Now Books 
 
 BY 
 
 Cora Ritchie (Miowatt). 
 
 Fairy Fingers 
 The Mute Singer, 
 Pen Portraits, 
 
 * These volumes are all issued handsomely 
 bound in cloth, and will be sent by 
 mail, postage free, on receipt 
 of price, $1.50, 
 
 BY 
 
 Carleton, Publisher, 
 New York. 
 
THE 
 
 MUTE SINGER. 
 
 21 ttcrueL 
 
 BY 
 
 ANNA CORA RITCHIE (MOWATT), 
 
 AUTHOR OF "FAIRY FINGERS," "PEN PORTRAITS," "THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF 
 
 AN ACTRESS," "MIMIC LIFE," "TWIN ROSES," %t ARMAND," 
 " FASHION," ETC., ETC., ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK I 
 
 CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY. 
 
 M DCCC LXVI. 
 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S66, by 
 MARY G. THOMPSON, 
 
 In the Clerk s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
 Southern District, of New York. 
 
 THE NEW YORK PRINTING COMPANY 
 
 81, 88, and 85 Centre Street, 
 
 JS KW YORK. 
 
//J 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 Sylvie 7 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 A Toilette Dilemma 29 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 Maitre Beanjeu s Violin 42 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Launched 57 
 
 % 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 The Ruby Ring 95 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 The Second Step 107 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 Reaction 123 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 Rustling Laurels 142 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 Lost Gifts 1 74 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 The Old Musician. . 193 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 TAGE 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 Convalescence 210 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 Renunciation 246 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 The Mute Singer 263 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 The Great World Again 274 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 A New Home 294 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 Luminous Cloud 306 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 The Mob and the Singer 324 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 Parting 341 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 Conclusiou 354 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SYLVIK 
 
 THE height of a house in Paris is by no means 
 indicative of the grandeur of the abode. In a 
 remote portion of the Rue St. Denis stands many 
 a dwelling that, if placed beside the most sump 
 tuous mansions of Grosvenor Square, would tower 
 above them, and yet is the residence of a host of 
 humble toilers for daily bread, who seem to mount 
 nearer to the skies according to the degree of their 
 poverty. One might almost imagine that the pro 
 mise of easier access to heaven than is accorded 
 to the rich, gave them this upward tendency. 
 
 In one of these lofty habitations for the lowly, 
 a hundred and forty steps led to an apartment in 
 the sixth story, where Everard de la Roche lodged, 
 with his wife and daughter. The bareness of the 
 
8 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 room betokened an absence of worldly possessions. 
 The red-tiled floor had no covering, the windows 
 no curtains, the bed no drapery. Indeed, the lat 
 ter was merely a framed canvas that could be 
 folded up at pleasure. A few yards of faded 
 calico, stretched across the further corner, con 
 verted that portion into a small chamber. In one 
 window feebly bloomed a pot of unhealthy-look 
 ing mignionette the favorite flower of the French 
 poor, and often to be found in their meanest 
 abodes. The enumeration of the furniture will 
 occupy little space. It consisted of a wash-stand, 
 four rush-bottomed chairs, a low stool, a worm- 
 eaten chest (the receptacle of the family ward 
 robe), a tiny charcoal cooking-stove, and yonder 
 strangely unsuited to the place a piano ! An 
 old, battered affair, with keys as yellow as a 
 tobacco-chewer s teeth, but still a veritable piano. 
 Just above the venerable instrument, an unpainted 
 deal shelf held a number of broken -backed books, 
 some pieces of music, and a tin cup containing 
 a few common flowers. Upon a corresponding 
 shelf on the opposite side of the room, were 
 various kitchen utensils, neatly arranged ; a cup 
 board beneath inclosed a sparse supply of crockery 
 and other household goods. 
 
SYLVIE. 9 
 
 It is June, and the twilight of a long summer 
 day is approaching. 
 
 Several sheets of music are scattered upon the 
 floor. The piano is open ; on the three-legged 
 stool before it sits a young girl. Her head rests 
 upon one arm, which is stretched over the instru 
 ment as though she had fallen forward from ex 
 haustion ; the other arm hangs listlessly by her 
 side she is asleep. 
 
 The outline of her undeveloped form is delicate, 
 yet too angular for grace. The coarse grey stock 
 ing and rough shoe cannot wholly disguise the 
 smallness and shapeliness of a foot and ankle some 
 what liberally revealed by her position. Her 
 complexion is sickly, almost sallow in its hue. 
 Her features are too much sharpened by want and 
 suffering to be deemed handsome; but the min 
 gled blandness and firmness of the mouth, the 
 thin, slightly curved nostrils, and the broad brow, 
 indicate force of character. The only impression 
 of beauty is conveyed by the arch of the slender 
 eyebrows, the length and darkness of the lashes 
 that lie upon her colorless cheeks, the silkiness 
 and luxuriance of the purple-black hair that, 
 escaping from her comb, sweeps down her shoul 
 ders, and falls like a rich veil over the yellow 
 
10 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 piano-keys. Her garb is veiy humble ; simply a 
 dark blue calico dress, relieved by a narrow linen 
 collar and cuffs, and a white apron. Her appear 
 ance is so childlike so immature, that one can 
 hardly believe she has entered her eighteenth 
 year. 
 
 Close to the dingy window, as though to catch 
 the last lingering rays of light, sits a pale and 
 mournful-looking woman. With a languid air, 
 she slowly draws the needle in and out of her 
 work, as though even that effort were too great for 
 her strength. Pain has left a faint contraction on 
 her brow, and the shadow of weary dejection that 
 clouds her still comely features, tells that she has 
 ceased to fight against the ills of life or, rather, 
 that she has been conquered by them, without 
 ever battling at all. 
 
 An imperative knock breaks the silence. Be 
 fore Madame de la Eoche can give permission to 
 enter, the door opens, and a face, as sharp and 
 sombre-hued as though it had been cut out of 
 parchment, is thrust into the room, and after the 
 twinkling grey eyes have made a rapid survey, is 
 followed by the spare and diminutive form of an 
 old man, carrying a violin under his arm. Al 
 though the heavy eyebrows that meet above his 
 
SYLVIE. 11 
 
 prominent nose, and the bristling moustache that 
 conceals his closely-folding lips, retain their youth 
 ful blackness, his long beard and the fringe of hair 
 that enrings his bald head are white as foam. 
 Those small, sharp, restless eyes seem to glance 
 everywhere in an instant, and to pierce what they 
 look upon. The whole countenance is sufficiently 
 sour to set on edge the teeth of a very impressible 
 associate ; a striking illustration of that " vinegar 
 aspect 1 which Shakspeare describes as belonging to 
 those who will riot 
 
 " Show their teeth in way of smile, 
 Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable." 
 
 " Eh ? Ah ! what s this ?" he exclaimed, march 
 ing up to the slumbering maiden. " Lazy little 
 owl ! This is the way she practises ; this is the 
 way she makes use of her time, is it ?" 
 
 " She has practised five hours without stirring," 
 answered the mother, in a querulous tone. "She 
 fell asleep a few moments ago from sheer fatigue, 
 and I had not the heart to rouse her. You know, 
 Maitre Beaujeu, she practises faithfully seven hours 
 every day. Let her have a little rest !" 
 
 " Rest, indeed ! Do you suppose / ever rest ? 
 I can tell you she need not look forward to rest 
 
12 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 in our profession. How she sleeps, to be 
 sure !" 
 
 He stood for a moment contemplating the young 
 girl, who slept on undisturbed by the noise. A 
 close observer might have detected something like 
 compassion under the musician s rude mask of 
 severity. 
 
 "Don t disturb her!" pleaded the mother. 
 " You re always so hard upon her." 
 
 Those words extinguished the faintly kindling 
 spark of pity, and awakened the spirit of contra 
 diction ever strong in Maitre Beaujeu s breast. 
 
 " Don t disturb her, when it s the hour for her 
 lesson ? That s a pretty joke ! Eeally you are 
 quite facetious, Madame de la Koche. Do you 
 suppose I have so many hours to spare that I can 
 teach her for nothing, and yet suit my time to 
 hers ? Eh, do you think that ?" 
 
 He turned to Sylvie, and shook her rudely, 
 shouting in her ears, " Wake up ! wake up, I say ! 
 You are not good-looking enough to be indulged 
 with playing the sleeping beauty ! " 
 
 Sylvie awoke with a start. Perhaps amazement 
 caused her to open her eyes more widely than was 
 natural, but they seemed too large for her delicate 
 face. Judging from the color of her hair, eye- 
 
SYLVIE. 18 
 
 brows, and lashes, one expected to see a pair of 
 black eyes, and could not but wonder at finding 
 the iris of a clear and not very deep blue. 
 
 "Have I been sleeping?" she asked, gathering 
 up her hair in confusion. " Oh, mother, why did 
 you not wake me ? I deserve to be well scolded, 
 Maitre Beaujeu," added she, looking up into his 
 face with a smile that said, "But do not give me 
 my deserts ; do not scold me !" 
 
 The smile, while it displayed her white and 
 regular teeth, showed that the mouth was too 
 expansive for beauty, though somewhat redeemed 
 by the flexibility of the lips. It was essentially a 
 singer s mouth. 
 
 " Don t chatter, scarecrow ! To your lesson ! 
 Let me hear you sing the air we tried yesterday." 
 
 Sylvie succeeded in prisoning the abundant 
 tresses which had several times baffled her, as she 
 attempted to gather them in her small hands. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu laid his violin upon the table 
 as tenderly as though it had been a living thing 
 indeed, it is doubtful whether he would have dealt 
 so gently with anything alive took his place at 
 he piano, and played a brief prelude. 
 
 Sylvie sang, and Beethoven himself could not 
 have asked for a voice better suited, by its depth 
 
14 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 and richness, to make vocal his glorious strain. 
 As you listened to her, and looked at her, you 
 could not conceive that from that poor, fragile, 
 feeble little frame, could issue such a volume of 
 delicious sound, a contralto voice so powerful, so 
 clearly sweet, so touchingly sympathetic, so rare 
 in its combinations and quality. And her own 
 melody seemed to transform her, as it gushed 
 from her lips. The rosy flush that leaped up 
 into her face extinguished its sallow tint the 
 large mouth took a symmetrical shape the great 
 eyes filled with a dewy lustre, and grew dark 
 through the dilation of their pupils mingling all 
 the softness of blue with the brilliancy of black 
 orbs. The angular figure assumed an attitude of 
 unconscious grace the very spirit of music 
 thrilled through and through her whole being, 
 and moulded its external into a new shape. 
 
 As she ceased, Maitre Beaujeu gave a growl 
 which might have struck upon a stranger s ear 
 as a signal of displeasure, but Sylvie compre 
 hended his rough approbation. He placed page 
 after page of music before her, and she sang on. 
 Not a word was uttered between the pieces. 
 
 The mother had allowed her work to drop upon 
 her lap, but the expression of her countenance told 
 
SYLVIE. 15 
 
 that she did not dare make any comment, or 
 breathe a word of praise. 
 
 During an interval in which Sylvie was trying 
 to re-arrange the music which had fallen on the 
 floor while she slept, the buzz of whispering out 
 side the door became audible in the silence. 
 Maitre Beaujeu turned sharply round on his stool. 
 
 " There they are again ! I ll not allow it. I ll 
 not have my pupil sing to an audience that don t 
 pay." 
 
 He made a rush to the door, but the movement 
 had been heard without, and the sound of scam 
 pering feet ensued. The music-master only suc 
 ceeded in capturing one of the group of listeners ; 
 it was Mathieu, the hunchbacked son of Mere 
 Gamboche, who presided over a small booth for 
 the sale of cakes and confections on the Champs 
 Elysees, and who lodged on the same story as 
 Sylvie and her parents. 
 
 " Ah ! I ve got you, little rascal, have I ? Have 
 I not forbidden any listening at this door? Do 
 you want your long ears chopped off ?" And the 
 musician gave an emphatic pull, which must have 
 produced a foretaste of this threatened punish 
 ment for the crime of listening. 
 
 " Ah ! have pity ! have pity, Maitre Beaujeu. I 
 
16 THE MUTE SIKGEK. 
 
 could not help it! indeed I couldn t! I heard 
 her voice as I was going up-stairs with a bundle 
 of charcoal for my mother, and couldn t help 
 stopping and listening ! Besides, I have brought 
 Ma m selle Sylvie her bouquet, here it is T 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu snatched the flowers and threw 
 them into the passage. 
 
 Sylvie, with more courage than could have 
 been anticipated from her timid mien, now came 
 forward. She quietly took up the humble nose 
 gay, saying, " Mathieu is so good he often brings 
 me flowers indeed, I should never receive any, 
 were it not for him. He knows I like them only 
 too well. Sometimes I fear he robs his sister, 
 Ninette, who sells flowers, of her wares. Pray 
 don t be so hard upon the poor boy, Maitre Beau 
 jeu; he loves music so much, and has so few 
 She could not finish her sentence, for the music- 
 master thrust her aside. 
 
 " How dare you interfere, you little fright ! 
 "What do you want with flowers ? Do you think 
 they ll make you any handsomer?" Turning to 
 Mathieu, he added: "Get out, now; and let me 
 catch you again that s all!" 
 
 He rounded his sentence with a kick that sent 
 the terrified cripple staggering along the entry. 
 
SYLVIE. 17 
 
 Then, closing the door savagely, he returned to 
 the piano. 
 
 Sylvie was roused by this cruelty to her unfor 
 tunate friend; she had evidently a high spirit. 
 
 " It s too bad, Maitre Beaujeu, to treat Mathieu 
 so ! Was it not by the same means you are 
 reproving him for taking, that you first heard 
 my voice ? Was it not in passing our door to go 
 to your own room that you heard me sing ? 
 And did you not often stop, just as he does? 
 And one day, when I was singing in a rude style 
 of my own singing my own thoughts to my own 
 tunes did you not come in and snatch the 
 sewing out of my hands, and say I was made for 
 singing, not sewing? And did you not then 
 propose to teach me ? And now you punish 
 Mathieu for listening ! A thing you did yourself!" 
 
 " And you see no difference in my listening 
 and that little rascally hunchback daring to 
 listen ? You are an idiot, and I shall never make 
 anything of you ! What if I did hear you and 
 what if I did teach you and what if I am wasting 
 time on you every day, as I have done for three 
 years ? You are too great a fool for any good 
 to come out of my instructions. You ll never 
 get an opportunity to use your voice and earn 
 
18 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 your bread by it. You needn t expect that you 
 will!" 
 
 "Ah, no!" sighed the mother. "That s just 
 what I always tell her; she ll never have an 
 opportunity ! It s waste of time ; and the hire of 
 the piano, for which we have to stint ourselves so 
 much, is money thrown away. / was always 
 unlucky always and so is every one that belongs 
 tome!" 
 
 " Mother, you know I do not believe in luck, 
 and Maitre Beaujeu cannot believe what he says. 
 No, my master, you would not waste so many 
 precious hours upon me if you believed your 
 own words. You tell me that, although I am 
 ugly as an owl, I have a great gift. I should not 
 have known it if you had not told me ; but as this 
 gift has been entrusted to me, perhaps in com 
 pensation for my ugliness and poverty, who 
 knows ? God would not have consigned it to my 
 keeping without granting me an opportunity of 
 using it; that is my belief my faith !" 
 
 " All very fine, but faith is not a current coin 
 that will buy bread. And you can t always live 
 on hope, though it is the natural food of youth. 
 A few years of waiting, and watching, and disap 
 pointment, and you will cease to hope, as I do, 
 
SYLVIE. 19 
 
 and as millions have done before, and will do 
 again." 
 
 " Not until I cease to believe in the good God !" 
 answered Sylvie, gravely. " And that will never 
 be!" 
 
 " Stop your preaching, and come back to your 
 lesson 1 You get your hopefulness from that reck 
 less father of yours, and much good his inexhaus 
 tible stock of hope has done him! Left him 
 nothing but this little hole to lodge his hopes in." 
 
 " Ah I nothing ever prospered with him I" mur 
 mured Madame de la Eoche. 
 
 " He don t deserve to prosper !" snarled Beaujeu. 
 He is always pursuing phantoms, instead of 
 marching under the banner of steady industry. 
 But I suppose we are to spend the rest of the 
 evening in discussions ?" 
 
 Sylvie s only reply was to resume her place by 
 the piano. Maitre Beaujeu churlishly took his 
 seat, and the lesson continued. 
 
 Sylvie s father belonged to an excellent family 
 of Provence a family who claimed to be the off 
 shoot of nobility. Everard de la Koche was born 
 and bred a gentleman, according to the European 
 acceptation of the word, which means he was born 
 and fitted for no occupation a gentleman of the 
 
20 THE MUTE SIXGER. 
 
 aristocratic, do-nothing school. His father s in 
 come had been sufficiently large to enable him to 
 live luxuriously with prudence, but the son chanced 
 to be wholly deficient in that inestimable quality. 
 When Everard became his father s heir, and found 
 himself with ample means at his command, he 
 proposed to his young wife that they should 
 remove from Provence to Paris, and " see the 
 world" Paris, to a Frenchman, being the only 
 world worth recognising. 
 
 Hardly had they taken up their residence in 
 the great capital, when Monsieur de la Eocbe 
 launched into numberless extravagances. He was 
 one of those light-hearted, sanguine men, who 
 never look beyond the hour. He squandered his 
 property in the most reckless manner. Now and 
 then, as he felt his substance melting away, he 
 embarked in some hazardous but Golconda-pro- 
 mising speculation, which usually left him poorer 
 than before. 
 
 In a few years his means were exhausted. He 
 then resorted to borrowing from any source that 
 was accessible. He had no scruples of delicacy, 
 for he always promised, and intended to pay when 
 he could; but scorned to contemplate the possi 
 bility that such a day might never come. He did 
 
SYLVIE. 21 
 
 not experience the faintest gratitude for these 
 loans ; they were a matter of business, he asserted. 
 He never economized the money thus acquired, 
 but often expended for an hour s indulgence a 
 sum that would supply his family in food for a 
 week. 
 
 By the time Sylvie had entered her tenth year, 
 her father was reduced to such poverty that, one 
 after another, all the valuables he possessed, down 
 to his wife s jewelry and clothes, had been sold 
 for bread. He had wearied out the patience, and 
 drained the generosity of his former friends, who 
 shunned, and finally cut, the unscrupulous bor 
 rower. The prospect of actual starvation now 
 compelled him to exert himself; but he found it 
 difficult to secure employment, and quite as hard 
 to force himself to work when it was obtained. 
 He had latterly fallen in with a notary who sup 
 plied him with a small amount of copying 
 drudgery for which he was scantily compensated. 
 
 Madame de la Koche resorted to her needle, a 
 woman s unfailing resource, and earned a few 
 francs each week. Sylvie aided her in this hum 
 ble pursuit, until the gift of her magnificent voice 
 was discovered by Maitre Beaujeu. 
 
 The music-master was a morose, and seemingly 
 
22 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 selfish old man ; wretchedly poor, but too proud 
 and too ascetic to assume the winning suavity, and 
 resort to the cajoleries, by which many less skilful 
 of his brethren gained pupils and won apprecia 
 tion. His few scholars barely enabled him to 
 support a bed-ridden mother and the aged domes 
 tic who attended upon her. But in spite of his 
 hardness and coldness he adored his art ; all the 
 deep-lying tenderness of his impenetrable soul 
 found vent in music. As stern as Luther, he was 
 as easily melted by melody. While contemplat 
 ing his ordinary appearance, it was as difficult to 
 conceive the transforming softness produced upon 
 him by harmonious sounds, as it is to picture 
 Luther playing on his beloved flute or sweet- 
 sounding guitar, and exclaiming with enthusiasm : 
 
 " It is the art of the Prophets ! it is the only 
 other art which, like theology, can calm the agita 
 tion of the soul, and put the devil to flight!" 
 
 Most assuredly, nothing else had power to put 
 to flight the demons of ill-temper that perpetually 
 haunted Maitre Beaujeu. 
 
 After the venerable musician by chance heard 
 Sylvie s wonderful contralto voice, he paused to 
 listen to it again and again, until its undeveloped 
 capacity almost drove him wild. One day, losing 
 
SYLVIE. 23 
 
 all control over himself, he burst into the room, 
 snatched away her work, and exclaimed : 
 
 " I ll teach you ! Never touch a needle again !" 
 Then regarding her in undisguised disappoint 
 ment, added : " What a pity you are so ugly ! 
 But it shall not matter." 
 
 That voice had caused him to picture to him 
 self a face and form as nearly angelic as could be 
 found in mortal mould ; and his disappointment 
 can only be estimated by those who feel equal 
 idolatry for physical beauty. 
 
 The homely Sylvie proved the most tractable 
 and persevering of his pupils ; but the loss of her 
 needle, little as it earned, and the expense of hir 
 ing even that old, dilapidated piano (which, how 
 ever, Maitre Beaujeu himself kept in the most per 
 fect tune), caused her parents to endure greater 
 privations than ever. 
 
 Her father, with his usual buoyancy, joyfully 
 seized upon the new hope awakened by Maitre 
 Beaujeu, and indulged in the wildest visions of 
 the future. But the mother s spirits were not 
 revived by the cheering prospect. She shook her 
 head when Sylvie and her father talked of pros 
 perity, and expressed her firm conviction that 
 prosperity would never be a guest at their fireside. 
 
24 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 In Sylvie s disposition the two extremes which 
 characterized the temperaments of her parents had 
 been escaped; the tendencies she inherited from 
 the one counterbalanced those imparted by the 
 other, and & juste milieu was the happy sequence ! 
 In place of the vaguely wild hopefulness of her 
 father, she possessed a cheerful confidence ; and 
 instead of being prone to her mother s ceaseless 
 anticipations of evil, she experienced a placid pre 
 paration for disappointment, as very possible, and 
 therefore very endurable. 
 
 Sylvie s feeble frame betrayed the ill effects of 
 her constant confinement, and the unflagging dili 
 gence with which she studied. She grew thinner 
 and thinner, and more and more pallid each day ; 
 and yet an incomprehensible strength revealed 
 itself in the sweet sounds that woke beneath her 
 attenuated fingers, and issued from her colorless 
 lips the strength of inspiration ! 
 
 Her child-life had been grief; sorrow had 
 quickly ushered her into womanhood ; poverty 
 and privation were familiar to her, and she felt 
 them less keenly than her parents. The necessity 
 of encountering the rude moods of her ascetic 
 master was a far greater trial. She shrank from 
 unkindness, she yearned for the fostering voice of 
 
SYLVIE. 25 
 
 encouragement and approval ; but Maitre Beaujeu 
 was niggardly of commendation, and her happiest 
 efforts were only rewarded by a dubious growl. 
 Far worse than this, he often attacked her mother, 
 and unsparingly ridiculed her father s follies. At 
 such times Sylvie s brave spirit was stirred to re 
 bellion, she conquered her awe, took part in the 
 wordy warfare, and boldly stood between her 
 tutor and her parents, diverting the wrath of the 
 former to herself, to shield those who were too 
 fearful of his ill-will to resent his insolence. 
 
 When Sylvie s lesson was concluded, Maitre 
 Beaujeu, instead of taking his departure, turned 
 to the table, opened the old case that contained 
 his violin, gently took out the instrument, and 
 without comment sat down and played. There 
 could be no surer sign that he was pleased with 
 his pupil. 
 
 Sylvie crouched upon a low stool, resting her 
 weary head upon her mother s knees. Her large 
 eyes were fixed intently upon her master, and her 
 whole soul flashed into her face ; now and then a 
 low murmur of ecstasy broke from her parted 
 lips, and her slight frame quivered, as though 
 with an electric shock. 
 
 The mother s hand softly smoothed her daugh- 
 
 2 
 
26 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 ter s silken hair, and the habitual look of sorrow 
 began to fade out of Madame de la Roche s wan 
 face, as though it had been swept away either by 
 that flood of melody, or by the contemplation of 
 Sylvie s silent rapture. 
 
 The trio had not heard the opening of the door, 
 and were unconscious that any one had entered 
 the apartment, though close beside Maitre Beaujeu 
 stood a tall and handsome man, boyishly jovial in 
 appearance. His complexion was florid as that 
 of a mountain maid ; his fair hair clustered over 
 a low, but exceedingly white brow ; his large 
 eyes were of a clear and very light blue ; his rosy 
 mouth seemed especially fashioned for smiles. 
 Though* his dress foas shabby in the extreme, 
 there was a certain degree of stylishness about his 
 deportment which communicated itself to his 
 attire. Perhaps his fine figure, broad chest, and 
 rounded limbs, would have given an air of 
 elegance to any apparel. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu chanced to look up, and with a 
 scowl, he instantly stopped playing, and laid his 
 violin in its case. 
 
 " Go on, go on, Maitre Beaujeu," cried Monsieur 
 de la Koche, in a lively tone ; " finish that strain. 
 It is really ravishing !" 
 
SYLVIE. 27 
 
 "Thank you, I ve played enough; too much, 
 rather, for I like to choose my audience, and was 
 not aware of the honor of your presence." 
 
 " Well, well, as you like," said De la Koche, 
 good-humoredly ; " we must not quarrel with one 
 who has been such a friend to my little girl here. 
 But, Maitre Beaujeu, when will you obtain her a 
 hearing ? Just at this moment I m hard pressed 
 for funds ; our treasury is reduced to its last franc, 
 and that confounded notary had no copying for 
 me to-day. There s nothing left that can be trans 
 ferred to the pawnbroker. Sylvie is our only 
 hope. When will you get her a hearing ? That s 
 the question." 
 
 "In all probability, never" answered Beaujeu 
 gruffly. " I see no likelihood of an opportunity. 
 Possibly she ll carry her voice unheard to the 
 grave. Plenty of voices quite as fine have gone 
 there unrecognised, and more will follow." 
 
 " Ah !" sighed the mother, " that s just my 
 belief. I brought ill-luck to Everard by marrying 
 him, when I might have done so much better and 
 married a Marquis, only my evil stars would not 
 permit it ; and now there s nothing but poverty 
 and misery before us." 
 
