, and her face drawn to- wards Isaura's sisterly kiss. " Listen to me, naughty child listen and believe. M. de Rochebriant can never be charming to me, never touch a chord m my heart or my fancy, except as friend to another, or kiss me in your turn, Valerie as suitor to yourself." Valerie here drew back her pretty, childlike head, gazed keenly a moment into Isaura's eyes, felt convinced by the lim- pid candor of their unmistakable honesty, and flinging herself on her friend's bosom, kissed her passionately, and burst into tears. The complete reconciliation between the two girls was thus peacefully effected ; and then Isaura had to listen, at no small length, to the confidences poured into her ears by Valerie, who was fortunately too engrossed by her own hopes and doubts to exact confidences in return. Valerie's was one of those im- pulsive, eager natures that long for a confidante. Not so Isaura's, THE PARISIANS. 367 Only when Valerie had unburtliened her heart, and been soothed and caressed into happy trust in the future, did she recall Isaura's explanatory words, and said archly : " And your absent friend ? Tell me about him. Is he as handsome as Alain ? " " Nay," said Isaura, rising to take up the mantle and hat she had laid aside on entering, " they say that the color of a flower is in our vision, not in the leaves." Then with a grave melan- choly in the look she fixed upon Valerie, she added : " Rather than distrust of me should occasion you pain, I have pained myself, in making clear to you the reason why I felt interest in M. de Rochebriant's conversation. In turn, I ask you a favor do not on this point question me farther. There are some things in our past which influence the present, but to which we dare not assign a future on which we cannot talk to another. What soothsayer can tell us if the dream of a yester- day will be renewed on the night of. a morrow ? All is said we trust one another, dearest." CHAPTER II. THAT evening the Morleys looked in at Isaura's on their to a crowded assembly at the house of one of those rich Americans who were then outvying the English residents at Paris in the good graces of Parisian society. I think the Americans get on better with the French than the English do I mean the higher class of Americans. They spend more money ; their men speak French better ; the women are better dressed, and, as a general rule, have read more largely, and converse more frankly. Mrs. Morley's affection for Isaura had increased during the last few months. As so notable an advocate of the ascendancy of her sex, she felt a sor.t of grateful pride in the accomplish- ments and growing renown of so youthful a member of the oppressed sisterhood. But, apart from that sentiment, she had conceived a tender, mother-like interest for the girl who stood in the world so utterly devoid of family ties, so destitute of that household guardianship and protection which, with all her assertion of the strength and dignity of woman, and all her opinions as to woman's right of absolute emancipation from the conventions fabricated by the selfishness of man, Mrs. Morley was too sensible not to value for the individual, though she deemed it not needed for the mass. Her great desire was that Jsaura should marry well, and soon. American women usually 368 THE PARISIANS. marry so young that it seemed to Mrs. Morley an anomaly in. social life that one so gifted in mind and person as Isaura should already have passed the age in which the belles of the great Republic are enthroned as wives and consecrated as mothers. We have seen that in the past year she had selected from our unworthy but necessary sex, Graham Vane as a suitable spouse to her young friend. She had divined the state of his heart ; she had more than suspicions of the state of Isaura's. She was exceedingly perplexed and exceedingly chafed at the Englishman's strange disregard to his happiness and her own projects. She had counted, all this past winter, on his return to Paris ; and she became convinced that some misunderstand- ing, possibly some lovers' quarrel, was the cause of his pro- tracted absence, and a cause that, if ascertained, could be re- moved. A good opportunity now presented itself Colonel Morley was going to London the next day. He had business there which would detain him at least a week. He would see Graham ; and as she considered her husband the shrewdest and wisest person in the world I mean of the male sex she had no doubt of his being able to turn Graham's mind thoroughly inside out, and ascertain his exact feelings, views, and intentions. If the Englishman, thus assayed, were found of base metal, then, at least, Mrs. Morley would be free to cast him altogether aside, and coin for the uses of the matrimonial market some nobler effigy in purer gold. " My dear child," said Mrs. Morley, in low voice, nestling herself close to Isaura, while the Colonel, duly instructed, drew off the Venosta, "have you heard anything lately of our pleas- ant friend Mr. Vane?" You can guess with what artful design Mrs. Morley put that question point-blank, fixing keen eyes on Isaura while she put it. She saw the heightened color, the .quivering lip of the girl thus abruptly appealed to, and she said inly : " I was right she loves him ! " " I heard of Mr. Vane last night accidentally." " Is he coming to Paris soon ? " " Not that I know of. How charmingly that wreath be- comes you ! It suits the earrings so well, too." " Frank chose it ; he has good taste for a man. I trust him with my commissions to Hunt and Roskell's, but I limit him as to price, he is so extravagant men are, when they make presents. They seem to think we value things according to their cost. They would gorge us with jewels, and let us starve fME PARISIANS. 369 for want of a smile. Not that Frank is so bad as the rest of them. But apropos of Mr. Vane Frank will ba sure to see him and scold him well for deserting us all. I should not be surprised if he brought the deserter back with him, for I sent a little note by Frank, inviting him to pay us a visit. We have spare rooms in our apartments." Isaura's heart heaved beneath her robe, but she replied in a tone of astonishing indifference : " I believe this is the height of the London season, and Mr. Vane would probably be too engaged to profit even by an invitation so tempting." "Nousverrons. Ho\v pleased he will be to hear of your tri- ilmphs ! He admired you so much before you were famous : what will be his admiration now ! Men are so vain ; they care for us so much more when people praise us. But till we have put the creatures in their proper place, we must take them for what they are." Here the Venosta, with whom the poor Colonel had ex- hausted all the arts at his command for chaining her attention, could be no longer withheld from approaching Mrs. Morley, and venting her admiration of that lady's wreath, earrings, robes, flounces. This dazzling apparition had on her the effect which a candle has on a moth ; she fluttered round it and longed to absorb herself in its blaze. But the wreath especially fascinated her a wreath which no prudent lady with color- ings less pure, and features less exquisitely delicate than the pretty champion of the rights of woman, could have fancied on her own brows without a shudder. But the Venosta in such mat- ters was not prudent. " It can't be dear," she erred piteously, extending her arms towards Isaura. " I must have one exactly like. Who made it ? Ca'ra signora, give me the address." " Ask the Colonel, dear Madame ; he chose and bought it," and Mrs. Morley glanced significantly at her well-tutored Frank. " Madame," said the Colonel, speaking in English, which he usually did with the Venosta, who valued herself on knowing that language, and was flattered to be addressed in it, while he amused himself by introducing into its forms the dainty Amer- icanisms with which he puzzled the Britisher he might well puzzle the Florentine. "Madame, I am too anxious for the appearance of my wife to submit to the test of a rival screamer like yourself in the same apparel. With all the homage due to a sex of which I am enthused dreadful, I decline to designate the florist from whom I purchased Mrs. Morley's head-fixings." " Wicked man ! " cried the Venosta, shaking her finger at him coquettishly. " You are jealous ! Fie ! a man should 3)0 THE PARISIANS. never be j'ealous of a. woman's rivalry with woman "; and thert with a cynicism that might have become a graybeard, she added, "but of his own sex every man should be jealous though-of his dearest friend. Isn't it so. Colonello? " The Colonel looked'puzzled, bowed, and made no reply. " That only shows," said Mrs. Morley, rising, " what villains the Colonel has the misfortune to call friends and fellow-men." " I fear it is time to go," said Frank, glancing at the clock. In theory the most rebellious, in practice the most obedient, of wives, Mrs. Morley here kissed Isaura, resettled her crino- line, and shaking hands with the Venosta, retreated to the door. " I shall have the wreath yet," cried the Venosta impishly. " La speranza % femmina " (Hope is female). "Alas! said Isaura, half mournfully, half smiling; "Alas! do you not remember what the poet replied when asked what disease was most mortal? 'the hectic fevef caught from the chill of hope.' " CHAPTER III. GRAHAM VANE was musing very gloomily in his solitary apartment one morning, when his servant announced Colonel Morley. He received his visitor with more than the cordiality with which every English politician receives an American citizen. Graham liked the Colonel too well for what he was in himself, to need any national title to his esteem. After some prelimi- nary questions and answers as to the health of Mrs. Morley, the length of the Colonel's stay in London, what day he could dine with Graham at Richmond o"r Gravesend, the Colonel took up the ball. "We have been reckoning to see you at Paris, sir, for the last six months." " I am very much flattered to hear that you have thought of me at all ; but I am not aware of having warranted the expec- tation you so kindly express." " I guess you must have said something to my wife which led her to do more than expect to reckon on your return. And, by the way, sir, I am charged to deliver to you this note from her^ and to back the request it contains that you will avail yourself of the offer. Without summarizing the points I do so." * Graham glanced over the note addressed to him : " DEAR MR. VANE : " Do you forget how beautiful the environs of Paris are in May and June ? How charming it was last year at the lake THE PARISIANS. $71 of Knghien ? How gay were our little dinners out of doors in the garden arbors, with the Savarins and the fair Italian, and her incomparably amusing chaperon ? Frank has my orders to bring you back to renew these happy days, while the birds are in their first song, and the leaves are in their youngest green. I have prepared your room chez nous a chamber that looks out on the Champs Elysees, and a quiet cabinet de travail at the back, in which you can read, write, or sulk undisturbed. Come, and we will again visit Enghien and Montmorency. Don't talk of engagements. If man proposes, woman disposes. Hesitate not : obey. Your sincere little friend, LIZZY." " My dear Morley," said George, with emotion, " I cannot find words to thank your wife sufficiently for an invitation so graciously conveyed. Alas ! I cannot accept it." " Why ? " asked the Colonel dryly. " I have too much to do in London." " Is that the true reason, or am I to suspicion that there is anything, sir, which makes you dislike a visit to Paris ? " The Americans enjoy the reputation of being the frankest putters of questions whom liberty of speech has yet educated into la recherche de la v^rite^ and certain Colonel Morley in this instance did not impair the national reputation. Graham Vane's brow slightly contractedf and he bit his lip as if stung by a sudden pang ; but after a moment's pause, he answered with a good-humored smile : " No man who has taste enough to admire the most beautiful city, and appreciate the charms of the most brilliant society in the world, can dislike Paris." " My dear sir, I did not ask if you disliked Paris, but if there were anything that made you dislike coming back to it on a visit." " What a notion ! and what a cross-examiner you would have made if you had been called to the bar ! Surely, my dear friend, you can understand that when a man has in one place business which he cannot neglect, he may decline going to another place, whatever pleasure it would give him to do so. By the way, there is a great ball at one of the Ministers' to- night ; you should go there, and I will point out to you all those English notabilities in whom Americans naturally take interest. I will call for you at eleven o'clock. Lord , who is a connection of mine, would be charmed to know you." Morley hesitated ; but when Graham said, " How your wife 3?2 THE PARISIANS. will scold you if you lose such an opportunity of telling her whether the Duchess of M is as beautiful as report says, and whether Gladstone or Disraeli seem to your phrenological science to have the finer head ! " the Colonel gave in, and it was settled that Graham should call for him at the Langham Hotel. That matter arranged, Graham probably hoped that his inquisitive visitor would take leave for the present, but the Col- onel evinced no such intention. On the contrary, settling him- self more at ease in his arm-chair, he said : " If I remember aright, you do not object to the odor of tobacco? " Graham rose and presented to his visitor a cigar-box which he took from the mantel-piece. The Colonel shook his head, and withdrew from his breast- pocket a leather case, from which he extracted a gigantic re- galia ; this he lighted from a gold match-box in the shape of a locket attached to his watch-chain, and took two or three pre- liminary puffs with his head thrown back and his eyes medita- tively intent upon the ceiling. We know already that strange whim of the Colonel's (than whom, if he so pleased, no man could speak purer English as spoken by the Britisher) to assert the dignity of the American citizen by copious use of expressions and phrases familiar to the lips of the governing class of the great Republic deli- cacies of speech wlflch he would have carefully shunned in the polite circles of the Fifth Avenue in New York. Now the Colonel was much too experienced a man of the world not to be aware that the commission with which his Lizzy had charged him was an exceedingly delicate one ; and it occurred to his mother wit that the best way to acquit himself of it, so as to avoid the risk of giving or of receiving serious affront, would be to push that whim of his into more than wonted exaggera- tion. Thus he could more decidedly and briefly come to the point ; and should he, in doing so, appear too meddlesome, rather provoke a laugh than a frown retiring from the ground with the honors due to a humorist. Accordingly, in his deep- est nasal intonation, and withdrawing his eyes from the ceiling, he began : "You have not asked, sir, after the Signorina, or, as we popularly call her, Mademoiselle Cicogna ? " "Have I not? I hope she is quite well, and her lively com- panion, Signora Venosta." " They are not sick, sir ; or at least were not so last night when my wife and I had the pleasure to see them. Of course THE PARISIANS. 373 you have read Mademoiselle Cicogna's book a bright per- formance, sir, age considered." " Certainly, I have read the book ; it is full of unquestion- able genius. Is Mademoiselle writing another ? But of course she is." "I am not aware of the fact, sir. It may be predicated; such a mind cannot remain inactive ; and I know from M. Savarin and that rising young man, Gustave Rameau, that the publishers bid high for her brains considerable. Two transla- tions have already appeared in our country. Her fame, sir, will be world-wide. She may be another Georges Sand, or at least another Eulalie Grantmesnil." Graham's cheek became as white as the paper I write on. He inclined his head as in assent, but without a word. The Colonel continued : " We ought to be very proud of her acquaintance, sir. I think you detected her gifts while they were yet unconjectured. My wife says so. You must be gratified to remember that, sir clear grit, sir, and no mistake." "I certainly more than once have said to Mrs. Morley that I esteemed Mademoiselle's powers so highly that I hoped she would never become a stage-singer and actress. But this M. Rameau ? You say he is a rising man. It struck me when at Paris that he was one of those charlatans, with a great deal of conceit and very little information, who are always found in scores on the ultra-Liberal side of politics ; possibly I was mistaken." "He is the responsible editor of Le Sens Commun, in which talented periodical Mademoiselle Cicogna's book was first raised." " Of course, I know that ; a journal which, so far as I have looked into its political or social articles, certainly written by a cleverer and an older man than M. Rameau, is for unsettling all things and settling nothing. We have writers 'of that kind among ourselves ; I have no sympathy with them. To me it seems that when a man says, 'Off with your head,' he ought to let us know what other head he would put on our shoulders, and by what process the change of heads shall be effected. Honestly speaking, if you and your charming wife are intimate friends and admirers of Mademoiselle Cicogna, I think you could not do her a greater service than that of detaching her from all connection with men like M. Rameau, and journals like Le Sens Commun." The Colonel here withdrew his cigar from his lips, towered 374 THE PARISIANS. his head to a level with Graham's, and relaxing into an arch, significant smile, said : "Start to Paris, and dissuade her your- self. Start go ahead don't be shy don't seesaw on the beam of speculation. You will have more influence with that young female than we can boast." Never was England in greater danger of quarrel with America that at that moment; but Graham curbed his first wrathful impulse, and replied coldly : " It seems to me, Colonel, that you, though very unconscious- ly, derogate from the respect due to Mademoiselle Cicogna. 'I hat the council of a married couple like yourself and Mrs. Morley should be freely given to and duly heeded by a girl deprived of her natural advisers in parents, is a reasonably and honorable supposition ; but to imply that the most in- fluential adviser of a young lady so situated is a young single man, in no way related to her, appears to me a dereliction of that regard to the dignity of her sex which is the chivalrous characteristic of your countrymen and to Mademoiselle Cicogna herself, a surmise which she would be justified in .re- senting as an impertinence." " I deny both allegations," replied the Colonel serenely. " I maintain that a single man whips all connubial creation when it comes to gallantizing a single young woman ; and that no young lady would be justified in resenting as impertinence my friendly suggestion to the single man so deserving of her con- sideration as I estimate you to be, to solicit the right to advise her for life. And that's a caution." Here the Colonel resumed his regalia, and again gazed intent on the ceiling. " Advise her for life ! You mean, I presume, as a candidate for her hand." "You don't turkey now. Well, I guess, you are not wide of the mark there, sir." "You do me infinite honor, but I do not presume so far." " So, so not as yet. Before a man who is not without gumption runs himself for Congress, he likes to calculate how the votes will run. Well, sir, suppose we are in caucus, and let us discuss the chances of the election with closed doors." Graham could not help smiling at the persistent officiousness of his visitor, but his smile was a very sad one. "Pray change the subject, my dear Colonel Morley, it is not a pleasant one to me ; and as regards Mademoiselle Cicogna, gan you think it would not shock her to suppose that her name THE PARISIANS. 37 j was dragged into the discussions you would provoke, even with closed doors? " "Sir," replied the Colonel imperturbably, "since the doors are closed, there is no one, unless it be a spirit-listener under the table, who can wire to Mademoiselle Cicogna the substance of debate. And, for my part, I do not believe in spiritual manifestations. Fact is, that I have the most amicable senti- ments towards both parties, and if there is a misunderstanding which is opposed to the union of the States, I wish to remove it while yet in time. Now, let us suppose that you decline to be a candidate ; there are plenty of others who will run ; and as an elector must choose one representative or other, so a gal must choose one husband or other. And then you only repent when it is too late. It is a great thing to be first in the field. Let us approximate to the point ; the chances seem good will you run ? Yes or no ? " " I repeat, Colonel Morley, that I entertain no such pre sumption." The Colonel here, rising, extended his hand, which Graham shook with constrained cordiality, and then leisurely walked to the door ; there he paused, as if struck by a new thought, and said gravely, in his natural tone of voice : "You have nothing to say, sir, against the young lady's character and honor ? " " I ! Heavens, no ! Colonel Morley, such a question insults me." The Colonel resumed his deepest nasal bass : " It is only, then, because you don't fancy her so much as you did last year fact, you are soured on her and fly off the handle. Such things do happen. The same thing -has happened to myself, sir. In my days of celibacy, there was a gal at Saratoga whom I gallantized, and whom, while I was at Saratoga, I thought Heaven had made to be Mrs. MorTey. I was on the very point of telling her so, when I was Suddenly called off to Philadel- phia ; and at Philadelphia, sir, I found that Heaven had made another Mrs. Morley. I state this fact, sir, though I seldom talk of my own affairs, even when willing to tender my advice in the affairs of another, in order to prove that I do not intend to censure you if Heaven has served you in the same manner. Sir, a man may go blind for one gal when he is not yet dry behind the ears, and then, when his eyes are skinned, go in for one better. All things mortal meet with a change, as my sister's little boy said when, at the age of eight, he quitted the Methodys and turned Shaker. Threep and argue as we may, you and I are both mortals more's the pity. Good-morning, 376 THE PARISIANS. sir (glancing at the clock, which proclaimed the hour of 3 P.M.), I err good-evening." By the post that day the Colonel transmitted a condensed and laconic report of his conversation with Graham Vane. I can state its substance in yet fewer words. He wrote word that Graham positively declined the invitation to Paris ; that he had then, agreeably to Lizzy's instructions, ventilated the Englishman, in the most delicate terms, as to his intentions with regard to Isaura, and that no intentions at all existed. The sooner all thoughts of him were relinquished, and a new suitor on the ground, the better it would be for the young lady's happiness in the only state in which happiness should be, if not found, at least sought, whether by maid or man. Mrs. Morley was extremely put out by this untoward result of the diplomacy she had intrusted to the Colonel ; and when, the next day, came a very courteous letter from Graham, thanking her gratefully for the kindness of her invitation, and expressing his regret briefly, though cordially, at his inability to profit by it, without the most distant allusion to the subject which the Colonel had brought on the tapis, or even requesting his compliments to the Signoras Venosta and Cicogna, she was more than put out, more than resentful she was deeply grieved. Being, however, one of those gallant heroes of woman- kind who do not give in at the first defeat, she began to doubt whether Frank had not rather overstrained the delicacy which he said he had put into his " soundings." He ought to have been more explicit. Meanwhile she resolved to call on Isaura, and, without mentioning Graham's refusal of her invi- tation, endeavor to ascertain whether the attachment which she felt persuaded the girl secretly cherished for this recalcitrant Englishman were something more than the first romantic fancy whether it were sufficiently deep to justify farther effort on Mrs. Morley's part to bring it to a prosperous issue. She found Isaura at home and alone ; and, to do her justice, she exhibited wonderful tact in the fulfilment of the task she had set herself. Forming her judgment by manner and look, not words, she returned home convinced that she ought to seize the opportunity afforded to her by Graham's letter. It was one to which she might very naturally reply, and in that reply she might convey the object at her heart more felici- tously than the Colonel had done. "The cleverest man is," she said to herself, " stupid compared to an ordinary woman in the real business of life, which does not consist of fighting and money-making," THE PARISIANS. 