 " Very convenient, to lay your own bad taste and 
 
28 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche s improvidence to the charge 
 of the stars. What have the stars to do with your 
 making a bad choice, and his squandering his for 
 tune, and rendering his family destitute ?" 
 
 Beaujeu snatched up his cap, and with the dear 
 violin under his arm, shuffled out of the room, 
 without paying the least attention to Monsieur de 
 la Roche s attempt at self-defence. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 
 
 AFTER Maitre Beaujeu took his abrupt depar 
 ture, Sylvie made an effort to conquer her lassi 
 tude and prepare the frugal repast of her parents. 
 It consisted only of soup, salad, and coarse bread, 
 but the table was neatly spread, and, in the centre, 
 she placed the tin cup with Mathieu s humble 
 bouquet. 
 
 During the meal Madame de la Roche was silent, 
 absorbed as usual in her own gloomy thoughts. 
 Sylvie was too much exhausted to converse, but 
 her buoyant-spirited father discoursed at length 
 upon the various methods by which, if the Fates 
 only smiled, he might rapidly make a fortune, 
 and resume his former position in society. Year 
 after year he had clearly demonstrated how this 
 desirable object might be obtained ; but the great 
 wheel which was suddenly expected to turn, and 
 send him upward with a bound, never seemed to 
 move; and his airy castles invariably exploded, 
 
30 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 and left him, for a season, prostrate and disheart 
 ened. His wife, who had lost all faith in his 
 intangible schemes, only sighed and shook her 
 head, as she slowly sipped her soup ; but Sylvie s 
 filial respect caused her to listen with that atten 
 tion which great talkers look upon as the most 
 gratifying response. 
 
 The next day Maitre Beaujeu did not appear at 
 his accustomed hour, and Sylvie, whom he would 
 not have found slumbering again, looked for him 
 with growing disquietude. 
 
 Her mother had several times declared during 
 dinner, that she was inwardly troubled by strange 
 and undefined misgiving; premonitions that evi 
 dently pointed at Maitre Beaujeu. De la Koche 
 was unusually taciturn, and Sylvie found it diffi 
 cult to preserve her wonted cheerfulness. 
 
 The meal was over ; she had risen to clear the 
 table, when, without knock of warning being 
 given, the door flew open, and Maitre Beaujeu 
 burst into the room. Maitre Beaujeu ? The 
 amazed trio could, scarcely believe that it was 
 really the grave music-master. He capered about, 
 with his violin under his arm, flung up his cap 
 and caught it, sang a jovial refrain, and made 
 such mad demonstrations of hilarity, that no won- 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 31 
 
 der Madame de la Eoche shrank away in terror. 
 Her husband, too, looked as though he were medi 
 tating the best means of capturing the lunatic; 
 but Sylvie sprang towards him with outstretched 
 hands. 
 
 "Oh! my master, what ails you? what is the 
 matter?" 
 
 He caught her in his arms, hugging her and the 
 violin in the same embrace; he kissed her fore 
 head and cheeks almost frantically, and in a voice 
 half laughter, half tears, shouted, "What is the 
 matter? the matter? Child, it has come! it has 
 come! At last! at last!" 
 
 " What has come, dear Maitre Beaujeu?" 
 
 In answer, he folded her anew to his breast ; the 
 violin still sharing the caress, and pressing against 
 her slight frame rather more roughly than was 
 agreeable. " Your trust was not in vain ! The 
 good Grod has rewarded your faith in his own 
 good time !" 
 
 " What, then, has happened ?" 
 
 " The chance for you to be heard has arrived 
 the opportunity for me to present a pupil before 
 competent judges has come ! Judges who know 
 what music means none of your new-fangled 
 pretenders, but true. judges." 
 
32 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Sylvie could not utter a single word; her hands 
 were clasped, her eyes upraised with an expres 
 sion of fervent gratitude. The next moment she 
 burst into tears and hid her face upon the old 
 man s shoulder. 
 
 " Maitre Beaujeu, my dear friend, it s just what I 
 expected !" exclaimed De la Eoche, with an odd 
 kind of dignity, and repressing all surprise. His 
 demeanor conveyed the impression that he was 
 only receiving his deserts, and could not be elated 
 by an event which he had the right to anticipate. 
 " Let me assure you, my dear sir, that this was 
 what I always looked for, and now all will be 
 as it should be ! We shall be obliged to hire 
 decent apartments at once, and get a few com 
 forts around us, and I don t doubt that Christ 
 mas will find me driving that noble pair of greys 
 which I have so long desired to possess. I have 
 a strong partiality for greys I shall not consent 
 to buy horses of any other color. But I don t 
 doubt that we will easily find a pair to suit !" 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu s unwonted tenderness vanished. 
 
 "You don t doubt, don t you? Then let me 
 tell you, sir, I do doubt. The card-houses you are 
 such an adept in building will tumble down as 
 fast as they went up, and the greys will run away 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 33 
 
 with your reason before you ever hold their reins. 
 That s your luck] you know ; so your wife says, 
 and she has secret information from the abode of 
 the blue devils ! " Saying this, he pushed Sylvie 
 rudely from him. " What are you playing the 
 fool for? What are you crying about, making 
 yourself look uglier than ever ? It s a great mis 
 fortune you have no beauty to part with ! " The 
 musician turned again to De la Eoche, and asked, 
 tauntingly, " What if I have obtained a hearing 
 for her, who says she ll succeed ? " 
 
 " Ah ! who indeed ? " responded Madame de la 
 Roche, woefully. " It s not to be expected." 
 
 "Certainly not, Madame, you re quite right; 
 your unlucky stars will occupy themselves in 
 taking care to prevent success," returned Beaujeu, 
 ironically. u Therefore, it is not a matter for such 
 very great rejoicing ; though I this very evening 
 obtained permission for her to sing at a charitable 
 concert, to be given at the residence of the Count 
 Castellane." 
 
 " Is it possible ?" exclaimed Sylvie. " My dear 
 master, how did you accomplish anything so won 
 derful?" 
 
 " It was no doing of mine, it accomplished 
 
 itself it was a chance that turned up ! " 
 2* 
 
34 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Sylvie shook her head. "A chance? No, it 
 was " 
 
 " Stuff I I ve heard all that before ; you don t 
 believe in chance; but a chance it was, and a chance 
 of which I had the wit to take advantage. The 
 Princess Clementine has promised to honor the 
 Count by her presence, accompanied by several 
 members of the royal family. The Princess had 
 signified her desire to hear Lablache, the great 
 basso, in the celebrated duet from Semiramide, 
 which you and I have often sung together. Made 
 moiselle Belle-Chasse, who was to sing the female 
 part, has been taken ill. A couple of hours ago 
 I encountered Monsieur Le Grand, who has charge 
 of the concert. He usually gives me the cold 
 shoulder, having nothing to gain from such a 
 poor devil as I ; but to-day he was in great dis 
 tress ; he had not succeeded in finding a contralto 
 voice sufficiently reliable to supply Mademoiselle s 
 place, and it seemed probable that the duet would 
 have to be omitted. The Princess had only con 
 sented to be present to hear Lablache in this 
 piece ; to withdraw it would be highly prejudicial 
 to the success of the concert. Le Grand conde 
 scended to ask my advice. I told him that one 
 of my pupils possessed a magnificent contralto 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 35 
 
 voice, and sang the Semiramide brilliantly ; and 
 you ll prove my words ! else I wash my hands of 
 you ! Le Grand knew that he could trust me ; he 
 may sneer at my worn-out coat, he may despise 
 my poverty, but not my musical knowledge. So 
 the matter s all settled ! Settled ! Do you hear 
 that? Settled!" 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu seemed inclined to resume his 
 joyful capering, when the voice of Sylvie s father 
 once more revived his habitual churlishness. 
 
 " Settled ! settled ! " he repeated, rapturously. 
 "Then it s all right! just as I thought, and we 
 are quite safe ! " 
 
 " I say you re not safe ! " almost shrieked Beau 
 jeu, more savagely than ever. " Who knows 
 that she wont be frightened out of her wits before 
 all those grand people, and lose her voice ? And 
 there s little enough time for preparation. I ve 
 half a mind to make you sit up all night and 
 practise that duet." 
 
 "When will the concert take place?" asked 
 Sylvie. 
 
 "When? The day after to-morrow, to be 
 sure ; only two days for preparation." 
 
 " Two days ! " cried Madame de la Koche, dole 
 fully. " Oh ! it s impossible ! How shall we get 
 
36 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 her ready ? How shall we make her a dress to 
 wear? And how shall we ever buy her the dress, 
 to say .nothing of shoes, and stockings, and gloves, 
 and a sash, and a handsome handkerchief? " 
 
 " Don t talk to me of dresses, woman ! " replied 
 Beaujeu. " What has a dress to do with her 
 voice? These women are such torments! It s 
 always to some stupid trivialities they attach im 
 portance. It don t matter what she wears. Let 
 her be clothed decently that s enough." 
 
 "That s just the trouble. How are we to 
 manage to clothe her decently ? Besides the dress 
 she has on she has only one other her best, and 
 that a shabby mousseline-de-laine, faded and 
 darned, and three years old. You know nothing 
 about these affairs, Monsieur Beaujeu ; but I, her 
 mother, say you could not take her among ladies 
 and gentlemen in a mousseline-de-laine dress three 
 years old, and very much the worse for wear." 
 
 " No, I fear not, my master," Sylvie responded. 
 
 " Here s a tempest in a teapot ! Here s an insur 
 mountable barrier to what I have been working to 
 accomplish these three years, and all raised by a 
 woman s gown ! Instead of rejoicing at this unex 
 pected good fortune, instead of being out of your 
 senses with delight at the honor of singing with 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 37 
 
 Lablacbe, and before some of the royal family, 
 you make a mountain of difficulties out of a 
 dress ! The style of her costume, I suppose, won t 
 alter the quality of her voice ? " 
 
 " No, no ; of course it won t," said Be la Roche ; 
 " but you know the gentle sex are prone to dwell 
 a little too much upon outside show ; they must be 
 pardoned, my dear sir, for this very natural weak 
 ness. Sylvie will do you credit, and herself cre 
 dit, and us credit, and redeem our fortunes, no 
 matter what dress she has on I People won t look 
 at her old mousseline-de-laine, nor at her sallow 
 little face, when they hear her voice. A new 
 dress is quite out of the question ; we have not a 
 sou left to buy one we cannot get it on credit 
 and there s nobody we can borrow from, so" that 
 settles the question of the dress. Sylvie will 
 make a hit, and she ll soon have dresses in abun 
 dance. "We will robe her like a queen ! And I 
 rather think her mother s wardrobe and mine will 
 require considerable replenishing. I should not 
 like to say how long I ve worn this coat." 
 
 As the father complacently uttered these 
 words, Beaujeu walked up to him, almost threat 
 eningly. 
 
 " Sir, I ll not say what I consider you ; you 
 
38 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 know less even than your wife and daughter. 
 You talk unmitigated nonsense I Your daughter 
 will not be introduced to the public by me, unless 
 she is properly attired ; and since you cannot pro 
 vide her with a dress " 
 
 " And with shoes and stockings, and gloves, a 
 sash, and a handsome handkerchief," broke in the 
 mother. 
 
 " And with shoes and stockings, and gloves, a 
 sash, and a handsome handkerchief," scornfully 
 echoed Maitre Beaujeu ; " and since all these 
 absurdities are needful to a woman s toilette, 
 down tumbles your card house, as I said it would, 
 for she will not sing at the Count Castellane s con 
 cert." 
 
 "Just our luck!" cried the mother. "The 
 most glorious opportunity in the world offers, and 
 we lose it for want of a few louis-d or to buy a 
 dress!" 
 
 " Who says you lose it ! " thundered Maitre 
 Beaujeu. 
 
 " Why, she cannot go without a dress," returned 
 the mother, with a faint flash of spirit ; " and we 
 cannot purchase one ; where are we to pick up the 
 sixty or seventy francs, which it would cost to 
 procure a suitable toilette ? I do hot think we 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 39 
 
 could even get the dress made in time, if it were 
 lying here at this moment, and we could not pay 
 for any one to make it; so it s all over!" And 
 Madame de la Koche folded her hands with a 
 resigned, give-up sort of expression, and drew a 
 deep sigh. 
 
 " Since the dress seems to be an insuperable 
 obstacle, and an absolute necessity, perhaps you 
 could help us?" suggested de la Koche to the 
 music teacher, nothing daunted, for it was not 
 easy to dash his hopes. 
 
 "I? No, sir, no I I have not the means. Not 
 that I would throw the money away in buying 
 girls dresses, if I had. I expended my last louis- 
 d or this day in paying my poor mother s con 
 founded doctor. I have not a franc left ; no, not 
 a sou." 
 
 Sylvie, who had been standing musing, now 
 laid her hand gently on his arm, and said: "My 
 dear master, what is to be done ? We must make 
 an effort ; this opportunity must not be lost ; a 
 plain dress of some kind must be procured, and 
 must be made, and in time. I do not see the 
 way, but I do see that it must be done, and that 
 we have not a moment to lose." 
 
 " She monopolizes the sense of this family as 
 
40 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 well as its talent," ejaculated the master. " You 
 are right, Sylvie, it must be done ; but how it is to 
 be done I cannot divine any more than yourself. 
 The articles they say you need cannot be pur 
 chased without gold, any more than your dress 
 can be made without hands. If I had the money, 
 you should have it ; I tell you I have not got it, 
 and I cannot borrow it ; so my good intentions 
 will not help you." 
 
 "But Maitre Beaujeu " began the father. 
 
 " I ve no time to listen to any of your sublime 
 projects, sir. I dare say you ll fabricate her a 
 dress out of your fine words, and make it up by 
 the aid of the same airy materials. She s riot 
 likely to have the honor of singing with Lablache 
 if you do not ; so I leave you to make the experi 
 ment." 
 
 In spite of a detaining ejaculation from Sylvie, 
 he bolted out of the room. 
 
 Sylvie and her parents, or rather Sylvie and 
 her father, sat down to discuss possibilities and 
 feasibilities; and after he had raised her hopes 
 many times, and tantalized her by all sorts of 
 plans, which her mother systematically tore to 
 pieces, proving the fragility of each scheme, Sylvie 
 withdrew to her own little chamber, if we may so 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 41 
 
 call the nook partitioned off by the old our- 
 tain. 
 
 There she knelt down to pray, that if it were 
 well, the way might be shown to her by which 
 this apparent good, so unexpectedly presented, 
 could be rendered available ; and though no 
 method suggested itself to her mind, she rose up, 
 comforted by the certain conviction that the 
 desired means would be revealed, if it were, best; 
 and, if not revealed, it would be because the step, 
 which promised so largely, would, if taken, prove 
 a false one. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 MAITRE BEAUJEU S VIOLIN. 
 
 SYLVIE slept little that night, but as the grey 
 light of morning stole into her humble chamber 
 she rose, and went quietly about her usual duties 
 arranged the apartment, prepared the breakfast, 
 and carefully made the coffee, upon which her 
 parents chiefly depended for refreshment. She 
 moved about with a mien as composed as if this 
 first great venture in life had not been missed 
 though she had little doubt that it must be fore 
 gone. 
 
 On opening the door to receive her daily supply 
 of milk, she encountered Maitre Beaujeu passing 
 hastily through the entry, with his beloved violin 
 under his arm. Sylvie started to see him at this 
 early hour, for he was habitually a late riser, and 
 often owned his fondness for the pleasant morning 
 nap that sweet semi-conscious slumber which 
 is too light to be haunted by troubled dreams, too 
 deep to be disturbed by waking anxieties. Sylvie 
 
MAITRE BEAUJEU S VIOLIN. 43 
 
 remarked that the musician s face was far paler 
 than usual it looked positively cadaverous. He 
 was too much abstracted to perceive her until she 
 saluted him; then his features worked convul 
 sively, and, with an agitated air, he muttered : 
 
 " Go in go in. I don t want to see you ! " 
 
 11 But, my master," began Sylvie, beseechingly, 
 and advancing towards him. 
 
 " Don t come near me, little owl ; you look 
 hideous this morning ! Don t speak to me, I say ; 
 I ll not hear a word. There s your chamber door 
 open, and I tell you if I should catch a glimpse 
 of that silly mother and weak father of yours or 
 if I even heard their voices I could not answer 
 for my own resolution ; so get into your room, 
 will you? Shut your door, and don t molest 
 me!" 
 
 For once Sylvie seemed inclined to disobey, 
 but he waved her off, and rushed down the stairs. 
 
 " How strangely he looks ! What can ail 
 him ? " she murmured. " He never goes out at 
 this hour ; he has no lessons to give so early in 
 the morning, yet he had his violin ! Perhaps he 
 could not sleep, after the dreadful disappointment 
 of last night, and has gone to wander about until 
 the. hour for his first lesson arrives. Ah ! no one 
 
4A THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 gives him credit for possessing the kind heart that 
 lies hidden under his rough exterior. He would 
 not speak to me because he had not courage to 
 allude to this severe trial to us both. Yet I 
 should have told him that I could bear it pa 
 tiently, hopefully ; other chances may come as 
 unexpectedly as this one came who knows ! 
 And perhaps I should only fail if I sang at a con 
 cert with so little preparation ; that must be the 
 reason why I am prevented from making the 
 attempt." 
 
 Thus this trustful, calm-spirited young maiden 
 consoled herself as she returned to her labors. 
 
 Breakfast consisted only of bread and coffee, and 
 was soon over ; Sylvie and her parents had partaken 
 of the meal almost in silence. Her mother looked 
 positively ill, from the absence of all rest during 
 the night ; and her father, whose states of high ex 
 citement were usually followed by fits of dejection, 
 was now painfully depressed. In these moods he 
 seldom talked, but Sylvie knew how much he suf 
 fered when he silently kissed her forehead and 
 departed to seek occupation ; for at that moment 
 he was wholly out of employment. 
 
 As the door closed after him, Sylvie turned 
 caressingly to her melancholy mother, stole the 
 
MAITRE BEAUJEU S VIOLIN. 45 
 
 needle she was mechanically threading out of her 
 hands, and entreated her to lie down and try to 
 sleep. Madame de la Koche, who really felt 
 unable to sit up, made but feeble opposition to 
 her daughter s wish. In a few moments she fell 
 into a profound slumber. Sylvie did not venture 
 to open the piano for fear of rousing her, but took 
 up the piece of sewing she had coaxed out of her 
 weak hands, and sat down by the open win 
 dow. 
 
 Without the casement stood the small pot of 
 mignonette, one of Mathieu s humble offerings. 
 The summer air, passing over the flowers, carried 
 their delicate aroma into the room, and Sylvie 
 smiled involuntarily as she inhaled the perfume. 
 That odorous breath was a pleasant and hopeful 
 messenger. Those flowers grew in obscurity, were 
 gazed upon only by the eyes of poverty, yet they 
 absorbed the bright sunshine, and drank in the 
 rain, and blossomed and gave but the sweet odor 
 with which they were endowed ; their gift of fra 
 grance was not wasted, for it often gladdened her 
 and her sad mother, who had so little gladness in 
 their lives. Would Sylvie s own gift prove more 
 valueless than that of a lowly flower ? The hum 
 ble blossoms seemed to answer with their sweet- 
 
46 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 ness : " No this scent for us, and that voice of 
 melody for you, and both for some use." 
 
 A bang at the door, which flew back as if it 
 were kicked open, broke the mother s slumber. 
 She sprang up, with a faint cry. 
 
 " No piano going ? all quiet ? Have you fallen 
 asleep again, lazybones ?" exclaimed Maitre Beau- 
 jeu, noisily entering. 
 
 Sylvie rose and was about to explain. 
 
 "How do you expect, at this rate, to be ready 
 with the Semiramide to-morrow night eh ?" 
 
 "To-morrow night!" cried Sylvie, joyfully. 
 
 " Yes, to-morrow night, parrot ! Are you not 
 to sing in a duet with Lablache, at the Count 
 Castellane s, to-morrow night ?" 
 
 " Am I, truly ?" 
 
 " Truly you are; and if you don t sing true, I ve 
 done with you for ever." 
 
 "But the dress?" 
 
 " I hold it in the palm of my hand." 
 
 " And the shoes, and stockings, and gloves, and 
 sash, and handkerchief?" chimed in Madame de la 
 Eoche, as she sat upon the side of the bed. . 
 
 "All in the same small compass, see !" and he 
 caught Sylvie s hand, and closed her slight fingers 
 over four gold coins ; three louis-d or and a half. 
 
47 
 
 " Oh ! my master ! my master ! how shall I ever 
 thank you ! How have you done this ?" 
 
 " What s that to you ? It is done; that s enough. 
 It will buy what you need to make you present 
 able ; won t it, little fright ? It won t make you 
 handsome, but it will let the people hear a voice 
 that is worth all the beauty in the world. It s 
 enough, is it not? I consulted my mother; she 
 understands these feminine matters, and according 
 to her calculations there is a dress, and all the 
 other silly paraphernalia, in those four bits of 
 gold." 
 
 "Oh! there s much more than enough a deal 
 more, I m sure," replied Sylvie, whose tiny hand 
 had never before held such a treasure. 
 
 " But how is the dress to be purchased, and cut 
 out, and made up in time ? It is quite impossible. 
 And who is to make it? / can t cut a dress in 
 any modern fashion, and Sylvie knows nothing 
 of dress-making. Here s a dress and no dress 
 maker ! We re just as far off from good fortune 
 as ever !" groaned Madame de la Koche. 
 
 " And you will always keep far off with your 
 eternal croaking !" angrily answered Maitre Beau- 
 jeu. " You are so determined to make difficulties, 
 and see nothing but the dark side, and be fond of 
 
4:8 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 nothing but trouble, that }^ou deserve nothing 
 else. Yes, you know you are fond of it, or you 
 would not seek after difficulties so pertinaciously." 
 
 "Maitre Beaujeu, you must not speak in that 
 manner to my dear mother," answered Sylvie, 
 seriously. " I am sure, mother, that I have found 
 a way of getting the dress made ; it came into my 
 head as I was pondering over possibilities last 
 night. That good Ma m selle Ursule, who lives 
 in the story below us, is a mantua-maker. I heard 
 her say she had very little work just now. I am 
 confident she can make my dress by to-morrow 
 night, with your help and mine." 
 
 " Yours? yours, indeed? And what is to be 
 come of your practising?" cried Beaujeu. "Let 
 me see you dare to thread a needle, even, and I ll 
 burn the dress in an instant." 
 
 " Let us buy it first just to enable you to do 
 that," replied Sylvie in a merry tone; "only 
 grant me time to speak to Ma m selle Ursule, and 
 to make the needful purchases (for my mother is 
 so much indisposed this morning that she cannot 
 go out), and then I will faithfully practise for the 
 rest of the day. When you come this evening, 
 you shall see what progress I have made." 
 
 Sylvie threw her shabby mantle over her shoul- 
 
MAITRE BEAUJEU S VIOLIN. 49 
 
 ders as she spoke, tied on her old straw bonnet, 
 and was hastening out of the room, but stopped 
 suddenly, and went up to Maitre Beaujeu. 
 
 "Oh ! how selfish and thoughtless I am ! I do 
 not pause to tell you how grateful you have ren 
 dered me ! I do not ask you what sacrifice you 
 have made to obtain this money, and I am sure 
 you have made one. That was your errand out 
 so early this morning. Tell me, my master, how 
 you borrowed these seventy francs." 
 
 " Chatterbox, get away, will you ? What busi 
 ness is it of yours ? What have you to do with 
 my private affairs ? Let me hear no more imper 
 tinent questions." 
 
 Sylvie saw that her master was in earnest. He 
 nervously pulled at his moustache, and his mouth 
 twitched as though he were affected by some un 
 pleasant recollections. 
 
 " Then I will only ask if you will be here at the 
 usual time this evening !" 
 
 "I intend to come two hours earlier; so, be 
 ready." 
 
 "But your pupils?" 
 
 " I shall give no lessons to-day. * Maitre Beau 
 jeu cleared his throat with some violence, for his 
 voice was husky; then he took from his old 
 
50 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 horn-box a large and consolatory pinch of 
 snuff. 
 
 " No lessons ? Why 
 
 "Do you intend to stand there chattering all 
 day ? Do you intend to forget all about that dress, 
 without which a girl can t make music any more 
 than a harp without strings ?" 
 
 " I am going ; adieu, mamma." 
 
 Sylvie ran gaily down the stairs, and the music- 
 master retired to his chamber. 
 
 As Ma m selle Ursule had passed her prime, 
 and was still unmarried, we are compelled to 
 designate her as an old maid. She was a brisk, 
 bright, soft-hearted creature, who took almost as 
 much interest in the young as though they brought 
 back her youth, yet felt as great sympathy with 
 the aged as though she had always been old. 
 Indeed, she seemed ever ready to enter into the 
 joys or sorrows, the hopes or schemes of others, 
 partly because any intercourse with the world 
 interrupted the monotony of her existence, and 
 partly because she was naturally unselfish. 
 
 Sylvie was her chief favorite, though she saw 
 her but seldom. She had long been acquainted 
 with the object of the musical education the 
 young girl was receiving from Maitre Beaujeu, 
 
MAITKE BEAUJEU S VIOLIN. 51. 
 
 and Sylvie s present communication tilled her 
 with delight. She engaged to commence the 
 dress with all speed, and in a few moments was 
 ready to sally forth to make the needful purchases. 
 
 TJrsule did not lack the good taste which is 
 characteristic of her countrywomen. She selected 
 for Sylvie s attire a simple white muslin. If the 
 means at command had permitted, it would have 
 been a very fine instead of a rather coarse muslin, 
 but no richer material would have been preferred. 
 
 Sylvie listened in astonishment while the 
 shrewd spinster quarrelled about the price, and 
 beat the shopkeeper down sou by sou. At last 
 the bargain was completed, and the dress secured 
 for forty francs. What an enormous amount it 
 seemed to Sylvie ! The same process of cheapen 
 ing had to be gone through over the stockings, 
 which were bought for two francs, and it was 
 vigorously repeated when the sash, gloves, and the 
 handkerchief were chosen. Six francs were paid 
 for the sash, two and a half for the gloves, and 
 eight for the handkerchief. Five francs more 
 were expended in what mantua-maker s style "sun 
 dries," leaving but six francs and a half. A shoe 
 maker had next to be visited, and Sylvie s slender 
 foot, when it was encased in a neatly-fitting satin 
 
52 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 slipper, looked as though it were an inheritance 
 from Cinderella. All Ursule s arguments and 
 entreaties could not obtain the pretty slippers for 
 less than six francs, which left just half a franc 
 out of the seventy Maitre Beanjeu had supplied. 
 
 Sylvie was astonished ; she had no conception 
 that what seemed to be a little fortune could melt 
 away so rapidly, and apparently without being 
 the result of any extravagance. Only half a franc 
 over! and how was she to pay for the making of 
 the dress ? But when she expressed her concern 
 at this deficiency of means, Ursule answered 
 laughingly 
 
 " I don t eat my kind ! I would not take pay 
 ment from one as poor, or poorer, than myself. 
 You will owe me nothing." 
 
 Madame de la Roche revived a little as Sylvie 
 displayed her purchases, and when, soon after, 
 Ursule entered the room, armed with thimble and 
 scissors, and other mantua-making implements, 
 the poor invalid was stirred by a pleasant excite 
 ment which had been unknown to her for years. 
 Very quickly the white muslin was cut and fitted, 
 and the two elder women were seated in a corner 
 chattering like magpies; and Sylvie was at the 
 piano drowning their dissonant voices in a torrent 
 
MAITRE BEAUJEU S VIOLIN. 53 
 
 of melody. Such was the disposition of the group 
 when Maitre Beaujeu entered. He gave a con 
 temptuous glance at the feminine finery scattered 
 about, and answered Sylvie so gruffly, as she 
 remarked upon his early arrival, that Ursule was 
 speedily awed into silence. 
 
 By and by, she discovered that she had lost the 
 measure of Sylvie s girdle, but it was some time 
 before she could summon courage to approach her, 
 and make a frightened attempt to pass the tape 
 around her slender waist. 
 
 "What are you doing there?" demanded 
 Maitre Beaujeu, sternly. " Do you suppose I am 
 going to have my lesson interrupted by any of 
 this foolery?" 
 
 Ursule retreated rapidly, and sheltered herself 
 by the side of Madame de la Eoche. Sylvie gave 
 the mantua-rnaker a comical glance, without haz 
 arding a remark, and demurely went on with her 
 lesson. It was closed by her tutor saying: 
 
 " No more to-night ; it will tire your voice, and 
 we must have it fresh for to-morrow." 
 
 He spoke in so kind a tone, that Sylvie thought 
 he would surely reward her by playing on his 
 violin as usual. She rose and took her place on 
 the little stool beside her mother s feet, her seat of 
 
51: THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 rest; but Maitre Beaujeu had his cap in his hand 
 and was departing. 
 
 "Will you not play for me to-night? Why, 
 where is your violin ? I never saw you without it 
 before." 
 
 Sylvie had only then noticed the absence of his 
 inseparable companion. 
 
 "What business is that of yours?" replied 
 Beaujeu, tugging fiercely at his moustache. 
 " Have I not the right to do what I please with 
 rny own ?" 
 
 His manner, and the agitation apparent in his 
 voice, betrayed him. Sylvie sprang to his side, 
 almost falling over the white muslin which entan 
 gled itself in her feet. 
 
 " Oh ! my master, the dress ! the dress ! your 
 violin. I know ! I know !" 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu made a movement to repulse her, 
 and tried to deny that her surmise was correct, 
 but fairly broke down, and hid his confusion in 
 repeated pinches of snuff. 
 
 "If you had not parted with your violin, I 
 should not have had that dress to wear to-morrow ! 
 -But your violin that you were so fond of you 
 have not sold it? Surely, you would not do 
 that?" 
 
A TOILETTE DILEMMA. 55 
 
 "No, no, Sylvie; I could not have done that 
 for any one, hardly for my old mother. I did 
 not think I could have done what I have done, 
 yet there was no other way. I took the violin to 
 a pawnbroker s, close by ; it was like parting with 
 an only child to give it up ! I loved it better, I 
 think, than I could love a child. I could not bear 
 any one to touch it I charged the man not to 
 handle it- " 
 
 Sylvie interrupted him with more feeling than 
 strict politeness : " Will they pay me to-morrow, 
 if I succeed?" 
 
 " Pay you ? No, indeed ; there was not a word 
 said about payment. You are only singing on 
 trial. Besides, it is a charity concert, and the 
 musicians volunteer their services." 
 
 "Then they will not give me anything, and I 
 shall not be able to get back your violin ?" 
 
 " You certainly will not. If you are wonder 
 fully successful, the count may possibly present 
 you with some little token of regard, that s often 
 done, but it will be nothing that can put bread 
 into your mouth, or redeem my violin so don t 
 build castles with your father s style of masonry. 
 Go to bed early rest, and let me see you fresh in 
 the morning and looking your best your kast 
 
56 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 ugly, I mean. I shall be here soon after break 
 fast. Kemember, no curving your chest in with 
 sewing. I ll not have you take a stitch upon that 
 nonsensical dress?" and he pointed disdainfully 
 at the white muslin as he left the room. 
 
 His exit opened the floodgates of Ursule s talk, 
 and how she ran on ! Sylvie could not listen ; she 
 was thinking of the old man s violin. 
 
 Shortly after the music-master retired, Monsieur 
 de la Koche entered, looking very low-spirited, 
 but when he beheld the breadths of white muslin 
 scattered about, Ursule s needle flying, and his 
 wife s keeping it rather lagging company, while 
 Sylvie prepared supper, his spirits went up like a 
 sky-rocket. He discovered forthwith that he had 
 all day experienced a presentiment that he would 
 find the whole affair settled, and he was equally 
 certain that before the year expired he would 
 drive that noble pair of greys in the Bois de Bou 
 logne. 
 
CHAPTER IY. 
 
 LAUNCHED. 
 
 SYLVIE had never beheld Maitre Beaujeu more 
 nervously irritable than on the morning of the 
 eventful day when her powers were to be gauged 
 before the tribunal of public taste. Now, he 
 declared that she sang as though her heart were 
 ice and her voice frosty air ; anon he complained 
 that she exaggerated ; she was too florid, too 
 fiery, too dramatic. When she became embar 
 rassed by these unusual criticisms, he charged her 
 with affectation and wounded vanity. Heretofore 
 in his instructions he had never alluded to the 
 absence or presence of emotion, but had develop 
 ed her magnificent voice and perfected her fine 
 ear, as though he ignored that they were instru 
 ments for the soul s melodious expression. She 
 had been wholly unconscious of the depth of feel 
 ing that often found utterance upon her lips. Its 
 manifestation was unpremeditated and untutored. 
 Maitre Beaujeu s pitiless chiding now inspired her 
 with a strong dread that he had overrated her 
 
58 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 talents, and her heart sank until she grew deadly 
 sick, and then it seemed to mount into her throat 
 and stifle the swelling notes. This was the first 
 time that her noble organ had been impaired by 
 the least approach to huskiness. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu, in almost frantic amazement, 
 ceased playing, to dive into his snuffbox, and, 
 having nearly impeded his respiration with its 
 stimulating contents, he sought comfort in tor 
 turing his moustache with tugs which threatened 
 its total uprooting. He found farther relief in 
 roundly scolding Sylvie for her lack of composure, 
 without once suspecting that he himself had 
 destroyed her mental equilibrium. 
 
 The young girl made no reply, but her whole 
 frame shook with repressed agitation. 
 
 " Premonitory symptoms of hysterics, as I live I 
 I know the signs and foresee what s coming ?" 
 cried the teacher, scanning her with indignant 
 glances. " If we are to be indulged with an hys 
 terical farce to-night, I m ruined ! that s all!" and 
 he doggedly closed the piano, and rose from his 
 seat. 
 
 Sylvie strove in vain to choke down a sob. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu responded to it with a fierce 
 growl, and ordered her to sing no more that day, 
 
LAUNCHED. 59 
 
 and not to weary herself with exertion of any 
 kind, yet not to lie down for fear of clogging her 
 voice, and not to eat except very sparingly then 
 hurried out of the room. The two last were 
 most superfluous commands ; she was a stranger 
 to the luxurious habit of reposing when the sun 
 was up ; and the frugal fare of poverty was not 
 likely to pamper her appetite. 
 
 The white dress was completed some hours 
 before it was needed. Madame de la Roche sat 
 beside the bed where it lay, smoothing out the 
 folds, and mourning over the recollections it 
 awakened of her happy maidenhood, when she 
 had worn just such attire ; while Ursule constant 
 ly interrupted her reminiscences by suggestions 
 for the improvement of Sylvie s severely simple 
 toilette. 
 
 " A little jewelry is really indispensable ; it 
 will keep people from suspecting that she is so 
 very poor; have you no ornaments, no trinkets?" 
 
 As may bs imagined, the answer was in the 
 negative. 
 
 "And nothing to wear in your hair, Sylvie? 
 Something bright might improve your looks." 
 
 "I fear not," replied Sylvie, quietly; "and I 
 would rather not try the experiment. Maitre 
 
60 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Beaujeu would tell you that my looks are a hope 
 less case; and, to-day, my heart is hardly full 
 enough of hope to contradict them." 
 
 The kind dress-maker was not satisfied. She 
 went to her own apartment and hunted over all 
 the humble treasures she had hoarded up for 
 years. By and by, she returned with a cache- 
 peigne, and breast- knot of scarlet ribbons, which 
 she had herself worn, upon festive occasions, long, 
 long ago, before the snow of life s winter fell 
 on her hair, and the chill of disappointment on 
 her heart. She had also brought a large cameo 
 brooch, the setting of very doubtful gold, and the 
 cutting very undoubtedly execrable. Also a 
 huge buckle, and a pair of very barbarous-looking 
 gold hoops for the ears, which she declared would 
 give great character to Sylvie s face. Sylvie s 
 ears had been pierced in her childhood, but her 
 juvenile ear-rings of bright red coral had long 
 since been converted into bread. 
 
 Sylvie was very loath to wound her warm 
 hearted friend, but good taste prompted her to 
 reject the grotesque-looking additions to her 
 attire. 
 
 Ursule next insisted upon displaying her skill 
 as hair-dresser and what combing, and brushing, 
 
LAUNCHED. 61 
 
 and braiding Sylvie s abundant tresses under 
 went ! An hour was consumed in the task then 
 the fiery cache-peigne was fastened over those shin 
 ing braids; and Ursule declared that her labors 
 had produced a marvellous result ! Sylvie glanced 
 in the small mirror which Ursule triumphantly 
 held up before her, and could not help admitting 
 that her coiffeure spoke the exact truth ; the eifect 
 of her handiwork was so " marvellous " that the 
 young girl hardly recognised her own counte 
 nance ; the mirror seemed mockingly to reflect 
 some ludicrous caricature of the face she had been 
 accustomed to see. When she involuntarily 
 raised her hand to remove the hideous red bows, 
 which covered not her hair only, but half her 
 head, Ursule pleaded so hard that they might 
 remain undisturbed, that Sylvie hesitated, and, 
 rather than cause her zealous friend mortification, 
 came very near relenting. Just then a timid 
 knock called Madame de la Eoche to the door. 
 The hunchback stood without. 
 
 " They say Mademoiselle Sylvie is going to sing 
 at the Count Castellane s to-night: she ll want 
 flowers; all the grand ladies wear flowers. Ni 
 nette spared me these. Beg Mademoiselle Sylvie 
 to wear them." 
 
62 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 He handed the mother a small bunch of June 
 roses, and hastened away. 
 
 The roses were just what Sylvie would have 
 desired, had she been accustomed to wish for any 
 thing that seemed unattainable. The flaming 
 cache-peigne was quickly discarded. The delicate- 
 hued roses, with their vivid green leaves taste 
 fully disposed among her glossy dark hair, gave 
 to the arrangement of her head a picturesque 
 effect that wonderfully improved her counte 
 nance. 
 
 The white muslin dress fitted her admirably. 
 Sylvie s neck and arms lacked the beauty of 
 roundness, but the artful dress-maker had only 
 disclosed them beneath a transparent, covering 
 which concealed their thinness, without hiding the 
 graceful full of the shoulders, and the gentle 
 curve of the youthful bust. 
 
 Ursule took up the mammoth brooch, with the 
 evident hope of fastening it in Sylvie s bosom ; 
 but the latter smilingly frustrated her intention by 
 placing one of the June roses in her breast. The 
 brooch was relinquished and the huge buckle 
 proffered; but Sylvie mildly set it aside, and 
 arranged her white sash very neatly with a few 
 unseen pins. The ear-rings alone remained, and 
 
LAUNCHED. 63 
 
 Ursule so pertinaciously urged their adoption, 
 that Sylvie found it difficult to defend herself 
 from being forced to assume the barbarous appen 
 dages. 
 
 In spite of her predilection for finery, and her 
 discomfiture at the rejection of her precious gew 
 gaws, when Ursule paused to contemplate the 
 young singer, apparelled in virginal white raiment, 
 with the June roses in her hair and on her bosom, 
 she frankly acknowledged that any ornament 
 would h a ve^ destroyed the maidenly simplicity 
 the striking spirituality of her appearance. 
 
 The hour at which Maitre Beaujeu had promised 
 to call for his pupil was approaching. The Count 
 Castellane resided in the Faubourg St. Honore, at 
 some distance from the lodgings of the debutante 
 and her master ; but there was no money left for 
 the hire of & fiacre, and they were obliged to walk. 
 
 "What is Sylvie to wear over her dress? We 
 have nothing, positively nothing /" exclaimed the 
 mother. " This faded mantle of hers will never 
 do, never! And I have only a worn-out, grey 
 shawl. What is she to wear ? And on her head, 
 too ? She has nothing but her old straw bonnet, 
 and that is not only too shabby, but it would 
 crush those flowers, and disarrange her hair." 
 
64 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Madame de la Roche bad discovered a new 
 difficulty and it really seemed as though, through 
 habit, she seized with avidity upon each fresh 
 obstacle. Before she had ceased speaking, Ursule 
 was out of the room. 
 
 In a few moments she reappeared, with a some 
 what rusty black silk mantilla on her arm. 
 
 "There! there s something quite respectable. 
 I ve worn it these ten years, on Sundays and 
 holidays, but it has always been in fashion, and 
 no one can turn up their noses at black silk it s 
 always genteel." 
 
 " But her head what for her head ?" cried the 
 mother, 
 
 "Well, for her head I do not think I can 
 arrange quite so nicely ; we have to manage about 
 that. I have no sort of evening head-gear, for I 
 don t go out at night ; I have no one to accom 
 pany me," she added, with a little sigh. " A hat 
 is out of the question, or I might lend her my 
 green silk bonnet, with the scarlet poppies, but it 
 would not do ; so I ve brought this for a substitute, 
 and we must make it answer." 
 
 As she spoke, she flung over Sylvie s head, and 
 fastened lightly under her chin, a very old black 
 veil, of imitation lace, carefully darned here and 
 
LAUNCHED. 65 
 
 there, yet not without rents, which there was no 
 time to repair. 
 
 " There ! it s charming 1 Quite Spanish in its 
 effect, I declare ! And it won t press upon the 
 flowers. I assure you it don t look at all out of 
 the way. In some countries veils are always worn 
 in the streets. To be sure, people don t fasten 
 them on just in this style; but what does that 
 signify ?" 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu now made his appearance, 
 looking more quaint than ever in the full dress 
 suit which he had preserved for so many years, 
 that it had a come-out-of-the-ark sort of cut 
 and air. 
 
 "What? you re ready, young one? That s 
 right I like punctuality. I hope we are to have 
 no hysterics ? There ! don t begin to look fright 
 ened ; we won t talk about such stuff. We must 
 be off, for it is a long walk, and if you are hurried 
 or flurried to-night, your voice will suffer." 
 
 " Can you not wait a moment or two, to gi\ne 
 her father a chance of seeing her?" besought 
 Madame de la Eoche. "He said he would be 
 home in time, but he had some copying engaged 
 for to-day, and I suppose he could not get through 
 as early as he intended." 
 
66 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 The very possibility of Monsieur de la Roche s 
 appearance was enough to speed Maitre Beau- 
 jeu. 
 
 " No, no, we are going this instant !" And he 
 snatched Sylvie s hand away from Ursule, who 
 was fastening her glove. "Let s be off! and 
 carry that nightingale safely in your throat, or you 
 and I will both be undone to-night." 
 
 " Oh ! don t mention it 1" sighed Madame de la 
 Roche, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. " It s 
 just what I expect." 
 
 "Then, begging your pardon, you re a a I 
 won t say what you are !" answered Beaujeu, blunt 
 ly. " Don t you suppose I know what I m about ? 
 Do you imagine that I would risk my own reputa 
 tion, and with such a pompous fellow as Le Grand ? 
 Come, let s be off before I get into a passion." 
 
 How those words, rude as they were, consoled 
 and encouraged Sylvie, who had been struggling 
 all clay with her doubts ! She embraced her 
 mother tenderly, saying 
 
 " All will be well with me, mother ; have no 
 fear; my voice was not given me for nothing, 
 and " 
 
 "Is this sermon going to end soon?" shouted 
 the impatient old man. "When did you turn 
 
LAUNCHED. 67 
 
 preacher, scare-crow ? Your voice was not design 
 ed for the pulpit but the choir." 
 
 Sylvie turned to Ursule, murmured her thanks, 
 kissed her, and followed her master. 
 
 In quitting the room he nearly came in contact 
 with Mathieu, who was watching at the door. 
 Beaujeu lifted his hand to strike the boy, but 
 Sylvie caught the upraised arm. 
 
 " Don t ! don t I wasn t doing anything !" 
 cried Mathieu. "I only wanted to see Ma m selle 
 Sylvie as she passed, and to know if she wore my 
 roses." 
 
 " Yes, Mathieu, yes ; I have them in my hair, 
 and on my bosom." She hastily lifted her veil as 
 she spoke, and threw back the old black mantilla, 
 that he might see the flowers. 
 
 His look of beaming delight made her heart 
 glow, and she thought, "What a simple thing can 
 give pleasure to the very poor, very humble, very 
 pleasureless! It is almost worth while being 
 poor, to need so little to make one happy !" 
 
 The walk to the hotel of the Count Castellane 
 was long, and Maitre Beaujeu preserved silence 
 which Sylvie felt no disposition to break. At 
 any other time she might have enjoyed the sight 
 of the gaily illuminated streets, and the brilliantly 
 
68 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 lighted shop- windows, which she seldom beheld, 
 but now she saw nothing save the clear blue sky, 
 and the stars above her thought of nothing bat 
 high purposes and heavenly aid. 
 
 They passed through a spacious court-yard, and 
 the door of the stately mansion was quickly 
 thrown open. 
 
 " Monsieur Le Grand, is he here ? Has he 
 come yet ?" inquired Beaujeu of a domestic. 
 
 "I believe so, Monsieur." 
 
 " Have the goodness to show me to him." 
 
 The servant led the way to the library. By a 
 table, poring over some leaves of music, sat a 
 pompous-looking old man, attired in the height 
 of the fashion. His dyed beard and hair lent no 
 counterfeited youth to his deeply-furrowed face. 
 He turned as the door opened. His air was 
 unmistakably consequential and patronizing. 
 
 "Ah! Beaujeu, my friend, is that you? 
 Glad you re early !" he exclaimed, in a con- 
 descending tone. " Is this the young person you 
 thought competent to take the place of Mademoi 
 selle Belle-Chasse, and fill that unfortunate hiatus, 
 by singing with Lablache ?" 
 
 He scrutinized poor Sylvie with a mistrustful 
 expression, which increased the nervous trepida- 
 
LAUNCHED. 69 
 
 tion from which she was already suffering ; then 
 whispered, still glancing doubtfully at her, u Do 
 you think she is really equal to the Semiramide?" 
 
 " Monsieur Le Grand," answered Beaujeu, with 
 a dignity which Sylvie had never before seen him 
 assume, u I am no pretender I am an artist, as 
 you are yourself. I have never had your oppor 
 tunities, or met with your success all the worse 
 for me ; but I have some reputation to lose, and 
 not having quite as much to spare as you have, 
 my loss would be all the heavier if I committed a 
 faux pas. I should not have recommended my 
 pupil, Mademoiselle Sylvie de la Eoche, were I 
 not quite certain of her powers." 
 
 Sylvie began to wish that he had been less 
 confident, or that he would speak with less 
 certainty, and promise less, for cold shudders ran 
 through her frame ; she felt as though her voice 
 were stifled, her blood frozen, and as if all her 
 limbs had suddenly lost their sinews. 
 
 She could hardly help exclaiming, " Oh ! my 
 master, you have overrated me ! I shall never be 
 able to sing before an audience, especially if the 
 people resemble this gentleman." 
 
 She turned to Beaujeu with the words surging 
 up to her lips. One look revealed that he only 
 
70 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 preserved his calmness through a mighty effort ; 
 that his composure and his apparent faith in her 
 success were assumed. The hand in which he 
 held his old horn-box shook, and scattered its 
 contents ; he blew his nose violently, either to 
 appear at his ease, or to conceal his countenance ; 
 and when that prolonged process was over, how 
 the poor moustache was twirled and twisted and 
 martyrized ! Sylvie saw that he was, in reality, 
 fearful of failure. Her downcast eyes rested on 
 her snowy dress, and she thought of the sacrificed 
 violin. 
 
 " I beg pardon, I did not mean to offend," said 
 Le Grand, coldly. " I referred only to the 
 extreme youth of the young lady. Her appear 
 ance made me question 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu interrupted him : " Monsieur, I 
 did not tell you that her appearance was prepos 
 sessing. Did you ever see the plumage of a 
 nightingale? Parrots and peacocks have gaudy 
 feathers ; but the nightingale carries divine music 
 beneath a rusty coat of brown." 
 
 The performers of both sexes now began to 
 pour in. Monsieur Le Grand saluted each in 
 turn in the most courteous manner. 
 
 The ladies were robed in ball costume, and 
 
LAUNCHED. 71 
 
 there was a lavish display of satins, brocades, 
 embroidered tulle, flashing diamonds, artificial 
 flowers, floating feathers, and all the accessories of 
 the most elaborate toilettes. Sylvie s white mus 
 lin and June roses looked strangely insignificant 
 and out of place beside their gorgeous attire. 
 
 As they threw off their rich mantles they cast 
 upon her glances of disdainful surprise, and 
 whispered to each other. The men looked at her 
 hardly less rudely, turning away with a shrug 
 which said, " She s no beauty !" 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu perceiving how Sylvie shook, 
 almost forced her into a seat, and stood beside her 
 chair, as though to shield her from the imperti 
 nence to which she was exposed. 
 
 Last of all entered Lablache. Monsieur Le 
 Grand immediately presented him to Sylvie and 
 her instructor. The latter was quite prepared for 
 some expression of disapprobation when the dis 
 tinguished basso beheld the lowly-looking substi 
 tute who had been chosen to fill the place of 
 Mademoiselle Belle-Chasse ; but Lablache hardly 
 bestowed a glance upon Sylvie. It was a matter 
 of very little importance to him in what manner 
 she executed her share of the music ; he regarded 
 her merely as a necessary auxiliary to enable him 
 
72 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 to display his wonderful powers in a duet which 
 had been ordered by a member of the royal fami 
 ly, as an express compliment to himself. 
 
 The tuning and trying of instruments filled up 
 a long interval. At last Monsieur Le Grand, 
 who had left the room, returned, and said, with 
 emphasis: 
 
 "JSTow, ladies and gentlemen, if you are all 
 ready, have the goodness to accompany me." 
 
 Sylvie, as she perceived the general movement, 
 rose from her chair, but the next instant sank 
 down again. For a moment the lids dropped 
 heavily over her eyes, and her naturally sallow 
 complexion grew almost livid. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu seized her arm and whispered, 
 "Do you intend to disgrace me before all these 
 people ? For the love of heaven rouse yourself ! 
 You CAN if you WILL I say you must you 
 shall r 
 
 She slowly opened her eyes and regarded him 
 with a vacant stare, as though she hardly compre 
 hended his words. 
 
 " Sylvie, don t you hear me ? Why don t you 
 answer? See, they have all gone, and we shall 
 be missed." 
 
 The room was by this time empty. 
 
LAUNCHED. 73 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu glanced over the programme he 
 held in his hand, and whispered, " Courage ! 
 child, courage ! your turn does not come for some 
 time. You are fully equal to the occasion if you 
 will only collect yourself. Courage, dear child /" 
 
 How kindly his voice sounded ! Sylvie could 
 not recognise the tone ; and gentle words always 
 had such power over her ! They now seemed to 
 communicate strength, to renew vitality, to quick 
 en and exalt all her faculties. Nothing could 
 have restored her more effectually than words of 
 tenderness to which she was so little accustomed. 
 She looked up and smiled gratefully, though very 
 feebly ; then rose once more, took the musician s 
 proffered arm, and allowed him to almost carry 
 her whither he would. 
 
 As they passed through the crowded hall, 
 Beaujeu fortunately caught sight of Monsieur Le 
 Grand s tall figure, and followed him at a distance, 
 until they reached the salon which had been 
 arranged for the performers. Upon a dais, raised 
 at one end of the apartment, stood various musi 
 cal instruments, and a number of velvet-covered 
 arm-chairs. As each performer mounted the 
 platform, Monsieur Le Grand pointed out his 
 or her place. Sylvie and her tutor he located in 
 
74 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 the least conspicuous position ; if that term 
 can be used where all positions were open to 
 full observation. 
 