377 Now there was one point she had ascertained by words in her visit to Isaura a point on which all might depend. She had asked Isaura when and where she had seen Graham last ; and when Isaura had given her that information, and she learned it was on the eventful day on which Isaura gave her consent to the publication of her MS. if approved by Savarin, in the journal to be set up by the handsome-faced young author, she leapt to the conclusion that Graham had been seized with no unnatural jealousy, and was still under the illusive glamoury of that green-eyed fiend. She was confirmed in this notion, not altogether an unsound one, when asking with apparent carelessness : " And in that last interview, did you see any change in Mr. Vane's manner, especially when he took leave ?" Isaura turned away pale, and involuntarily clasping her hands, as women do when they would suppress pain, replied, in a low murmur : " His manner was changed." Accordingly, Mrs. Morley sat down and wrote the following letter : 1 ' DEAR MR. VANE : " I am very angry indeed with you for refusing my invitation ; I had so counted on you, and I don't believe a word of your excuse. Engagements ! To balls and dinners, I suppose, as if you were not much too clever to care about these silly at- tempts to enjoy solitude in crowds. And as to what you men call business, you have no right to have any business at all. You are not in commerce ; you are not in Parliament ; you told me yourself that you had no great landed estates to give you trouble ; you are rich, without any necessity to take pains to remain rich, or to become richer ; you have no business in the world except to please yourself : and when you will not come to Paris to see one of your truest friends which I cer- tainly am it simply means, that no matter how such a visit would please me, it does not please yourself. I call that abominably rude and ungrateful. "But I am not writing merely to scold you. I have some- thing else on my mind, and it must come out. Certainly, when you were at Paris last year you did admire, above all other young ladies, Isaura Cicogna. And I honored you for doing so. I know no young lady to be called her equal. Well, if you ad- mired her then, what would you do now if you met her ? Then she was but a girl very brilliant, very charming, it is true but undeveloped, untested. Now she is a woman, a princess among women, but retaining all that is most lovable in a girl; aO 378 THE PARISIANS. courted, yet so simple ; so gifted, yet so innocent. Her head is not a bit turned by all the flattery that surrounds her. Come and judge for yourself. I still hold the door of the rooms destined to you open for repentance. " My dear Mr. Vane, do not think me a silly, match-making little woman, when I write to you thus, a cceur ouvert. " I like you so much that I would fain secure to you the rarest prize which life is ever likely to offer to your ambition. Where can you hope to find another Isaura ?^ Among the state- liest daughters of your English dukes, where is there one whom a proud man would be more proud to show to the world, saying, ' She is mine ! ' where one more distinguished I will not say by mere beauty, there she might be eclipsed but by sweetness and dignity combined ; in aspect, manner, every movement, every smile ? " And you, who are yourself so clever, so well read you who would be so lonely with a wife who was not your compan- ion, with whom you could not converse on equal terms of intel- lect, my dear friend, where could you find a companion in whom you would not miss the poet-soul of Isaura ? Of course I should not dare to obtrude all these questionings on your innermost reflections, if I had not some idea, right or wrong, that since the days when at Enghien and Montmorency, seeing you and Isaura side by side, I whispered to Frank, ' So should those two be through life,' some cloud has passed between your eyes and the future on which they gazed. Cannot that cloud be dispelled? Were you so unjust to yourself as to be jealous of a rival, perhaps of a Gustave Rameau ? I write to you frankly ; answer me frankly ; and if you answer, ' Mrs. Mor- ley, I don't know what you mean ; I admired Mademoiselle Cicogna as I might admire any other pretty, accomplished girl, but it is really nothing to me whether she marries Gustave Rameau or any one else,' why, then, burn this letter ; forget that it has been written ; and may you never know the pang of remorseful sigh, if, in the days to come, you see her whose name in that case I should profane did I repeat it the com- rade of another man's mind, the half of another man's heart, the pride and delight of another man's blissful home." CHAPTER IV. THERE is somewhere in Lord Lytton's writings writings so numerous that I may be pardoned if I cannot remember where THE PARISIANS. 379 a critical definition of the difference between dramatic and narrative art of story, instanced by that marvellous passage in the loftiest of Sir Walter Scott's works, in which all the anguish of Ravenswood on the night before he has to meet Lucy's brother in mortal combat is conveyed without the spoken words required in tragedy. ' It is only to be conjectured by the tramp of his heavy boots to and fro all the night long in his solitary chamber, heard below by the faithful Caleb. The drama could not have allowed that treatment ; the drama must have put into words as "soliloquy," agonies which the non-dramatic narrator knows that no soliloquy can describe. Humbly do I imitate, then, the great master of narrative in declining to put into words the conflict between love and reason that tortured the heart of Graham Vane when dropping noiselessly the letter I have just transcribed. He covered his face with his hands and remained I know not how long in the same position, his head bowed, not a sound escaping from his lips. He did not stir from his rooms that day ; and had there been a Caleb's faithful ear to listen, his tread, too, might have been heard all that sleepless night passing to and fro, but pausing oft, along his solitary floors. Possibly love would have borne down all opposing reason- ings, doubts, and prejudices, but for incidents that occurred the following evening. On that evening Graham dined en famille with his cousins the Altons. After dinner, the Duke produced the design for a cenotaph inscribed to the memory of his aunt, Lady Janet King, which he proposed to place in the family chapel at Alton. "I know," said the Duke kindly, "you would wish the old house from which she sprang to preserve some such record of her who loved you as her son ; and even putting you out of the question, it gratifies me to attest the claim of our family to a daughter who continues to be famous for her goodness, and made the goodness so lovable that envy forgave it for being famous. Itwasa pang to me when poor Richard Kingdecided on placing her tomb among strangers ; but in conceding his rights as to her resting-place, I retain mine to her name. ' Nostris liber is virtutis exemplar. 1 ' Graham wrung his cousin's hand ; he could not speak, choked by suppressed tears. The Duchess, who loved and honored Lady Janet almost as much as did her husband, fairly sobbed aloud. She had, indeed, reason for grateful memories of the deceased : there had been some obstacles to her marriage with the man who 380 THE PARISIANS. had won her heart, arising from political differences and family feuds between their parents, which the gentle mediation of Lady Janet had smoothed away. And never did union found- ed on mutual and ardent love more belie the assertions of the great Bichat (esteemed by Dr. Buckle the finest intellect which practical philosophy has exhibited since Aristotle), that " Love is a sort of fever which does not last beyond two years," than that between these eccentric -specimens of a class denounced as frivolous and heartless by philosophers, English and French, who have certainly never heard of Bichat. When the emotion the Duke had exhibited was calmed down, his wife pushed towards Graham a sheet of paper, inscribed with the epitaph composed by his hand. " Is it not beauti- ful," she said fafteringly ; " not a word too much nor too little!" Graham read the inscription slowly, and with very dim eyes. It deserved the praise bestowed on it ; for the Duke, though a shy and awkward speaker, was an incisive and graceful writer. Yet, in his innermost self, Graham shivered when he read that epitaph, it expressed so emphatically the reverential nature of the love which Lady Janet had inspired, the genial influences which the holiness of a character so active in doing good had diffused around it. It brought vividly before Graham that image of perfect, spotless womanhood. And a voice within him asked : " Would that cenotaph be placed amid the monuments of an illustrious lineage if the secret known to thee could transpire ? What though the lost one were really as unsullied by sin as the world deems, would the name now treasured as an heirloom not be a memory of gall and a sound of shame ?" He remained so silent after putting down the inscription, that the Duke said modestly : " My dear Graham, I see that you do not like what I have written. Your pen is much more practised than mine. If I did not ask you to compose the epitaph, it was because I thought it would please you more in coming, as, a spontaneous tribute due to her, from the repre- sentative of her family. But will you correct my sketch, or give me another according to your own ideas ? " " I see not a word to alter," said Graham ; T< forgive me if my silence wronged my emotion ; the truest eloquence is that which holds us too mute for applause." " I knew you would like it ; Leopold is always so disposed to underrate himself," said the Duchess, whose hand was resting fondly on her husband's shoulder. " Epitaphs are so difficult THE PARISIANS. 381 to write, especially epitaphs on women of whom in life the least said the better. Janet was the only woman I ever knew whom one could praise in safety." " Well expressed," said the Duke, smiling ; " and I wish you would make that safety clear to some lady friends of yours, to whom it might serve as a lesson. Proof against every breath of scandal herself, Janet King never uttered and never en- couraged one ill-natured word against another. But I am afraid, my dear fellow, that I must leave you to a tete-h-tete with Eleanor. You know that I must be at the House this evening I only paired till half-past nine." " I will walk down to the House with you, if you are going on foot." " No," said the Duchess ; " you must resign yourself to me for at least half an hour. I was looking over your aunt's let- ters to-day, and I found one which I wish to show you ; it is all about yourself, and written within the last few months of her life." Here she put her arm into Graham's, and led him into her own private drawing-room, which, though others might call it a boudoir, she dignified by the name of her study. The Duke remained for some minutes thoughtfully leaning his arm on the mantel-piece. It was no unimportant debate in the Lords that night, and on a subject in which he took great in- terest, and the details of which he had thoroughly mastered. He had been requested to speak, if only a few words, for his high character and his reputation for good sense gave weight to the mere utterance of his opinion. But though no one had more moral courage in action, the Duke had a terror at the very thought of addressing an audience which made him de- spise himself. " Ah ! " he muttered, " if Graham Vane were but in Parlia- ment, I could trust him to say exactly what I would rather be swallowed up by an earthquake than stand up'and say for my- self. But now he has got money he seems to think of nothing but saving it." CHAPTER V. THE letter from Lady Janet, which the Duchess took from the desk and placed in Graham's hand, was in strange coinci- dence with the subject that for the last twenty-four hours had absorbed his thoughts and tortured his heart. Speaking of him in terms of affectionate eulogy, the writer proceeded to confide her earnest wish that he should not longer delay that 382 THE PARISIANS. change in life, which, concentrating so much that is vague in the desires and aspirations of man, leaves his heart and his mind, made serene by the contentment of home, free for the steadfast consolidation of their warmth and their light upon the ennobling duties that unite the individual to his race. " There is no one," wrote Lady Janet, " whose character and career a felicitous choice in marriage can have greater influence over than this dear adopted son of mine. I do not fear that in any case he will be liable to the errors of his brilliant father. His early reverse of fortune here seems to me one of those blessings which Heaven conceals in the form of affliction. P'or in youth, the genial freshness of his gay animal spirits, a native generosity mingled with desire of display and thirst for applause, made me somewhat alarmed for his future. But, though he still retains these attributes of character, they are no longer predominant, they are modified and chastened. He has learned prudence. But what I now fear most for him is that which he does not show in the world, which neither Leopold nor you seem to detect, it is an exceeding sensitiveness of priue. I know not how else to describe it. It is so interwoven with the highest qualities, that I sometimes dread injury to them could it be torn away from the faultier ones which it supports. " It is interwoven with that lofty independence of spirit which has made him refuse openings the most alluring to his ambition ; it communicates a touching grandeur to his self- denying thrift ; it makes him so tenacious of his word once given, so cautious before he gives it. Public life to him is es- sential ; without it he would be incomplete ; and yet I sigh to think that whatever success he may achieve in it will be at- tended with proportionate pain. Calumny goes side by side with fame, and courting fame as a man, he is as thin-skinned to calumny as a woman. " The wife for Graham should have qualities not taken indi- vidually, uncommon in English wives, but in combination somewhat rare. " She must have mind enough to appreciate his, not to clash with it. She must be fitted with sympathies to be his dearest companion, his confidante in the hopes and fears which the slightest want of sympathy would make him keep ever after- wards pent within his breast. In herself worthy of distinction, she must merge all distinction in his. You have met in the world men who, marrying professed beauties, or professed lite- erary geniuses, are spoken of as the husband of the beautiful THE PARISIANS. 383 Mrs. A , or the clever Mrs. B : can you fancy Gra- ham Vane in the reflected light of one of those husbands ? I trembled last year when I thought he was attracted by a face which the artists raved about, and again by a tongue which dropped bans mots that went the round of the clubs. I was relieved when, sounding him, he said laughingly, 'No, dear aunt, I should be one sore from head to foot if I married a wife that was talked about for anything but goodness.' " No ; Graham Vane will have pains sharp enough if he live to be talked about himself. But that tenderest half of himself, the bearer of the name he would make, and for the dignity of which he alone would be responsible, if that were the town talk, he would curse the hour he gave any one the right to take on herself his man's burden of calumny and fame. I know not which I should pity the most, Graham Vane or his wife. " Do you understand me, dearest Eleanor ? No doubt you do so far, that you comprehend that the women whom men most admire are not the women we, as women our- selves, would wish our sons or brothers to marry. But per- haps you do not comprehend my cause of fear, which is this for in such matters men do not see as we women do Graham abhors, in the girls of our time, frivolity and in- sipidity. Very rightly, you will say. True, but then he is too- likely to be allured by contrasts. I have seen him attracted by the very girls we recoil from more than we do from those we allow to be frivolous and insipid. I accused him of admira- tion for a certain young lady whom you call 'odious,' and whom the slang that has come into vogue calls ' fast'; and I was not satisfied with his answer : ' Certainly I admired her ; she is not a doll she has ideas.' I would rather of the two see Graham married to what men call a doll, than to a girl with ideas which are distasteful to women." Lady Janet then went on to question the Duchess about a Miss Asterisk, with whom this tale will have nothing to do, but who, from the little which Lady Janet had seen of her, might pos- sess all the requisites that fastidious correspondent would exact for the wife of her adopted son. This Miss Asterisk had been introduced into the London world by the' Duchess. The Duchess had replied to Lady Janet, that if earth could be ransacked, a more suitable wife for Graham Vane than Miss Asterisk could not be found ; she was well born ; an heiress ; the estates she inherited were in the county of (viz., the county in which the ancestors of D'Altons and Vanes had for centuries established their where- 384 THE PARISIANS. about). Miss Asterisk was pretty enough to please any man's eye, but not with the beauty of which artists rave ; well informed enough to be companion to a well-informed man, but certainly not witty enough to supply bons mots to the clubs. Miss Asterisk was one of those women of whom a husband might be proud, yet with whom a husband would feel safe from being talked about. And in submitting the letter we have read to Graham's eye, the Duchess had the cause of Miss Asterisk pointedly in view. Miss Asterisk had confided to her friend, that, of all men she had seen, Mr. Graham Vane was the one she would feel the least inclined to refuse. So when Graham Vane returned the letter to the Duchess, simply saying : " How well my dear aunt divined what is weakest in me ! " the Duchess replied quickly : " Miss Asterisk dines here to-morrow ; pray come ; you would like her if you knew more of her." " To-morrow I am engaged an American friend of mine dines with me ; but 'tis no matter, for I shall never feel more for Miss Asterisk than I feel for Mont Blanc." CHAPTER VI. ON leaving his cousin's house Graham walked on, he scarce knew or cared whither, the image of the beloved dead so forci- bly recalled the solemnity of the mission with which he had been entrusted, and which hitherto he had failed to fulfil. What if the only mode by which he could, without causing questions and suspicions that might result in dragging to day the terrible nature of the trust he held, enrich the daughter of Richard King, repair all wrong hitherto done to her, and guard the sanctity of Lady Janet's home, should be in that union which Richard King had commended to him while his heart was yet free ? In such a case, would not gratitude to the dead, duty to the living, make that union imperative at whatever sacrifice of happiness to himself ? The two years to which Richard King had limited the suspense of research were not yet expired. Then, too, that letter of Lady Janet's so tenderly anxious for his future, so clear-sighted as to the elements of his own character in its strength or its infirmities combined with graver causes to withhold his heart from its yearning impulse, and no, not steel it against Isaura, but forbid it to realize, in. THE PARISIANS. 385 the fair creature and creator of romance, his ideal of the woman to whom an earnest, sagacious, aspiring man commits all the destinies involved in the serene dignity of his hearth. He could not but own that this gifted author, this eager seeker after fame, this brilliant and bold competitor with men on their own stormy battleground, was the very person from whom Lady Janet would have warned away his choice. She (Isaura) merge her own distinctions in a husband's ! She leave exclusively to him the burden of fame and calumny ! She shun " to be talked about " ! she who could feel her life to be a success or a failure, according to the extent and the loudness of the talk which it courted ! While these thoughts racked his mind, a kindly hand was laid on his arm, and a cheery voice accosted him. "Well met, my dear Vane ! I see we are bound to the same place ; there will be a good gathering to-night." " What do you mean, Bevil ? I am going nowhere except to my own quiet rooms." "Pooh! come in here at least for a few minutes," and Bevil drew him up to the doorstep of a house close by, where, on certain evenings, a well-known club drew together men who seldom met so familiarly elsewhere men of all callings ; a club especially favored by wits, authors, and the flaneurs of polite society. Graham shook his head, about to refuse, when Bevil added, " I have just come from Paris, and can give you the last news, literary, political, and social. By the way, I saw Savarin the other night at the Cicogna's he introduced me there." Gra- ham winced ; he was spelled by the music of a name, and fol- lowed his acquaintance into the crowded room, and after re- turning many greetings and nods, withdrew into a remote cor- ner, "and motioned Bevil to a seat beside him. "So you met Savarin ? Where did you say?" " At the house of the new lady author I hate the word authoress Mademoiselle Cicogna ! Of course you have read her book ? " " Yes." " Full of fine things, is it not ? Though somewhat high-flown and sentimental ; however, nothing succeeds like success. No book has been more talked about at Paris ; the only thing more talked about is the lady-author herself." " Indeed, and how ? " " She doesn't look twenty, a mere girl of that kind of beauty which so arrests the eye that you pass by other faces to jg6 THE PARISIANS. gaze on it, and the dullest stranger would ask, ' Who and what is she'? A girl, I say, like that who lives as independently as if she were a middle-aged widow, receives every week (she has her Thursdays), with no other chaperon than an old ci- devant Italian singing woman, dressed like a guy must set Parisian tongues into play, even if she had not written the crack book of the season." " Mademoiselle Cicogna receives on Thursdays no harm in that ; and if she have no other chaperon than the Italian lady you mention, it is because Mademoiselle Cicogna is an orphan, and having a fortune, such as it is, of her own, I do not see why she should not live as independently as many an unmarried woman in London placed under similar circumstances. I sup- pose she receives chiefly persons in the literary or artistic world, and if they are all as respectable as the Savarins, I do not think ill-nature itself could find fault with her social circle." " Ah ! you know the Cicogna, I presume. I am sure I did not wish to say anything that could offend her best friends, only I do think it is a pity she is not married, poor girl ! " "Mademoiselle Cicogna, accomplished, beautiful, of good birth (the Cicognas rank among the oldest of Lombard families), is not likely to want offers." "Offers of marriage, h'm well; I daresay, from authors and artists. You know Paris better even than I do, but I don't suppose authors and artists there make the most desirable hus- bands ; and I scarcely know a marriage in France between a man-author and a lady-author which does not end in the deadliest of all animosities that of wounded amour propre. Perhaps the man admires his own genius too much to do proper homage to his wife's." " But the choice of Mademoiselle Cicogna need not be re- stricted to the pale of authorship ; doubtless she has many ad- mirers beyond that quarrelsome borderland." " Certainly countless adorers. Enguerrand de Vandemar you know that diamond of dandies ?" "Perfectly. Is he an admirer? " " Cela va sans dire he told me that though she was not the handsomest woman in Paris, all other women looked less hand- some since he had seen her. But, of course, French lady- killers like Enguerrand, when it comes to marriage, leave it to their parents to choose their wives and arrange the terms of the contract. Talking of lady-killers, I beheld amid the throng *it Mademoiselle Cicogna's the ci-devant Lovelace whom I THE PARISIANS. 