 But Sylvie saw nothing of the gaily-dressed 
 spectators, and Beaujeu saw nothing but her. 
 He was watching the strange flushing and paling 
 of her cheeks ; noting the whiteness of her qui 
 vering lips ; the dilation of her large eyes, which 
 gave her face a look of nightmare terror, as 
 though she were praying to wake from some 
 frightful dream. 
 
 The concert opened with the noble overture 
 from the opera of " The Prophet." 
 
 Sylvie had never heard it before. At the first 
 few chords she drew a long breath, as though the 
 air, which was stifling her, had suddenly grown 
 light and clear; her head turned involuntarily 
 towards the performers, and her eyes were riveted 
 upon them as if she took in the entrancing 
 sounds by her vision as well as by her hearing. 
 
 A solo, duet, and trio followed; her attention 
 seemed wholly absorbed, and her countenance 
 glowed with delight. 
 
 Beaujeu held the programme in his hand, but 
 did not address her until the fourth performance 
 concluded ; then he whispered : 
 
LAIWCHED. 75 
 
 " It is your turn now, child." 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand approached and offered her 
 his hand. 
 
 Beaujeu did not dare to glance at her as she 
 rose. Looking neither to the right nor left, 
 he walked to the piano and took his seat. 
 
 A derisive murmur ran in and out among 
 the musicians, as Sjlvie advanced to the front 
 of the platform ; and Lablache took his place 
 at her side, rapturously greeted by the audi 
 ence. 
 
 The rotundity of his proportions, and the self- 
 satisfaction, mingled with native bonhomie express 
 ed in his countenance, contrasted strongly with 
 Sylvie s slender form, spirituelle look, and the 
 bending humility of her appearance. But she 
 had ceased to tremble ; she had a true passion, an 
 absolute veneration for music; and the masterly 
 strains to which she had been listening had stirred 
 her inmost soul, and left its finest chords still 
 vibrating. The audience had all faded from 
 before her sight her perfect unconsciousness of 
 self gave her self-possession. 
 
 We pass over the effect produced by Lablache s 
 exquisite vocalization, which never failed to 
 create enthusiasm. 
 
76 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 The very first notes, deep, rich, and clear, 
 which issued from Sylvie s lips, took all ears 
 captive, and caused a great hush. Her voice now 
 gushed forth in a wild flood now softly rippled 
 arid rolled in waves of liquid sound now floated 
 and melted away in silvery echoes. And again 
 the wonderful metamorphosis which we have 
 before described took place. Her blue eyes, no 
 longer frightfully dilated, filled with lustrous dew, 
 the elastic lips lost their bloodless pallor, and 
 took the most bewitching shape the sallow 
 cheeks were dyed with the softest blush the 
 drooping figure rose erect, and gained a startling 
 height and majesty she looked the very muse of 
 song incarnate ! 
 
 Thunders of applause pealed around her at the 
 close of the duet, but if she heard, she did not 
 notice them, or comprehend that they were in any 
 degree a tribute to herself. 
 
 The voice of Monsieur Le Grand, congratulat 
 ing her, broke the spell by which she was bound. 
 Then she understood that she had passed the 
 ordeal, that she had triumphed! She gave him 
 one look of almost amazed gratitude, and, 
 unconscious of the staring crowd unmindful 
 of the time and place, turned suddenly to her 
 
LAUNCHED. - 77 
 
 master, threw herself into his arms, and burst into 
 tears ! 
 
 " One touch of nature makes the whole world 
 kin !" and the naturalness and spontaneity of the 
 action elicited a tumultuous response from the 
 sympathetic crowd. The clamor startled her ; 
 she lifted up her head and shrank away abashed. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu, in spite of his own ill-concealed 
 emotion, had enough presence of mind left to 
 cover the awkwardness of her position, and 
 re-conduct her to her seat. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand shook him cordially by the 
 hand, saying, "You have a treasure in your 
 pupil, Monsieur ; I wish you joy ! You may well 
 be proud of her triumph to-night, arid look 
 forward to her distinguishing herself. I claim a 
 little share of the honor myself, because my 
 esteem for you, my confidence in your judgment, 
 has procured me the happiness of presenting her 
 to the public." 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand, with his wonted shrewd 
 ness, foresaw that Sylvie s rare contralto voice, 
 and the passion, power, and skill she had evinced, 
 would render her a valuable addition to his corp?, 
 and by excessive suavity he hoped to efface the 
 memory of his late mistrustful coldness. Beaujeu 
 
78 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 was only too ready to be flattered and con 
 ciliated. 
 
 A number of the performers had gathered 
 around Sylvie, but her face was covered with her 
 hands she still sobbed uncontrollably. 
 
 " Really, Mademoiselle," said Monsieur Le 
 Grand, " these should be tears of joy after your 
 great success; but violent emotion will injure 
 your beautiful voice. Your pupil is very ner 
 vous, Monsieur Beaujeu. You must be careful of 
 her; I find excessive excitement very prejudicial 
 to the vocal powers." 
 
 Poor Sylvie ! " Tears of joy !" Yes, perhaps 
 they were, but they were tears that had their 
 source in want and suffering, and hope deferred 
 that made the heart sick ; for these had rendered 
 her physically so weak that she had no control 
 over her emotion. 
 
 The performance, which had been interrupted, 
 now continued ; Sylvie had only been engaged to 
 sing in the duet with Lablache, and solely to 
 enable him to be heard ; but Monsieur Le Grand 
 received a message from the Count, informing him 
 that the audience desired to hear the young 
 debutante once more. Maitre Beaujeu feared 
 that Sylvie could not regain sufficient composure 
 
LAUNCHED. 79 
 
 to do herself justice, and objected, though very 
 feebly, for he was sensible of the compliment. 
 Le Grand, who regarded the wish of the public as 
 the law of an artist, would listen to no refusal ; 
 and Beauj.eu, greatly perplexed, was forced to 
 yield. He went up to Sylvie and took his seat 
 by her side; she was still weeping immo 
 derately. 
 
 "Sylvie, I never saw you cry so before; it is 
 very wrong very childish ; it will harm you 
 you must cease." 
 
 No answer, but renewed tears. 
 
 " Sylvie, you do not know that your trial is 
 not yet over ; you have more to accomplish 
 to-night." 
 
 Her hands dropped from her face with the 
 start she gave. "More?" was all she could 
 ejaculate. 
 
 " Yes, you must sing again." 
 
 " Oh, my master, impossible !" 
 
 " Possible, and to be !" replied Beaujeu, resum 
 ing his usual stern manner. "The sooner you 
 collect yourself the better, unless you wish to 
 neutralize the effect you have produced. I tell 
 you that you are to sing again at the conclusion 
 of the concert. You will sing that beautiful 
 
80 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 closing air from the Sonnambula, which I 
 arranged to suit your voice." 
 
 Sylvie did not reply, but the shock commu 
 nicated by this command checked the torrent of 
 her tears. Maitre Beaujeu said no more for some 
 time ; and she sat still, looking almost petrified, 
 so suddenly had she been calmed. 
 
 By and by, Beaujeu turned to her again : 
 " Well, Sylvie, you will be ready ?" 
 
 " I fear I cannot sing I" 
 
 " Cannot sing when the public requests it ?" 
 answered Beaujeu, this time with unaffected 
 savageness. " If you are the public s servant, you 
 must obey the public s orders ; you must have no 
 will, no pleasure, no indulgence of your own. 
 That s the first lesson for you to learn, and harder 
 lessons will follow. I tell you the audience 
 demands it, and you must sing !" 
 
 Sylvie did not reply. 
 
 " Well, am I to have an answer ? You must 
 sing, I say !" 
 
 Again she thought of the sacrificed violin. 
 The inward struggle caused her flushed coun 
 tenance to become ashy pale, but she looked 
 up and said, "If you command me, I must 
 make the attempt. Have I much time ?" 
 
LAUNCHED. 81 
 
 Beaujeu examined the programme. "There 
 are two more pieces." 
 
 Not another word was uttered by either 
 until the last song was concluded and Beaujeu 
 silently offered her his hand. Monsieur Le 
 Grand, however, pressed forward, and himself 
 conducted her to the front of the platform. 
 Then swelled loud acclamations from every 
 side. She had created a sensation for which 
 the audience had been wholly unprepared ; the 
 listeners were taken by storm. The atmosphere 
 of mystery which surrounded her added to 
 the charm. No one knew who she was, nor 
 whence she came ; but that she was a child 
 of genius, was the unanimous verdict. 
 
 As the boisterous greeting struck on her 
 ears, Sylvie gave a frightened glance around, 
 as though she was seeking some mode of 
 escape. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu whispered "Sylvie!" in a 
 tone of rebuke that recalled her to herself. 
 
 The glorious voice burst forth once again, 
 as deep, and rich, and clarion-like as before, 
 and Amina s joyful strain seemed the outburst 
 of Sylvie s own internal happiness. 
 
 Never was rapture more eloquently, more 
 4* 
 
82 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 thrillingly made vocal. As the last silvery 
 cadence died away, and before a conducting 
 hand could be offered, she quietly returned 
 to her seat. She had taken no heed of the 
 enthusiastic plaudits she was wholly unaware 
 that an audience expect the stereotyped, smiling 
 obeisance with which musicians recognise every 
 noisy token of approval. But the evident 
 unsophistication evinced by her ignorance of 
 the usual, hackneyed style of receiving and 
 courting public favor, increased the strong 
 impression of originality which she had already 
 made upon the delighted spectators. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand was loud in his com 
 pliments to both master and pupil ; and Lablache, 
 with the generosity of a true artist, added 
 his congratulations. 
 
 The audience had risen ; the singers, too, were 
 departing. The Count had come forward with 
 several of his friends, and was standing by 
 the steps of the platform. Le Grand rightly 
 conjectured that this group of admirers desired 
 to be presented to the successful neophyte. 
 In making the wished-for introduction, he 
 courteously included Maitre Beaujeu. Sylvie 
 bowed with downcast eyes, and could not 
 
LAUNCHED. 83 
 
 syllable a single word in answer to the eulo- 
 giums showered upon her. Maitre Beaujeu 
 replied in her stead, with really surprising tact 
 and self-possession ; but, seeing that her con 
 fusion every moment increased, he somewhat 
 abruptly bade good-evening, and led her 
 away. 
 
 As they passed, the human stream parted 
 and left a wake of murmured praises behind 
 the twain. Once more in the library, Sylvie 
 donned the shabby black mantilla, tied on the 
 old lace veil; and,, though Le Grand was 
 conversing in an earnest tone with his humble 
 associate, she took Maitre Beaujeu s arm with 
 an empressement which showed her anxiety to 
 depart. Beaujeu saw that her strength was 
 nearly exhausted, and hastily making an appoint 
 ment with Le Grand for the morrow, conducted 
 her into the hall; but was not destined to 
 reach the street door as quickly as he anti 
 cipated. 
 
 A young girl who might have passed for 
 the Titania of the beau-raonde^ so fairy-like was 
 her form, so aerial her presence, left the gentle 
 man s arm upon which she was leaning, ran up 
 to Sylvie. and took her hand, exclaiming, ^ Oh, 
 
84: THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Mademoiselle, you have given us such true 
 delight ! I cannot tell you how much I have 
 enjoyed your singing!" 
 
 Sylvie looked up at the sound of the fresh, 
 girlish voice, and there was something in the 
 joyous young face which inspired her with 
 confidence, and unsealed her lips. 
 
 " I am so glad !" she murmured ; " but it was 
 Maitre Beaujeu." 
 
 " Then we owe our thanks to him," answered 
 the yourjg lady s escort, bowing to the musician 
 with a deference which showed that he could 
 honor age, and appreciate talent. 
 
 " How pale and weary you look !" remarked 
 the beautiful girl ; " and how cold your hand 
 is ! Are you very tired ?" 
 
 " I believe I am tired I am so unaccustomed 
 
 to Sylvie hesitated, not knowing how to 
 
 finish the sentence properly. 
 
 "Then we ought not to detain you longer, 
 though I waylaid you on purpose to make you 
 stay and talk with us." 
 
 Mademoiselle, you are very kind, and we are 
 highly flattered," replied Maitre Beaujeu ; " I fear 
 my pupil, Mademoiselle Sylvie de la Roche, 
 is more fatigued than she confesses. She is not 
 
LAUNCHED. 85 
 
 strong, and we have some distance to go. We 
 will therefore beg you to pardon us, and allow us 
 to say good-evening." 
 
 " Goo-devening, then ; but, Mademoiselle 
 Sylvie (what a pretty name !), I hope to hear 
 you sing often oh ! very, very often. Be sure I 
 shall not forget you, and you must not forget me. 
 Will you not wear this little ring to remind you 
 of that compact?" she added, naively. "It is 
 not worth presenting, but you will accept it and 
 wear it for the sake of Honorine." 
 
 She drew from her finger a gold ring, holding 
 a heart-shaped ruby in the centre, and placed 
 it on the slender finger of Sylvie, who had remov 
 ed her gloves, for they were saturated with tears. 
 It was the first ring that had ever sparkled upon 
 her hand. 
 
 The gentleman whom Honorine had given 
 her bouquet to hold, selected a sprig of heliotrope, 
 and, presenting it to Sylvie, said, in a tone 
 of reverential admiration : "And will you not 
 also accept this humble offering?" 
 
 "Mademoiselle Monsieur," replied Maitre 
 Beaujeu, in a somewhat stately manner, for 
 he began to feel the importance of his position, 
 "My pupil is much honored by your approba- 
 
86 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 tion; you will allow me to thank you for 
 her. Once more, good-evening." 
 
 This time he succeeded in drawing Sylvie 
 away, and they passed out of the door and down 
 the steps, and were approaching the gate of the 
 court-yard, when they heard a hurried footfall 
 behind them. 
 
 " Have you not a carriage waiting, Monsieur 
 Beaujeu ?" asked the gentleman from whom they 
 had just parted. "I thought that you seemed 
 pedestrianly disposed. I must insist upon your 
 using my carriage. Antoine, drive up." 
 
 Before Beaujeu could answer, the servant, 
 obeying his master s orders, was at the gate, and 
 the gaily dressed chasseur dismounted, and let 
 down the coach-steps. The musician hesitated, 
 but the young nobleman (for such the arms 
 upon his coach-panels proclaimed him to be) 
 handed Sylvie into the carriage in a manner 
 which precluded all discussion. Maitre Beaujeu 
 followed. 
 
 " Give your orders to Antoine, Monsieur Beau 
 jeu. I wish you a good-evening." 
 
 Saying this, he withdrew, probably to save the 
 music-master the mortification of naming in his 
 presence some very humble locality 
 
LAUNCHED. 87 
 
 The order to the Rue St. Denis, numero , was 
 given, and the horses started at a rapid pace. 
 
 "Oh! Maitre Beaujeu," exclaimed Sylvie, 
 " how much I owe you!" 
 
 " You will repay the debt tenfold, child, if you 
 continue to succeed ; therefore gratitude need not 
 oppress you." 
 
 u It does not it is delightful to feel grateful. 
 How my father will rejoice, and my poor mother ! 
 And Ma m selle Ursule, too, she seemed so much 
 interested. How bright all the world looks to me 
 to-riight ! There is something exhilarating in the 
 very air something that mounts to my brain, 
 and almost makes my head light." 
 
 " The soft pressure of the first roses of 
 triumph," replied Beaujeu. " But they are not 
 thornless, child we cannot hope for that. One 
 only feels the dewy leaves at first, but the prick 
 of the thorns must also be experienced in time." 
 
 " Oh, doubtless, in time, in time /" exclaimed 
 Sylvie, merrily; "but not in anticipation! for 
 that would be to experience it once more than is 
 necessary. My dear master, do you know who 
 that who the who the young lady is who spoke 
 to us?" 
 
 That was not precisely the question that rose to 
 
38 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Sylvie s lips, but she changed her query before it 
 found breath. 
 
 " No ; but she is exceedingly lovely, though so 
 diminutive, and she had the bearing of a little 
 queen a veritable Seine des Fees. The gentle 
 man who escorted her has a most distinguished 
 appearance ; the coat-of-arms on his carriage 
 shows that he is a nobleman." 
 
 " They are very grand people, then ? very 
 grand and high people ?" 
 
 " Yes, you may be sure of that." 
 
 Sylvie sighed involuntarily. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu did not notice this inappropriate 
 demonstration in answer to his assertion. His 
 tongue was unloosed for the first time since 
 Sylvie had known him ; and he told her of the 
 distinguished company he had played before 
 in his youth ; of the reverses he had met, owing 
 to the jealousy and treachery of his associates, and 
 perhaps to his own lack of ability to push himself 
 forward; he dwelt with much pathos upon his 
 trials, his depression, his struggles to support his 
 aged mother, and he pictured the hopes that 
 sprang into existence at the discovery of Sylvie s 
 talent, and which now promised to become 
 tangible realities. 
 
LAUNCHED. 89 
 
 The young maiden drank in every word, 
 dreaming meanwhile of the golden future that 
 might be in store for her needy master, if the 
 bright auguries of this night proved prophetic. 
 She had almost reared an air-castle over his head, 
 which would have done credit to her father s 
 ingenuity as a cloud-land architect, when the 
 carriage stopped. 
 
 At the noise of the wheels, the concierge hasten 
 ed to the door, but started back in amazement at 
 the sight of a magnificent equipage, a coachman 
 in rich livery, and a gorgeously -attired chasseur. 
 What was her bewilderment when the steps of the 
 carriage were let down, and Maitre Beaujeu 
 descended, and carefully handed out Sylvie ! 
 
 Old Dame Manot involuntarily crossed herself, 
 as though she felt under the influence of witch 
 craft. 
 
 As Maitre Beaujeu passed her, hurrying Sylvie 
 on, the dame could scarcely command breath to 
 gasp out : 
 
 " Ma m selle Sylvie has had a great success at 
 the concert, then?" 
 
 "Certainly," replied Beaujeu with his wonted 
 brusqueness ; u my pupil has achieved a signal 
 triumph. Have the goodness to stand aside." 
 
90 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Dame Manot planted herself directly in their 
 path. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu tried to hurry Sylvie on, but 
 she kindly held out her hand to the old woman, 
 and said : 
 
 " Thank you for being glad." 
 
 " Who told you she was glad ?" asked Beaujeu, 
 sharply. " Do you suppose poor people are ever 
 glad to see other poor people rising above them ? 
 She is more likely to hate you than to like you 
 the better for your success. And as for rejoicing 
 bah ! that s not human nature." 
 
 "Then, perhaps, it s angel nature," answered 
 Sylvie, gaily, hastening up the stair ; " and I 
 think there s enough of the angel in good Dame 
 Manot for her to rejoice at my joy." 
 
 "Angel nature! Bah! A pretty pattern of 
 an angel !" 
 
 Sylvie was considerably in advance of her 
 tutor. As she reached her own door, she nearly 
 stumbled over a dark object that lay curled up 
 close to the threshold. It stirred at her touch. 
 
 " Is it you at last, Ma m selle Sylvie ?" asked 
 Mathieu. " I must have fallen asleep, I have 
 waited here so long. Have you triumphed ? Is 
 all well ? Oh ! tell me quickly." 
 
LAUNCHED. 91 
 
 " They say I have, good Mathieu. They say I 
 did Maitre Beaujeu credit." 
 
 " And it was a grand place? And you wore 
 my poor flowers all among the great people ?" 
 
 " Yes, I believe it was a very grand place ; 
 and I have the roses still in my hair see !" and 
 she threw off her veil and displayed the June 
 roses drooping their heads among her rich braids. 
 
 But the June rose that blossomed in her bosom 
 when she went forth, had been displaced, and 
 there a sprig of heliotrope lay ; but that she did 
 not exhibit to Mathieu. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu came panting up the stairs. 
 
 " Who is that ? Little rascal, is it you ? lying 
 in wait for Mademoiselle Sylvie, as usual ?" 
 
 At the sound of that voice Mathieu vanished. 
 
 " Good-night go to bed at once, and rest!" 
 said Beaujeu, as Sylvie was about to open her 
 own door. 
 
 " Will you not come in to see how glad they 
 will be?" 
 
 " No, they are sure to make fools of themselves, 
 and I have abundant opportunities of beholding 
 that exhibition." 
 
 Ursule was sitting with Monsieur and Madame 
 de la Roche. At the sight of Sylvie s radiant 
 
92 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 face they all rose. Her father caught her in 
 his arms. 
 
 " Yictory ! Victory !" he shouted. " She has 
 triumphed ! Did I not say she would ?" 
 
 Ursule and the mother wept with joy, for 
 though Sylvie at first was unable to utter one 
 word, her silence was as eloquent as the most 
 profuse language. When she had been tenderly 
 embraced and congratulated by each in turn, she 
 found voice to reply to her father s manifold 
 inquiries, and then related the events of the 
 evening. But when she described the gracious 
 young lady who had placed a ring upon her 
 finger, she wholly omitted to mention her noble- 
 looking escort, nor did she allude to the odorous 
 sprig of heliotrope he had so gracefully presented 
 her with perhaps the incident was so trifling 
 that it had escaped her memorj^. 
 
 The rejoicing was interrupted by a sharp knock 
 at the door, followed by the intrusion of Maitre 
 Beaujeu s sour face. 
 
 " I say, you senseless people, unless you let 
 that girl go to bed she ll be ill to-morrow, and 
 there will be another downfall of Monsieur de la 
 Koche s pasteboard houses. She s worn out, and 
 has a fever at this moment. Look at the bright 
 
LAUNCHED. 93 
 
 red spots on her cheeks ! As her master, I order 
 my pupil to go to bed at once, and command her 
 to talk no more to-night. Sylvie, I expect to be 
 obeyed." 
 
 " You shall be, my dear master ; I do feel very 
 much exhausted, and I am oppressively warm." 
 
 As she spoke her mother touched her hands 
 and exclaimed, in alarm 
 
 " Oh ! they are burning ! She ll have a fever, 
 and perhaps die ! Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Good 
 fortune never looks in upon us but to be scared 
 away again ! It will not stay to cheer us even 
 for one night." 
 
 "No wonder! Your endless croaking would 
 put anything pleasant to flight," retorted Beaujeu. 
 " Give your daughter a cool drink, and let her go 
 instantly to bed ; and if she should feel inclined to 
 sleep in the morning, let her lie still. There 
 ought to be no more chattering here to-night. Go 
 to your own room, Ma m selle Ursule." 
 
 Ursule, who was easily awed by the morose 
 musician, very meekly stole past him, carrying on 
 her arm her old mantilla and veil. 
 
 Beaujeu, as he withdrew, shook his head at 
 Sylvie, repeating, " Go to bed ! Go to bed at 
 once !" 
 
94 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Her mother, whose fears were only too readily 
 excited, urged the not unwilling Sylvie to obey. 
 
 The father talked on long after he retired, 
 driving his magnificent greys for the greater part 
 of the night, but the imaginary steeds and their 
 fancied owner were now and then brought to a 
 sudden halt by his wife s dolorous ejaculation, 
 " Suppose she has a fever ! There will be the end 
 of all our hopes !" 
 
 Did we suggest that the flower worn in Sylvie s 
 bosom might have escaped her recollection ? 
 That must have been an error, for the roses she 
 took from her hair were left to wither, forgotten, 
 upon her little toilette table, but the heliotrope 
 was tenderly laid between the leaves of her 
 Bible. 
 
CHAPTER Y. 
 
 THE RUBY RING. 
 
 AN exhausting exertion that is pleasurable that 
 calls into play the capabilities of the spirit which, 
 when they rise to the heights of genius, ever 
 clamor for the outburst of action, usually leaves 
 no lasting sense of prostration ; and then, youth 
 has wondrous recuperative powers. Sylvie rose 
 refreshed the next morning, and free from 
 every lingering trace of fever. Madame de la 
 Roche, with trembling solicitude, felt her hands, 
 and counted her pulse, over and over again ; but 
 she was forced to admit that the hands were cool 
 and the pulse temperate, and that her daughter 
 never looked so well or so happy. 
 
 The frugal breakfast was unusually prolonged 
 that morning. Sylvie seemed serenely joyful, and 
 her father boisterously exultant; while her mis 
 trustful mother looked positively frightened when 
 she caught herself sharing their gaiety. 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche would gladly have 
 
96 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 remained at home all day, to talk over Sylvie s 
 triumph, and lay plans for the future, but he had 
 promised the notary to complete some important 
 copying; and, besides, he longed to inform his 
 patron that he might provide himself immediately 
 with a new assistant, as fortunate circumstances 
 would place his present copyist above the need of 
 pursuing his humble vocation. 
 
 After her father had gone forth, Sylvie, instead 
 of clearing away the breakfast, remained seated, 
 contemplating her own hand as it lay upon the 
 table before her. 
 
 "What ails you, Sylvie ?" inquired the mother ; 
 " I fear you are fatigued, after all ; you are only 
 just beginning to feel it; that often happens, and 
 the fever may come yet." 
 
 " Oh, no danger ! Is it not pretty, mother?" 
 "Pretty? A fever? No, I think not. How 
 wildly you talk ! I really believe you are getting 
 light-headed." 
 
 Sylvie laughed and held up her hand 
 " I never imagined it would be so pleasant to 
 have a ring on one s finger. But the ring must 
 come off ! Though that kind young lady charged 
 me to wear it for her sake, it must be put to 
 a better use." 
 
THE RUBY KING. 97 
 
 "What is the child talking about? She 
 certainly is delirious. Part with your first 
 token of public approval ? Put it to a better use ? 
 Surely, you are out of your head !" 
 
 "The ring must bring back Maitre Beaujeu s 
 violin. That violin is more important to my dear 
 master than the ring is to me." 
 
 "But you do not propose to sell your ring?" 
 
 " JSTo, only to exchange it for the violin. I 
 think I know at what pawnbroker s Maitre 
 Beaujeu left his instrument in pledge. I cannot 
 form an estimate of the value of this ring, but it 
 may possibly be worth the seventy francs Maitre 
 Beaujeu raised on his old violin." 
 
 " But you cannot get the violin without Maitre 
 Beaujeu s ticket. Don t you know that, sim 
 pleton ?" 
 
 " I suppose the ticket will be required of me by 
 the pawnbroker, and Maitre Beaujeu certainly 
 will not give it up for the purpose of making the 
 exchange. But I mean to try what I can do. 
 Do you not remember Maitre Beaujeu said he 
 went to a pawnbroker s near here? Let me go 
 there with Ma m selle Ursule. I will tell the 
 whole story to the person who has charge of the 
 business; Ma m selle Ursule will testify to the 
 
98 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 truth of my relation ; and I will plead so warmly 
 that possibly I may get the exchange made." 
 
 " You will get nothing for your pains ; but I 
 suppose the only way to satisfy you is to let you 
 try, and I am dreadfully afraid of a fever s com 
 ing on if you should fret. So, go, and try what 
 you can do; but make up your mind not to 
 worry because you are refused a very unreason 
 able request." 
 
 Sylvie quickly availed herself of her mother s 
 permission to make the experiment. Ursule 
 consented to accompany her, and they were soon 
 on their way to the office. 
 
 It was some time before they could get any 
 satisfactory answer to their inquiries ; but, at last, 
 the man to whom they applied, admitted that 
 Maitre Beaujeu s violin had been pledged there. 
 Sylvie showed her ring, and cupidity sparkled in 
 his eyes at sight of the magnificent ruby. The 
 ring was not only more valuable than the violin, 
 but an article far more easily disposed of, if it 
 chanced not to be redeemed at the specified time. 
 Sylvie told her story with an earnest simplicity 
 which was full of eloquence; but her listener, 
 though strongly tempted, was unwilling to agree 
 to the unbusinesslike arrangement of giving up 
 
THE RUBY RING. 99 
 
 the violin without the ticket. Sylvie pleaded 
 with irresistible warmth. A long consultation 
 between the partners ensued ; at last the violin 
 was yielded up and the ring left in its place, on 
 condition that Maitre Beaujeu s ticket was return 
 ed before night. 
 
 Great was her mother s astonishment when 
 Sylvie entered, carrying the violin (very much 
 after the fashion that a young girl carries a baby), 
 and laid it as tenderly on the table as Maitre 
 Beaujeu himself could have done. 
 
 She had hardly arranged the room, taken her 
 seat at the piano, and warbled a few notes, when 
 Maitre Beaujeu s knock was heard at the door. 
 
 She cried out, " Enter !" without looking 
 round. 
 
 " Ah ! little owl, up and playing the night 
 ingale again ? That s well ! that shows you have 
 more stamina than your looks imply. But 
 what s this?" 
 
 He stopped immediately in front of the table. 
 
 "What is it? why, your violin, my master," 
 answered Sylvie, demurely. " Do you not recog 
 nise your old friend ? In return for it, will you 
 just be good enough to hand me the ticket the 
 pawnbroker gave you ? It s mine." 
 
100 THE MUTE SINGE H. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu was not listening. He had 
 opened the case of the violin he was looking at 
 the precious instrument; he took it up he 
 almost hugged it ; his breast heaved tumultuously 
 a sound like the rushing of waves issued from 
 his lips, as he drew the bow across the strings, 
 which responded as with a voice of their own to 
 his emotion. 
 
 Sylvie stood beside him, too respectful and too 
 much touched to break the silence. 
 
 But her mother, who anticipated an explosion of 
 wrath, exclaimed : " Sylvie did it ! I told her she 
 had better not ; I told her it was no business of 
 hers ; but the wilful girl would have her own way." 
 
 "How did she obtain possession of my pro 
 perty? How did she dare to meddle with my 
 affairs?" asked Beaujeu, recovering himself, and 
 in his roughest tone. "Those villanous pawn 
 brokers ! How could they have the hardihood to 
 entrust what was mine to another, without my 
 order? I shall go to them at once! I ll teach 
 them a lesson !" 
 
 " You will not do anything so wrong, my dear 
 master," answered Sylvie, quietly. "/ am the 
 only one to blame. Was I not right to repay my 
 debt the very first moment that I could?" 
 
THE RUBY RING. 101 
 
 "But ycni could not that s the difficulty! 
 "What means of repaying it had you ?" 
 
 Sylvie did not reply; she was intimidated by 
 the severity of his look. 
 
 " Do you intend to answer me ?" 
 
 " You had a violin it was your sole valuable. 
 I had a ring it was my sole valuable. You gave 
 up your violin for me. I gave up my ring for 
 you. Surely the barter is a fair one, and simple 
 enough ; there s nothing very wonderful about 
 the transaction." 
 
 " And do you suppose that is the use you are 
 to make of the gifts bestowed upon you by high 
 people? Do you know to what consequences 
 this may lead ? Do you know what will be thought 
 of you, if you do not wear the token of esteem 
 which a young lady of rank has conferred upon 
 you?" 
 
 " I shall wear it, Maitre Beaujeu, by and by. 
 I hope to redeem it. Do you forget that a new 
 path is opened to me ? thanks to your unwearied 
 instructions ; and that I shall be able to earn my 
 bread ?" 
 
 " How confident we have grown all of a 
 sudden ! One swallow does not make a summer. 
 There is a vast difference between one night s 
 
102 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 triumph and the steady maintaining of your 
 position." 
 
 " Ah ! there it is !" ruefully responded Madame 
 de la Eoche. " I said we were all rejoicing too 
 soon crowing before dawn. Sylvie s just like 
 her poor father, takes everything for granted, and 
 has found a fortune if she picks up a sou." 
 
 " You almost make me wish she might never 
 find anything that would rob you of the satisfac 
 tion of perpetual whining!" snarled Beaujeu. 
 
 "Maitre Beaujeu, my mother " began 
 
 Sylvie. 
 
 "There, there! that s enough about it, child. 
 I am going to give back the violin at once, and to 
 get your ring. I suppose two can play at that 
 game." 
 
 Sylvie s countenance changed; she looked not 
 sad merely, but hurt, and answered with a dig 
 nity that became her well : 
 
 u Of course, you will do as you please ; but it 
 will wound me deeply. I have no right to dictate 
 to one who is so vastly my superior. I am your 
 debtor in all senses of the word ; but, if you 
 would allow me the pleasure of feeling the first 
 faint foreshadowing touch of an independence 
 which I may hereafter obtain, you will keep your 
 
THE RUBY RING. 103 
 
 violin and give me the ticket, which. I have pro 
 mised to carry to the man who, through my 
 representations, gave up the violin against his 
 better j udgment." 
 
 Beaujeu looked at her steadily for a moment, 
 and if he did not smile, it was because he would 
 not ; there was a smile lurking in his eyes which 
 he forced away from his hard lips. He took 
 a long pinch of snuff, and replacing the box, 
 drew out a little old, discolored pocket-book, 
 deliberately selected the ticket, threw it on the 
 table, seized his violin, turned on his heel, and, 
 without a word, left the room. 
 
 When Sylvie and Ursule presented themselves 
 again at the pawnbroker s, the sight of the ticket 
 gave evident relief to the person whom Sylvie had 
 argued into an irregular proceeding, which might 
 have entailed unpleasant results. Sylvie now 
 received a ticket for the ruby ring that had 
 been left in pledge, and departed well pleased. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu returned some hours later. 
 Sylvie at once remarked the satisfied air with 
 which he took a seat, laying his violin on his 
 knees, and resting his hands upon the case. 
 
 "I have seen Monsieur Le Grand. I had an 
 appointment with him, which I have just kept." 
 
104 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 "Yes? I am glad!" 
 
 "How do you know there is any cause for 
 gladness." 
 
 " Your eyes told me ; they talk faster than 
 your tongue, my master." 
 
 "You will oblige me by not consulting rny 
 eyes, then ; it s not decorous conduct for a young 
 girl. Monsieur Le Grand has offered you an 
 engagement ! You don t look in the least asto 
 nished !" 
 
 " I knew it before." 
 
 " That is not possible. How could you know it !" 
 
 " Your eyes told me that, too. They are great 
 tell-tales." 
 
 " Bo you want to put me into a passion with 
 your impertinence ?" 
 
 " Sylvie, rny dear, do behave reasonably. You. 
 don t know what might happen, if you did. put 
 Maitre Beaujeu in one of his rages," broke in the 
 mother. 
 
 Beaujeu had seated himself with his back to 
 Madame de la Roche, who was sewing as usual 
 at the window. He now wheeled abruptly round 
 so as to face her. He was evidently on the point 
 of giving vent to some violent outburst, but Sylvie 
 laid her hand gently on his arm ; the soft touch 
 
THE RUBY RING. 105 
 
 and her look of entreaty melted him. Without 
 uttering a syllable, but with a great gulp which 
 seemed to swallow down many words, he wheeled 
 round again. 
 
 " Monsieur Le Grand has offered us an engage 
 ment," remarked Sylvie, by way of taking up the 
 thread of discourse. 
 
 "That s right, child; say us us! He has 
 offered us another appearance," replied Beaujeu, 
 proudly. " He has either thought it time to recog 
 nise my ability, or policy has induced him to 
 show me some deference on your account. Pie 
 has requested three songs from you, of my selec 
 tion, and a solo on the violin from me. The 
 concert, for which he is now making arrange 
 ments, is to take place at the Salle Ste. Cecile, not 
 at a private house as before." 
 
 A light shadow passed over Sylvie s face at the 
 last words. Of what was she thinking? Why 
 would she have preferred to sing again at the 
 Count Castellane s ? 
 
 "Le Grand has the whole management, includ 
 ing the payment of artists." 
 
 " And he proposes to pay us ?" asked Sylvie. 
 
 "Two hundred francs!" answered Beaujeu, 
 with ill-affected coolness. 
 
106 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " Two hundred francs ? That s immense !" 
 
 " No, it s very moderate remuneration. But 
 you are a novice, and have yet to earn celebrity. 
 One is paid for reputation rather than for positive 
 talent. Of the two hundred francs, one hundred 
 will be yours." 
 
 " No, no, indeed ! That would be unfair. 
 Have you not instructed me for three years ? 
 My share must be very small ; I will only receive 
 enough to supply the immediate wants of my pa 
 rents. The rest rightfully belongs to you." 
 
 " Am I to expect henceforth to be -schooled by 
 you? Are you to set up your judgment on all 
 occasions against mine? I see you have plenty 
 of spirit that will come out by and by, and play 
 the deuce with us. I tell you I will make what 
 agreement I please, and you will consent to it, 
 whether it please you or displease you. Am 
 I not master, and are you not my pupil ? Per 
 haps you desire to change places ? or you would 
 like to have some other master to deal with ?" 
 
 " Can you think I could so forget what I owe 
 Jou?" 
 
 " The first thing you owe me is obedience, and 
 thafs a debt I advise you to pay. Since we ve set 
 tled that matter, now let us select the three songs." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE SECOND STEP. 
 
 THE week that intervened between her first and 
 second appearance as a singer, did not pass very 
 smoothly with Sylvie. The constant presence 
 of her volatile father was not merely an interrup 
 tion to her studies, but his frequent wordy colli 
 sions with Beaujeu discomposed her, and kept her 
 choleric master in a state of most distressing 
 excitement. 
 
 De la Roche was in such exuberant spirits he 
 was so confident that Sylvie s talents would speed 
 ily realize a large income that he would shortly 
 be restored to his former position in the social 
 world, and glorious anticipation ! that he would, 
 ere long, actually drive that superb pair of greys 
 which were always careering through his brain, 
 that he grew more reckless and improvident than 
 ever. The few francs per day which he had 
 an opportunity of earning, seemed a sum too 
 petty to be considered. To receive them would, 
 
108 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 he thought, be a positive humiliation and, in a 
 stately manner, he declined to undertake any 
 further copying for the notary ! He now passed 
 the larger portion of his time at home, com 
 menting on his daughter s studies vociferously 
 applauding her brilliant execution rallying his 
 wife upon her low spirits sparring with Maitre 
 Beaujeu, and communicating to every one who 
 entered his princely projects for the future. 
 
 Ursule flitted in and out of the room at brief 
 intervals, always shrinking into some corner, 
 or stealing noiselessly away when Beaujeu made 
 his appearance. 
 
 Mathieu, uncured by the musician s rough treat 
 ment of his propensity to hearken by stealth 
 to sweet sounds, never passed the door without 
 lingering to listen ; and, as Sylvie s voice threw 
 its witching spell around him, he often sank down 
 enthralled, and with his head resting against the 
 door-panel, became oblivious of his errand, forget 
 ful of his wants, his cares, his misery, until a well 
 known step dissolved the enchantment, and put 
 his visions and himself to flight. 
 
 Dame Manot, the concierge, who, ever since she 
 had seen Sylvie descend from a splendid carriage, 
 had paid great court to the De la Eoches, and 
 
THE SECOND STEP. 109 
 
 gossipped about them incessantly, made continual 
 visits to their apartment, accompanied by curious 
 friends. 
 
 De la Koche received her with pompous con 
 descension, and amazed the good woman by his 
 florid description of the mode of life he proposed 
 shortly to lead, and his enumeration of the 
 sumptuous adornments of the abode he was busily 
 preparing in his imagination. 
 
 Unluckily this troublesome father had made up 
 his mind not to forego the pleasure of witnessing 
 his daughter s next triumph in public, and upon 
 that point he was immovable. He coolly made 
 known his determination to accompany her to the 
 Salle. This privilege Beaujeu refused to allow, 
 and even threatened to give up his instructions, 
 and the engagement altogether, if De la Eoche 
 persisted in his intention. Then Everard pro 
 posed to buy a ticket, and if he had possessed, 
 or could have borrowed, the requisite amount, it 
 would have been expended in this purchase, and 
 that while the sweet singer herself almost lacked 
 food. At last, Beaujeu, tired out by these 
 persecutions, procured from Monsieur Le Grand a 
 complimentary admission, which he presented to 
 De la Roche, on condition that he absented him- 
 
110 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 self from his lodgings during the day. The 
 bargain was easily made, and so great was the 
 father s joy at the possession of the ticket, that he 
 may be said to have " worn it next his heart ;" 
 and certainly he drew it forth and gazed upon it 
 tenderly hundreds of times, besides exhibiting it 
 to every acquaintance whom he encountered, 
 during the three days that elapsed before it could 
 be used. 
 
 The evening came. Sylvie was clad in the 
 simple, snowy raiment she had before worn. She 
 had no means of replacing the white kid gloves, 
 which had been completely ruined by her 
 abundant tears; but the thoughtful Ursule had 
 provided her with another pair, stinting herself 
 for a week after for the pleasure of indulging in 
 this helpful generosity. 
 
 Mathieu had not forgotten a meet tribute to the 
 Saint Cecilia of song, at whose shrine he worship 
 ped so devoutly ; his offering was a bunch of lilies 
 of the valley ; and the pure, white bells, drooping 
 among Sylvie s jetty hair, increased by contrast 
 the beauty of the flowers, and of the silken tresses 
 upon which they reposed. 
 
 Beaujeu artfully advised De la Eoche to present 
 himself at the doors of the Salle some time before 
 
THE SECOND STEP. Ill 
 
 they opened, that he might secure an advantage 
 ous seat ; his real object was to get him out of 
 the way as soon as possible. The ruse succeeded 
 admirably ; the impatient father acted so prompt 
 ly upon the hint that, after solitarily pacing up 
 and down before the Salk Ste. Ctcile for an hour, 
 he headed the long queue, which, according to 
 French custom, forms the crowd at an entrance 
 into an orderly double file no one person press 
 ing before another who arrived earlier. 
 
 De la Koche s effervescent spirits forbade all 
 reticence, and he soon entered into conversation 
 with the persons who surrounded him. After the 
 opening of a few general remarks, he confidential 
 ly informed them that he had a daughter who was 
 to sing that night! He dwelt with enthusiasm 
 upon the genius she evinced, and upon her success 
 at the Count Castellane s recent concert.; then 
 branched off in his discourse, and favored his 
 listeners with a sketch of his ancestry and his own 
 early history gave them an account of his wealth 
 and his losses, and finally communicated his 
 conviction that his fortunes were now to be 
 redeemed by the daughter whom they were about 
 to behold. 
 
 Wrapped once more in Ursule s foxy, black man- 
 
112 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 tie and old veil, Sylvie walked with "her master 
 to the SaUe in the Rue de la Chaussee cPAntin. 
 
 The little retiring-room appropriated to the 
 singers was a rather comfortless apartment, but 
 S ylvie felt more at home there than in the Count s 
 elegant library. Monsieur Le Grand had saluted 
 her and Beaujeu, when they entered, with marked 
 courtesy, and his example was followed by such 
 of the performers as were present at her debut. 
 
 The arrangements were, of course, different 
 from those in a private house. The musicians 
 only appeared when, according to the order 
 indicated by the programme, it was their turn to 
 sing or to play. 
 
 Sylvie was perfectly composed, and apparently 
 absorbed in the duty to be discharged. She sat be 
 side Beaujeu, now and then exchanging a few words 
 with him, until Monsieur Le Grand gave her his 
 hand to lead her forth. It had not occurred to her 
 master that she should be instructed to return the 
 greeting of the audience by an obeisance, and she 
 walked directly, though calmly, to the front of 
 the platform near the piano. There were many 
 persons present who had already heard her sing, 
 and noisy as was their welcome, it was unnoticed 
 by the young vocalist. 
 
THE SECOND STEP. 113 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand whispered to her: "You 
 have forgotten to courtesy, Mademoiselle ; courte 
 sy, if you please!" 
 
 Sylvie looked up in his face with surprise, but 
 supposing that he meant her to courtesy to him, 
 made a modest reverence. 
 
 The quickness with which the audience com 
 prehended this little by-play divined what Le 
 Grand had whispered, and how the unsophisticated 
 girl had misinterpreted his words, was surprising. 
 A good-humored and very general laugh, mingled 
 with plaudits, resounded from every side; but 
 Sylvie, far from being conscious that she had 
 committed any error, inwardly congratulated 
 herself that she had so quickly acted upon 
 Monsieur Le Grand s hint. 
 
 " Mio Fernando" from Donizetti s opera of 
 La Favorita, was executed with artistic skill, 
 depth of feeling, and vocal power rarely equalled. 
 One great charm of her singing was the absence 
 of all effort, the flowing forth of the delicious 
 sounds as though they involuntarily rolled from 
 her lips. The tumultuous bursts of delight 
 which rent the air when the last mellow notes 
 faded into silence, did not seem to reach her ears. 
 From the moment she commenced singing, her 
 
114 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 countenance wore an abstracted dreamy look, as 
 though she had risen to some sublimer sphere, 
 and was unaware of all that passed in the region 
 below her. 
 
 It was quite useless for Monsieur Le Grand 
 again to suggest the propriety of a courteous 
 acknowledgment ; he led her back to the retiring- 
 room without a word, and regardless of the 
 uproarious demand for an encore. 
 
 "You sang charmingly, Mademoiselle de la 
 Roche," he then said to her, "but you quite 
 forgot to salute the audience." 
 
 " Salute the audience ! Oh ! I beg pardon ; I 
 did not know that I had anything to do with the 
 audience," answered the novice. 
 
 Those artless words drew forth little gushes of 
 suppressed laughter from her associates of the 
 hour. 
 
 "Yes, little stupid," said Beaujeu, coming to 
 the rescue; "you must courtesy when you 
 appear before them, and courtesy when you 
 retire, but I will not allow courtesy ing at every 
 demonstration of favor ; that is a shocking Italian 
 habit in the worst possible taste, and does not suit 
 your purer style." 
 
 As he spoke he darted spiteful glances at seve- 
 
THE SECOND STEP. 115 
 
 ral of the ladies, who were still giggling in their 
 handkerchiefs, and whom he had beheld soliciting 
 fresh rounds of applause by a ready bending 
 of the knee at the faintest sound of approval. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand, who heard, shrugged his 
 shoulders, and converted a spontaneous grimace 
 into a conciliatory smile. He thought it better 
 not to interfere with the eccentric pair. He had 
 remarkable skill in feeling the public s pulse, and 
 knew that Sylvie s very freshness, and unaffected 
 ignorance of forms, added to the potent charm of 
 her marvellous vocalization. 
 
 When she appeared again she did not forget the 
 important salutation, and the marked manner 
 in which she courtesied seemed archly to say : 
 
 " If I did wrong before, I hope I am atoning." 
 
 Such, too, was the ready interpretation of her 
 action by the spectators ; and her perfect trans 
 parency increased her fascination. But while she 
 was singing " Voi die sapete" from Mozart s 
 " Figaro," her recent tutoring was wholly effaced 
 from her mind ; and, at the close of the air, she 
 was gravely walking away, when some recollec 
 tion seemed to strike her. She started, hesitated, 
 came back a step or two, with, "Oh! I forgot!" 
 plainly expressed by her countenance, made her 
 
llfi THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 little, untaught, rustic courtesy, and tripped away, 
 followed by a whirlwind of rapturous acclama 
 tion. 
 
 Even the bombastic Le Grand smiled almost 
 laughed. 
 
 Before Sylvie sang the third time, her master 
 was to execute a solo. Maitre Beaujeu took 
 unusually long to tune his dear, sweet-toned 
 violin ; but he would have flown into a rage 
 if any one had dared to hint that he was at 
 all ruffled. "When he rose, Sylvie followed him, 
 and begged that she might stand where she could 
 hear. Beaujeu stationed her a few steps from 
 the entrance to the stage, where she was screened 
 from view. But, as the music grew more and 
 more stirring, it seemed to draw her magnetically 
 forth ; little by little she unconsciously advanced, 
 bending forward to catch every sound. She did 
 not see the audience she did not know that any 
 one saw her but stood, rapt and statue-like, 
 almost breathlessly listening, while all eyes were 
 riveted upon her. The hearty tokens of pleasure 
 that echoed on every side, when the strain ended, 
 were awarded as much to the affectionate enthu 
 siasm of the pupil as to the masterly skill of the 
 tutor. 
 
THE SECOND STEP. 117 
 
 She remained as motionless as one transfixed, 
 until Beaujeu approached her, in making his exit. 
 His surprised "What are you doing here, child? 7 
 first made her aware that she was standing in 
 presence of the crowd. She drew back, aghast, 
 striking in the suddenness of her retreat against 
 Monsieur Le Grand, who chanced to be standing 
 behind her. 
 
 He accosted her, laughingly : " Mademoiselle 
 de la Eoche, your appreciation of your master 
 does you as much honor as your devotion to your 
 art." 
 
 " Di tanti palpiti" composed for Pasta s glorious 
 contralto voice, had been selected for Sylvie s last 
 effort that night; and, startling as her vocal 
 achievements had been before, this was her 
 crowning triumph. Monsieur Le Grand was 
 obliged to consent to the encore which was 
 vociferously demanded ; and, even after the 
 request had been complied with, found it difficult 
 to quiet and satisfy the enraptured and excited 
 auditors, who appeared determined to hear the air 
 for the third time, and not to allow the perform 
 ance to proceed in regular order until they were 
 gratified. 
 
 That Sylvie was able to sustain herself was now 
 
118 THE MUTE SINGER, 
 
 an incontestable fact. That she must take rank 
 with the first singers of the day appeared to be a 
 sequence wnich nothing could now prevent. 
 That Monsieur Le Grand entertained this opinion, 
 was evident from his deference towards her, 
 which every moment augmented. 
 
 The concert was over. Sylvie and her master 
 had only made a few steps in the street, when her 
 quick eyes distinguished two persons approaching, 
 that made her heart give a great bound. That 
 tiny, graceful, nymph-like figure, and the stately 
 form by its side, had too often risen before her 
 mental vision not to be instantly recognised. 
 
 "We are more captivated than ever, Mademoi 
 selle Sylvie. I am sure the great Pasta never 
 sang i Di tanti palpitV more triumphantly," said 
 Honorine. "You have not forgotten me, I 
 hope ?" 
 
 Honorine had taken Sylvie s hand it trembled 
 nervously at the touch; Sylvie was thinking 
 of the ruby ring with a sickening fear that its 
 absence from her finger might be detected. She 
 remembered all Maitre Beaujeu had said about 
 what might be thought of her parting with the 
 ring, and knew she could not defend herself. 
 Despite the thrill of joy that ran quivering 
 
THE SECOND STEP. 119 
 
 through every vein at this encounter, she was 
 impatient to hasten away, and could not command 
 her voice. 
 
 " Those clouds yonder look threatening," re 
 marked Honorine s escort ; " you must allow us 
 to take you home." 
 
 Sylvie made a faint effort to decline this offer, 
 but Beaujeu thought of the likelihood of her 
 taking cold, and the chances that her voice might 
 be affected by hoarseness, and answered prompt- 
 
 iy= 
 
 "You are exceedingly good, Monsieur. We 
 will accept your offer ; for a cold would be a 
 terrible calamity just at this moment." 
 
 " It would be, indeed," replied the nobleman, 
 handing Sylvie into the carriage ; " one that would 
 fall upon us all." 
 
 Honorine leaped lightly in, and the gentleman 
 followed. The former chatted merrily to Sylvie 
 as the carriage was on its way to the Eue St. 
 Denis, and the young singer was gradually lured 
 into unembarrassed responses. It was too dark 
 for her to distinguish the faces around her, and 
 that circumstance helped to banish her diffidence. 
 The gentlemen conversed with each other, and the 
 nobleman gave Maitre Beaujeu his opinion of the 
 
120 THE MUTE SLNGEK. 
 
 concert as a whole, and of individual performers, 
 not forgetting the solo on the violin, and proving 
 by his discriminating criticisms that he was a fine 
 judge of music. 
 
 Svlvie had become quite at her ease with her 
 aristocratic companion by the time the carriage 
 stopped. Maitre Beaujeu was nearest to the door ; 
 he got out and turned to assist his pupil ; but the 
 nobleman sprang down the steps, and courteously 
 handed her out himself; then, without once glanc 
 ing at the humble locality, re-entered the coach. 
 
 Dame Manot flew forth at the sound of the wheels, 
 and various lodgers put their heads out of doors 
 and windows, to see if it really was little Sylvie 
 brought home in a grand carriage ; and we fear 
 that some of them dreamt dreams that night 
 about renouncing their own humble vocations to 
 turn their attention to music, as the easiest means 
 of rising in the world. 
 