387 remember some twenty-three years ago as the darling of wives and the terror of husbands Victor de Mauleon." " Victor de Mauleon at Mademoiselle Cicogna's ! What ! is that man restored to society ? " "Ah! you are thinking of the ugly old story about the jewels oh yes, he has got over that ; all his grand relations, the Vandemars, Beauvilliers, Rochebriant, and others, took him by the hand when he reappeared at Paris last year ; and though 1 believe he is still avoided by many, he is courted by still more and avoided, I fancy, rather from political than social causes. The Imperialist set, of course, execrate and proscribe him. You know he is the writer of those biting articles signed 'Pierre Firmin' in the Se/is Commun ; and I am told he is the proprietor of that very clever journal, which has become a .power." " So, so that is the journal in which Mademoiselle Cicogna's roman first appeared. So, so Victor de Mauleon one of her associates, her counsellor and friend ah ! " " No, I didn't say that ; on the contrary, he was presented to her for the first time the evening I was at the house. I saw that young, silk-haired coxcomb, Gustave Rameau, introduce him to her. You don't perhaps know Rameau, editor of the Sens Commun writes poems and criticisms. They say he is a Red Republican, but De Mauleon keeps truculent French poli- tics subdued if not suppressed in his cynical journal. Some- body told me that the Cicogna is very much in love with. Rameau ; certainly he has a handsome face of his own, and that is the reason why she was so rude to the Russian Prince X ." " How rude ? Did the Prince propose to her ?" " Propose ! you forget he is married. Don't you know the Princess ? Still there are other kinds of proposals than those of marriage which a rich Russian Prince may venture to make to a pretty novelist brought up for the stage." " Bevil ! " cried Graham, grasping the man's arm fiercely, "how dare you ?" " My dear boy," said Bevil, very much astonished, "I really did not know that your interest in the young lady was so great. If I have wounded you in relating a mere on dit picked up at the Jockey Club, I beg you a thousand pardons. I dare say there was not a word of truth in it." " Not a word of truth, you may be sure, if the on dit was injurious to Mademoiselle Cicogna. It is true, I have a strong interest in her; any man any gentleman would have such 388 THE PARISIANS. interest in a girl so brilliant and seemingly so friendless. It shames one of human nature to think that the reward which the world makes to those who elevate its platitudes, brighten its dulness, delight its leisure, is Slander! 1 have had the honorto make the acquaintance of this lady before she became a 'celebrity,' and I have never met in my paths through life a purer heart or a nobler nature. What is the wretched on dit you condescend to circulate ? Permit me to add : ' He who repeats a slander shares the crime.' " " Upon my honor, my dear Vane," said Bevil seriously (he did not want for spirit), "I hardly know you this evening. It is not because duelling is out of fashion that a man should allow himself to speak in a tone that gives offence to another \vhointendednone ; and if duelling is out of fashion in England, it is still possible in France. Entre nous, I would rather cross the Channel with you than submit to language that conveys unmerited insult." Graham's cheek, before ashen pale, flushed into dark red. " I understand you," he said quietly, " and will be at Boulogne to-morrow." "Graham Vane," replied Bevil, with much dignity, " you and I have known each other a great many years, and neither of us has cause to question the courage of the other ; but I am much older than yourself permit me to take the melancholy advantage of seniority. A duel between us in consequence of careless words said about a lady in no way connected with either, would be a cruel injury to her ; a duel on grounds so slight would little injure me a man about town, who would not sit an hour in the House of Commons if you paid him a thousand pounds a minute. But you, Graham Vane you whose destiny it is to canvass electors and make laws would it not be an injury to you to be questioned at the hustings why you broke the law, and why you sought another man's life ? Come, come ! Shake hands and consider all that seconds, if we chose them, would exact, is said, every affront on either side retracted, every apology on either side made." "Bevil, you disarm and conquer me. I spoke like a hot- headed fool ; forget it forgive. But but I can listen calmly now what is that on dit?" " One that thoroughly bears out your own very manly up- holding of the poor young orphan, whose name I shall never again mention without such respect as would satisfy her most sensitive champion. It was said that the Prince X boasted THE PARISIANS. 389 that before a we-ek was out Mademoiselle Ctcogna should ap- pear in his carriage at the Bois de Boulogne, and wear at the opera diamonds he had sent to her ; that this boast was enforced by a wager, and the terms of the wager compelled the Prince to confess the means he had taken to succeed, and produce the evidence that he had lost or won. According to this on dit, the Prince had written to Mademoiselle Cicogna, and the letter had been accompanied by aparure that cost him half a million of francs ; that the diamonds had been sent back, with a few words of such scorn as a queen might address to an upstart lackey. Bat, my dear Vane, it is a mournful position for a girl to receive such offers ; and you must agree with me in wishing she were safely married, even to Monsieur Rameau, coxcomb though he be. Let us hope that they will be an ex- ception to French authors, male and female in general, and live like turtle-doves." CHAPTER VII. A FEW days after the date of the last chapter, Colonel Mor- ley returned to Paris. He had dined with Graham at Green- wich, had met him afterwards in society, and paid him a fare- well visit on the day before the Colonel's departure; but the name, of Isaura Cicogna had not again been uttered by either. Morley was surprised that his wife did not question him mi- nutely as to the mode in which he had executed her delicate commission, and the manner as well as words with which Gra- ham had replied to his " ventilations." But his Lizzy cut him short when he began his recital : " I don't want to hear anything more about the man. He has thrown away a prize richer than his ambition will ever gain, even if it gained him a throne." "That it can't gain him in the old country. The people are loyal to the present dynasty, whatever you may be told to the contrary." " Don't be so horribly literal, Frank ; that subject is done with. How was the Duchess of M dressed ? " But when the Colonel had retired to what the French call the cabinet de travail and which he more accurately termed his '' smoke den " and there indulged in the cigar which, de- jpite his American citizenship, was forbidden in the drawing- room of the tyrant who ruled his life, Mrs. Morley took from her desk a letter received three days before, and brooded ovet it intently, studying every word. When she had thus reperused 390 THE PARISIANS. it, her tears fell upon her page. " Poor Isaura ! " she mut- tered ; "poor Isaura ! I know she loves him and how deeply a nature like hers can love ! But I must break it to her. If I did not, she would remain nursing a vain dream, au_ refuse every chance of real happiness for the sake of nursing it." Then she mechanically folded up the letter I need not say it was from Graham Vane restored it to the desk, and remained musing till the Colonel looked in at the door and said peremp- torily : " Very late come to bed." The next day Madame Savarin called on Isaura. " Chtre enfant" said she, " I have bad news for you. Poor Gustave is very ill an attack of the lungs and fever ; you know how delicate he is." " I am sincerely grieved," said Isaura, in earnest, tender tones ; " it must be a very sudden attack : he was here last Thursday." "The malady only declared itself yesterday morning, but surely you must have observed how ill he has been looking for several days past. It pained me to see him." "I did not notice any change in him," said Isaura, some- what conscience-stricken. Wrapt in her own happy thoughts, she would not have noticed change in faces yet more familiar to her than that of her young admirer. " Isaura," said Madame Savarin, " I suspect there are moral causes for our friend's failing health. Why should I disguise my meaning ? You know well how madly he is in love with you, and have you denied him hope ? " "I like M. Rameau as a friend ; I admire him at times I pity him." " Pity is akin to love." " I doubt the truth of that saying, at all events as you apply it now. I could not love M. Rameau ; I never gave him cause to think I could." " I wish for both your sakes that you could make me a dif- ferent answer ; for his sake, because, knowing his faults and failings, I am persuaded that they would vanish in a com- panionship so pure, so elevating as yours : you could make him not only so much happier but so much better a man. Hush ! let me go on, let me come to yourself I say for your sake I wish it. Your pursuits, your ambition, are akin to his ; you should not marry one who could not sympathize with you in these. If you did, he might either restrict the exercise of your genius or be chafed at its display. The only authoress J ever knew whose married lot was serenely happy to the last THE PARISIANS. 391 Was the greatest of English poetesses married to a great Eng- lish poet. You cannot, you ought not to, devote yourself to the splendid career to which your genius irresistibly impels you, without that counsel, that support, that protection, which a husband alone can give. My dear child, as the wife myself of a man of letters, and familiarized to all the gossip, all the scandal, to which they who give their names to the public are exposed, I declare that if I had a daughter who inherited Savarin's talents, and was ambitious of attaining to his renown, I would rather shut her up in a convent than let her publish a book that was in every one's hands until she had sheltered her name under that of a husband ; and if I say this of my child with a father so wise in the world's ways, and so popularly re- spected as my ban homme, what must I feel to be essential to your safety, poor stranger in our land ! poor solitary orphan ! with no other advice or guardian than the singing mistress whom you touchingly call " Madre "/ I see how I distress and pain you ; I cannot help it. Listen : The other evening Savarin came back from his favorite cafe in a state of excite- ment that made me think he came to announce a revolution. It was about you ; he stormed, he wept actually wept my philosophical, laughing Savarin. He had just heard of that atrocious wager made by a Russian barbarian. Every one praised you for the contempt with which you had treated the savage's insolence^ But \\\z.\.you should have been submitted to such an insult without one male friend who had the right to resent and chastise it you cannot think how Savarin was chafed and galled. You know how he admires, but you can- not guess how he reveres you ; and since then he says to me every day : ' That girl must not remain single. Better marry any man who has a heart to defend a wife's honor and the nerve to fire a pistol : every Frenchman has those qualifica- tions ! ' ' Here Isaura could no longer restrain her emotions ; she burst into sobs so vehement, so convulsive, that Madame Savarin be- came alarmed ; but when she attempted to embrace and soothe her, Isaura recoiled with a visible shudder, and gasping out, " Cruel, cruel ! " turned to the door and rushed to her own room. A few minutes afterwards a maid entered the salon with a message to Madame Savarin that Mademoiselle was so unwell that she must beg Madame to excuse her return to the salon. Later in the day Mrs. Morley called, but Isaura would not see her. 392 THE PARISIANS, Meanwhile poor Rameau was stretched on his sick bed, and in sharp struggle between life a,nd death. It is difficult to dis- entangle, one by one, all the threads in a nature so complex as Rameau's, but if we may hazard a conjecture, the grief of dis- appointed love was not the immediate cause of his illness, and yet it had much to do with it. The goad of Isaura's refusal had driven him into seeking distraction in excesses which a stronger frame could not have courted with impunity. The man was thoroughly Parisian in many things, but especially in impatience of any trouble. Did love trouble him love could be drowned in absinthe ; and too much absinthe may be a more immediate cause of congested lungs than the~love which the absinthe had lulled to sleep. His bedside was not watched by hirelings. When first taken thus ill too ill to attend to his editorial duties information was conveyed to the publisher of the Se/is Commun, and in con- sequence of that information, Victor de Mauleon came to see the sick man. By his bed he found Savarin, who had called, as it were, by chance, and seen the doctor, who had said, " It is grave. He must be well nursed." Savarin whispered to De Mauleon, "Shall we call in a pro- fessional nurse, or a sceur de charite"!" De Mauleon replied also in a whisper, "Somebody told me that the man had a mother." It was true Savarin had forgotten it. Rameau never men- tioned his parents he was not proud of them. They belonged to a lower class of the bourgeoisie, retired shopkeepers, and a Red Republican is sworn to hate of the bourgeoisie, high or low ; while a beautiful young author push- ing his way into the Chaussee d'Antin does not proclaim to the world that his parents had sold hosiery in the Rue St. Denis. Nevertheless Savarin knew that Rameau had such parents still living, and took the hint. T\vo hours afterwards Rameau was leaning his burning forehead on his mother's breast. The next morning the doctor said to the mother, "You are worth ten of me. If you can stay here, we shall pull him through." " Stay here ! My own boy ! " cried indignantly the poo< mother. THE PARISIANS. 393 CHAPTER VIII. THE day which had inflicted on Isaura so keen an anguish, was marked by a great trial in the life of Alain de Roche- briant. In the morning he received the notice of " un commandement tendant a saisie immobiliere" on the part of his creditor, M. Louvier ; in plain English, an announcement that his property at Rochebriant would be put up to public sale on a certain day, in case all debts due to the mortgagee were not paid before. And hour afterwards came a note from Duplessis stating that " he had returned from Bretagne on the previous evening, and would be very happy to see the Marquis de Rochebriant before two o'clock, if not inconvenient to call." Alain put the " commandement " into his pocket, and repaired to the Hotel Duplessis. The financier received him with very cordial civility. Then he began, " I am happy to say I left your excellent aunt in very good health. She honored the letter of introduction to her which I owe to your politeness with the most amiable hos- pitalities; she insisted on my removing from the auberge at which I first put up and becoming a guest under your vener- able rooftree a most agreeable lady, and a most interesting chateau" " I fear your accommodation was in striking contrast to your comforts at Paris ; my chateau is-only interesting to an anti- quarian enamoured of ruins." " Pardon me, 'ruins' is an exaggerated expression. I do not say that the chateau does not want some repairs, but they would not be costly ; the outer walls are strong enough to defy time for centuries to come, and a few internal decorations and some modern additions of furniture would make the old manoir a home fit for a prince. I have been over the whole estate, too, with the worthy M. Hebert a superb property ! " " Which M. Louvier appears to appreciate," said Alain with a somewhat melancholy smile, extending to Duplessis the men- acing notice. Duplessis glanced at it, and said dryly : " M. Louvier knows what he is about. But I think we had better put an immediate stop to formalities which must be painful to a creditor so benevolent. I do not presume to offer to pay the interest due on the security you can give for the repayment. If you re- fused that offer from so old a friend. as Lemercier, of course 394 THE PAUISIANS. you could not accept it from me. I make another proposal, to which you can scarcely object. I do not like to give my scheming rival on the Bourse the triumph of so profoundly planned a speculation. Aid me to defeat him. Let me take the mortgage on myself, and become sole mortgagee hush ! on this condition, that there should be an entire union of in- terests between us two ; that I should be at liberty to make the improvements I desire, and when the improvements be made, there should be a fair arrangement as to the proportion of profits due to me as mortgagee and improver, to you as original owner. Attend, my dear Marquis ; I am speaking as a mere man of business. I see my way to adding more than a third I might even say a half to the present revenues of Rochebriant. The woods have been sadly neglected, drainage alone would add greatly to their produce. Your orchards might be rendered magnificent supplies to Paris with better cultivation. Lastly, I would devote to building purposes or to market gardens all the lands round the two towns of and . I think I can lay my hands on suitable speculators for these last experiments. In a word, though the market value of Rochebriant, as it now stands, would not be equivalent to the debt on it, in five or six years it could be made worth well, I will not say how much but we shall be both well satisfied with the result. Meanwhile, if you allow me to find purchas- ers for your timber, and if you will not suffer the Chevalier de Finisterre to regulate your expenses, you need have no fear that the interest due to me will not be regularly paid, even though I shall be compelled, for the first year or two at least, to ask a higher rate of interest than Louvier exacted say a quarter per cent, more ; and in suggesting that, you will com- prehend that this is now a matter of business between us, and not of friendship." Alain turned his head aside to conceal his emotion, and then with the quick, affectionate impulse of the genuine French nature threw himself on the financier's breast and kissed him on both cheeks. " You save me ! You save the home and tombs of my an- cestors ! Thank you I cannot : but I believe in God I pray I will pray for you as for a father ; and if ever," he hurried on in broken words, " I am mean enough to squander on idle luxuries one franc that I should save for the debt due to you, chide me as a father would chide a graceless son." Moved as Alain was, Duplessis was moved yet more deeply. 4< What father would not be proud of such a son ? Ah, if I THE PARISIANS. 395 had such a one ! " he said softly. Then quickly recovering his wonted composure, he added, with the sardonic smile which often chilled his friends and alarmed his foes, " Monsieur Louvier is about to pass that which I ventured to promise him, a ' mauvais quart ius than of your beauty one who would say, 'My name, safer far in its enduring nobility than those that depend on titles and lands which are held on the tenure of the popular breath must be honored by prosperity, for She has deigned to make it hers. No democratic revolution can disennoble me." " Ay, ay, you believe that men will be found to think with complacency that they owe to a wife a name that they could not achieve for themselves. Possibly there are such men. Where? among those that are already united by sympathies in the same callings, the same labors, the same hopes and fears with the women who have left behind them the privacies of home. Madame de Grantmesnil was wrong. Artists should wed with artists. True true ! " " Here she passed her hand over her forehead it was a pretty way of hers when seeking to concentrate thought and was silent a moment or so. " Did you ever feel," she then asked dreamily, " that there are moments in life when a dark curtain seems to fall over one's past that a day before was so clear, so blended with the pres- ent ? One cannot any longer look behind ; the gaze is at- tracted onward, and a track of fire flashes upon the future the future which yesterday was invisible. There is a line by some English poet Mr. Vane once quoted it, not to me, but to M. Savarin, and in illustration of his argument that the most complicated recesses of thought are best reached by the sim- plest forms of expression. I said to myself, ' I will study that truth if ever I take to literature as I have taken to song '; and yes it was that evening that the ambition fatal to woman fixed on me its relentless fangs at Enghien we were on the lake the sun was setting." " But you do not tell me the line that so impressed you," said Mrs. Morley, with a woman's kindly tact. " The line which line ? Oh, I remember ; the line was this : ' I see as from a tower the end of all.' And now kiss me, dearest never a word again to me about this conversation : never a word about Mr. Vane the dark curtain has fallen on the past." 4O2 THE PARISIANS, ' CHAPTER XL I MEN and women are much more like each other in certain large elements of character than is generally supposed, but it is that very resemblance which makes their differences the more incomprehensible to each other ; just as in politics, theology, or that most disputatious of all. things disputable, metaphysics, the nearer the reasoners approach each other in points that to an uncritical bystander seem the most important, the more sure they are to start off in opposite directions upon reaching the speck'of a pin-prick. - Now there are certain grand meeting-places between man and woman; the grandest of all is on the ground of love, and yet here also is the great field of quarrel. And here the teller of a tale such as mine ought, if he is sufficiently wise to be humble, to know that it is almost profanation if, as man, he presumes to enter- the penetralia of a woman's innermost heart, and repeat, as a man would repeat, all the vibrations of sound which the heart of a woman sends forth undistinguishable even to her own ear. I know Isaura as intimately as if I had rocked her in her cradle, played with her in her childhood, educated and trained her in her youth ; and yet I can no more tell you faithfully what passed in her mind during the forty-eight hours that inter- vened between her conversation with that American lady and her reappearance in some commonplace drawing-room, than I can tell you what the Man in the Moon might feel if the sun that his world reflected were blotted out of creation. I can only say that when she reappeared in that .common- place drawing-room world, there was a change in her face not very perceptible to the ordinary observer. If anything, to his eye she was handsomer the eye was brighter, the complexion (always lustrous, though somewhat pale, the limpid paleness that suits so well with dark hair) was yet more lustrous ; it was flushed into delicate rose hues hues that still better suit with dark hair. What, then, was the change, and change not for the better ? The lips, once so pensively sweet, had grown hard ; on the brow that had seemed to laugh when the lips did. there was no longer sympathy between brow and lip ; there was scarcely seen a fine, thread-like line that in a few years would be a furrow on the space between the eyes ; the voice -was not so tenderly soft ; the step was haughtier. What all change denoted it is for a woman to decide I can only THE PARISIANS. 