 The delighted concierge caught Sylvie enthu 
 siastically in her arms; but this familiarity 
 exasperated Maitre Beaujeu, who almost tore her 
 from the good woman s hearty embrace. 
 
 As he bade Sylvie good-night at her own door, 
 he ordered her to go to bed at once. The com 
 mand, however, was not obeyed ; for, naturally, 
 
THE SECOND STEP. 121 
 
 she had to relate the occurrences of the evening to 
 her mother and Ursule. 
 
 Very soon her father burst upon the trio, and 
 incoherently poured out the history of his adven 
 tures. He repeated the flattering remarks he had 
 overheard, the congratulations he had received 
 when it was known that he was Sylvie s father ; 
 told of the whispers that flew from one to another, 
 until quite a large circle was cognizant of the 
 fact; and described his efforts to elbow his way 
 through the crowd that he might accompany his 
 daughter home, and his perfectly furious struggles 
 to reach her side, when he saw her enter a superb 
 carriage, which some of the spectators recognised 
 as the equipage of the Marquis de St. Amar. 
 
 "The Marquis de St. Amar!" ejaculated 
 Sylvie ; " and the lovely little lady who was 
 with him did you hear who she was ?" 
 
 " Oh ! that was Madame la Marquise, of 
 course. 1 think I heard some one call her so. 
 It was a great honor for her to bring you home 
 herself, but nothing more than we had the right 
 to expect." 
 
 Sylvie grew suddenly pale, and stammered out : 
 " I fancied she was too young to be married ; and 
 
 she was so girlish and frank, it never occurred to 
 6 
 
122 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 me I could not have believed it does not seem 
 
 possible " 
 
 None of these broken sentences were finished. 
 She appeared to be lost in thought, and was too 
 absent to hear her father s questions. When he 
 chided her jestingly, mingling his light rebukes 
 with kisses and praises, she pleaded fatigue, and 
 begged leave to retire to her chamber. A 
 moment before, she had declared that she was 
 not in the least degree tired, and felt as though 
 she could sing all night ; but we suppose there is 
 no exception to the rule that pronounces women 
 capricious, since one brought up in such seclusion, 
 and so little indulged as Sylyie, evinced caprice 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 REACTION. 
 
 SYLVIE tossed restlessly on her couch that night, 
 oppressed by troubled dreams. When she woke, 
 with a start, her thoughts were confused, an inde 
 finable weight pressed upon her spirits, and she 
 felt haunted by a strange, vague sense of disap 
 pointment. Though the dawn had broken, and it 
 was her custom to rise before the sun, she only 
 gazed wearily about her, and sank again into an 
 unquiet slumber. 
 
 Why was it that one visionary shape stood 
 uninvoked before her, in all the vividness of 
 actual presence ? In reality, she had hardly 
 looked into that face, yet she distinctly remem 
 bered every feature ; the deeply -set, luminous 
 hazel eyes; the expansive, intellectual brow; the 
 waving, chestnut hair, so fine and soft that it 
 appeared thin, and threatened early baldness ; the 
 well-cut nose ; the too strongly defined curve of 
 the mouth, which gave an expression of coldness 
 
124 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 and hauteur to the countenance, until the lips 
 parted with a smile ; she recalled, too, how sud 
 denly the frost melted beneath the glowing 
 warmth of that smile, and the entire visage was 
 lighted up with a winning softness, wholly oppo 
 site to its dominant character in repose. 
 
 Almost all young maidens picture to them 
 selves a beau-ideal of manhood, for which, as their 
 journey through life progresses, they zealously 
 search. Sylvie had seen few gentlemen we 
 might almost say none ; never before had a word 
 been addressed to her by one whose noble bearing 
 even slightly approached the demeanor of the 
 Marquis de St. Amar. Was it unnatural that her 
 girlish imagination should have found a beau- 
 ideal unsought ? He was the husband of the 
 fairy -like being whom she only knew as " Hono- 
 rine;" but what had that to do with Sylvie s 
 admiration ? Did she not experience as much, or 
 even more, for his wife ? It was the type of man 
 and woman by which she was fascinated. Where 
 fore should she feel disturbed ? 
 
 She sprang out of bed, as though in rising she 
 could escape from her own tormenting reflections; 
 she found herself singularly weak ; she staggered 
 back, and sank again upon the couch. Her hands 
 
REACTION. 125 
 
 were burning, her lips and tongue parched ; she 
 longed for a glass of water, yet had not strength 
 to seek it, and would not venture to disturb her 
 mother ; or, rather, would not run the risk of 
 exciting those ready fears by which the latter was 
 so easily tantalized. 
 
 After suffering for some time in silence, Sylvie 
 made another effort, and began slowly to dress. 
 The very weight of her clothes seemed too great 
 for her to bear ; her limbs trembled, and sur 
 rounding objects danced and swam before her 
 eyes; still she forced herself to continue her toi 
 lette. The cool water, which she greedily drank, 
 could not quench her thirst; but, after she had 
 dashed a quantity in her face, she felt somewhat 
 refreshed. Nerving herself to conceal her lan 
 guor, she lifted the old calico curtain and passed 
 into her mother s room. 
 
 It was late, and Madame de la Eoche had pre 
 pared the breakfast a duty which always de 
 volved upon Sylvie. The latter tried to speak in 
 a cheerful tone, but was very thankful to her 
 father for monopolizing the conversation ; and 
 she was still more grateful when he took up his 
 hat and went forth, without noticing her fagged 
 look and the unusual flush on her cheeks. He 
 
126 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 was impatient to relate to his quondam employer, 
 the notary, and any other friends whom he could 
 find, the events of the night previous, and to 
 descant upon the brilliant prospects they heralded. 
 
 The weary girl, though she longed to lie down 
 again, had too much consideration for- her mother 
 to yield to this inclination, and mechanically 
 opened the piano. Her hot hands had no power 
 over the keys ; her voice, when she tried to sing, 
 was tremulous; and dark, floating mists passed 
 before her eyes, until the very lilies which she had 
 taken from her hair the night before and placed 
 in the little tin cup that stood on the shelf above 
 the piano, grew black as she gazed at them. 
 
 " Mother," she said, at last, without turning, 
 and supporting her throbbing head on her hands, 
 " did not M am selle Ursule say yesterday that 
 it was necessary for me to have another dress 
 before I appeared again in public? Perhaps she 
 is right; and if I sing again soon, as I hope I 
 shall (a strange foreboding made her shudder and 
 pause, but she rallied), we had better lose no 
 time. I am a little tired to-day ; too tired to sit 
 long at the piano. May I not pay Ma m selle 
 Ursule a visit, and talk over this important affair 
 of the dress?" 
 
REACTION. 127 
 
 "Yes, of course; you will have money enough 
 to purchase something handsome ; that is, if 
 Maitre Beaujeu pays you, as he promised to do. 
 But are you tired? It quite frightens me to heai 
 you say so!" 
 
 " Is it not natural, mother, after my sitting up 
 so late, and going through so much excitement and 
 exertion ?" 
 
 " There it is ! There it is ! Excitement and 
 exertion you will never be able to stand ! I 
 thought so from the first. I told your father so, 
 but he would not believe me. You will break 
 down, and then it s all over with us!" 
 
 " Pray, mother dear, don t put such an idea 
 into my head. You cannot think how the very 
 suggestion troubles me." 
 
 Sylvie could scarcely repress her quick-spring 
 ing tears. She wept readily, for she had never 
 known trials tinged with bitterness that cannot 
 find relief in the heaven-sent boon of tears. She 
 had never known the despairing anguish that 
 dries up tears. She had never known the hidden 
 grief that teaches us to control our tears, while 
 they drop inwardly like molten lead upon the 
 scalded heart. 
 
 " I am only tired, mother," she answered, try- 
 
128 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 ing to conceal her brimming eyes, " and perhaps 
 it would do me good to talk a little, to gossip a 
 little, Maitre Beaujeu would say, with Ma m selle 
 Ursule. May I go ?" 
 
 " Yes, yes ; though I hope you are not growing 
 vain and commencing to attach importance to 
 your appearance. If that is the case, the next 
 thing you will be looking down upon us, as many 
 a child who rises above her parents has done 
 before. I confess that is a sorrow I am not pre 
 pared for." 
 
 " JSTor shall you ever have need to be, mother. 
 I am sure I have given you no cause to imagine 
 that I could ever be so unfilial, have I?" 
 
 " No, no not yet ; but we never know what 
 sad stroke is coming ! " 
 
 Sylvie was unable to reply, but kissed her 
 mother, and trying to command her faltering feet, 
 and walk with her usual light, firm step, left the 
 room. In the entry she paused ; she felt as if she 
 could go no further. As she leaned against the 
 wall she caught sight of Mathieu, who, probably, 
 had been hovering about her door. 
 
 " I am so glad you are there, Mathieu ; I feel 
 so tired this morning ! I do not want my mother 
 to know how tired it would alarm her. I am 
 
KEACTION. 129 
 
 going to refresh myself by chatting with Ma m - 
 selle Ursule. Will you give me your arm to 
 help me down the stairs ? It is very stupid of me 
 to be so weak !" 
 
 It would not be easy to depict the emotion of 
 the poor boy at being called upon to render this 
 slight assistance to one whom he regarded with 
 idolizing reverence. Until that moment, the 
 miserable hunchback had never felt in his own 
 person the superiority of manhood over a weaker 
 sex ; but as he supported Sylvie he experienced a 
 glow of manly pleasure, and his crippled frame 
 rose erect, as though, through the might of this 
 new sensation, it could cast off its deformity. 
 
 They reached the mantua-maker s door ; he 
 knocked, and Sylvie was joyfully admitted. The 
 next minute she sank, overpowered, into the arms 
 of the kind-hearted old maid; told her how ill 
 and exhausted she felt, and begged her to do 
 something to strengthen and restore her, without 
 disturbing her mother. Ursule tenderly made her 
 lie down upon the bed, loosened her clothes, then 
 prepared her a cooling drink, talked to her sooth 
 ingly, bathed her hot temples and burning hands, 
 bound a wet napkin on her brow, and in a very 
 
 short time saw her fall into a sweet slumber. 
 6* 
 
130 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " There ! she has found the best restorative ! 
 Sleep is worth a whole doctor s shop of medi 
 cines !" said the sympathizing dress-maker, as she 
 softly took out her work, and sat down to watch 
 her patient. 
 
 Sylvie slept for a long time undisturbed, and 
 did not even hear the knock at the door, nor her 
 master s rough voice, exclaiming: " Where s that 
 little runaway ? Flown from her cage, I hear 
 above. I suppose she is growing lazy after her 
 triumph, and moreover is going to trouble us 
 with her airs so her wise mother up-stairs pre 
 dicts." 
 
 Ursule beckoned him into the room without 
 speaking. She was always rather nervous about 
 addressing him, and merely pointed to the couch. 
 
 "Is she ill? Do you think she is ill ?" gasped 
 Maitre Beaujeu. 
 
 " Very feverish and weak, and worn out, but I 
 trust not ill. She will wake up much better. Her 
 skin is cooler already," and she gently laid her 
 fingers upon the thin hands that were folded upon 
 Sylvie s bosom. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu bent over her with a tenderness 
 it was not easy to imagine him capable of experi 
 encing. Yet, possibly, there was a dash of selfish- 
 
KE ACTION. 131 
 
 ness mingling with the compassion and anxiety 
 expressed in his face. If, by the cultivation of 
 her genius, his hand had opened an arena to the 
 child of poverty and misfortune, wherein she 
 could win laurels that were golden, and earn fame 
 that was wealth, had she not done the same for 
 him? And now, were the shining gates of this 
 bright future suddenly to close against both, 
 because of her lack of strength to keep them open ? 
 
 " A fragile casket to hold such a gem F he eja 
 culated, half to himself; then turning to Ursule, 
 added, " I comprehend why she came down to 
 you. That mother of hers will worry her life out 
 with tiresome fears and predictions ; it s cruel ! 
 it s abominable !" 
 
 They stood for awhile in silence. Suddenly 
 Ursule remembered to offer her- guest a chair. 
 He took it, and seated himself at the foot of the 
 bed. Ursule .resumed her work. Neither could 
 have told how long Sylvie slept, for both had 
 fallen into deep reverie. At last the slumberer 
 stirred ; her lips moved, as though they were 
 about to sing, but only one low note escaped 
 them ; the sound or the effort awakened her ; she 
 opened her large blue e3 r es and gazed in wonder 
 at her master, then turned to Ursule. 
 
132 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " You have had a good rest, child," said Beau- 
 jeu. " Are you better ? Do you feel refreshed ?" 
 
 " Much better; how good it was of you, Ma m - 
 selle Ursule, and you, my kind master, not to 
 wake me. How late is it?" 
 
 11 Some time past noon," replied Ursule, looking 
 at the shadows upon the wall, by which she could 
 always tell the time in the absence of the luxury 
 of a clock. 
 
 " So late ! What will my mother think ? She 
 will be terribly frightened. I must go back at 
 once." 
 
 She raised herself and slid off the bed ; but as 
 her feet touched the ground, the floor for an 
 instant seemed floating away from her, and she 
 clutched the bedclothes for support. 
 
 " Let me fasten your dress and smoothe your 
 hair," said Ursule. "There! that will do. Now 
 drink a little more of this lemonade." 
 
 Sylvie drank eagerly, for her thirst was still 
 unslaked. 
 
 " I intend to go up with you," remarked Beau- 
 jeu, in a decided tone ; " not for a lesson ; I will 
 not allow you to sing to-day, you are too weak ; 
 but I must talk with you about future plans. I 
 would rather remain here, and converse ; but your 
 
REACTION. 133 
 
 mother will get one of her tantrums unless you 
 make your appearance as soon as possible." 
 
 " Thank you for thinking of her " began 
 
 Sylvie. 
 
 " No need ; it was you and your comfort I was 
 thinking of; I know what a pandemonium she 
 can make of her apartment when she conjures up 
 her blue-devils, and gives them possession of the 
 chamber." 
 
 As they were going, Sylvie remembered her 
 errand. " It was about my dress that I came to 
 consult you, Ma m selle Ursule. You said I 
 must not wear my white muslin again, just yet. 
 My mother wished me to ask what change you 
 advise." 
 
 "Say that I advise a plain white silk, which 
 will become you amazingly, and will be very use 
 ful hereafter ; for with skill and taste we can 
 transform it into a number of dresses. An over 
 dress of crape, or tulle, or tarlatan, or trimmings 
 of ribbons, or flowers, or velvet, will vary it 
 charmingly. Don t forget that I am ready to 
 accompany you to purchase the dress whenever 
 you choose. It had better be made up at once." 
 
 Sylvie took her master s arm in ascending the 
 stair ; but perceiving how heavily she leaned, he 
 
134 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 encircled her waist to support her better. She 
 looked up gratefully, and then, with child-like 
 confidence, laid her head gently on his shoulder. 
 
 Affection was inexpressibly sweet to her. A 
 single touch of kindness warmed her to the heart s 
 core, strengthened her when she was most weak, 
 gave her new life when vitality seemed exhausted. 
 
 As might have been expected, Madame de la 
 Roche was both alarmed and indignant at her 
 daughter s prolonged absence. She was on the 
 eve of going in search of her. Sylvie begged 
 pardon, and, without mentioning the slumber by 
 which she had been refreshed, delivered Ursule s 
 message about the white silk dress. Madame 
 de la Roche approved the selection ; if they could 
 afford it, she added, glancing meaningly at Maitre 
 Beaujeu. 
 
 He answered the look with a scowl, and seemed 
 inclined to replace the old pocketbook which he 
 had taken out ; but a glance at Sylvie dispelled 
 the evil prompting. 
 
 " Monsieur Le Grand paid me this morning, 
 Sylvie. There is one hundred francs your share." 
 
 He laid five glittering louis-d or in her lap. 
 
 " I feel as though I had no right to so large a 
 portion," she said, hesitatingly. 
 
REACTION. 185 
 
 " You will not find it too large if you have 
 white silk dresses to purchase. I don t intend to 
 give you a lesson to-day." 
 
 The mother groaned audibly, and muttered to 
 herself, " No lesson ? Now he ll begin to neglect 
 her, and she ll soon forget all she has acquired." 
 
 Beaujeu heard, but went on without heeding 
 the ungracious remark. 
 
 " You have not yet learned what Monsieur Le 
 Grand desires. I am in treaty with him for some 
 thing permanent; we have not come to terms 
 yet. Le Grand wants us, so it will not do to 
 seem anxious. There is to be a concert of which 
 
 he has charge at the Duke , in the Faubourg 
 
 St. Germain, next week. We are engaged. Mean 
 time I will not have you fag yourself out ; you 
 want rest, and fresh air, and a generous diet, a bit 
 of meat and a glass of vin ordinaire every day for 
 dinner. You must have both to-day. I shall 
 send Ma m selle Ursule up to you ; give her your 
 orders and the money, and she will purchase your 
 dinner, as well as your dress. Jtemember, you 
 are to take my prescription, without fail. A mut 
 ton chop and a glass of wine, and after that you 
 must rest or amuse yourself; no work, no prac 
 tising 1" 
 
136 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 As the door closed upon him, Sylvie s mother 
 exclaimed querulously : " I foresee he is to become 
 an absolute tyrant over us. He orders oar very 
 dinners. He will take the whole control of our 
 domestic concerns before long, and we shall be 
 completely his slaves" 
 
 " No, mother ; he is only thinking of what is 
 best for me, his pupil. He sees how important it 
 is that I should grow strong, and that is the rea 
 son he gives those minute directions, which we are 
 bound to follow." 
 
 Ursule now made her appearance. The appro 
 priateness of the white silk dress was discussed at 
 length, and its purchase decided upon. Then, in 
 obedience to Maitre Beaujeu s commands for he 
 had given Ursule a hint it was settled what pro 
 visions should be bought for dinner. 
 
 " Are you not going with me, Sylvie? Shop 
 ping will amuse you ; it is a delightful occupation 
 when one has money ; " and she glanced signifi 
 cantly at the gold pieces which still lay in Sylvie s 
 lap. 
 
 " I would rather stay at home and amuse 
 myself quietly, since I am to have a holiday," 
 replied Sylvie; she would not confess that she 
 still felt too weak to walk. " But I wish my dear 
 
KE ACTION. 137 
 
 mother could be persuaded to go with you. The 
 day is delightful ; the air will do her good, and 
 you need not hurry, so that she will not fatigue 
 herself. Do go, mother!" added Sylvie, beseech 
 ingly, as she placed the gold in her mother s hand. 
 
 The apathetic mother looked doubtful, but 
 inclined to yield. A little more coaxing and she 
 was conquered. She laid the louis-d or on the 
 table, and was tying on her bonnet, when in 
 walked her husband. His eyes sparkled as though 
 they reflected the glitter of the gold upon which 
 they rested. 
 
 When he was informed of Maitre Beaujeu s 
 orders in regard to Sylvie, he replied gaily, " He 
 is quite right ! he s a good fellow ! and it s very 
 thoughtful of him ; but I will attend to all that. 
 I will be your banker, my rich little daughter I" 
 
 He was delightedly gathering up the bright 
 louis-d or when Ursule interfered. " You must 
 leave us enough to purchase a white silk dress, 
 Monsieur de la Roche ; that is indispensable. We 
 shall be very fortunte if we get it for ninety- 
 francs there will be ten over. Have the good 
 ness to wait till we are certain of the exact 
 amount." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, my good Ursule. After 
 
138 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 I have provided a suitable repast you shall have 
 the change. This is a very small sum, after all ; 
 but of course it is only an earnest of what is to 
 come, and we must try to make it do for the pre 
 sent." 
 
 Saying this, he quietly put the gold pieces into 
 his empty purse, and sallied out, leaving his wife 
 and daughter, and their devoted friend, not a little 
 discomfited. 
 
 Prudence had been wholly omitted in the ele 
 ments that composed the character of Everard de 
 la Koche. In his expenditures he never evinced 
 the slightest forethought, or stopped to make the 
 most natural calculations. He invariably pur 
 chased, when the means were attainable, whatever 
 pleased his fancy, without condescending to any 
 thing so mean as economy without reflecting that 
 there were actual necessaries to which the sum in 
 question ought to be devoted without ever ask 
 ing himself whether the money in his possession 
 was his own or belonged to his creditors, and 
 without admitting that honesty made it theirs if it 
 chanced to be due to them. 
 
 When he returned to his lodgings an hour later, 
 he was accompanied by a man who carried a large 
 basket With a munificent air he gave the porter 
 
REACTION. 139 
 
 a piece of silver, placed the basket on the table, 
 and with boyish glee bade every one gather 
 around. 
 
 First he took out a beautiful bouquet, which he 
 had purchased at the celebrated Madeleine flower- 
 market ; this he pronounced absolutely necessary 
 to dress the table for a decent meal. Next he 
 brought forth some large strawberries and some 
 fine cherries ; he had evidently selected the best 
 that could be procured of each fruit ; then he pro 
 duced a Perigord pie (a most expensive delicacy), 
 some tarts, a pair of fine fowls, a tongue, an ample 
 supply of soup meat, a fresh salmon, some green 
 peas and artichokes, a bottle of olives, and three 
 bottles not of vin ordinaire, the customary dinner 
 drink of France but fine claret of choice vintage, 
 
 " It was quite a luxury to market once more," 
 he exclaimed, rubbing his hands hilariously. " I 
 have so long been denied the inestimable privilege 
 that I really enjoyed it ! I fancy we shall dine to 
 day ! My dear Marguerite, do look merry for 
 once ! I imagine it is those unbecoming caps of 
 yours which always give your face that gloomy 
 look ; see what I have bought to conjure back the 
 expression of old times, and for you to do honor 
 to our dinner by wearing." 
 
140 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 He took from a paper, in which it was neatly 
 folded, a pretty white lace cap, trimmed with 
 bright ribbons, and tossed it towards her. 
 
 "But, Monsieur de la Koche, what have you 
 been doing?" asked Ursule, dolefully. "After 
 the money you must have spent in all these provi 
 sions, and that cap, how can there be enough left 
 for Sylvie s white dress ?" 
 
 " My good friend, come and dine with us to 
 day, and don t talk nonsense; I really do not 
 know what change I have over, but it will be 
 wanted before our next supply of gold comes in." 
 
 He drew from his pocket a few pieces of silver, 
 among which shone but one remaining louis-d or. 
 "What could Sylvie do? What could her mother 
 say ? Both were silent; the one from respect, the 
 other from despair. 
 
 Not so Ursule. 
 
 " To eat up a white silk dress, which Sylvie 
 needs so much, in this fashion ! It s absurd, Mon 
 sieur de la Koche ! It s monstrous ! It s a canni 
 bal proceeding, for it s eating that child s flesh and 
 blood ! A few francs would have purchased a 
 capital dinner, and left money enough over for 
 the dress. What are we to do ?" 
 
 " Dine ! dine, once more !" returned Monsieur 
 
KEACTION. 141 
 
 de la Roche, jovially. " My good Ursule, have 
 the philosophy to enjoy the present by dining 
 with us to-day, and not finding fault with my 
 catering for our humble table, and let the dresses 
 of the future take care of themselves! Here, 
 Sylvie, put this bouquet in water it is for you, 
 who are always so delighted with flowers. I fear 
 you have nothing to hold them but that broken 
 jar; I wish I had thought of buying a pretty 
 vase. How slowly you move, child ! Are you 
 fatigued ? Suppose you stay, my excellent Ursule, 
 and help Sylvie to prepare the repast ; but don t 
 let us have that white silk dress dished up for one 
 of the courses." 
 
 11 It s dished, indeed !" sighed Ursule ; but she 
 deemed it useless to remonstrate further ; and 
 noticing Sylvie s wan look, considerately remained 
 to prepare a meal which she knew child and 
 mother had hearts too full to enjoy, though the 
 filial daughter never uttered one word of reproach 
 at beholding her first earnings thus recklessly dis 
 sipated. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 RUSTLING LAURELS. 
 
 ONE person, at least, enjoyed the repast that 
 Sylvie s inconsequent father had so lavishly pro 
 vided, and that was the prodigal purveyor him 
 self. He presided at his humble board with lordly 
 bearing, and as though he were entertaining, in 
 place of his pale-faced wife and drooping daughter, 
 hd their unassuming friend, a host of distinguished 
 guests. It was long since he had tasted wine, 
 especially of a quality as irreproachable as that 
 which he now liberally quaffed, and he drank to 
 the health of Silvie, then to that of Maitre Beau- 
 jeu, then to the prosperity of musicians in gene 
 ral, then toasted, in flowery phrase, the Muse of 
 music, then all her sister Muses, and then the world 
 at large ! With every glass, his naturally expan 
 sive heart opened wider and wider, until it took in 
 all humanity. 
 
 Just as Sylvie placed the dessert upon the table, 
 a troop of eager friends poured in ; for, the instant 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 143 
 
 Fortune smiled promisingly upon the De la Koclies, 
 they discovered that they possessed numberless 
 friends whom they never before dreamed of enroll 
 ing in Friendship s category. These good, disin 
 terested, incurious people came to offer their con 
 gratulations and proffer their services. De la 
 Roche received them en grand Seigneur, graciously 
 appropriating their compliments as though their 
 homage were entirely due to himself. 
 
 It was not possible to invite all the visitors to 
 be seated, for the poor apartment contained but 
 four chairs, the piano-stool, and one low bench. 
 These, however, were soon occupied, and the side 
 of the bed converted into a sofa. After that, the 
 new comers were obliged to stand, as were Sylvie, 
 her parents, and Ursule. 
 