403 guess. Tn the mean while, Mademoiselle Cicogna had sent her servant daily to inquire after M. Rameau. That, I think, she would have done under, any circumstances. Meanwhile, too, she had called on Madame Savarin ; made it up with her ; sealed the reconciliation by a cold kiss. That, too, under any circumstances I think she would have done under some circumstances the kiss might have been less cold. There was one thing unwonted in her habits. I mention it, though it is only a woman who can say if it means anything worth noticing. For six days she had left a letter from Madame de Grant- mesnil unanswered. With Madame de Grantmesnil was con- nected the whole of her innermost life from the day when the lonely, desolate child had seen, beyond the dusty thoroughfares of life, gleams of the faery land in poetry and art, onward through her restless, dreamy, aspiring youth onward on- ward till now, through all that constitutes the glorious reality that we call romance. Never before had she left for days unanswered letters which were to her as Sibylline leaves to some unquiet neophyte yearn- ing for solutions to enigmas suggested, whether by the world without or by the soul within. For six days Madame de Grantmesnil's letter remained unanswered, unread, neglected, thrust out of sight ; just as when some imperious necessity compels us to grapple with a world that is, we cast aside the romance which, in our holiday hours, had beguiled us to a world with which we have interests and sympathies no more. CHAPTER XII. * GUSTAVE recovered, but slowly. The physician pronounced him out of all immediate danger, but said frankly to him, and somewhat more guardedly to his parents, "There is ample cause to beware." " Look you, my young friend," he added to Rameau, " mere brain-work seldom kills a man once accus- tomed to it like you ; but heart-work, and stomach-work, and nerve-work, added to brain-work, may soon consign to the coffin a frame ten times more robust than yours. Write as much as you will that is your vocation ; but it is not your vo- cation to drink absinthe, to preside at orgies in the Maison Doree. Regulate yourself, and not after the fashion of the fabulous Don Juan. Marry, live soberly and quietly, and you may survive the grandchildren of viveurs. Go on as you 464 THE PARISIANS. have done, and before the year is out you are til Pere la Chaise." Rameau listened languidly, but with a profound conviction that the physician thoroughly understood his case. Lying helpless on his bed, he had no desire for orgies at the Maison Doree ; with parched lips thirsty for innocent tisane of lime blossoms, the thought of absinthe was as odious to him as the liquid fire of Phlegethon. If ever sinner became suddenly convinced that there was a good deal to be said in favor of a moral life, that sinner at the moment I speak of was Gustave Rameau. Certainly a moral life " Damns et placens uxor," were essential to the poet who, aspiring to immortal glory, was condemned to the ailments of a very perishable frame. "Ah," he murmured plaintively to himself, "that girl Isaura can have no true sympathy with genius ! It is no ordinary man that she will kill in me ! " And so murmuring he fell asleep. When he woke and found his head pillowed on his mother's breast, it was much as a sen- sitive, delicate man may wake after having drunk too much the night before. Repentant, mournful, maudlin, he began to weep, and in the course of his weeping he confided to his mother the secret of his heart. Isaura had refused him ; that refusal had made him des- perate. "Ah ! with Isaura how changed would be his habits! How pure ! How healthful ! " His mother listened fondly, and did her best to comfort him and cheer his drooping spirits. She told him of Isaura's messages of inquiry duly twice a day. Rameau, who knew more about women in general, and Isaura in particular, than his mother conjectured, shook his head mournfully. " She could not do less," he said. " Has no one offered to do more ?" He thought of Julie when he asked that ; Madame Rameau hesitated. These poor Parisians ! it is the mode to preach against them ; and before my book closes, I shall have to preach no, not to preach, but to imply plenty of faults to consider and amend. Meanwhile I try my best to take them, as the philosophy of life tells us to take other people, for what they are. I do not think the domestic relations of the Parisian bour- geoisie are as bad as they are said to be in French novels. Madame Rameau is not an uncommon type of her class. She had been when she first married singularly handsome. It was from her that Gustave inherited his beauty ; and her husband was a very ordinary type of the French shopkeeper ; very THE PARISIANS. 405 plain, by no means intellectual, but gay, good-humored, devot- edly attached to, his wife, and with implicit trust in her con- jugal virtue. Never was trust better placed. There was not a happier nor a more faithful couple in the quartier in which they resided. Madame Rameau hesitated when her boy, think- ing of Julie, asked if no one had done more than send to in- quire after him as Isaura had done. After that hesitating pause she said, " Yes a young lady calling herself Mademoiselle Julie Caumartin wished to instal herself here as your nurse. When I said : ' But I am his mother, he needs no other nurses,' she would have retreated, and looked ashamed poor thing ! I don't blame her if she loved my son. But, my son, I say this ; if you love her, don't talk to me about that Mademoiselle Cicogna ; and if you love Mademoiselle Cicogna, why, then your father will take care that the poor girl who loved you not knowing that you loved another is not left to the temptation of penury." Rameau's pale lips withered into a phantom-like sneer. Julie ! the resplendent Julie ! true, only a ballet-dancer, but whose equipage in the Bois had once been the envy of duchesses Julie! who had sacrificed fortune for his sake ; who, freed from him, could have millionnaires again at her feet ! Julie ! to be saved from penury, as a shopkeeper would save an erring nurse- maid Julie ! the irrepressible Julie ! who had written to him, the day before his illness, in a pen dipped not in ink, but in blood from a vein she had opened in her arm : " Traitor ! I have not seen thee for three days. Dost thou dare to love another ? If so, I care not how thou attempt to conceal it woe to her ! Jngrat ! woe to thee ! Love is not love, unless when betrayed by Love, it appeals to death. Answer me, quick quick. JULIE." Poor Gustave thought of that letter and groaned. Certainly his mother was right he ought to get rid of Julie ; but he did not clearly see now Julie was to be got rid of. He replied to Madame Rameau peevishly : " Don't trouble your head about Mademoiselle Caumartin ; she is in no want of money. Of course, if I could hope for Isaura rbut, alas ! I dare not hope. Give me my tisane." When the doctor called next day, he looked grave, and drawing Madame Rameau into the next room, he said, "We are not getting on so well as I had hoped ; the fever is gone, but there is much to apprehend from the debility left behind. His spirits are sadly depressed." Then added the doctor, pleasantly, and with that wonderful insight into our complex 406 THE PARISIANS. humanity in which physicians excel poets, and in which Paris- ian physicians are not excelled by any physicians in the world : " Can't you think of any bit of good news that ' M. Thiers raves about your son's last poem '; that ' it is a question among the Academicians between him and Jules Janin'; or that ' the beautiful Duchesse de has been placed in a lunatic asylum because she has gone mad for love of a certain young Red Republican whose name begins with R.' can't you think of any bit of similar good news ? If you can, it will be a tonic to the relaxed state of your dear boy's amour propre, compared to Avhich all the drugs in the pharmacopoeia are moonshine and water ; and meanwhile be sure to remove him to your owri house, and out of the reach of his giddy young friends, as soon as you possibly can." When that great authority thus left his patient's case in the hands of the mother, she said : " The boy shall be saved." CHAPTER XIII. ISAURA was seated beside the Venosta, to whom, of late, she seemed to cling with greater fondness than ever, working at some piece of embroidery a labor from which she had been estranged for years ; but now she had taken writing, reading, music, into passionate disgust. Isaura was thus seated, silently intent upon her work, and the Venosta in full talk, when the servant announced Madame Rameau. The name startled both ; the Venosta had never heard that the poet had a mother living,, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that Madame Rameau must be a wife he had hitherto kept unrevealed. And when a woman, still very hand- some, with a countenance grave and sad, entered the salon, the Venosta murmured : " The husband's perfidy reveals itself on a wife's face," and took out her handkerchief in preparation for sympathizing tears. " Mademoiselle," said the visitor, halting, with eyes fixed on Isaura, " pardon my intrusion my son has the honor to be known to you. Every one who knows him must share in my sorrow so young, so promising, and in such danger my poor boy ! " Madame Rameau stopped abruptly. Her tears forced their way ; she turned aside to conceal them. In her twofold condition of being womanhood and genius Isaura was too largely endowed with that quickness of sympa. THE PARISIANS. 407 thy which distinguishes woman from man, and genius from talent, not to be wondrously susceptible to pity. Already she had wound her arm round the grieving mother, already drawn her to the seat from which she herself had risen, and bending over her had said some words true, conventional enough in themselves, but cooed forth in a voice the softest I ever expect to hear, save in dreams, on this side of the grave. Madame Rameau swept her hand over her eyes, glanced round the room, and noticing the Venosta in dressing-robe and slippers, staring with those Italian eyes, in seeming so quietly innocent, in reality so searchingly shrewd, she whispered plead- ingly : " May I speak to you a few minutes alone ? " This was not a request that Isaura could refuse, though she was embar- rassed and troubled by the surmise of Madame Rameau's object in asking it ; accordingly she led her visitor into the adjoining room, and making an apologetic sign to the Venosta, closed the door. CHAPTER XIV. WHEN they were alone, Madame Rameau took Isaura's hand in both her own, and gazing wistfully into her face, said : " No wonder you are so lov.ed yours is the beauty that sinks into the heart and rests there. I prize my boy more, now that I have seen you. But, oh, Mademoiselle ! pardon me do not withdraw your hand pardon the mother who comes from the sick-bed of her only son and asks it you Anil assist to save him ! A word from you is life or death to him ' ' " Nay, nay, do not speak thus, Madame ; your son knows how much I value, how sincerely 1 return, his friendship ; but but," she paused a moment, <*i\d continued sadly and with tearful eyes, "I have no heart to give to him to any one." "I do not I would nor if I dared ask what it would be violence to yourself to promise. I do not ask you to bid me return to my son and say : ' Hope and recover,' but let me take some healing message from your lips. If I understand your words rightly, I at least may say that you do not give to another the hopes you deny to him ? " " So far you understand me rightly, Madame. It has been said that romance-writers give away so much of their hearts to heroes or heroines of their own creation, that they leave noth- ing Vorth the giving to human beings like themselves. Per- haps it is so ; yet, Madame," added Isaura, with a smile of 408 THE PARISIANS. exquisite sweetness in its melancholy, " I have heart enough left to feel for you." Madame Rameau was touched. "Ah, Mademoiselle, I do not believe in the saying you have quoted. But I must not abuse your goodness by pressing further upon you subjects from which you shrink. Only one word more : you know that my husband and I are but quiet tradesfolk, not in the society, nor aspiring to it, to which my son's talents have raised himself ; yet dare J ask that you will not close here the acquaintance that 1 have obtruded on you ? Dare I ask that I may, now and then, call on you that now and then I may see you at my own home ? Believe that I would not here ask anything which your own mother would disapprove if she overlooked disparities of sta- tion. Humble as our home is, slander never passed its thresh- old." " Ah, Madame, I and the Signora Venosta, whom in our Italian tongue I call mother, can but feel honored and grateful whenever it pleases you to receive visits from us." "It would be a base return for such gracious compliance with my request if I concealed from you the reason why I pray Heaven to bless you for that answer. The physician says that it may be long before my son is sufficiently convalescent to dispense with a mother's care, and resume his former life and occupation in the great world. It is everything for us if we can coax him into coming under our own roof-tree. This is difficult to do. It is natural for a young man launched into the world to like his own chcz lui. Then what will happen toGustave? He, lonely and heart-stricken, will ask friends, young as him- self, but far stronger, to come and cheer him ; or he will seek to distract his thoughts by the overwork of his brain ; in either case he is doomed. But I have stronger motives yet to fix him awhile at our hearth. This is just the moment, once lost never to be regained, when soothing companionship, gentle, reproach- less advice, can fix him lastingly in. the habits and modes of life which will banish all fears of his*future from the hearts of his parents. You at least honor him with friendship, with kindly interest you at least would desire to wean him from all that a friend may disapprove or lament a creature whom Providence meant to be good and perhaps great. If I say to him : ' It will be long before you can go out and see your friends, but at my house your friends shall come and see you among them Signora Venosta and Mademoiselle Cicogria will now and then drop in ' my victory is gained and my son is saved," THE PAkiStANS. 409 " Madame," said Isaura, half sobbing, " what a blessing to have a mother like you ! Love so noble ennobles those who hear its voice. Tell your son how ardently I wish him to be well, and to fulfil more than the promise of his genius ; tell him also this how I envy him his mother ! " CHAPTER XV. IT needs no length of words to inform thee, my intelligent reader, be thou man or woman but more especially woman of the consequences following each other, as wave follows wave in a tide, that resulted from the interview with which my last chapter closed. Gustave is removed to his parents' house ; he remains for weeks confined within doors, or, on sunny days, taken an hour or so in his own carriage, drawn by the horse bought from Rochebriant, into by-roads remote from the fash- ionable wot Id ; Isaura visits his mother, liking, respecting, in- fluenced by her more and more ; in those visits she sits beside the sofa on which Rameau reclines. Gradually, gently more and more by his mother's lips is impressed on her the belief that it is in her power to save a human life, and to animate its career towards those goals which are never based "wholly upon earth in the earnest eyes of genius, or perhaps in the yet more upward vision of a pure-souled, believing woman. And Gustave himself, as he passes through the slow stages of convalescence, seems so gently softened in character ; seems so gratefully to ascribe to her every step in his progress ; seems so refined from the old affectations, so ennobled above the old cynicism ; and, above all, so needing her presence, so sunless without it, that well, need I finish the sentence ? the reader will complete what I leave unsaid. Enough, that one day Isaura returned home from a visit at Madame Rameau's with the knowledge that her hand was pledged, her future life disposed of ; and that, escaping from the Venosta, whom she so fondly, and in her hunger for a mother's love, called Madre, the girl shut herself up in her own room with locked doors. Ah, poor child ! Ah, sweet-voiced Isaura ! whose delicate image I feel myself too rude and too hard to transfer to this page in the purity of its outlines and the blended softnesses of its hues thou who, when saying things serious in the words men use, saidst them with a seriousness so charming, and with looks so feminine ; thou, of whom no man I ever knew was 410 THE PARISIANS, quite worthy ah, poor, simple, miserable girl, as I see thee now in the solitude of that white-curtained, virginal room ; hast thou, then, merged at last thy peculiar star into the cluster of all these commonplace girls whose lips have said "Ay," when their hearts said "No"? Thou, O brilliant Isaura ! Thou, O poor, motherless child ! She had sunk into her chair her own favorite chair ; the covering of it had been embroidered by Madame de Grantmesnil, and bestowed on her as a birthday present last year the year in which she had first learned what it is to love ; the year in which she had first learned what it is to strive for fame. And somehow uniting, as many young people do, love and fame in dreams of the future, that silken seat had been to her as the Tripod of Delphi was to the Pythian : she had taken to it, as it were in- tuitively, in all those hours, whether of joy or sorrow, when youth seeks to prophesy, and does but dream. There she sate now, in a sort of stupor, a sort of dreary be- wilderment the illusion of the Pythian gone, desire of dream and of prophecy alike extinct, pressing her hands together, and muttering to herself: "What has happened? What have I done ?" Three hours later you would not have recognized the same face that you see now. For then the bravery, the honor, the loyalty of the girl's nature had asserted their command. Her promise had been given to one man ; it could not be recalled. Thought itself of any other man must be banished. On her hearth lay ashes and tinder, the last remains of every treasured note from Graham Vane ; of the hoarded newspaper extracts that contained his name ; of the dry treatise he had published, and which had made the lovely romance writer first desire " to know something about politics." Ay, if the treatise had been upon fox-hunting, she would have desired " to know something about " that ! Above all, yet distinguishable from the rest ?e the sparks still upon stem and leaf here and there faintly glowed and twinkled the withered flowers which recorded that happy hour in the arbor, and the walks of the forsaken garden the hour in which she had so blissfully pledged her- self to renounce that career in art wherein fame would have been secured, but which would not have united Fame with Love in dreams evermore over now. THE PARISIANS. 4H BOOK X. CHAPTER I. GRAHAM VANE had heard nothing for months from M. Renard, when one morning he received the letter I translate : " MONSIEUR : "I am happy to inform you that I have at last obtained one piece of information which may lead to a more important dis- covery. When we parted after our fruitless research in Vienna, we had both concurred in the persuasion, that for some reason known only to the two ladies themselves, Madame Marigny and Madame Duval had exchanged names ; that it was Madame Marigny who had deceased in the name of Madame Duval, and Madame Duval who survived in that of Marigny. " It was clear to me that the beau Monsieur who had visited the false Duval must have been cognizant of this exchange of name, and that if his name and whereabouts cotild be ascer- tained, he, in all probability, would know what had become of the lady who is the object of our research ; and after the lapse of so many years he would probably have very slight motive to preserve that concealment of facts which might, no doubt, have been convenient at the time. The lover of the soi-disant Mademoiselle Duval was by such accounts as we could gain a man of some rank very possibly a married man ; and the liaison^ in short, was one of those which, while they last, ne- cessitate precautions and secrecy. " Therefore, dismissing all attempts at further trace of the missing lady, I resolved to return to Vienna as soon as the business that recalled me to Paris was concluded, and devote myself exclusively to the search after the amorous and mysteri- ous Monsieur. " I did not state this determination to you, because, possi- bly, I might be in error; or, if not in error, at least too sanguine in my expectations ; and it is best to avoid disappointing an honorable client. " One thing was clear, that, at the time of the soi-disant Duval's decease, the beau Monsieur was at Vienna. " It appeared also tolerably clear that when the lady friend of the deceased quitted Munich so privately, it was to Vienna PARISIANS. she repaired, and from Vienna comes the letter demanding the certificates of Madame Duval's death. Pardon me if 1 remind you of all these circumstances, no doubt fresh in your recollec- tion. .1 repeat them in order to justify the conclusions to which they led me. " I could not, however, get permission to absent myself from Paris for the time I might require till the end of last April. I had meanwhile sought all private means of ascertaining what Frenchmen of rank and station were in that capital in the autumn of 1849. Among the list of the very few such Mes- sieurs I fixed upon one as the most likely to be the mysterious Achille Achille was, indeed his nom de bapteme. " A man of intrigue a bonnes fortunes of lavish expendi- ture withal ; very tenacious of his dignity, and avoiding any petty scandals by which it might be lowered ; just the man who, in some passing affair of gallantry with a lady of doubtful repute, would never have signed his titular designation to a letter, and would have kept himself as much incognito as lie could. But this man was dead ; had been dead some years. He had not died at Vienna ; never visited that capital for some years before his death. He was then and had long been the ami de la mai'son of one of those grandes dames of whose inti- macy gra nds seigneurs are not ashamed. They parade there the bonnes fortunes they conceal elsewhere. Monsieur and the grande dame were at Baden when the former died. Now, Monsieur, a Don Juan of that stamp is pretty sure always to have a confidential Leporello. If I could find Leporello alive I might learn the secrets not to be extracted from a Don Juan defunct. I ascertained, in truth, both at Vienna, to which I first repaired in order to verify the renseigniments I had obtained at Paris, and at Baden, to which I then bent my way, that this brilliant noble had a favorite valet who had lived with him from his youth an Italian, who had contrived in the course of his service to lay by savings enough to set up a hotel somewhere in Italy, supposed to be Pisa. To Pisa I repaired, but the man had left some years ; his hotel had not prospered ; he had left in debt. No one could say what had become of him. At last, after a long and tedious research, I found him installed as manager of a small hotel at Genoa a pleasant fellow enough ; and after friendly intercourse with him (of course I lodged at his hotel), I easily led him to talk of his earlier life and adventures, and especially of his former master, of whose splendid career in the army of 'La Belt* Dfesse ' he was not a little proud. It was not very easy to g* ' THE PARISIANS. 