 The delighted host requested every one present 
 to favor him by drinking~a bumper to the future 
 laurels of the young singer, and poured the ruddy 
 wine without stint. Mildly rebuking her forget- 
 fulness by a look, he desired Sylvie to hand the 
 tarts, strawberries, and cherries to their esteemed 
 guests. With tottering feet, and trying to force a 
 few feeble smiles, she obeyed ; but the ever watch 
 ful Ursule, perceiving her unfitness to discharge 
 even this light office of hospitality, caught the 
 
144 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 dishes from her hands, and, casting a by no means 
 gentle glance at De la Koche as she passed him, 
 whispered, " It is more proper for me to do this ; 
 and do you not see how fatigued she is ? " 
 
 Too much elated by the glory of the hour to 
 notice an intimation that his daughter was inca 
 pable of the required exertion through weakness, 
 he quickly took the hint that it was too great a 
 condescension for a newly crowned queen of song 
 to wait upon her lowly admirers, lie proudly 
 drew her to his side, and with one arm around her 
 slender form, stretched the other commandingly 
 towards the assemblage, and harangued his guests 
 with oratorical emphasis. Light peals of bombast 
 intermingled with showers of roses. He thanked 
 them for the honor of this visit he might say, the 
 sunlight of their presence ; for their admiration of 
 his child, which he modestly admitted was by no 
 means misplaced ; he told them that though he 
 would ere long be compelled to remove from their 
 midst though possibly his path of life, once so 
 thorny, now about to be thickly strewn with 
 flowers, would so widely diverge from theirs that 
 they might meet no more upon this side of eterni 
 ty, he should never forget the kindness, the sym 
 pathy, the devotion of the unpretending friends 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 
 
 who had poured balm upon his healing wounds 1 
 He assured them he would never look down upon 
 the lowliest of that little band, however high the 
 position he might be called upon to occupy ; and 
 that he would bury beneath the waters of oblivion 
 all remembrance of the countless inconveniences 
 to which he had for some years been subjected, 
 when he recollected the happiness of this moment, 
 the proudest of his chequered life ! 
 
 Claret, weak and unintoxicating beverage as it 
 is usually deemed by the French, when it chances 
 to be the juice of as fine a vintage as that which 
 had been selected by Monsieur de la Roche, may 
 mount to a constitutionally light brain, and we are 
 inclined to think that this gentleman s natural 
 hilarity and volubility were increased by the un 
 wonted stimulus. A stranger would certainly 
 have arrived at the conclusion that he was a 
 wronged and estimable individual, who had just 
 received some rightful inheritance, of which he had 
 long been unlawfully deprived, or that he had 
 amassed a fortune through his own ability and 
 untiring industry, which he was now permitted to 
 enjoy for the smooth remainder of his days. 
 
 A couple of hours had elapsed, but the good 
 people seemed very unwilling to disperse. Ursule, 
 
146 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 finding that no one stirred, though bottles and 
 dishes were alike empty, took Dame Manot into 
 her confidence, told her that Sylvie was too feeble 
 to undergo this prolonged excitement, and begged 
 that she would give a moving hint to her friends. 
 The considerate dame, who had a sincere affection 
 for Sylvie, managed so admirably that the gratified 
 visitors rapidly took their departure. 
 
 De la Eoche, elated to the highest pitch of rest 
 lessness, could not have tarried with the rather 
 dull family party that remained. He took up his 
 hat, and told his smileless wife that he meant to 
 visit the Theatre Franqais and see the famous 
 Eaehel, the light of whose genius had just burst 
 upon the Parisian world. 
 
 Ursule was strongly inclined to remonstrate. 
 
 "You cannot afford it! You have nearly 
 wasted all the poor child s earnings already!" 
 were the words that rose to her lips, but she had 
 not the courage to utter the just rebuke, and 
 Monsieur de la Eoche departed. 
 
 To get Sylvie to bed was the next most impor 
 tant move ; but how was it to be effected without 
 awakening the fears of Madame de la Eoche? 
 All Ursula s tact was needed to avoid that unde 
 sirable result. The unreasonable mother had 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 147 
 
 several times daring the day expressed her convic 
 tion that she was about to lose all her authority 
 over her child, and Ursule thought to turn this 
 weakness to account. If the suggestion that Sylvie 
 ought to retire emanated from Madame de la 
 Koche herself, and went forth in the shape of a 
 command, her mind might be diverted from exa 
 mining into the need of such an order. 
 
 The ready-witted old maid took her aside, and 
 said : 
 
 " Monsieur de la Roche is very unreasonable ; 
 he has not proper consideration for Sylvie. You 
 really will be obliged to exert your maternal rights 
 and interfere. He made her stand for full two 
 hours, while your chairs were all occupied with 
 those stupid people whom he chose to entertain 
 very superfluously. If }^ou take my advice, 
 you will order Sylvie off to bed, and insist upon 
 her resting. Do not mind her showing a disincli 
 nation to go ; use a little needful authority ; you 
 are her mother, and you can make her obey." 
 
 Madame de la Roche greedily swallowed the 
 bait, and was highly pleased to feel herself of a 
 little importance ; for, during the events of the 
 last week, she had become more completely 
 a nonentity than ever. With quite a show of 
 
148 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 command, she desired Sylvie to retire forth 
 with. 
 
 The weary girl failed to play her part in the 
 little drama by even a faint appearance of unwill 
 ingness, but Ursule covered the deficiency by 
 treating her as though she had positively rebelled. 
 
 " Now, Sylvie," said the good creature, depre- 
 catingly, " do not argue with your mother, and try 
 to gainsay her wishes. Don t you understand that 
 she chooses you to go to bed ? Do be off at once, 
 like a good girl, and don t dispute her orders ; she 
 knows what is for your good. Coma, I will be 
 your lady s maid, and undress you." 
 
 With a parade of compulsion, she led the unre- 
 resisting girl into the little chamber, and helped 
 her to disrobe, and thus afforded her aid which 
 she sorely needed. 
 
 Sylvie slumbered more tranquilly than upon 
 the previous night. She rose the next morning 
 partially restored, yet it seemed as though some 
 thing ailed her she could not definitely tell 
 what; she experienced no actual pain, but was 
 oppressed by a sinking sensation that incapacitated 
 her from energetic action. Strength of will, how 
 ever, partially supplied the place of strength of 
 physique. She went through the round of her 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 149 
 
 daily occupations without uttering a complaint, 
 thus escaping her mother s close scrutiny; the 
 observation of her thoughtless father it was always 
 easy to avoid. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu made his instructions very 
 brief; her voice required repose, he said. When 
 the lesson ended, he remarked : 
 
 " Now you must walk out. Go to the Tuileries, 
 or the Champs Elysees, or where you please ; but 
 you must have fresh air and exercise." Turning 
 to her mother, he added: "Will you accompany 
 her, Madame? 
 
 "How is it possible to spare the time?" she 
 answered, rebeliiously ; " I must sew, and Sylvie 
 ought to practise." 
 
 "I tell you she ought to walk !" thundered Beau 
 jeu, biting his lips to restrain his ire. "If you 
 do not choose to go with your daughter, I will 
 accompany my pupil, to whom air and exercise 
 are of vital importance." 
 
 Madame de la Koche, who writhed under Beau- 
 jeu s control, thought that to consent to this latter 
 alternative would be giving the reins too com 
 pletely into his hands ; she answered quickly : 
 
 " No ; if she is to go, / will accompany her." 
 
 " Yery well ; as you please," replied Beaujeu, 
 
150 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 taking up his violin. " Do not forget the direc 
 tions I gave yesterday in regard to your diet, 
 Sylvie ; and be sure you spend at least a couple 
 of hours in the open air !" 
 
 "Aye, we ll spend! No fear of forgetting 
 that. We do nothing but spend!" sighed the lugu 
 brious mother, as he disappeared ; " spend time 
 unprofitably, and spend money recklessly ! it 
 is disheartening. But we are not allowed to 
 rule our own actions, and must submit to our 
 fate." 
 
 Sylvie heartily enjo}^ed the rarely accorded 
 pleasure of a promenade on the Champs Elysees, 
 in spite of her mother s lengthy tirade against the 
 cruel despotism of Maitre Beaujeu, and her con 
 stantly bemoaning the waste of time of which he 
 compelled them to be guilty. 
 
 Monsieur de la Koche was diligently occupied 
 in seeking for handsome apartments ; and, having 
 found a furnished suite that struck his fancy, he 
 would have engaged it, and commenced moving 
 at once, had not Sylvie ventured very gently, but 
 firmly, to oppose this rash step. She failed, how 
 ever, to make him see his imprudence, or to alter 
 his determination, until she reminded him that 
 they would not be permitted to leave their present 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 151 
 
 lodging without paying the amount due up to the 
 time for which it was rented, and begged him to 
 count what funds remained, and calculate whether 
 this was possible. lie complied, merely to humor 
 such an excellent little daughter, he said, though 
 it was nonsense, for they had more than sufficient. 
 On finding out his error he was a little staggered, 
 and Sylvie gained the day. Her father magna 
 nimously consented to postpone the proposed 
 removal until after her next appearance ! 
 
 If Sylvie herself lacked strength, her voice had 
 lost no power ; it was never richer, never sweeter, 
 never more wondrously flexible. 
 
 TJrsule alone noticed that her hands were still 
 feverish, and that a hectic flush crimsoned her 
 usually pale cheeks, and faded away again at brief 
 intervals. 
 
 That Monsieur de la Eoche should be among 
 
 his daughter s auditors at the Duke de : s was 
 
 out of the question. The concert was given by 
 the Duke to his friends, who received cards of 
 invitation. The evening was to close with a 
 grand ball. 
 
 Sylvie s father resigned himself to the unavoid 
 able privation more philosophically than could 
 have been expected, but found consolation by 
 
152 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 largely indulging in glorious visions of the time 
 when the novice of to-day would break loose from 
 her master s leading-strings, and be solely under 
 paternal guidance. 
 
 Sylvie was engaged to repeat the three airs she 
 had sung with so much eclat at the Salle Ste. Cecile. 
 This was a politic arrangement on the part of 
 Maitre Beaujeu, for she was not only spared the 
 fatigue of fresh study, but the verdict passed upon 
 her execution of those songs was too enthusiasti 
 cally favorable for her success to be in any peril. 
 
 Her surprise was as great as her gratification 
 when Maitre Beaujeu, on the morning of the con 
 cert, laid a chaplet dexterously woven of ivy 
 leaves upon the piano, and bade her wear it in her 
 hair that night. A delicate attention from her 
 rough master might well excite as much wonder 
 as gratitude. 
 
 He had a quick eye and ready worship for the 
 beautiful ; he constantly lamented Sylvie s unat 
 tractive looks, and pondered on, the possibility of 
 improving them. As his back was always turned 
 w r hen she was singing, he was unaware of the elec 
 trifying change that was wrought by the out- 
 gushing of that melody which had its fountain 
 in the recesses of her soul. He had selected this 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 153 
 
 ivy wreath because lie knew it would display to 
 advantage her luxuriant dark hair and finely- 
 shaped head, and give a classic effect to her pale 
 countenance. Frenchman as he was, he had 
 chosen natural leaves as best suited to the unarti- 
 ficial wearer. 
 
 Much as Sylvie prized her master s token, it 
 did not cause her to slight Mathieu s offering of 
 bright geranium blossoms. Those she wore in 
 her bosom. 
 
 "Now for it! How does the white silk dress 
 become you? Is not my garland of ivy just the 
 thing to set it off ? I expect to see you trying to 
 pass for a beauty to-night!" said Maitre Beaujeu, 
 as he entered the room to take charge of his 
 pupil; then added, looking at her more closely, 
 ^jThy this is not white silk ? Surely this is the 
 common little frock you wore before ! What has 
 become of the grand toilette you were preparing ? 
 Has your skilful mantua-maker spoiled the white 
 silk in the cutting ?" 
 
 Monsieur de la Eoche, who was standing by, 
 grew nervous. He felt the thunder-clouds gather 
 ing over his head, and looked uneasily at Sylvie, 
 who had not the presence of mind to answer. 
 
 Ursule replied with some asperity: "I have 
 
154 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 not spoiled the white silk, Monsieur; and if it s 
 not ready for to-night, it s no fault of Sylvids, nor 
 of mine." 
 
 Monsieur de la Koche was seized with a violent 
 fit of coughing, during which he darted pleading 
 glances at the dress-maker. 
 
 Her heart had long been troubled with a 
 chronic softness that incapacitated her from resist 
 ing the least appeal to her generosity, arid she con 
 cluded the speech, so spitefully commenced, with : 
 " The white silk will do for the next time. She 
 shall certainly wear it then 1" (with quite a 
 determined look at the father.) Then to divert 
 Maitre Beaujeu s suspicions, remarked : " Those 
 ivy-leaves give Sylvie a Norma-like look. Did 
 you ever see her appear to such advantage ?" 
 
 "No, never. But I wish her best were letter" 
 Beaujeu could not resist the temptation to 
 remark. 
 
 Sylvie laughed with unconcerned good-humor, 
 which showed that she had too little vanity for it 
 to be wounded, and answered : " If / were as 
 beautiful as you are frank, one might be contented. 
 Might one not, my master ?" 
 
 Beaujeu had ordered a fiacre, an indulgence his 
 restricted means had not allowed on the two 
 
RUSTLING LAUKELS. 155 
 
 former occasions. When they reached the court 
 yard of the palatial mansion of the Duke, the 
 driver stopped. A crowd of equipages passed in, 
 but he knew that it would be improper for his 
 humble vehicle to approach nearer. Sylvie and 
 her master alighted. 
 
 What a scene of Eastern enchantment burst on 
 their sight as they entered the gate ! The court 
 was brilliantly illuminated with colored lamps, 
 rising from baskets of flowers; in the centre a 
 fountain sent up sparkling jets, that reflected 
 prismatic hues as they fell over statues of water- 
 nymphs; the whole round of the court was 
 girdled by a wall of blossoming orange and lemon 
 trees, intermingled with flowering shrubs and the 
 rarest exotics. A gorgeous carpet, softer than the 
 most velvety turf, was spread upon the marble 
 steps and over the path that led to the car 
 riages. 
 
 Sylvie gazed about her in rapturous amazement. 
 She imagined herself suddenly transported to some 
 ideal land which she had only beheld in her 
 dreams. She would gladly have lingered to 
 examine the flowers .and inhale their entrancing 
 perfume ; but Maitre Beaujeu hurried her on, for 
 they were later than usual. 
 
156 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Monsieur le Grand greeted them with almost 
 oppressive cordiality, as they entered the sumptu 
 ous apartment appropriated to the musicians. 
 And when they were conducted to the concert 
 hall, and Sylvie took her place among the singers, 
 an audible murmur of delight ran through, the 
 crowd. She was immediately recognised ; and 
 the audience betrayed so much impatience to hear 
 her voice once more, that not the faintest attempt 
 was made to encore a single performer who pre 
 ceded her. 
 
 When her turn came she rose with graceful 
 self-possession, and did not again forget to salute 
 the spectators. 
 
 When she sang in public before, she had beheld 
 no one had been conscious of no presence had 
 hardly remembered that she was not in her own 
 humble little chamber. Now, amid the crowd, 
 one face shone distinctly, throwing all others into 
 a background of shadows ; aye, shone, for to her 
 excited vision, that peerless head almost seemed 
 encircled by a luminous halo. The countenance 
 was that which had haunted her dreams, and 
 risen night and day, unsummoned, before her 
 waking sight. With the eyes of her mind she 
 had not seen it less clearly than she saw it now. 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 157 
 
 She was singing, not to the noble assemblage who 
 breathlessly drank in the seraphic sounds that 
 poured from her lips, but to one being only one 
 to whom she had never dared to open those lips in 
 speech. Not that she analysed her own tumul 
 tuous emotions, or knew what she was doing, 
 or comprehended the intensity of feeling, the holy 
 fervor, which she threw into the love-breathing 
 music. 
 
 The audience had been charmed when they lis 
 tened to her " Mio Fernando I" at the Salle Ste. 
 Cecile but now, the impassioned tone the aban 
 don the reality that spoke in voice and look, 
 penetrated the coldest heart, and created a perfect 
 furor, by which the most insensible listener was 
 carried away. 
 
 All Sylvie s weakness had vanished she had 
 never felt stronger, more elastic, more at her ease. 
 Her step was firm, her movements were free, her 
 bosom rose and sank with full and deep inspira 
 tion ; if her pulses were rapid, they were also 
 regular. She was exhilarated to the highest 
 degree of pleasurable excitement which she had 
 ever experienced. Was it the stimulus of adula 
 tion, the throb of gratified vanity that awoke this 
 ecstatic sensation ? Was it the exercise of the 
 
158 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 wonderful gift with which she had been endowed? 
 Was it the dawning of some new, uncompre- 
 hended capacity of soul that filled her with its 
 sweet, palpitating strangeness? She could not 
 have answered these questions herself. 
 
 She did not hear what was said to her, and 
 answered at random. She could not have told 
 afterwards who had addressed her, or even whe 
 ther her master had spoken to her. The loud 
 acclamations conveyed no meaning to her ears 
 the waving handkerchiefs none to her eyes until 
 she saw one arm lifted, and from that hand floated 
 her banner of triumph. 
 
 When the concert was over, as Sylvie stood 
 with her arm in that of Maitre Beaujeu, looking 
 proudly happy, and bowing her adieux to Mon 
 sieur Le Grand, many of the audience thronged 
 around the latter, and begged to be presented to 
 the young stranger. Before he could comply, 
 Honorine had forced her way through the crowd, 
 and with the Marquis de St. Amar reached her side. 
 
 " I am commissioned by the Duke," said the 
 little sprite, " to beg you to remain to the ball. 
 Let me add my entreaties to his. You do not 
 look fatigued to-night you seem delightfully 
 fresh. Do stay ! Will you not?" 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 159 
 
 Sylvie s glowing face expressed no disinclina 
 tion to consent. "If Maitre Beaujeu does not 
 object," she answered, turning her eyes upon him 
 with a look of mingled submission and entreaty. 
 
 "I am sure Monsieur Beaujeu will not refuse 
 us this petition ?" replied Honorine, addressing 
 him in a tone of bewitching supplication. 
 
 " If I thought Mademoiselle de la Roche would 
 not suffer from fatigue," he answered, " the 
 honor " 
 
 Sylvie interrupted him. 
 
 " I am not in the least tired, my dear master. 
 If I may, 1 should like to stay." 
 
 " And Monsieur says distinctly that you may. 
 That look of his ba^e me tell you so," rejoined 
 the lively Honorine. 1 I can read faces, and his 
 is a very expressive one. Don t you think so ?" 
 asked the little flatterer. 
 
 " My master quarrels with me when I am saucy 
 enough to tell him what his eyes betray," replied 
 Sylvie, archly. 
 
 " He will not deny that / have interpreted his 
 look rightly, will you, Monsieur Beaujeu?" 
 inquired the syren. 
 
 "That is a liberty I could not venture to take," 
 returned the musician, not a little charmed at 
 
160 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 having such a pair of clear, frank, brown eyes 
 fastened upon his time-furrowed visage. 
 
 " Oh ! thank you, Monsieur Beaujeu ; but we 
 must take immediate possession of Mademoiselle 
 de la Roche, else a host of admirers will be run 
 ning away with her. So, Mademoiselle Sylvie, 
 take my brother s arm, and 
 
 Sylvie started violently, and the blood leapt in 
 a sudden torrent to her cheeks and brow. 
 
 "But allow me first to present my brother, the 
 Marquis de St. Amar," resumed Honorinc. " How 
 surprised you look ! Are you astonished that 
 such a grave-looking personage should have such 
 a wilful, troublesome little torment of a sister? 
 At all events, as he happens to have no other, he 
 has no better. But, do tell me, for whom did you 
 take me ?" 
 
 " I imagined I understood that somebody 
 said you were Madame la Marquise de St. 
 Amar." 
 
 Honorine s low, merry laughter rang out like 
 the rapid sweeping of a hand over harp-strings. 
 
 Her brother replied 
 
 "No, Mademoiselle; should I ever choose a 
 wife, it will not be such an elfish little gossamer 
 as this butterfly sister of mine." 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 161 
 
 "Of course not; he will court some awfully 
 stately and oppressively sensible person, who will 
 frighten me out of my wits whenever I come into 
 her august presence, and whom I shall mortally 
 detest, and never be able to call sister. But I ll 
 take my revenge by never inviting the odious 
 pair to the concerts I give, and by always having 
 you to sing for me. Now, as my brother is pas 
 sionately fond of music, that will punish him for 
 inflicting a bore upon me as a relative." 
 
 This bantering conversation was interrupted by 
 Monsieur Le Grand, who, with profuse apologies 
 to Mademoiselle de St. A mar, presented a number 
 of ladies and gentlemen to the youthful singer. 
 
 Sylvie replied to their compliments with grate 
 ful humility, and answered their inquiries with 
 unembarrassed propriety. Her modest artlessness 
 was wholly free from a touch of shyness. It 
 seemed as though the manners of good society had 
 suddenly been ingrafted upon her by the very 
 atmosphere she was breathing. 
 
 She stood between Honorine and her brother, 
 the loadstar of a circle of admirers. Maitre Beau- 
 jeu at a distance watched her in mute amazement, 
 as with unaffected ease she turned to each person 
 who addressed her, smilingly accepted floral offer- 
 
162 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 ings, and gaily entered into conversation with old 
 and young. 
 
 The rosy glow upon her cheeks kindled up her 
 eyes, until they seemed to shoot forth effulgent 
 rays ; her lips, even when silent, spoke through 
 the eloquently varying expression that wreathed, 
 or curved, or parted them ; her fragile form had 
 lost its willow-like droop, and the statuesque grace 
 of her poses could not be surpassed by a sculptor s 
 ideal. Beaujeu found it impossible to recognise 
 his sallow-visaged, bent, weak, meagre little pupil 
 in the resplendent being that stood before him, 
 calmly receiving the homage of an admiring crowd. 
 In one hour the feeble, shrinking girl had matur 
 ed into strong and self-reliant womanhood every 
 bud of promise had suddenly sprung into glorious 
 bloom. There was glamour in the marvellous 
 unfolding. 
 
 As he gazed upon her, she moved away, accom 
 panied by Honorine, the Marquis, and the Duke. 
 Beaujeu followed her with his eyes only. Asto 
 nishment transfixed him to the spot. 
 
 Midnight sounded. The lateness of the hour 
 aroused him. It was time to conduct her home. 
 She was delicate in the extreme, and her health 
 might suffer from this unusual dissipation. He 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 163 
 
 wandered from saloon to saloon searching for her 
 in vain. 
 
 At last, through a small opening in the crowd, 
 he caught a glimpse of the ivy circlet which he 
 had ordered that morning, little dreaming that the 
 head for which it was destined would wear it so 
 regally. With considerable difficulty he made 
 his way through the throng. Honorine and Syl- 
 vie were standing together beside the sumptuously 
 spread supper-table. The Marquis was in the act 
 of handing the latter a golden shell, holding an ice 
 that had the hue and form of a peach. Though 
 the humble maiden had certainly never seen a 
 frozen cream in this attractive shape, or taken in 
 her dainty fingers a shining shell of gold, in lieu of 
 a plate, she betrayed not the faintest token of sur 
 prise ; her thoughts were so much engrossed, that 
 she experienced none ; or else everything by 
 which she was surrounded seemed so entirely 
 the work of enchantment, that she had ceased to 
 wonder. 
 
 " It is very late, Mademoiselle Sylvie" (Beaujeu 
 uttered the Mademoiselle involuntarily, he could 
 not have accosted her as was his wont) ; " you 
 must be fatigued it is time for us to take our 
 leave." 
 
164 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " Must we go, my master ? I am not in the 
 least tired S" 
 
 Voices on every side protested against her de 
 parture. 
 
 " I cannot think of parting with her yet, Mon 
 sieur Beaujeu. Leave her with us a little while 
 longer," petitioned Honorine. 
 
 Sylvie repeated the words, " A little while 
 longer," in a wishful tone. She could not bear to 
 have her dream broken so soon. 
 
 The old man shook his head, but not very de 
 terminedly. 
 
 " There are large odds against you, Monsieur 
 Beaujeu," said the Marquis de St. Amar. " You 
 will be obliged to yield, and grant us the happi 
 ness of Mademoiselle de la Koche s presence for a 
 while longer." 
 
 Sylvie s eyes shone with redoubled lustre, but 
 the lids dropped suddenly over them, as though 
 they feared to betray their own exultant gleaming. 
 
 Beaujeu bowed assent, without remonstrating, 
 and withdrew. 
 
 Another hour passed, and still another. Sylvie 
 had flitted away, and her master had again lost 
 sight of her. She was now in the ball-room, 
 watching with eager interest the gliding figures 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 165 
 
 that, as they threaded the mazes of the dance, 
 were reflected in mirrors which lined the spacious 
 saloon from ceiling to floor. 
 
 Honorine was dancing, or rather floating through 
 the air, as though her fairy feet were under no 
 compulsion to touch the ground. Her brother, 
 with stately movements, that kept perfect time to 
 the inspiring music, without stooping to Terpsi- 
 chorean steps, was leading a fair young partner 
 through the same set. The Duke was conversing 
 with Sylvie, but her eyes were turned from him, 
 and rested upon the dancers. 
 
 Honorine was the first to spy Beaujeu wending 
 his way towards his pupil. Fortunately, -the 
 dance had jast concluded, and courtesying hur 
 riedly to her partner, she joined her brother, ex 
 claiming, " There is the hawk in pursuit of our 
 singing-bird ; let us fly to the rescue, or he will 
 capture and carry her away." 
 
 But, before they could reach Sylvie, her tutor 
 had told her that it was time to depart in a tone 
 so peremptory that it silenced objection. She 
 had made her adieu to the Duke, and allowed her 
 self to be led away. 
 
 " You are not going yet, Monsieur Beaujeu !" 
 cried Honorine, following them. " Stanislaus is so 
 
166 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 cross with me for having compelled him to dance 
 when he wanted to be more agreeably occupied, 
 that I shall not be able to obtain his pardon to 
 night if you leave the moment the dance is over." 
 
 " What nonsense you talk, little madcap," re 
 torted the Marquis. " I trust, Monsieur Beaujeu, 
 you will allow us the pleasure of taking Made 
 moiselle de la Eoche and yourself home." 
 