413 him to the particular subject in question. In fact, the affair with the poor false Duval had been so brief and undistin- guished an episode in his master's life, that it was not without a strain of memory that he reached it. "By little and little, however, in the course of two or three evenings, and by the aid of many flasks of Orviette or bottles of Lacrima (wines, Monsieur, that I do not commend to any one who desires to keep his stomach sound and his secrets safe), I gathered these particulars. " Our Don Juan, since the loss of a wife in the first year of marriage, had rarely visited Paris, where he had a domicile his ancestral hotel there he had sold. " But happening to visit that capital of Europe a few months before we came to our dates at Aix-la-Chapelle, he made ac- quaintance with Madame Marigny, a natural daughter of high- placed parents, by whom, of course, she had never been acknowledged, but who had contrived that she should receive a good education at a convent ; and on leaving it also con- trived that an old soldier of fortune which means an officer without fortune who had served in Algiers with some distinc- tion, should offer her his hand, and add the modest dot they assigned her to his yet more modest income. They contrived also that she should understand the offer must be accepted. Thus Mademoiselle ' Quclque Chose ' became Madame Marigny, and she, on her part, contrived that a year or so later she should be left a widow. After a marriage, of course, the parents washed their hands of her ; they had done their duty. At the time Don Juan made this lady's acquaintance nothing could be said against her character ; but the milliners and butchers had begun to imply that they would rather have her money than trust to her character. Don Juan fell in love with her, satisfied the immediate claims of milliner and butcher, and when they quitted Paris it was agreed that they should meet later at Aix-la-Chapelle. But when he resorted to that sultry and, to my mind, unalluring spa, he was surprised by a line from her saying that she had changed her name of Marigny for that of Duval. " ' I recollect,' said Leporello, ' that two days afterwards my master said to me, " Caution and secrecy. Don't mention my name at the house to which I may send you with any note for Madame Duval. I don't announce my name when I call. La petit Marigny has exchanged her name for that of Louise Duval; and I find that there is a Louise Duval here, her friend, who is niece to a relation of my own, and a terrible relation to quar- 414 THE PARISIANS. rel with a dead shot and unrivalled swordsman Victor de Mauleon." My master was brave enough, but he enjoyed life, and he did not think /^/^VMarigny worth being killed for.' " Leporello remembered very little what followed. All he did remember is that Don Juan, when at Vienna, said to him one morning, looking less gay than usual : ' It is finished with lapetit Marigny she is no more.' Then he ordered his bath, wrote a note, and said with tears in his eyes : ' Take this to Mademoiselle Celeste ; not to be compared to la petit Marigny ; but la petit Celeste is still alive.' Ah, Monsieur, if only any man in France could be as proud of his ruler as that Italian was of my countryman ! Alas ! we Frenchmen are all made to command or at least we think ourselves so and we are insulted by one who says to us, ' Serve and obey.' Nowadays, in France we find all Don Juans and no Leporellos. " After strenuous exertions upon my part to recall to Lepor- ello's mind the important question whether he had ever seen the true Duval, passing under the name of Marigny ; whether she had not presented herself to his master at Vienna or else- where ; he rubbed his forehead, and drew from it these remi- niscences. "On the day that his Excellency,' Leporello generally so styled his master : " Excellency," as you are aware, is the title an Italian would give to Satan if taking his wages, told me that la petit Marigny was no more, he had received previously a lady veiled and mantled, whom I did not recognize as any one I had seen before, but I noticed her way of carrying her- self haughtily her head thrown back ; and I thought to my- self, that lady is one of his grandcs dames. She did call again two or three times, never announcing her name ; then she did not reappear. She might be Madame Duval I can't say.' ' But did you never hear his Excellency speak of the real Duval after that time ? ' 1 ' No non mi ricordo I don't remember.' " ' Nor of some living Madame Marigny, though the real one was dead ? ' " ' Stop, I do recollect ; not that he ever named such a per- son to me, but that I have posted letters for him to a Madame Marigny oh, yes ! even years after the said petit Marigny was dead ; and once I did venture to say, "Pardon me, Eccellenza, but may I ask if that poor lady is really dead, since I have to prepay this letter to her ?" " ' " Oh," said he, " Madame Marigny ! Of course the one you know is dead, but there are others of the same name ; THE PARISIANS. 415 this lady is of my family. Indeed, her house, though noble in itself, recognizes the representative of mine as its head, and I am too bonprince not to acknowledge and serve any one who branches out of my own tree." ' " A day after this last conversation on the subject, Leporello said to me : ' My friend, you certainly have some interest in ascertaining what became of the lady who took the name of Marigny.' (I state this frankly, Monsieur, to show how diffi- cult even for one so prudent as I am to beat about a bush long but what you let people know the sort of bird you are in search of.) 'Well,' said I, 'she does interest me. - I know something of that Victor de Mauleon, whom his Excellency did not wish to quarrel with ; and it would be a kindly act to her relation if one could learn what became of Louise Duval.' "'I can put you on the way of learning all that his Ex- cellency was likely to have known of her through correspon- dence. I have ofter heard him quote, with praise, a saying so clever that it might have been Italian. u Never write, never burn "; that is, never commit yourself by a letter ; keep all letters that could put others in your power. All the letters he received were carefully kept and labelled. I sent them to his son in four large trunks. His son, no doubt, has * them still.' " Now, however, I have exhausted my budget. I arrived at Paris last night. I strongly advise you to come hither, at once, if you still desire to prosecute your search. "You, Monsieur, can do what I could not venture to do ; you can ask the son of Don Juan if, amid the correspondence of his father, which he may have preserved, there be any signed Marigny or Duval any, in short, which can throw light on this very obscure complication of circumstances. A grand seigneur would naturally be more complaisant to a man of your station. than he would be to an agent of police. Don Juan's son, inheriting his father's title, is Monsieur le Marquis de Rochebriant ; and permit me to add, that at this moment, as the journals doubtless inform you, all Paris resounds with the rumor of coming war ; and Monsieur de Rochebriant who is, as 1 have ascertained, now in Paris it may be difficult to find anywhere on earth a month or two hence. I have the honor, with profound consideration, etc., etc., " I. RENARD." The day after the receipt of this letter Graham Vane was in Paris. 416 THE PARISIANS. CHAPTER II. AMONG things indescribable is that which is called "Agitation* in Paris " Agitation" without riot or violence, showing itself by no disorderly act, no turbulent outburst. Perhaps the cafes are more crowded ; passengers in the streets stop each other more often, and converse in small knots and groups ; yet, on the whole, there is little externally to show how loudly the heart of Paris is beating. A traveller may be passing through quiet landscapes, unconscious that a great battle is going on some miles off, but if he will stop and put his ear to the ground he will recognize, by a certain indescribable vibra- tion, the voice of the cannon. But at Paris an acute observer need not stop and put his ear to the ground ; he feels within himself a vibration, a mysteri- ous inward sympathy which communicates to the individual a conscious thrill, when the passions of the multitude are stirred, no matter how silently. Tortoni's cafe was thronged when Duplessis and Frederic Lemercier entered it : it was in vain to order breakfast ; no , table was vacant either within the rooms or under the awnings without. But they could not retreat so quickly as they had entered. On catching sight of the financier several men rose and gath- ered round him, eagerly questioning : " What do you think, Duplessis? Will any insult to France put a drop of warm blood into the frigid veins of that misera- ble Ollivier?" *' It is not yet clear that France has been insulted, Messieurs," replied Duplessis phlegmatically. " Bah ! Not insulted ! The very nomination of a Hohen- zollern to the crown of Spain was an insult what would you have more? " " I tell you what it is, Duplessis," said the Vicomte de Breze, whose habitual light good temper seemed exchanged for inso- lent swagger ; " I tell you what it is, your friend the Emperor has no more courage than a chicken. He is grown old, and infirm, and lazy ; he knows that he can't even mount on horse- back. But if, before this day week, he has not declared war on the Prussians, he will be lucky if he can get off as quietly as poor Louis Philippe did under shelter of his umbrella, and ticketed 'Schmidt.' Or could you not, M. D\iplessis, send him back to London in a bill of exchange ? " THE PARISIANS. 417 ** For a man of your literary repute, M. le Vlcomte," said Duplessis, " you indulge in a strange confusion of metaphors. But, pardon me, I came here to breakfast, and I Cannot re- main to quarrel. Come, Lemercier, let us take our chance of a cutlet at the Trois Freres." " Fox, Fox," cried Lemercier, whistling to a poodle that had followed him into the cafe\ and, frightened by the sudden movement and loud voices of the habitues, had taken refuge under the table. "Your dog is poltron" said De Breze ; "call him Nap." At this stroke of humor there was a general laugh, in the midst of which Duplessis escaped, and Frederic, having dis- covered and caught his dog, followed with that animal tenderly clasped in his arms. "I would not lose Fox for a great deal," said Lemercier with effusion; "a pledge of love and fidelity from an English lady the most distinguished : the lady left me, the dog remains." Duplessis smiled grimly : "What a thoroughbred Parisian you are, my dear Frederic ! I believe if the trump of the last angel were sounding, the Parisians would be divided into two sets : one would be singing the Marseillaise, and parading the red flag ; the other would be shrugging their shoulders and saying : 'Bah ! as if le Bon Dieu would have the bad taste to injure Paris, the Seat of the Graces, the School of the Arts, the Fountain of Reason, and the Eye of the World ' ; and so be found by the destroying angel caressing poodles and making bom mots about If s femmes. " "And quite right, too," said Lemercier complacently ; "what other people in the world could retain lightness of heart under circumstances so unpleasant ? But why do you take things so solemnly ? Of course there will be war ; idle now to talk of explanations and excuses. When a Frenchman says, 'I am insulted,' he is not going to be told that he is not insulted. He means fighting, and not apologizing. But what if there be war ? Our brave soldiers beat the Prussians take the Rhine return to Paris covered with laurels ; a new Boulevard de Ber- lin eclipses the Boulevard Sebastopol. By the way, Duplessis, a Boulevard de Berlin will be a good speculation ; better than the Rue de Louvier. Ah ! is not that my English friend, Grarm Varn ? " Here, quitting the arm of Duplessis, Lemer- cier stopped a gentleman who was about to pass him unnotic- ing. " Bon jour, man ami! How long have you been at Paris?" " I only arrived last evening," answered Graham, " and my 418 THE PARISIANS. stay may be so short that it is a piece of good luck, my dear Lemercier, to meet with you, and exchange a cordial shake of the hand." " We are just going to breakfast at the Trois Freres, Du- plessis and I pray join us." " With great pleasure. Ah, M. Duplessis, I shall be glad to hear from you that the Emperor will be firm enough to check the advances of that martial fever which, to judge by the per- sons I meet, seems to threaten delirium." Duplessis looked very keenly at Graham's face, as he replied slowly : " The English, at least, ought to know that when the Emperor by his last reforms resigned his personal authority for constitutional monarchy, it ceased to be a question whether he could or could not be firm in matters that belonged to the Cabinet and the Chambers. I presume that if Monsieur Glad- stone advised Queen Victoria to declare war upon the Emperor of Russia, backed by a vast majority in Parliament, you would think me very ignorant of constitutional monarchy and Parlia- mentary government if I said, 'I hope Queen Victoria will re- sist that martial fever.' " " You rebuke me very fairly, M. Duplessis, if you can show me that the two cases are analogous ; but we do not understand in England that, despite his last reforms, the Emperor lias so abnegated his individual ascendancy, that his will, clearly and resolutely expressed, would not prevail in his Council and silence opposition in the Chambers. Is it so ? I ask for in- formation." The three men were walking on towards the Palais Royal side by side while this conversation proceeded. " That all depends," replied Duplessis, "upon what may be the increase of popular excitement at Paris. If it slackens, the Emperor, no doubt, could turn to wise account that favorable pause in the fever. But if it continues to swell, and Paris cries 'War,' in a voice as loud as it cried to Louis Philippe 'Revo- lution,' do you think that the Emperor could impose on his ministers the wisdom of Peace ? His ministers would be too terrified by the clamor to undertake the responsibility of op.- posing it they would resign. Where is the Emperor to find another Cabinet ? A peace Cabinet ? What and who are the orators for peace? What a handful ! Who ? Gambctta, Jules 'Favre. kvowed Republicans would they even accept the post of ministers to Louis Napoleon ? If they did, would not their first step be the abolition of the Empire ? Napoleon is there- fore so far a constitutional monarch in the same sense as Queen THE PARISIANS. 419 Victoria, that the popular will in the country (and in France in such matters Paris is the country) controls the Chambers, controls the Cabinet ; and against the Cabinet the Emperor could not contend. I say nothing of the army a power in France unknown to you in England which would certainly fraternize with no peace party. If war is proclaimed, let En- gland blame it if she will, she can't lament it more than I should : but let England blame the nation ; let her blame, if she please, the form of the government, which rests upon popular suffrage ; but do not let her blame our sovereign more than the French would blame her own, if compelled by the conditions on which she holds her croAvn to sign a declaration of war, which vast majorities in a Parliament just elected, and a Council of Min- isters whom she could not practically replace, enforced upon her will." " Your observations, M. Duplessis, impress me strongly, and add to the deep anxieties with which, in common with all my countrymen, I regard the menacing aspect of the present hour. Let us hope the best. Our government, I know, is exerting itself to the utmost verge of its power to remove every just ground of offence that the unfortunate nomination of a Ger- man prince to the Spanish throne could not fail to have given to French statesmen." " I am glad you concede that such a nomination was a just ground of offence," said Leinercier, rather bitterly ; " for I have met Englishmen who asserted that France had no right to resent any choice of a sovereign that Spain might make." " Englishmen in general are not very reflective politicians in foreign affairs," said Graham ; " but those who are must see that France could not, without alarm the most justifiable, con- template a cordon of hostile States being drawn around her on all sides Germany, in itself so formidable since the field of Sadowa, on the east ; a German prince in the southwest ; the not improbable alliance between Prussia and the Italian kingdom, already so alienated from the France to which it owed so mi\ch. If England would be uneasy were a great maritime power possessed of Antwerp, how much more uneasy might France justly be if Prussia could add the armies of Spain to those of Germany, and launch them both upon France. But that cause of alarm is over, the Hohenzollern is withdrawn. Let us hope for the best." The three men had now seated themselves at a table in the Trois Freres, and Lemercier volunteered the task of inspecting the menu and ordering the repast, still keeping &uard on Fox. 420 THE PARISIANS. " Observe that man," said Duplessis, pointing towards a gentleman who had just entered ; " the other day he was the popular hero ; now in the excitement of threatened war, he is permitted to order his bifteck uncongratulated, uncaressed ; such is fame at Paris ! here to-day and gone to-morrow." " How did the man become famous? " " He is a painter, and refused a decoration the only French painter who ever did." "And why refuse ? " "Because he is more stared at as the man who refused than he would have been as the man who accepted. If ever the Red Republicans have their day, those among them most cer- tain of human condemnation will be the coxcombs who have gone mad from the desire of human applause." " You ace a profound philosopher, M. Duplessis." " I hope not ; I have an especial contempt for philosophers. Pardon me a moment, I see a man to whom I would say a word or two." Duplessis crossed over to another table to speak to a middle- aged man of somewhat remarkable countenance, with the red ribbon in his button-hole, in whom Graham recognized an ex- Minister of the Emperor, differing from most of those at that day in his Cabinet, in the reputation of being loyal to his master and courageous against a mob. Left thus alone with Lemercier, Graham said : " Pray tell me where I can find your friend the Marquis de Rochebriant. I called at his apartment this morning, and I was told that he had gone on some visit into the country, tak- ing his valet, and the concierge could not give me his address. I thought myself so lucky on meeting with you who are sure to know." " No, I do not ; it is some days since I saw Alain. But Duplessis will be sure to know." Here the financier rejoined them. " Man cher, Grarm Varn wants to know for what Sabine shades Rochebriant has deserted the 'fumum opes .strcpitumque ' of the capital." "Ah ! the Marquis is a friend of yours, Monsieur ? " " I can scarcely boast that honor, but he is an acquaintance whom I should be very glad to see again." " At this moment he is at the Duchesse de Tarascon's coun- try-house near Fontainebleau ; I had a hurried line from him two days ago stating that he was going there on her urgent invitation. But he may return to-morrow ; at all events he THE PARISIANS. 421 dines with md Oil the 8th, and I shall be charmed if you will do me the honor to meet him at my house." "It is an invitation too agreeable to refuse, and I thank you very much for it." Nothing worth recording passed further in conversation be- tween Graham and the two Frenchmen. Hs left them smoking their cigars in the garden, and walked homeward by the Rue de Rivoli. As he was passing beside the Magasin du Louvre he stopped, and made way for a lady crossing quickly out of the shop towards her carriage at the door. Glancing at Jiim with a slight inclination of her head in acknowledgment of his cour- tesy, the lady recognized his features : "Ah, Mr. Vane ! " she cried, almost joyfully, "you are then at Paris, though you have not come to see me." "I only arrived last night, dear Mrs. Morley," said Graham, rather embarrassed, "and only on some matters of business which unexpectedly summoned me. My stay will probably be very short." "In that case let me rob you of a few minutes no, not rob you even of them ; I can take you wherever you want to go, and as my carriage moves more quickly than you do on foot, I shall save you the minutes instead of robbing you of them." " You are most kind, but I was only going to my hotel, which is close by." " Then you have no excuse for not taking a short drive with me in the Champs Elyse"es come." Thus bidden, Graham could not civilly disobey. He handed the fair American into her carriage, and seated himself by her side. CHAPTER III. " MR. VANE, I feel as if I had many apologies to make for the interest in your life which my letter to you so indiscreetly betrayed." " Oh, Mrs. Morley, you cannot guess how deeply that inter- est touched me." " I should not have presumed so far," continued Mrs. Morley, unheeding the interruption, " if I had not been alto- gether in error as to the nature of your sentiments in a. certain quarter. In this you must blame my American rearing. With us there are many flirtations between boys and girl? which come to nothing ; but when in my country a man like you meets with a woman like Mademoiselle Cicogna, there 421 THE PARISIANS. cannot be flirtation. His attentions, his looks, his manner, reveal to the eyes of those who care enough for him to watch, one of two things : either he coldly admires and esteems, or he loves with his whole heart and soul a woman worthy to inspire such a love. Well, I did watch, and I was absurdly mistaken. I imagined that I saw love, and rejoiced for the sake of both of you to think so. I know that in all countries, our own as well as yours, love is so morbidly sensitive and jealous that it is always apt to invent imaginary foes to itself. Esteem and admiration never do that. I thought that some misunder- standing, easily removed by the intervention of a third person, might have impeded the impulse of two hearts towards each other and so I wrote. I had assumed that you loved I am humbled to the last degree you only admired and esteemed." " Your irony is very keen, Mrs. Morley, and to you it may seem very just." " Don't call me Mrs. Morley in that haughty tone of voice can't you talk to me as you would talk to a friend ? You only esteemed and admired there is an end of it." " No, there is not an end of it," cried Graham, giving way to an impetuosity of passion which rarely, indeed, before another, escaped his self-control ; " the end of it to me is a life out of which is ever stricken such love as I could feel for woman. To me true love can only come once. It came with my first look on that fatal face ; it has never left me in thought by day, in dreams by night. The end of it to me is farewell to all such happiness as the one love of a life can promise but " "But what?" asked Mrs. Morley softly, and very much moved by the passionate earnestness of Graham's voice and words. " But," he continued with a forced smile, " we Englishmen are trained to the resistance of absolute authority ; we cannot submit all the elements that make up our being to the sway of a single despot. Love is the painter of existence, it should not be its sculptor." " I do not understand the metaphor." " Love colors our life, it should not chisel its form." " My dear Mr. Vane, that is very cleverly said, but the human heart is too large and too restless to be quietly packed up in an aphorism. Do you mean to tell me that if you found you had destroyed Isaura Cicogna's happiness as well as re- signed your own, that thought would not somewhat deform the very shape you would give to your life ? Is it color alon* tht your life would lose ? " THE PARISIANS. 423 "Ah, Mrs. Morley, do not lower your friend into an ordinary girl in whom idleness exaggerates the strength of any fancy over which it dreamily broods. Isaura Cicogna has her occu- pations, her genius, her fame, her career. Honestly speaking, I think that in these she will find a happiness that no quiet hearth could bestow. I will say no more. I feel persuaded that were we two united I could not make her happy. With the irresistible impulse that urges the genius of the writer towards its vent in public sympathy and applause, she would chafe if I said, 'Be contented to be wholly mine.' And if I said it not, and felt I had no right to say it, and allowed the full scope to her natural ambition, what then ? She would chafe yet more to find that I had no fellowship in her aims and ends ; that where I should feel pride, I felt humiliation. It would be so ; I cannot help it, 'tis my nature." "So be it then. When next year perhaps, you visit Paris, you will be safe from my officious interference Isaura will be the wife of another." Graham pressed his hand to his heart with the sudden move- ment of one who feels there an agonizing spasm ; his cheek, his very lips, were bloodless. " I told you," he said bitterly, " that your fears of my influ- ence over the happiness of one so gifted, and so strong in such gifts, were groundless ; you allow that I should be very soon forgotten ? " V I allow no such thing ; I wish I could. But do you know- so little of a woman's heart (and in matters of heart I never yet heard that genius had a talisman against emotion), do you know so little of a woman's heart as not to know that the very moment in which she may accept a marriage the least fitted to render her happy, is that in which she has lost all hope of hap- piness in another?" " Is it indeed so ? " murmured Graham ; "Ay, I can con- ceive it." " And have you so little comprehension of the necessities which that fame, that career to which you allow she is impelled by the instincts of genius, impose on this girl, young, beautiful, fatherless, motherless ? No matter how pure her life, can she guard it from the slander of envious tongues ? Will not all her truest friends would not you, if you were her brother press upon her by all the arguments that have most weight with the woman who asserts independence in her modes of life, and yet is wise enough to know that the world can only judge of virtue by its shadow reputation, not to dispense with the 424 THE PARISIANS. protection which a husband can alone secure ? And that is why I warn you, if it be yet time, that in resigning your own happiness you may destroy Isaura's. She will wed another, but she will not be happy. What a chimera of dread your ego- tism a man conjures up. Oh, forsooth, the qualities that charm and delight a world are to unfit a woman to be helpmate to a man. Fie on you ! fie ! " Whatever answer Graham might have made to these impas- sioned reproaches was here checked. Two men on horseback stopped the carriage. One was En- guerrand de Vandemar, the other was the Algerine Colonel whom we met at the supper given at the Maison Doree by Frederic Lemercier. " Pardon, Madame Morley," said Enguerrand ; " but there are symptoms of a mob-epidemic a little further up ; the fever began at Belleville, and is threatening the health of the Champs Elysees. Don't be alarmed ; it may be nothing, though it may be much. In Paris one can never calculate an hour before- hand the exact progress of a politico-epidemic fever. At pres- ent I say: ' Bah ! a pack of ragged boys, gamins de Paris'; but rny friend the Colonel, twisting his moustache tn souriant amcre- ment, says : ' It is the indignation of Paris at the apathy of the government under insult to the honor of France '; and Heaven only knows how rapidly French gamins grow into giants when colonels talk about the indignation of Paris and the honor of France !" " But what has happened?" asked Mrs. Morley, turning to the Colonel. "Madame," replied the warrior, "it is rumored that the King of Prussia has turned "his back upon the ambassador of France ; and that the pekin who is for peace at any price, M. Ollivier, will say to-morrow in the Chamber, that France sub- mits to a slap in the face." " Please, Monsieur de Vandemar, to tell my coachman to drive home," said Mrs. Morley. " The carriage turned and went homeward. The Colonel lifted his hat and rode back to see what \\\ " he cried ; " the news was a joyous surprise to me. Only so recently as yesterday morning I was under the gloomy apprehension that the Imperial Cabinet would continue to back Ollivier's craven declaration ' that France had not been affronted' ! The Duchesse de Tarascon, at whose campagne I was a guest, is (as you doubtless know) very much in the confidence of the Tuileries. On the first signsof war, I wrote to her saying that, whatever the objections of my pride to enter the army as a private in time of peace, such objections ceased on the moment when all distinctions of France must vanish in the eyes of sons eager to defend her banners. The Duchesse in reply begged me to come to her campagne and talk over the matter. 1 went ; she then said that if war should break out it was the intention to organize the Mobiles and officer them with men of birth and education, irrespective of previous military service, and in that case I might count on my epaulets. But only two nights ago she received a letter I know not of course from whom evidently from some high authority, that induced her to think the modera- tion of the Council would avert the war, and leave the swords of the Mobiles in their sheaths. I suspect the decision of yesterday must have been a very sudden one. Ce cher Gra- mont! See what it is to have a well-born man in a sovereign's councils." "If war must come, I at least wish all renown to yourself. But" "Oh ! spare me your ' buts* ; the English are always too full of them where their own interests do not appeal to them. They had no ' buts ' for war in India or a march into Abyssinia." Alain spoke petulantly ; at that moment the French were very much irritated by the monitory tone of the English jour- nals. Graham prudently avoided the chance of rousing the wrath of a young hero yearning for" his epaulets. THE PARISIANS. " I am English enough," said he, with good-humored cour- tesy, "to care for English interests; and England has no interest abroad dearer to her than the welfare and dignity of France. And now let me tell you why I presumed on an ac- quaintance less intimate than I could -desire, to solicit this interview on a matter which concerns myself, and in which you could perhaps render me a considerable service." " If 1 can, count it rendered ; move to this sofa, join me in a cigar, and let us talk at ease comme de vieux amis, whose fathers or brothers might have fought side by side in the Crimea." Graham removed to the sofa beside Rochebri- ant, and after one or two whiffs laid. aside the cigar and began : '' Among the correspondence which Monsieur your father has left, are there any letters of no distant date signed Ma- rigny Madame Marigny ? Pardon me, I should state my motive in putting this question. I am intrusted with a charge, the fulfilment of which may prove to the benefit of this lady or her child ; such fulfilment is a task imposed upon my honor. But all the researches to discover this lady which 1 have insti- tuted stop at a certain date, with this information, viz., that she corresponded occasionally with the late Marquis de Roche- briant ; that he habitually preserved the letters of his corre- spondents ; and that these letters were severally transmitted to you at his decease." Alain's face had taken a very grave expression while Graham spoke, and he now replied with a mixture of haughtiness and embarrassment : " The boxes containing the letters my father received and pre- served were sent to me as you say ; the larger portion of them were from ladies, sorted and labelled, so that in glancing at any letter in each packet I could judge of the general tenor of these in the same packet without the necessity 01" reading them. All packets of that kind, Monsieur Vane, I burned. I do not remember any letters signed ' Marigny.' " " 1 perfectly understand, my dear Marquis, that you would destroy all letters which your father himself would have de- stroyed if his last illness had been sufficiently prolonged. But I do not think the letters I mean would have come under that classification ; probably they were short, and on matters of business relating to some third person some person, for in- stance, of the name of Louise, or of Duval ! " " Stop ! let me think. I have a vague remembrance of one pr two letters which rather 'perplexed me ; they were labelled, THE PARISIANS. 431 Louise D . Mem.: to make further inquiries as to the fate of her uncle." " Marquis, these are the letters I seek. Thank Heaven, you have not destroyed them ?" " No ; there was no reason why I should destroy, though I really cannot state precisely any reason why I kept them. I have a very vague recollection of their existence." " I entreat you to allow me at feast a glance at the hand- writing, and compare it with that of a letter I have about me ; and if ihe several handwritings correspond, I would ask you to let "me have the address, which, according to your father's memorandum, will be found in the letters you have ^pre- served." " To compliance with such a request I not only cannot demur, but perhaps it may free me from some responsibility which I might have thought the letters devolved upon my executorship. I am sure they did not concern the honor of any woman of any family, for in that case I must have burned them." " Ah, Marquis, shake hands there ! In such concord be- tween man and man, there is more entente cordiale between England and France than there was at Sebastopol. Now let me compare the handwritings." " The box that contained the letters is not here, I left it at Rochebriant ; I will telegraph to my aunt to send it ; the day after to-morrow it will no doubt arrive. Breakfast with me that day, say at one o'clock, and after breakfast the box ! " " How can I thank you ?" " Thank me ! but you said your honor was concerned in your request; requests affecting honor between men comme il faut is a ceremony of course, like a bow between them. One bows, the other returns the bow ; no thanks on either side. Now that we have done with that matter, let me say that I thought your wish for our interview originated in a very different cause." " What could that be ? " " Nay, do you not recollect that last talk between us, when with such loyalty you spoke to me about Mademoiselle Cicogna, and supposing that there might be a rivalship between us, retracted all that you might have before said to warn me against fostering the sentiment with which 'she had inspired me ; even ( at the first slight glance of a face which cannot be lightly for- gotten by those who have once seen it." " I recollect perfectly well every word of that talk, Marquis," answered Graham calmly, but with his hand concealed within" his vest and pressed tightly to his heart. The warning of Mrs. Morley flashed upon him. Was this the man to seize the prize he had put aside ; this man, younger than himself, handsomer than himself, higher in rank?" "I recollect that talk, Marquis ! Well, what then ?" " In my self-conceit I supposed that you might have heard how much I admired Mademoiselle Cicogna ; how, having not long since met her at the house of Duplessis (who by the way writes me word that I shall meet you chez lui to-morrow), I have since sought her society wherever there was a chance to find it. You may have heard, at our club or elsewhere, how 1 adore her genius ; how, I say, that nothing so Breton, that is, so pure and so lofty, has appeared and won readers since the days of Chateaubriand ; and you, knowing that les absens out toujours tort, come to me and ask Monsieur de Rochebriant, Are we rivals ? I expected a challenge you relieve my mind you abandon the field to me?" At the first I warned the reader how improved from his old mauvaise honte a year or so of Paris life would make our beau Marquis. How a year or two of London life with its horsey slang and its fast girls of the period would have vulgarized an English Rochebriant ! Graham gnawed his lips and replied quietly, " I do not challenge ! Am I to congratulate you? " "No, that brilliant victory is not forme. I thought that was made clear in the conversation I have referred to. But if you have done me the honor to be jealous, I am exceedingly flattered. Speaking seriously, if 1 admired Mademoiselle Cicogna when you and I last met, the admiration is increased by the respect with which I regard a character so simply noble. How many women older than she would have been spoiled by the adulation that has followed her literary success ! How few women so young, placed in a position so critical, having the courage to lead a life so independent, would have main- tained the dignity of their character free from a single indis- cretion ! I speak not from my own knowledge, but from the report of all, who would be pleased enough to censure if they could find a cause. Good society is the paradise of mauvaises langites." Graham caught Alain's hand and pressed it, but made no answer. The young Marquis continued : " You will pardon me for speaking thus freely in the way that I would wish any friend to speak of the demoiselle who TfcE PARISIANS. 43$ might become my wife. I owe you much, not only for the loy- alty with which you addressed me in reference to this young lady, but for words affecting my own position in France, which sank deep into my mind ; saved me from deeming myself a proscrit in my own land ; filled me with a manly ambition, not stifled amidst the thick of many effeminate follies, and, in fact, led me to the career which is about to open before me, and in which my ancestors have left me no undistinguished examples. Let us speak, then, a cizur ouvert, as one friend to another. Has there been any misunderstanding between you and Ma- demoiselle Cicogna which has delayed your return to Paris ? If so, is it over now ? " "There has been no such misunderstanding." "Do you doubt whether the sentiments you expressed in regard to her, when we met last year, are returned ?" " I have no right to conjecture her sentiments. You mistake altogether." " I do not believe that I am dunce enough to mistake your feel- ings towards Mademoiselle they may be read in your face at this moment. Of course I do not presume to hazard a 'con- jecture as to those of Mademoiselle towards yourself. But when I met her not long since at the house of Duplessis, with whose daughter she is intimate, I chanced to speak to her of you ; and if I may judge, by looks and manner, I chose no dis- pleasing theme. You turn away I offend you ? " " Offend \ No, indeed ; but on this subject I am not prepared to converse. I came to Paris on matters of business much complicated and which ought to absorb my attention. I can- not longer trespass on your evening. The day after to-morrow, then, I will be with you at one o'clock." '* Yes, I hope then to have the letters you wish to consult ; and, meanwhile, we meet to-morrow at the Hotel Duplessis." CHAPTER VI. GRAHAM had scarcely quitted Alain, and the young Mar- quis was about to saunter forth to his club, when Duplessis was announced^ These two men had naturally seen much of each other since Duplessis had returned from Bretagne and delivered Alain from the gripe of Louvier. Scarcely a day had passed but what Alain had been summoned to enter into the financier's plans for the aggrandizement of the Rochebriant estates, and deli- < 34 fi PARISIANS. cately made to feel that he had become a partner in specula- tions, which, thanks to the capital and the abilities of Du- plessis brought to bear, seemed likely to result in the ultimate freedom of his property from all burdens, and the restoration of his inheritance to a splendor correspondent with the dignity of his rank. On the plea that his mornings were chiefly devoted to pro- fessional business, Duplessis arranged that these consultations should take place in the evenings. From those consultations Valerie was not banished ; Duplessis took her into the council as a matter of course. " Valerie," said the financier to Alain, "though so young, has a very clear head for business, and she is so interested in all t"hat interests myself, that even where I do not take her opinion, I at least feel my own made livelier and brighter by her sympathy." So the girl was in the habit of taking her work or her book into the cabinet de travail, and never obtruding a suggestion unasked, still, when appealed to, speaking with a modest good sense which justified her father's confidence and praise ; and apropos of her book, she had taken Chateaubriand into pecu- liar favor. Alain had respectfully presented to her beautifully bound copies of " Atala," and " Le Genie du Christianisme "; it is astonishing, indeed, how he had already contrived to regulate her tastes in literature. The charms of those quiet family evenings had stolen into the young Breton's heart. He yearned for none of the gayer reunions in which he had before sought for a pleasure that his nature had not found ; for, amidst the amusements of Paris Alain remained intensely Breton, viz., formed eminently for the simple joys of domestic life, associating the sacred hearthstone with the antique relig- ion of his fathers ; gathering round it all the images of pure and noble affections which the romance of a poetic tempera- ment had evoked from the solitude which had surrounded a melancholy boyhood, an uncontaminated youth. Duplessis entered abruptly, and with a countenance much disturbed from its wonted saturnine composure. " Marquis, Avhat is this I have just heard from the Duchesse de Tarascon ? Can it be ? You ask military^gervice in this ill omened war? You?" " My dear and best friend," said Alain, very much startled, " I should have thought that you, of all men in the world, would have most approved of my request you, so devoted an Imperialist you, indignant that the representative of one of these families, which the first Napoleon so eagerly and so vainly THE PARISIANS. 435 Courted, should ask for the grade of sous-lieutenant in the armies of Napoleon the Third you, who of all men know how ruined are the fortunes of a Rochebriant you feel surprised, that he clings to the noblest heritage his ancestors have left to him their sword ! I do not understand you." "Marquis," said Duplessis, seating himself, and regarding Alain with a look in which were blended the sort of admiration and the sort of contempt with which a practical man of the world, who, having himself gone through certain credulous follies, has learned to despise the follies, but retains a reminis- cence of sympathy with the fools they bewitch : " Marquis, pardon me ; you talk finely, but you do not talk common-sense. I should be extremely pleased if your legitimate scruples had allowed you to solicit, or rather to accept, a civil appointment not unsuited to your rank, under the ablest sovereign, as a civilian, to whom France can look for rational liberty combined with established order. Such openings to a suitable career you have rejected ; but who on earth could expect you, never trained to military service, to draw a sword hitherto sacred to the Bourbons, on behalf of a cause which the madness, I do not say of France but of Paris, has enforced on a sovereign against whom you would fight to-morrow if you had a chance of plac- ing the descendant of Henry IV. on his throne ?" " I am not about to fight for any sovereign, but for my country against the foreigner." " An excellent answer if the foreigner had invaded your country ; but it seems that your country is going to invade the foreigner a very different thing. Chut 7 all this discussion is most painful to me. I feel for the Emperor a personal loyalty, and for the hazards he is about to encounter a prophetic dread, as an ancestor of yours might have felt for Francis I. could he have foreseen Pavia. Let us talk of ourselves and the effect the war should have upon our individual action. You are aware, of course, that, though M. Louvier has had notice of our intention to pay off his mortgage, that intention cannot be carried into effect for six months ; if the money be not then forthcoming his hold on Rochebriant remains unshaken the sum is large." " Alas ! yes." " The war must greatly disturb the money-market, affect many speculative adventures and operations'when at the very moment credit may be most needed. It is absolutely neces- sary that I should be daily at my post on the Bourse, and hourly watch the ebb and flow of events. Under these cir- 436 THE PARISIANS. cumstances I had counted, permit me to count still, on yolif presence in Bretagne. We have already begun negotiations on a somewhat extensive scale, whether as regards the im- provement of forests and orchards, or the plans for building allotments, as soon as the lands are free for disposal for all these the eye of a master is required. I entreat you, then, to take up your residence at Rochebriant." " My dear friend, this is- but a kindly and delicate mode of relieving me from the dangers of war. I have, as you must be conscious, no practical knowledge of business. Hebert can be implicitly trusted, and will carry out your views with a zeal equal to mine, and with infinitely more ability." " Marquis, pray neither to Hercules nor to Hebert ; if you wish to get your own cart out of the ruts, put your own shoulder to the wheel." Alain colored high, unaccustomed to be so bluntly ad- dressed, but he replied with a kind of dignified meekness : " I shall ever remain grateful for what you have done, and wish to do for me. But, assuming that you suppose rightly, the estates of Rochebriant would, in your hands, become a profitable investment, and more than redeem the mortgage, and the sum you have paid Louvier on my account, let it pass to you irrespectively of me. I shall console myself in the knowledge that the old place will be restored, and those who honored its old owners prosper in hands so strong, guided by a heart so generous." Duplessis was deeply affected by these simple words ; they seized him on the tenderest side of his character, for his heart was generous, and no one, except his lost wife and his loving child, had ever before discovered it to be so. Has it ever happened to you, reader, to be appreciated on the one point of the good or the great that is in you on which secretly you value yourself most, but for which nobody, not admitted into your heart of hearts, has given you credit ? If that has hap- pened to you, judge what Duplessis felt when the fittest representative of that divine chivalry which, if sometimes deficient in head, owes all that exalts it to riches of heart, spoke thus to the professional money-maker, whose qualities of head were'so acknowledged that a compliment to them would be a hollow impertinence, and whose qualities of heart had never yet received a compliment ! Duplessis started from his seat and embraced Alain, mur- muring : " Listen to me, I love you I never had a son be mine Rochebriant shall be my daughter's dot." THE PARISIANS. 437 Alain returned the embrace, and then recoiling, said : "Father, your first desire must be honor for your son. You have guessed my secret I have learned to love Valerie. Seeing her out in the world, she seemed like other girls, fair and commonplace ; seeing her at your house, I have said to myself: 'There is the one girl fairer than all others in my eyes, and the one individual to whom all other girls are com- monplace.' " "Is that true? Is it?" " True ! does a gentilhomme ever lie ? And out of that love for her has grown this immovable desire to be something worthy of her ; something that may lift me from the vulgar platform of men who owe all to ancestors, nothing to them- selves. Do you suppose for one moment that I, saved from ruin and penury by Valerie's father, could be base enough to say to her: 'In return 'be Madame la Marquise de Roche- briant'? Do you suppose that I, whom you would love and respect as son, could come to you and say : " I am oppressed by your favors ; I am crippled with debts ; give me your mil- lions and we are quits'? No, Duplessis ! You, so well de- scended yourself; so superior as man amongst men 'that you would have won name and position had you been born the son of a shoeblack you would eternally despise the noble who, in days when all that we Bretons deem holy in noblesse are sub- jected to ridicule and contempt, should so vilely forget the only motto which the scutcheons of all gtntilsKommes have in common, ''Noblesse oblige.' War with all its perils and all its grandeur war lifts on high the banners of France war, in which every ancestor of mine whom I care to recall aggran- dized the name that descends to me. Let me then do as those before me have done ; let me prove that I am worth something in myself, and then you and I are equals ;and I can say with no humbled crest : ' Your benefits are accepted ' : the man who has fought not ignobly for France may aspire to the hand of her daughter. Give me Valerie ; as to her dot be it so, Rochebriant it will pass to her children." " Alain ! Alain ! my son ! but if you fall ?" " Valerie will give you a nobler son." Duplessis moved away, sighing heavily , but he said no more in deprecation of Alain's martial resolves. A Frenchman, however practical, however worldly, however philosophical he may be, who does not sympathize with the Allies of honor who does not concede indulgence to the hot blood of youth when he says : " My country is insulted and 438 THE PARISIANS. her banner is unfurled," may certainly be a man of excellent common-sense ; but if such men had been in the majority, Gaul would never have been France Gaul would have been ( a province of Germany. And as Duplessis walked homeward he the calmest and most far-seeing of all authorities on the Bourse ; the man who, excepting only De Mauleon, most decidedly deemed the cause of the war a blunder, and most forebodingly anticipated its issues, caught the prevalent enthusiasm. Everywhere he was stopped by cordial hands, everywhere met by congratulating smiles. "How right you have been, Duplessis, when you have laughed at those who have said, ' The Emperor is ill, decrepit, done up.'" " Vive V Empereur ! At last we shall be face to face with those insolent Prussians ! " Before he arrived at his home, passing along the Boulevards, greeted by all the groups enjoying the cool night air before the cafes, Duplessis had caught the war epidemic. Entering his hotel, he went at once to Valerie's chamber. " Sleep well to-night, child ; Alain has told me that he adores thee, and if he will go to the war, it is that he may lay his laurels at thy feet. Bless thee, my child, thou couldstnot have made a nobler choice." Whether, after these words, Valerie slept well or not 'tis not for me to say ; but if she did sleep, I venture to guess that her dreams were rose-colored. CHAPTER VII. ALL the earlier part of that next day, Graham Vane remained indoors a lovely day at Paris that 8th of July, and with that summer day all hearts at Paris were in unison. Discontent was charmed into enthusiasm ; Belleville and Montmartre for- got the visions of Communism and Socialism and other " isms " not to be realized except in some undiscovered Atlantis ! The Emperor was the idol of the day ; the names of Jules Favre and Gambetta were bywords of scorn. Even Armand Monnier, still out of work, beginning to feel the pinch of want, and fierce for any revolution that might might turn topsy-turvy the conditions of labor even Armand Monnier was found among groups that were laying immortelles at the foot of the column in the Place Vendome, and heard to say to a fellow- malcontent, with eyes uplifted to the statue of the first Napo- THE PARISIANS. 439 Icon : " Do you not feel at this moment that no Frenchman can be long angry with the little corporal ? He denied La Libert^ but he gave La Gloire" Heeding not the stir of the world without, Graham was com- pelling into one resolve the doubts and scruples which had so long warred against the heart which they ravaged, but could not wholly subdue. The conversations with Mrs. Morley and Rochebriant had placed in a light in which he had not before regarded it, the image of Isaura. He had reasoned from the starting-point of his love for her, and had sought to convince himself that against that love it was his duty to strive. But now a new question was addressed to his conscience as well as to his heart. What though he had never formally declared to her his affection ; never, in open words, wooed her as his own ; never even hinted to her the hopes of a union which at one time he had fondly entertained, still was it true that his love had been too transparent not to be detected by her, and not to have led her on to return it ? Certainly he had, as we know, divined that he was not in- different to her : at Enghien, a year ago, that he had gained her esteem, and perhaps interested her fancy. We know also how he had tried to persuade himself that the artistic temperament, especially when developed in women, is too elastic to suffer the things of real life to have lasting influ- ence over happiness or sorrow ; that in the pursuits in which her thought and imagination found employ, in the excitement they sustained, and the fame to which they conduced, Isaura would be readily consoled for a momentary pang of disap- pointed affection. And that a man so alien as himself, both by nature and by habit, from the artistic world, was the very last person who could maintain deep and permanent impression on her actual life or her ideal dreams. But what if, as he gathered from the words of the fair American what if, ; n all these assumptions, he was wholly mistaken ? What if, in pre- viously revealing his own heart, he had decoyed hers ? What if, by a desertion she had no right to anticipate, he had blighted her future? What if this brilliant child of genius could love as warmly, as deeply, as enduringly as any simple village girl to whom there is no poetry except love ? If this were so what became the first claim on his honor, his conscience, his duty? The force which but a few days ago his reasonings had given to the arguments that forbade him to think of Jsaura, 440 THE PARISIANS. became weaker and weaker, as now in an altered mood of reflection he re-summoned and re-weighed them. All those prejudices, which had seemed to him such rational common-sense truths, when translated from his own mind into the words of Lady Janet's letter was not Mrs. Morley right in denouncing them as the crotchets of an insolent egotism ? Was it not rather to the favor than to the disparagement of Isaura, regarded even in the man's narrow-minded view of woman's dignity, that this orphan girl could, with character so unscathed, pass through the trying ordeal of the public babble, the public gaze ; command alike the esteem of a woman so pure as Mrs. Morley, the reverence of a man so chivalrously sensitive to honor as Alain de Rochebriant ? Musing this, Graham's countenance at last brightened a glorious joy entered into and possessed him. He felt as a man who had burst asunder the swathes and trammels which had kept him galled and miserable with the sense of captivity, and from which some wizard spell that took strength from his own superstition had forbidden to struggle. He was free ! And that freedom was rapture ! Yes, his resolve was taken. The day was now far advanced. He should have just time before the dinner with Duplessis to drive to A , where he still supposed Isaura resided. How, as his fiacre rolled along the well-remembered road how completely he lived in that world of romance of which he denied himself to be a denizen. Arrived at the little villa, he found it occupied only by work- men it was under repair. No one could tell him to what residence the ladies who occupied it the last year had removed. " I shall learn from Mrs. Morley," thought Graham, and at her house he called in going back, but Mrs. Morley was not at home ; he had only just time, after regaining his apart- ment, to change his dress for the dinner to which he was invited. As it was, he arrived late, and while apologizing to his host for his want of punctuality, his tongue faltered. At the farther end of the room he saw a face, paler and thinner than when he had seen it last a face across which a something of grief had gone. The servant announced that dinner was served. " Mr. Vane," said Duplessis, " will you take into dinnei Mademoiselle Cicogna ? '' THE PARISIANS. 44! BOOK XL CHAPTER I. AMONG the frets and checks to the course that " never did run smooth," there is one which is sufficiently frequent, for many a reader will remember the irritation it caused him. You have counted on a meeting with the beloved one unwit- nessed by others, an interchange of confessions and vows which others may not hear. You have arranged almost the words in which your innermost heart is to be expressed ; pictured to yourself the very looks by which those words will have their sweetest reply. The scene you have thus imagined appears to you vivid and distinct, as if foreshown in a magic glass. And suddenly, after long absence, the meeting takes place in the midst of a common companionship : nothing that you wished to say can be said. The scene you pictured is painted out by the irony of Chance ; and groups and backgrounds of which you had never dreamed, start forth from the disappointing canvas. Happy if that be all ! But sometimes, by a strange, subtle intuition, you feel that the person herself is changed ; and sym- pathetic with that change, a terrible chill comes over your own heart. Before Graham had taken his seat at the table beside Isaura, he felt that she was changed to him. He felt it by her very touch as their hands met at the first greeting ; by the tone of her voice in the few words that passed between them ; by the absence of all glow in the smile which had once lit up her face, as a burst of sunshine lights up a day in spring, and gives a richer gladness of color to all its blooms. Once seated side by side they remained for some moments silent. Indeed it would have been rather difficult for anything less than the wonderful intelligence of lovers between whom no wall can prevent the stolen interchange of tokens, to have ventured private talk of their own amid the excited converse which seemed all eyes, all tongues, all ears, admitting no one present to abstract himself from the common emotion. Englishmen do not recognize the old classic law which limited the number of guests, where ban- quets are meant to be pleasant, to that of the Nine Muses. They invite guests so numerous, and so shy of launching talk across the table, that you may talk to the person next to you 442 THE PARISIANS. not less secure from listeners than you would be in talking with the stranger whom you met at a well in the Sahara. It is not so, except on state occasions, at Paris. Difficult there to retire into solitude with your next neighbor. The guests col- lected by Duplessis completed with himself the number of the Sacred Nine the host, Valerie, Rochebriant, Graham, Isaura, Signora Venosta, La Duchesse de Tarascon, the wealthy and high-born Imperialist, Prince , and last and least, one who shall be nameless. I have read somewhere, perhaps in one of the books which American superstition dedicates to the mysteries of Spiritual- ism, how a gifted seer, technically styled medium, sees at the opera a box which to other eyes appears untenanted and empty, but to him is full of ghosts, well dressed in tenue exacle, gazing on the boards and listening to the music. Like such ghosts are certain beings whom I call Lookers-on. Though still living, they have no share in the life they survey, they come as from another world to hear and to see what is passing in ours. In ours they lived once, but that troubled sort of life they have survived. Still we amuse them as stage-players and puppets amuse ourselves. One of these Lookers-on completed the party at the house of Duplessis. How lively, how animated the talk was at the financier's pleasant table that day, the 8th of July! The excitement of the coming war made itself loud in every Gallic voice, and kindled in every Gallic eye. Appeals at every second minute were made, sometimes courteous, sometimes sarcastic, to the Englishman, promising son of an eminent statesman, and native of a country in which France is always coveting an ally, and always suspecting an enemy. Certainly Graham could not have found a less propitious moment for asking Isaura if she really were changed. And certainly the honor of Great Brit- ain was never less ably represented (that is saying a great deal) than it was on this occasion by the young man reared to diplo- macy and aspiring to Parliamentary distinction. He answered all questions with a constrained voice and an insipid smile all questions pointedly addressed to him as to what demonstra- tions of admiring sympathy with the gallantry of France might be expected from the English government and people ; what his acquaintance with the German races led him to suppose would be the effect on the Southern States of the first defeat of the Prussians ; whether the man called Moltke was not a mere strategist on paper, a crotchety pedant ; whether, if Bel- gium became so enamoured of the glories of France as to solicit THE PARISIANS. 443 fusion with her people, England would have a right to offer any objection, etc., etc. I do not think that during that festi- val Graham once thought one-millionth so much about the fates of Prussia and France as he did think, "Why is that girl so changed to me? Merciful heaven ! is she lost to my life ? " By training, by habit, even by passion, the man was a genu- ine politician, cosmopolitan as well as patriotic, accustomed to consider what effect every vibration in that balance of Euro- pean power, which no deep thinker can despise, must have on the destinies of civilized humanity, and on those of the nation to which he belongs. But are there not moments in life when the human heart suddenly narrows the circumference to which its emotions are extended? As the ebb of a tide, it retreats from the shores it had covered on its flow, drawing on with contracted waves the treasure-trove it has selected to hoard amid its deeps. CHAPTER II. ON quitting the dining-room, the Duchesse de Tarascon said to her host, on whose arm she was leaning : " Of course you and I must go with the stream. But is not all the fine talk that has passed to-day at your table, and in which we too have joined, a sort of hypocrisy ? I may say this to you ; I would say it to no other." " And I say to you, Madame la Duchesse, that which I would say to no other. Thinking over it as I sit alone, I find myself making a ' terrible hazard' ; but when I go abroad and become infected by the general enthusiasm, I pluck up gayely of spirit, and whisper to myself : 'True, but it may be an enor- mous gain.' To get the left bank of the Rhine is a trifle ; but to check in our next neighbor a growth which a few years hence would overtop us that is no trifle. And, be the gain worth the hazard or not, could the Emperor, could any gov- ernment likely to hold its own for a week, have declined to take the chance of the die ? " The Duchesse mused a moment, and meanwhile the two seated themselves on a divan in the corner of the salon. Then she said very slowly : " No government that held its tenure on popular suffrage could have done so. But if the Emperor had retained the per- sonal authority which once allowed the intellect of one man to control and direct the passions of many, I think the Avar would have been averted. I have reason to know that the Emperor 444 THE PARISIANS. and most of the members of the Council were anxious to avoid the step which was forced upon them by the temper of the Chamber, and reports of a popular excitement which Could not be resisted without imminent danger of revolution. It is Paris that has forced the war on the Emperor. But enough of this subject. What must be, must, and, as you say, the gain may be greater than the hazard. I come to something else you whispered to me before we went in to dinner, a sort of com- plaint which wounds me sensibly. You say I had assisted to a choice of danger and possibly of death a very distant con- nection of mine, who might have been a very near connection of yours. You mean Alain de Rochebriant ? " "Yes ; I accept him as a suitor for the hand of my only daughter." " I am so glad, not for your sake so much as for his. No one can know him well without appreciating in him the finest qualities of the finest order of the French noble ; but having known your pretty Valerie so long, my congratulations are for the man who can win her. Meanwhile, hear my explanation : when I promised Alain any interest I can command for the grade of officer in a regiment of Mobiles, I knew not that he had formed, or was likely to form, ties or duties to keep him at home. I withdraw my promise." " No, Duchesse, fulfil it. I should be disloyal indeed if I robbed a sovereign under whose tranquiTand prosperous reign I have acquired, with no dishonor, the fortune which Order proffers to Commerce, of one gallant defender in the hour of need. And speaking frankly, if Alain were really my son, I think I am Frenchman enough to remember that France is my mother." " Say no more, my friend say no more," cried the Duchesse, with the warm blood of the heart rushing through all the deli- cate coatings of pearl-powder. " If every Frenchman felt as you do ; if in this Paris of ours all hostilities of class may merge in the one thought of the common country ; if in French hearts there yet thrill the same sentiment as that which, in the terrible days when all other ties were rent asunder, revered France as mother, and rallied her sons to her aid against the confederacy of Europe, why, then, we need not grow pale with dismay at the sight of a Prussian needle- gun. Hist ! look yonder : is not that a tableau of Youth in Arcady ? Worlds rage around, and Love, unconcerned, whis- pers to Love ! " The Duchesse here pointed to a corner of the adjoining room in which Alain and Valerie sat apart, he THE PARISIANS. 445 whispering into her ear : her cheek downcast, and, even seen at that distance, brightened by the delicate tenderness of its blushes. CHAPTER III. BUT in that small assembly there were two who did not attract the notice of Duplessis, or of the lady of the Imperial Court. While the Prince and the placid Looker-on were engaged at a contest of ecarle, with the lively Venosta, for the gallery, interposing criticisms and admonitions, Isaura was listlessly turning over a collection of photographs, strewed on a table that stood near to an open window in the remoter angle of the room, communicating with a long and wide bal- cony filled partially with flowers and overlooking the Champs Elysees, softly lit up by the innumerable summer stars. Sud- denly a whisper, the command of which she could not resist, thrilled through her ear, and sent the blood rushing back to her heart. " Do you remember that evening at Enghien ? How I said that our imagination could not carry us beyond the question whether we two should be gazing together that night twelve months on that star which each of us had singled out from the hosts of heaven ? That was the 8th of July. It is the 8th of July once more. Come and seek for our chosen star come. I have something to say, which say I must. Come." Mechanically, as it were mechanically, as they tell us the Somnambulist obeys the Mesmerizer Isaura obeyed that sum- mons. In a kind of dreamy submission she followed his steps, and found herself on the balcony, flowers around her and stars above, by the side of the man who had been to her that being ever surrounded by flowers and lighted by stars the ideal of Romance to the heart of virgin woman. " Isaura," said the Englishman softly. At the sound of her own name for the first time heard from those lips, every nerve in her frame quivered. " Isaura, I have tried to live without you. I cannot. You are all in all to me : without you it seems to me as if earth had no flowers, and even heaven had with- drawn its stars. Are there differences between us differences of taste, of sentiments, of habits, of thought ? Only let me hope that you can love me a tenth part so much as I love you, and such differences cease to be discord. Love harmonizes all sounds, blends all colors into its own divine oneness of heart and soul. Look up \ Is not the star which this time last 446 THE PARISIANS. year invited our gaze above, is it not still here ? Does it not still invite our gaze? Isaura, speak ! " " Hush ! hush ! hush ! " the girl could say no more, but she recoiled from his side. The recoil did not wound him : there was no hate in it. He advanced, he caught her hand, and continued, in one of those voices which became so musical in summer nights under starry skies : " Isaura, there is one name which I can never utter without a reverence due to the religion which binds earth to heaven a name which to man should be the symbol of life cheered and beautified, exalted, hallowed. That name is 'wife.' Will you take that name from me ? " And still Isaura made no reply. She stood mute, and cold, and rigid as a statue of marble. At length, as if consciousness had been arrested and was struggling back, she sighed heavily, and passed her hands slowly over her forehead. " Mockery, mockery," she said then, with a smile half bitter, half plaintive, on her colorless lips. " Did you wait to ask me that question till you knew what my answer must be ? I have pledged the name of wife to another." " No, no ; you say that to rebuke, to punish me ! Unsay it ! Unsay it ! " Isaura beheld the anguish of his face with bewildered eyes. " How can my words pain you ? " she said drearily. " Did you not write that I had unfitted myself to be wife to you ? " "I ?" " That I had left behind me the peaceful immunities of pri- vate life ? I felt you were so right ! Yes ! I am affianced to one who thinks that in spite of that misfortune " " Stop, I command you stop ! You saw my letter to Mrs. Morley. I have not had one moment free from torture and remorse since I wrote it. But whatever in that letter you might justly resent " " I did not resent " Graham heard not the interruption, but hurried on. "You would forgive could you read my heart. No matter. Every sentiment in that letter, except those which conveyed admira- tion, I retract. Be mine, and instead of presuming to check in you the irresistable impulse of genius to the first place in the head or the heart of the world, I will teach myself to encourage, to share, to exult in it. Do you know what a differ- ence there is between the absent one and the present one? Between the distant image against \vhom our doubts, our fears, THE PARISIANS. 447 % our suspicions, raise up hosts of imaginary giants, barriers of visionary walls, and the beloved face before the sight of which the hosts are fled, the walls are vanished ? Isaura, we meet again. You know now from my own lips that I love you. I think your lips will not deny that you love me. You say that you are affianced to another. Tell the man frankly, honestly, that you mistook your heart. It is not yours to give. Save yourself, save him, from a union in which there can be no happiness." " It is too late," said Isaura, with hollow tones, but with no trace of vacillating weakness on her brow and lips. " Did I say now to that other one, ' I break the faith that I pledged to you,' I should kill him, body and soul. Slight thing though I be, to him I am all in all ; to you, Mr. Vane, to you a memory the memory of one whom a year, perhaps a month, hence, you will rejoice to think you have escaped." She passed from him passed away from the flowers and the starlight ; and when Graham, recovering from the stun of her crushing words, and with the haughty mien and step of the man who goes forth from the ruin of his hopes, leaning for support upon his pride when Graham re-entered the room, all the guests had departed save only Alain, who was still exchanging whispered words with Valerie. CHAPTER IV. THE next day, at the hour appointed, Graham entered Alain's apartment. " I am glad to tell you," said the Marquis gayly, "that the box has arrived, and we will very soon examine its contents. Breakfast claims precedence." During the meal Alain was in ga*y spirits, and did not at first notice the gloomy countenance and abstracted mood of his guest. At length, surprised at the dull response to his lively sallies on the part of a man generally so pleasant in the frankness of his speech, and the cordial ring of his sympathetic laugh, it occurred to him that the change in Graham must be ascribed to something that had gone wrong in the meeting with Isaura the evening before ; and remembering the curtness with which Graham had implied disinclination to converse about the fair Italian, he felt perplexed how to reconcile the impulse of his good- nature with the discretion imposed on his good-breeding. At all events, a compliment to the lady whom Graham had so admired could do not harm. 448 THE PARISIANS. " How well Mademoiselle Cicogna looked last night !" " Did she ? It seemed to me that, in health at least, she did not look very well. Have you heard what day M. Thiers will speak on the war ? " "Thiers? No. Who cares about Thiers ? Thank Heaven, his day is past ! I don't know any unmarried woman in Paris, not even Valerie I mean Mademoiselle Duplessis who has so exquisite a taste in dress as Mademoiselle Cicogna. Generally speaking, the taste of a female author is atrocious." " Really I did not observe her dress. I am no critic on subjects so dainty as the dress of ladies, or the tastes of female authors." " Pardon me," said the beau Marquis gravely. " As to dress, I think that that is so essential a thing in the mind of woman, that no man who cares about women ought to disdain critical study of it. In woman, refinement of character is never found in vulgarity of dress. I have only observed that truth since I came up from Bretagne." " I presume, my dear Marquis, that you may have read in Bretagne books which very few not being professed scholars have ever read at Paris ; and possibly you may remember that Horace ascribes the most exquisite refinement in dress, denoted by the untranslatable words, ' simplex munditiis,' to a lady who was not less distinguished by the ease and rapidity with which she coald change her affection. Of course that allusion does not apply to Mademoiselle Cicogna ; but there are many other exquisitely dressed ladies at Paris of whom an ill-fated ad- mirer ' fidem Mutatosque decs flebit.' Now, with your permission, we will adjourn to.the box of let- ters." The box being produced and unlocked, Alain looked with conscientious care at its contents before he passed over to Graham's inspection a few epistles, in which the Englishman immediately detected the same handwriting as that of the letter from Louise which Richard King had bequeathed to him. They were arranged and numbered chronologically. LETTER I. " DEAR M. LE MARQUIS : " How can I thank you sufficiently for obtaining and remitting to me those certificates ? You are, too, aware of the unhappy episode in my life not to know how inestimable is the service THE PARISIANS. 449 you render me. I am saved all further molestation from the man who had indeed no right over my freedom, but whose per- secution might compel me to the scandal and disgrace of an appeal to the law for protection, and the avowal of the illegal marriage into which I was duped. I would rather be torn limb from limb by wild horses, like the Queen in the history books, than dishonor myself and the ancestry which I may at least claim on the mother's side, by proclaiming that I had lived with that low Englishman as his wife, when I was only Oh heavens, I cannot conclude the sentence ! " No, Mons. le Marquis, I am in no want of the pecuniary aid you so generously wish to press on me. Though I know not where to address my poor dear uncle ; though I doubt, even if I did, whether I could venture to confide to him the secret known only to yourself as to the name I now bear and if he hear of me at all he must believe me dead yet I have enough left of the money he last remitted to me for present support; and when that fails, I think, what with my knowledge of English and such other slender accomplishments as I pos- sess, I could maintain myself as a teacher or governess in some German family. At all events, I will write to you again soon, and I entreat you to let me know all you can learn about my uncle. I feel so grateful to you for your just disbelief of the horrible calumny which must be so intolerably galling to a man so proud, and, whatever his errors, so incapable of a baseness. 1' Direct to me Poste restante, Augsburg. "Yours with all consideration. a _____ > LETTER II. (Seven months after the date of Letter 7.) "AUGSBURG. " DEAR M. LE MARQUIS : " I thank you for your kind little note informing me of the pains you have taken, as yet with no result, to ascertain what has become of my unfortunate uncle. My life since I last wrote has been a very quiet one. I have been teaching among a few families here ; and among my pupils are two little girls of very high birth. They have taken so great a fancy to me that their mother has just asked me to corne and reside at their house as governess. What wonderfully kind hearts those Germans have so simple, so truthful ! They raise no trouble- some questions ; accept my own story implicitly." Here follow 45 THE PARISIANS. a fe\v commonplace sentences about the German character, and a postscript. " I go into my new home next week. When you hear more of my uncle, direct to me at the Countess von Rudesheim, Schloss N M , near Berlin." "Rudesheim!" Could this be the relation, possibly the wife, of the Count von Rudesheim with whom Graham had formed acquaintance last year ? LETTER III. {Between three and four years after the date of the last.) " You startle me indeed, dear M. le Marquis. My uncle said to have been recognized in Algeria under another name, a soldier in the Algerine army? My dear, proud, luxurious uncle ! Ah, I cannot believe it any more than you do : but I long eagerly for such further news as you can learn of him. For myself, I shall perhaps surprise you when I say I am about to be married. Nothing can exceed the amiable kindness I have received from the Rudesheims since 1 have been in their house. For the last year especially I have been treated on equal terms as one of the family. Among the habitual visitors at the house is a gentleman of noble birth, but not of rank too high, nor of fortune too great, to make a marriage with the French widowed governess a mesalliance. I am sure that he loves me sincerely, and he is the only man I ever met whose love I have cared to win. We are to be married in the course of the year. Of course he is ignorant of my painful history, and will never learn it. And after all, Louise D is dead. In the home to which I am about to remove, there is no prob- ability that the wretched Englishman can ever cross my path. My secret is as safe with you as in the grave that holds her whom in the name of Louise D you once loved. Hence- forth I shall trouble you no more with my letters ; but if you hear anything decisively authentic of my uncle's fate, write me a line at any time, directed as before to Madame M , enclosed to the Countess von Rudesheim. " And accept, for all the kindness you have ever shown me, as to one whom you did not disdain to call a kinswoman, the assurance of my undying gratitude. In the alliance she now makes, your kinswoman does not discredit the name through which she is connected with the yet loftier line of Rochebriant." To this letter the late Marquis had appended in pencil : " Of course a Rochebriant never denies the claim of a kinswoman, THE PARISIANS." 451 even though a drawing-master's daughter. Beautiful creature, Louise, but a termagant ! I could not love Venus if she were a termagant. L.'s head turned by the unlucky discovery that her mother was noble. In one form or other, every woman has the same disease vanity. Name of her intended not men- tioned easily found out." The next letter was dated May 7, 1859, on black-edged paper, and contained but these lines : " I was much comforted by your kind visit yesterday, dear Marquis. My affliction has been heavy : but for the last two years my poor husband's con- duct has rendered my life unhappy, and I am recovering the shock of his sudden death. It is true that I and the children are left very ill provided for ; but I cannot accept your gener- ous offer of aid. Have no fear as to my future fate. Adieu, my dear Marquis ! This will reach you just before you start for Naples. Bon voyage." There was no address on this note, no postmark on the envelope evidently sent by hand. The last note, dated 1861, March 20, was briefer than its predecessor. " I have taken your advice, dear Marquis ; and overcoming all scruples, I have accepted his kind offer, on the condition that I am never to be taken to England. I had no option in this marriage. I can now own to you that my pov- erty had become urgent. Yours, with inalienable gratitude, This last note, too, was without postmark, and as evidently sent by hand. " There are no other letters, then, from this writer ?" asked Graham ; " and no further clue as to her existence ? " " None that I have discovered ; and I see now why I pre- served these letters. There is nothing in their contents not creditable to my poor father. They show how capable he was of good-natured, disinterested kindness towards even a distant relation of whom he could certainly not have been proud, judging not only by his own pencilled note, or by the writer's condition as a governess, but by her loose sentiments as to the marriage tie. I have not the slightest idea who she could be. I never at least heard of one connected, however distantly, with my family, whom I could identify with the writer of these letters." " I may hold them a short time in my possession ? " " Pardon me a preliminary question. If I may venture to form a conjecture, the object of your search must be connected with your countryman, whom the lady politely calls the 452 THE PARISIANS. 'wretched Englishman'; but I own I should not like to lend, through these letters, a pretence to any steps that may lead to a scandal in which my father's name or that of any member of my family could be mixed up." " Marquis, it is to prevent the possibility of all scandal that I ask you to trust these letters to my discretion." " Foi de gentilhomme ? " " Foi de gentilhomme ! " " Take them. When and where shall we meet again ?" " Soon, I trust ; but I must leave Paris this evening. I am bound to Berlin in quest of this Countess von Rudesheim : and I fear that in a very few days intercourse between France and the German frontier will be closed upon travellers." After a few more words not worth recording, the two young men shook hands and parted. CHAPTER V. IT was with an interest languid and listless indeed, compared with that which he would have felt a day before, that Graham mused over the remarkable advances toward the discovery of Louise Duval which were made in the letters he had perused. She had married, then, first a foreigner, whom she spoke of as noble, and whose name and residence could be easily found through the Countess von Rudesheim. The mar- riage did not seem to have been a happy one. Left a widow in reduced circumstances, she had married again, evidently without affection. She was living so late as 1861, and she had children living in 1859 : was the child referred to by Richard King one of them? The tone and style of the letters served to throw some light on the character of the writer; they evinced pride, stubborn self-will, and unamiable hardness of nature ; but her rejection of all pecuniary aid from a man like the late Marquis de Roche- briant betokened a certain dignity of sentiment. She was evi- dently, whatever her strange ideas about her first marriage with Richard King, no vulgar woman of gallantry ; and there must have been some sort of charm about her to have excited a friendly interest in a kinsman .so remote, and a man of pleasure so selfish, as her high-born correspondent. But what now, so far as concerned his own happiness, was the hope, the probable certainty, of a speedy fulfilment of the trust bequeathed to him ? AVhether the result, in the death of THE PARISIANS. 453 the mother, and more especially of the child, left him rich, or, if the last survived, reduced his fortune to a modest independ- ence, Isaura was equally lost to him, and fortune became val- ueless. But his first emotions on recovering from the shock of hearing from Isaura's lips that she was irrevocably affianced to another, were not those of self-reproach. They were those of intense bitterness against her who, if really so much attached to him as he had been led to hope, could within so brief a time reconcile her heart to marriage with anotlier. This bitterness was no doubt unjust ; but I believe it to be natural to men of a nature so proud and of affections so intense as Graham's, under similar defeats of hope. Resentment is the first impulse in a man loving with the whole ardor of his soul, rejected, no matter why or wherefore, by the woman by whom he had cause to believe he himself was beloved; and though Graham's stand- ard of honor was certainly the reverse of low. yet man does not view honor in tlie same light as woman does, when involved in analogous difficulties of position. Graham consci- entiously thought that if Isaura so loved him as to render dis- tasteful an engagement to another which could only very recently have been contracted, it would be more honorable frankly so to tell the accepted suitor than to leave him in ignorance that her heart was estranged. But these engagements are very solemn things with girls like Isaura, and hers was no ordinary obligation of woman-honor. Had the accepted one been superior in rank, fortune all that flatters the ambition of woman in the choice of marriage ; had he been resolute and strong, and self-dependent amid the trials and perils of life then possibly the woman's honor might find excuse in escaping the penalties of its pledge. But the poor, ailing, infirm, mor- bid boy-poet, who looked to her as his saving angel in body, in mind, and soul to say to him, " Give me back my freedom," would be to abandon him to death and to sin. But Graham could not of course divine why what he as a man thought right was to Isaura as woman impossible : and he returned to his old prejudiced notion that there is no real depth and ardor of affection for human lovers in the poetess whose mind and heart are devoted to the creation of imaginary heroes. Absorbed in revery, he took his way slowly and with downcast looks towards the British Embassy, at which it was well to ascertain whether the impending war yet necessitated special passports for Germany. "Bon jour, cher ami" said a pleasant voice ; "And how lorn-' have you been at Paris ? " 454 THE PARISIANS. "Oh, my dear M. Savarin ! charmed to see you looking so well ! Madame well too, I trust ? My kindest regards to her. I have been in Paris but a day or two, and I leave this even- ing." " So soon ? The war frightens you away, I suppose. Which way are you going now ? " " To the British Embassy." "Well, I will go with you so far ; it is in my own direction I have to call at the charming Italian's with congratulations on news I only heard this morning." " You mean Mademoiselle Cicogna and the news that demands congratulations her approaching marriage ! " " Mon Dieu ! when could you have heard of that?' "Last night at the house of M. Duplessis." " Par bleu! I shall scold her well for confiding to her new friend Valerie the secret she kept from her old friends, my wife and myself." "By the way," said Graham, with a tone of admirably feigned indifference, " who is the happy man ? That part of the secret I did not hear." " Can't you guess ? " " No." " Gustave Rameau." " Ah ! " Graham almost shrieked, so sharp and shrill was his cry. " Ah ! I ought indeed to have guessed that ! " " Madame Savarin, I fancy, helped to make up the marriage. I hope it may turn out well ; certainly it will be his salvation. May it be for her happiness ! " " No doubt of that ! Two poets born for each other, I dare say. Adieu, my dear Savarin ! Here we are at the embassy." CHAPTER VI. THAT evening Graham found himself in the coup6 of thf express train to Strasbourg. He had sent to engage the whol* coupe" to himself, but that was impossible. One place \va bespoken as far as C , after which Graham might prosecute his journey alone on paying for the three places. When he took his seat another man was in the further cor- ner whom he scarcely noticed. The train shot rapidly on for some leagues. Profound silence in the coupe, save at moments those heavy, impatient sighs that came from the very depths of the heart, and of which he who sighs is unconscious, burst THE PARISIANS. 455 from the Englishman's lips, and drew on him the observant side-glance of his fellow-traveller. At length the fellow-traveller said in very good English, though with French accent : " Would you object, sir, to my lighting my little carriage-lantern ? I am in the habit of read- ing in the night train, and the wretched lamp they give us does not permit that. But if you wish to sleep, and my lantern would prevent you doing so, consider my request unasked." " You are most courteous, sir. Pray light your lantern that will not interfere with my sleep." , As Graham thus answered, far away from the place and the moment as his thoughts were, it yet faintly struck him that he had heard that voice before. The man produced a small lantern, which he attached to the window-sill, and drew forth from a small leathern bag sundry newspapers and pamphlets. Graham flung himself back, and in a minute or so again came his sigh. " Allow me to offer you those evening journals you may not have had time to read them before starting," said the fellow-traveller, leaning forw :rd, and extending the newspapers with one hand, while with the other he lifted his lantern. Graham turned, and the faces of the two men were close to each other Graham with his travelling cap drawn over his brows, the other with head uncovered. dangers which result from con- stant elections to such a dignity, with parties so heated, and pretenders to the rank so numerous, than any principle by which a popular demagogue or a successful general is enabled to destroy the institutions he is elected to guard. On these fundamental doctrines for the regeneration of France I think we are agreed. And I believe when the moment arrives to promulgate them, through an expounder of weight like your- self, they will rapidly commend themselves to the intellect of France. For they belong to common-sense ; and in the ul- timate prevalence of common-sense I have a faith which I refuse to mediaevalists who would restore the right divine ; and still more to fanatical quacks, who imagine that the wor- ship of the Deity, the ties of family, and the rights of prop- erty are errors at variance with the progress of society. Qui vivra, verra." INCOGNITO. " In the outlines of the policy you so ably enunciate, I heartily concur. But if France is, I will not say to be regenerated, but to* have fair play among the nations of Europe, I add one or two items to the programme. France must be saved from Paris, not by subterranean barracks and trains, the impotence of which we see to-day with a general in command of the military force, but by conceding to France its proportionate share of the power now monopolized by Paris. All this system of centralization, equally tyrannical and cor- rupt, must be eradicated. Talk of examples from America, of which I know little from England, of which I know much what can we more advantageously borrow from England than that diffusion of all her moral and social power which forbids the congestion of blood in one vital part ? Decentralize ! decentralize ! decentralize ! will be my incessant cry, if ever the time comes when my cry will be heard. France can never be a genuine France until Paris has no more influence over the destinies of France than London has over those of England. But on this theme I could go on till midnight. Now to the immediate point: what do you advise me to do in this crisis, and what do you propose to do yourself ? " De Mauleon put his hand to his brow, and remained a few moments silent and thoughtful. At last he looked up with that decided expression of face which was not the least among his many attributes for influence over those with whom he came into contact. 47o THE PARISIANS. " For you, on whom so much of the future depends, my advice is brief have nothing to do with the present. All who join this present mockery of a government will share the fall that attends it a fall from which one or two of their body may possibly recover by casting blame on their confreres ; you never could. But it is not for you to oppose that government with an enemy on its march to Paris. You are not a soldier ; military command is not in your rdle. The issue of events is uncertain ; but whatever it be, the men in power cannot con- duct a prosperous war nor obtain an honorable peace. Here- after you may be the Deus ex machind. No personage of that rank and with that mission appears till the end of the play : we are only in the first act. Leave Paris at once and abstain from all action." INCOGNITO (dejectedly). " I cannot deny the soundness of your advice, though in accepting it I feel unutterably sad- dened. Still you, the calmest and shrewdest observer among my friends, think there is cause for hope, not despair. Victor, I have more than most men to make life pleasant, but I would lay down life at this moment with you. You know me well enough to be sure that I utter no melodramatic fiction when I say that I love my country as a young man loves the ideal of his dreams, with my whole mind and heart and soul ! and the thought that I cannot now aid her in the hour of her mortal trial is is " The man's voice broke down, and he turned aside, veiling his face with a hand that trembled. DE MAULEON. "Courage! Patience! All Frenchmen have the first ; set them an example they much need in the second. I, too, love my country, though I owe to it little enough, Heav- en knows. I suppose love of country is inherent in all who are not Internationalists. They profess only to love humanity, by which, if they mean anything practical, they mean a rise in wages." INCOGNITO (rousing himself, and with a half-smile). "Always cynical, Victor; always belying yourself. But now that you have advised my course, what will be your own ? Accompany me, and wait for better times." " No, noble friend ; our positions are different. Yours is made, mine yet to make. But for this war I think I could have secured a seat in the Chamber. As I wrote you, I found that my kinsfolk were of much influence in their department, and that my restitution to my social grade, and the repute I had made as an Orleanist, inclined them to forget my youthful THE PARISIANS. 479 errors and to assist my career. But the Chamber ceases to exist. My journal I shall drop. I cannot support the govern- ment ; it is not a moment to oppose it. My prudent course is silence." INCOGNITO. " But is not your journal essential to your support ?" DE MAULON. " Fortunately not. Its profits enabled me to lay by for the rainy day that has come ; and having reim- bursed you and all friends the sums necessary to start it, I stand clear of all debt, and, for my slender wants, a rich man. If 1 continued the journal I should be beggared ; for there would be no readers to 'Common-Sense' in this interval of lunacy. Nevertheless, during this interval, I trust to other ways for winning a name that will open my rightful path of ambition whenever we again have a legislature in which 'Com- mon-Sense' can be heard." I NCOGNITO. " But how win that name, silenced as a writer? " DE MAULEON. " You forget that I have fought in Algeria. In a few days Paris will be in a state of siege ; and then and then," he added, and very quietly dilated on the renown of a patriot or the grave of a soldier. " I envy you the chance of either," said the Incognito ; and after a few more brief words he departed, his hat drawn over his brows, and entering a hired carriage which he had left at the corner of the quiet street, was consigned to the station du , just in time for the next train. CHAPTER XI. , VICTOR dressed and went out. The streets were crowded. Workmen were everywhere employed in the childish operation of removing all insignia and obliteratingall names that showed where an Empire had existed. One greasy citizen, mounted on a ladder, was effacing the words " Boulevard Haussman," and substituting for Haussman, " Victor Hugo." Suddenly De Mau-leon came on a group of blouses, inter- spersed with women holding babies and ragged boys holding c ,tones, collected round a well-dressed, slender man, ^it whom they were gesticulating with menaces of doing something much worse. By an easy effort of his strong frame the Vicomte pushed his way through the tormentors, and gave his arm to their intended victim. " Monsieur, allow me to walk home with you." 480 THE PARISIANS. Therewith the shrieks and shouts and gesticulations in- creased. "Another impertinent! Another traitor! Drown him ! Drown them both ! To the Seine ! To the Seine ! " A burly fellow rushed forward, and the rest made a plunging push. The outstretched arm of De Mauleon kept the ring- leader at bay. " Mes enfans," cried Victor with a calm, clear voice, " I am not an Imperialist. Many of you have read the articles signed Pierre Firmin, written against the tyrant Bona- parte when he was at the height of his power. I am Pierre Firmin make way for me." Probably not one in the crowd had ever read a word written by Pierre Firmin, nor even heard of the name. But they did not like to own ignorance ; and that burly fellow did not like to encounter that arm of iron which touched his throat. So he cried out, " Oh ! if you are the great Pierre Firmin, that alters the case. Make way for the patriot Pierre." "But," shrieked a virago, thrusting her baby into De Mauleon 's face, " the other is the Imperialist, the capitalist, the vile Dtiplessis. At least we will have him." De Mauleon suddenly snatched the baby from her, and said, with imperturbable good temper: "Exchange of prisoners! I resign the man, and I keep the baby." No one who does not know the humors of a Parisian mob can comprehend the suddenness of popular change, or the magical mastery over crowds which is effected by quiet courage and a ready joke. The group was appeased at once. Even the virago laughed ; and when De Mauleon restored the infant to her arms, with a gold piece thrust into its tiny clasp, she eyed the gold, and cried, " God bless you, citizen ! " The two gentlemen made their way safely now. " M. de Maule'on," said Duplessis, " I know not how to thank you. Without your seasonable aid I should have been in great danger of life ;. and would you believe it ? the woman who denounced and set the mob on me was one of the objects of a charity which I weekly dispense to the poor." . "Of course I believe that. At the Red clubs no crime is more denounced than that of charity. It is the ' fraud against Egaliti,*. vile trick of the capitalist to save to himself the millions he ought to share with all by giving a sou to one. MeanwhiTe, take my advice, M. Duplessis, and quit Paris with your young daughter. This is no place for rich Imperialists at present." " I perceived that before to-day's adventure. I distrust the looks of my very servants, and shall depart with Valerie this evening for Bretagne." THE PARISIANS. 481 "Ah ! I heard from Louvier that you propose to pay off his mortgage on Rochebriant, and make yourself sole proprietor of my young kinsman's property." " I trust you only believe half what you hear. I mean to save Rochebriant from Louvier, and consign it free of charge to your kinsman, as the dot of his bride, my daughter."