 11 Many thanks, Monsieur le Marquis, for the 
 proposed honor," replied Beaujeu ; " but we have 
 a conveyance which has been waiting for some 
 hours." 
 
 "No matter; send it away," urged Honorine, 
 " and let us take you." 
 
 " You are very kind, Mademoiselle ; but we 
 will not give you the trouble," answered the 
 musician, with an air of such firm declination 
 that, although Honorine looked disappointed, good 
 breeding forbade her to remonstrate. 
 
 At that moment the Duke addressed the Mar 
 quis and his sister, asking their advice about a 
 fete champetre which he was about to give. With 
 out further leave-taking, Beaujeu conducted Sylvie 
 to the apartment where she had left her wrap 
 pings. 
 
 On passing out of the street door they found 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 167 
 
 it was raining fast. They hurried through the 
 court-yard to the gate, where Beaujeu expected 
 to find his fiacre waiting ; it was not to be seen. 
 In vain he hunted among the splendid equipages ; 
 the plebeian conveyance had disappeared ! After 
 many inquiries, he obtained the startling informa 
 tion that a fiacre had stood there until within an 
 hour, but that the driver got into a dispute with 
 one of the coachmen, and on the approach of the 
 police, fearing that he might be arrested, had 
 driven away too rapidly for pursuit. 
 
 " What are we to do ?" broke forth Beaujeu, in 
 deep distress. " How is it possible for you to 
 walk in this pouring rain? It is dreadful! It 
 will ruin your voice ! It will kill you ! You 
 will certainly take your death of cold !" 
 
 "Don t believe tliat, my dear master. I am 
 quite able to walk. The air will refresh me ; 
 and as for the rain," she added gaily, " I do not 
 feel it I do not mind it more than " 
 
 " Than a swan ?" added Beaujeu, in a tone of 
 compliment that sounded strangely, it so rarely 
 found voice on his lips. The next instant he 
 shuddered, and said : " I do not like the compari 
 son ; it reminds me that the swan is fabled to die 
 singing." 
 
168 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 "While /shall live by singing; so your simile 
 is really not felicitous !" answered Sylvie, gaily. 
 
 As she attempted to gather up her dress to save 
 it from contact with the mud, the bouquets she 
 was carrying encumbered her. With an awkward 
 display of gallantry, .Beaujeu offered to take 
 charge of them. 
 
 Sylvie tripped on as airily as though she had 
 not undergone the least fatigue and how blithely 
 she prattled ! The rain was beating down upon 
 her head as though she were walking in a shower- 
 bath ; the old veil was drenched, the black mantle 
 saturated, the white slippers soaked through, yet 
 she never heeded or only found subject for 
 mirth in these inconveniences. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu listened to her pleasant talk, 
 and answered with a deference which he had 
 never before shown. Ever and anon, he in 
 wardly asked himself, with a sense of vague 
 wonder, if this were indeed Sylvie. He felt 
 that his mind was brought into communion, not 
 with that of a mere undeveloped girl, but that 
 of a woman of aptitude and intellect ; guileless 
 as girlhood, but salient, sparkling, comprehen 
 sive, intuitively adapting itself to circumstances, 
 as womanhood in its finest manifestation. 
 
BUSTLING LAURELS. 169 
 
 The clock had struck four ere they reached 
 the Rue St. Denis. It was some time before 
 Dame Manot could be roused from her heavy 
 slumber. When, at last, she opened the door 
 and sleepily thrust out her night-cap, and be 
 held Sylvie standing without, her veil and man 
 tle blowing in the wind, the dripping white dress 
 clinging to her lithe limbs as though she had 
 just risen from a bath, while Maitre Beaujeu 
 looked as if he had been drowned and resusci 
 tated, the good woman shrieked with such genuine 
 dismay, that but for the wailing of the wind and 
 the pattering of the rain, her voice would have 
 summoned the guardians of the night. 
 
 "Stop your unearthly howling!" growled 
 Maitre Beaujeu, trying to pass her. "What is 
 the matter with the woman ?" 
 
 " Ah ! what is the matter with Sylvie, rather I" 
 cried the Dame. " Has she failed ? Has she 
 been disgraced? Ah! what has happened?" 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu disdained to give any explana 
 tion of their present plight ; but Sylvie stopped 
 him as he was hurrying her on. 
 
 u You see how you must have misjudged this 
 kind friend the other day, my master! You see 
 how grieved she is when she thinks I have not 
 
170 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 succeeded ! Was L not right to believe that she 
 rejoiced at my good fortune ?" Then she turned 
 soothingly to the shivering concierge. "Nothing 
 is the matter, Dame Manot, except that the fiacre 
 disappeared ; the driver got into a quarrel and 
 drove off without leave. We were obliged to 
 walk ; but everything else went well ; it has been 
 the happiest evening of my life I" 
 
 As they were ascending the stairs, Beaujeu 
 inquired, u At what hour to-morrow do you wish 
 to take your lesson ?" 
 
 It was the first time he had ever consulted her 
 pleasure or convenience. 
 
 " At whatever hour suits you best," replied 
 Sylvie, with her wonted humility. 
 
 " But have you any preference ? I can make 
 my time conform to yours." 
 
 " That would not be right ; I am only too grate 
 ful to receive my lessons whenever your leisure 
 serves." 
 
 The old man stopped suddenly, and seizing both 
 her hands, asked with emotion : " Sylvie, will you 
 always be grateful ? Will not contact with the 
 idol-making world change your nature? Will 
 not the hot touch of aristocratic palms brush away 
 the delicate bloom from your character? Will 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 171 
 
 not the voice of adulation poison its sweetness ? 
 "Will not world-knowledge destroy your holy 
 innocence? Will you always be what you are 
 now ?" 
 
 "If I am if 1 do not grow much letter, my 
 master, you will have cause to blush for me." 
 
 They were at her chamber door. Beaujeu re 
 leased her hands, laid the bouquets he was carry 
 ing in her arms, and went on his way. 
 
 Ursule was sitting up with Sylvie s parents, 
 counting the hours as they slowly passed. It is 
 needless to state that Madame de la Eoche had 
 worked herself into a state of almost frantic alarm 
 at her daughter s non-appearance. Her husband s 
 sanguine temperament, which always anticipated 
 that which was most agreeable, caused him to con 
 jecture rightly in this instance. He was perfectly 
 certain that, after the concert concluded, the rising 
 star had been solicited to shine upon the ball. 
 Though Ursule gladly accepted this explanation 
 of Sj lvie s prolonged absence, Madame dc la 
 Koche refused to give credence to any solution so 
 ple v v^ng and satisfactory. 
 
 "When, at last, Sylvie entered, dripping with 
 the rain, she was greeted by a general cry of com 
 passionate distress ; but her beaming face, still 
 
172 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 flushed with the roses of triumph, her glittering, 
 dancing eyes and smiling lips announced that 
 there was no cause for commiseration. 
 
 Her mother s moans could with difficulty be 
 silenced long enough to allow her daughter to 
 relate the misadventure which led to a predica 
 ment which she assured them was of very little 
 importance, for had she not often walked in the 
 rain before? she asked ; and did it ever harm her? 
 
 Ursule removed her mantle and veil without 
 the least allusion to the damage they had sus 
 tained. On the contrary, she threw them out of 
 sight, that they might not attract attention. Then 
 she took the bouquets out of the young girl s 
 hands and examined them with admiration. 
 
 u Did you ever see flowers so perfect?" asked 
 Sylvie, delightedly. 
 
 " They are beautiful very beautiful ; they are 
 hot-house plants but I have seen all these flow 
 ers before years, years ago !" and the old maid 
 sighed at some sad recollection conjured up by the 
 sight of the lovely exotics. But quickly chasing 
 away the intruding memory, she relinquished the 
 flowers, exclaiming, " My dear Sylvie, you must 
 take off those wet clothes instantly, and go to bed. 
 Come, I will undress you." 
 
RUSTLING LAURELS. 173 
 
 Sylvie was not inclined to retire. She would 
 much rather have lingered to enjoy her father s 
 raptures and comfort her mother, whose lamenta 
 tions at the prospect of her daughter s taking cold 
 were loud and long. But Ursule knew if that 
 threatening calamity could be averted, it could 
 only be through immediate care ; and she would 
 not consent to a moment s delay. 
 
 In less than half an hour the ivy wreath lay 
 upon the tributary bouquets, which had been 
 carefully placed in water; and the head those 
 shining leaves had encircled, reposed upon its 
 unluxurious pillow ; and Sylvie s bright eyes were 
 closed in gentle sleep, while upon her lips the 
 happy smile still lingered. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 LOST GIFTS. 
 
 THE shadowy light of morning had merged 
 into broad day, but all was quiet in Sylvie s little 
 chamber. Her mother stole softly in and found 
 her sleeping ; but ever and anon she stirred un 
 easily, uttering faint moans. Her breathing was 
 labored her long hair, loosened by her unquiet 
 movements, swept over the couch in wild dis 
 order her arms were tossed above her head ; she 
 had flung aside the bed-covering, as though its 
 weight oppressed her. Madame de la Roche 
 watched her for a few moments, then hastened to 
 inform her husband, almost with an air of exulta 
 tion at this proof of her own sagacity, that her sad 
 predictions were surely verified. He received the 
 communication with merry disbelief, and said if 
 Sylvie slept she was doing well, and that breakfast 
 need not longer be delayed, as he had business on 
 hand. The business in question was simply to 
 get rid of a portion of the sum that remained out 
 of his daughter s scanty store. 
 
LOST GIFTS. 175 
 
 Shortly after the meal was over, Ursule came 
 to inquire after her beloved little friend; but 
 learning that she had not yet waked, noiselessly 
 withdrew. 
 
 Mathieu, who was hovering about the entry, 
 greatly troubled at not hearing Sylvie s voice, 
 though her regular hour for practising had long 
 since arrived, ventured to accost the mantua-maker 
 as she passed. A look of satisfaction, pleasant to 
 see, chased the expression of disappointment from 
 his thin, pinched countenance, when he knew that 
 the gentle songstress was still slumbering, and he 
 magnanimously replied that, although he always 
 felt restless and comfortless when he missed her 
 singing of a morning, he wished she might 
 sleep all day ! 
 
 It seemed likely that his generous desire would 
 be gratified ; for, when Maitre Beaujeu came to the 
 door, a couple of hours later, Madame de la Roche, 
 who wandered in and out of Sylvie s room every 
 few minutes, informed him that she was still 
 sleeping, but very uncomfortably, and it was her 
 opinion that she was seriously ill. 
 
 If this suggestion had emanated from any one 
 but Madame de la Roche, Maitre Beaujeu would 
 have felt concerned ; but he was so much accus- 
 
176 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 tomed to her dark-side view of events, and her 
 constant cry of " wolf," that, without noticing the 
 alarming conclusion at which she had arrived, he 
 whisperingly charged her not to disturb her daugh 
 ter, closed the door without sound, and went away, 
 content that his pupil was resting, and gaining new 
 strength. 
 
 Prompted by the feminine spirit of contradic 
 tion, and further instigated by her dislike to ac 
 knowledge Maitre Beaujeu s authority, Madame 
 de la Eoche returned to Sylvie s bedside, and, as 
 her daughter s head rolled backward and forward 
 on the pillow, stooped over and spoke to her. 
 Sylvie gave no sign of hearing, but her head still 
 swayed to and fro, the black tresses coiling and 
 tangling with the motion. Her mother, with 
 rapidly increasing agitation, called her in a louder 
 tone; still no answer: she took her hands, but 
 even a violent pressure produced no effect ; then, 
 seriously frightened, she shook the slumbering 
 maiden, but wholly failed to rouse her. Almost 
 beside herself, the panic-stricken woman rushed 
 down-stairs to Ursule, and implored her to hasten 
 to Sylvie, who was probably dying. 
 
 Ursule waited not to ask questions, or to pon 
 der upon Madame de la Eoche s unconquer- 
 
LOST GIFTS. 177 
 
 able tendency to exaggeration ; but with rapid 
 steps outstripped her summoner, and stood by 
 the sufferer s bed. Sylvie s dishevelled hair, the 
 restless movement of her head, and her pain- 
 betokening attitude, were somewhat startling; 
 but Ursule was prepared for so much wosse, 
 that, with a feeling of relief, she smiled at her 
 own forgetfulness of Madame de la Roche s 
 idosyncrasy, which had occasioned her such, a 
 moment of anguish. 
 
 The self- tormentor was at her side, whispering, 
 "Try to wake her I could not; try, and you 
 will see she does not wake." 
 
 " The sounder she sleeps the better," replied 
 Ursule, repressing her vexation. "Sleep is a 
 panacea for all ills ; it would be very inconsider 
 ate, very wrong to disturb her." 
 
 She saw that Madame de la Roche entertained 
 a different opinion ; and, partly to guard Sylvie, 
 partly to divert her thoughts from their present 
 sad direction, Ursule sat down to the work upon 
 which she had- been employed when Madame de 
 la Roche burst into her room, and which she still 
 held in her hand. 
 
 Madame de la Roche also resumed her needle ; 
 
 and Ursule chatted so cheerfully, though in a low 
 
 s* 
 
178 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 tone, that the dispirited mother was gradually re 
 stored to a state of tolerable calmness. 
 
 They were sitting at the window in the larger 
 apartment ; neither heard a faint exclamation, a 
 sort of choked cry, which issued from behind 
 Sylvie s curtain. It was repeated more audibly, 
 and in an instant both were by Sylvie s bedside. 
 She was sitting up, her lips apart, her large eyes 
 frightfully dilated actually glaring with horror. 
 As Ursule bent over her she again made a violent 
 effort to speak, but a hoarse murmur was the only 
 sound that broke from her lips. 
 
 "Sylvie, what is it, my darling?" asked the 
 dress-maker, disguising her consternation. 
 
 The young girl looked at her piteously, and 
 with great difficulty replied, in a stifled whisper, 
 " I have lost my voice ; I cannot speak louder !" 
 
 Ursule glanced at the mother, who stood at the 
 foot of the bed weeping and wringing her hands, 
 though she had not heard those fatal words. 
 
 "Do not agitate yourself, my dear girl," an 
 swered Ursule, soothingly ; " you will be able to 
 speak in a few minutes. At the worst, you have 
 only taken cold, which was very natural. Do 
 not let a transient inconvenience discompose 
 you." 
 
LOST GIFTS. 179 
 
 Sylvie pressed her hand thankfully, and re 
 plied, in the same painful whisper, "I felt as 
 though I should never speak again as though 
 I had lost my voice for ever!" 
 
 " What does she say ? Why does she whis 
 per ? Why does she not speak out and let her 
 poor afflicted mother hear her ?" cried Madame 
 de la Roche, testily. 
 
 " She has taken cold it is nothing, nothing at 
 all," replied Ursule; " she is too hoarse to speak 
 loudly. When a person is suffering from hoarse 
 ness, it is very wrong to force the voice, or use it 
 at all. Lie down, Sylvie, and do not try to speak 
 one word ; you will soon be better. Pray do not 
 go on in that frantic manner, Madame dela Roche ; 
 you will excite the child, and increase her fever 
 pray, be quiet !" 
 
 " Increase her fever ? She has a fever, then ? 
 But did I not say long ago that she would have? 
 Did I not expect it ? It has been coming on all 
 this time, and soon it will increase ; it is a mercy 
 if we do not lose her ! a mercy which it is in 
 vainer us to hope for !" 
 
 Ursule almost lost her temper at this ill- 
 judged but characteristic speech ; and could not 
 help reflecting that, after all, there was as much 
 
180 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 justice as severity in Maitre Beaujeu s rebukes, 
 which, were never more needed than at that 
 moment. 
 
 As if her thoughts had summoned him, his 
 knock, though much softer than usual, was heard 
 at the door. 
 
 The mother flew to open it, exclaiming, "It s 
 all over with us ! It has come at last ! Oh ! my 
 poor Sylvie ! my poor Sylvie 1" 
 
 Beaujeu hurried past her into the inner cham 
 ber. Sylvie turned to him with a failing attempt 
 to smile, and, stretching out her hands, murmured, 
 u It is nothing Ursule says I will be better soon." 
 
 " Dear child, why do you whisper ?" gasped 
 her teacher. 
 
 " I cannot speak ! I have lost my voice /" 
 
 Jr u 
 
 Beaujeu s violin dropped, and would have fallen 
 to the ground had it not been caught by Ursule ; 
 he covered his face with his hands, and a groan 
 that sounded like the sundering of heart-strings 
 burst from his lips. 
 
 " It is nothing only a cold only a temporary 
 calamity. In a week she will be herself," cried 
 Ursule, consolingly. 
 
 " A week ! and I have just made a regular en 
 gagement for her which commences before the 
 
LOST GIFTS. 181 
 
 close of this very week ; and she is expected to 
 sing every week for the next three months ! If 
 she is not able to fulfil the contract, they will be 
 obliged to engage some one else to take her place ! 
 My child ; my dear, dear child !" 
 
 The old man kissed her forehead again and 
 again, and held her hot hands in his, and smoothed 
 back her matted hair, and looked tenderly into 
 her flushed face. The brilliant woman, who had 
 excited his wonder and admiration last night, had 
 vanished ; she was his little, humble, dependent, 
 unfortunate Sylvie again. 
 
 She did not seem to notice or to comprehend 
 the intelligence he had just given. With eyes 
 preternaturally bright, she glanced around the 
 room in search of something, then stretched her 
 arm towards the little table and tried to grasp a 
 book. Ursule handed it to her it was her Bible. 
 From between the leaves she took a withered 
 flower ; no one present recognised the faded sprig 
 of heliotrope. Beaujeu alone might have known 
 from whence it came, but his mind was too full 
 of distress for reminiscences that could have given 
 the key to this action. She muttered incohe 
 rently as she held the scentless, colorless flower 
 before her eyes ; but the few words that could be 
 
182 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 distinguished conveyed no meaning she had 
 become delirious. 
 
 " I must summon a doctor at once," said Beau- 
 jeu, rising hastily. " Keep her quiet, good 
 Ursule ; and you, madam, if you have the slightest 
 consideration for your child, you will not distress 
 her and increase the fever from which she is suffer 
 ing, by letting her see your grief." 
 
 If Madame de la Koche made any effort to act 
 upon this suggestion, it was a vain attempt ; and 
 Ursule, finding that Sylvie, in brief moments of 
 lucidity, looked at her mother inquiringly and 
 with a troubled expression, insisted upon the lat- 
 ter s withdrawing to her own apartment. 
 
 She yielded, sobbing out, " And it has come to 
 this ! I am not to take care of my own child ! 
 Every one is to have charge of her, and to regu 
 late her, but I." 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu soon returned with Dr. Sou- 
 vestre, the youthful partner of a physician of high 
 standing, who, being unable personally to attend 
 to his numerous patients, allowed this young as 
 sistant to study his profession by practising among 
 the poorer classes, taking or saving lives, as the 
 case might be. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre examined the patient with genu- 
 
LOST GIFTS. 183 
 
 ine interest, and an assumption of importance and 
 gravity by which he expected to inspire confidence 
 and atone for the absence of grey hairs. Ursule 
 replied to his numerous questions, for Madame de 
 la Roche was either incapable of doing so, or 
 chose to remain obstinately silent. 
 
 He casually asked, " Are you her mother, 
 madame ? " Then the weeping woman started for 
 ward and replied eagerly " No no that she is 
 not! /am her mother! but they give me no 
 power over her ! I am nobody ! I must see her 
 die and not come to her aid." 
 
 " Since you are her mother, madame," replied 
 the doctor with severity, " I must tell you that this 
 violent ebullition is very harmful to my patient. I 
 shall be obliged to order you from the apartment 
 unless you are perfectly composed." 
 
 Poor Madame de la Roche felt that the doctor 
 also was in league against her, and combining with 
 the others to take her child out of her hands. Dr. 
 Souvestre, without again noticing her, gave his 
 directions to Ursule, wrote a prescription, and 
 charged her not to allow Sylvie to be subjected to 
 the least excitement. 
 
 MaitreBeaujeu left the room with him. 
 
 " Is she very ill, Doctor ?" he inquired. 
 
184 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " I fear she is. The fever has evidently been 
 produced by exposure to cold and wet, when her 
 highly sensitive nervous system was in a state of 
 violent excitement." 
 
 " But her voice will she lose her voice ?" 
 
 " I have not been able to judge of the extent to 
 which her voice is affected, for, as you saw, she 
 did not reply to any of my questions." 
 
 " It will not be possible for her to be well enough 
 to keep an engagement to sing in a few days do 
 you think it will ?" 
 
 Dr. Souvestre lifted his eyebrows, as though 
 he were regarding a man not particularly sound 
 in mind: " Decidedly not." 
 
 Beaujeu had not the heart, the courage, to go 
 at once to Monsieur Le Grand and tell him that 
 he must seek for some one to fill Sylvie s place. 
 He absolved himself from that hard duty until 
 the morrow. 
 
 That morrow brought no favorable change to 
 Sylvie. Her fever still raged ; her voice sank 
 lower and lower; her words, unconnected and 
 wild, were hardly audible at all. 
 
 Ursule, unsolicited, filled the post of nurse. 
 Madame de la Eoche became more useless than 
 ever. Her husband spent most of his time in 
 
LOST GIFTS. 185 
 
 trying to prove that this illness could be nothing 
 of importance ; that she had simply caught cold 
 when she was heated. He had often taken cold 
 in the same way himself, he added. He was 
 certain she would be restored in a few days 
 he always was; and as for her being a little 
 out of her mind, fever always made him light 
 headed. 
 
 "And folly always keeps you so," muttered 
 Beaujeu, gruffly. 
 
 It was now absolutely necessary that Monsieur 
 Le Grand should be apprised of the calamity that 
 had befallen the young singer. Maitre Beaujeu s 
 services had been included in Sylvie s engage 
 ment. Though his skill as a performer on the 
 violin was incontestable, his talents had not yet 
 received that public recognition which consti 
 tutes fame, and he doubted whether, apart from 
 Sylvie, he could obtain a hearing. 
 
 He made as light as possible of her illness to 
 Monsieur Le Grand, assuring him that it was but 
 a cold, brought on by walking in a pouring rain, 
 owing to the disappearance of their conveyance. 
 
 " The indisposition of Mademoiselle de la Eoche 
 is a serious calamity at this moment, when she has 
 created such an extraordinary sensation, and every 
 
186 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 one is on the qui vive to bear her. Her fortune 
 was made. Are you sure she cannot appear? 
 Could she not venture upon a single song? or 
 repeat the Semiramide with Lablache on Thurs 
 day?" 
 
 " It will not be possible." 
 
 " How vexatious ! This is very discomposing ! 
 I shall be obliged to engage some one else; but 
 her really wonderful vocalization will render the 
 public very difficult to please. I trust she will 
 recover shortly. One of the disadvantages of 
 our profession is, that if a favorite be not kept 
 constantly before the audience, she is soon forgot 
 ten ; and it is always hard to re-kindle an 
 enthusiasm which has once died out." 
 
 " I will apprise you on the instant she is conva 
 lescent." 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu lingered and hesitated ; nothing 
 had been said about his expected performance. 
 Le Grand was too much engrossed by the un 
 looked-for disappointment of being deprived of 
 Sylvie, to think of the interests of her tutor. 
 
 At last Beaujeu compelled himself to say, with 
 as much indifference as possible : " Allow me to 
 ask whether my services will be needed on Thurs 
 day, as before arranged, or whether my engage- 
 
LOST GIFTS. 187 
 
 ment depends upon that of Mademoiselle de la 
 Roche?" 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand was too admirable a diplo 
 matist not to remember that, as Maitre Beaujeu 
 controlled his pupil, and his pupil would be eager 
 ly sought after by the public, the most politic com 
 pliment he could pay the master was to assume 
 that he was held in high consideration wholly in 
 dependent of his valuable scholar. 
 
 " What a question !" exclaimed the wily prin 
 cipal, with well feigned surprise. " Of course 
 your engagement holds good without the least 
 reference to that of Mademoiselle de la Roche. 
 We could not dispense with you on any account. 
 By-the-by, allow me to pay you the two hundred 
 francs due. These bad tidings concerning Made 
 moiselle de la Roche have made me very forget 
 ful." 
 
 He counted out the money, and took Beaujeu s 
 receipt. 
 
 The music-teacher withdrew in the most grate 
 ful mood that he had ever experienced. But 
 what was he to do with Sylvie s hundred francs ? 
 If he delivered them to her father, they would 
 certainly be squandered ; with her mother they 
 would be equally unsafe, for she would yield them 
 
188 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 to her husband ; Sylvie could have no voice in 
 the matter at this moment. 
 
 " No voice! 7 The words, used casually, gave 
 him a sharp pang. 
 
 He determined to take Ursule into his confi 
 dence, and abide by her advice. As she was 
 always at Sylvie s side, he was obliged to request 
 her to grant him a brief interview in -her own 
 room. Had she been less absorbed by the state 
 of her beloved charge, the old maid would have 
 suffered no little trepidation in consenting to this 
 strange petition ; as it was, there was no room in 
 her mind for thoughts of self. "When Beaujeu 
 made known his dilemma, she strongly urged him 
 to retain the money, without making any allusion 
 to its having been paid ; adding, that if it once 
 passed into the hands of Monsieur de la Eoche, it 
 would melt as surely as though it were thrown 
 into a fiery furnace. 
 
 " But Sylvie must not lack any comfort," an 
 swered Beaujeu. 
 
 " I will take care that she does not," replied 
 Ursule. " But her spendthrift father probably has 
 something left of that last hundred francs, the 
 larger portion of which he has amused his mind 
 by throwing away. I will insist upon his expend- 
 
LOST GIFTS. 189 
 
 ing what remains upon necessary medicines; it 
 will be so much saved." 
 
 Ursule found herself mistaken. 
 
 When Monsieur de la Koche returned home 
 that very day, it was not with empty hands. He 
 asked his wife for a dish, then daintily uncovered 
 the fanciful basket he carried, and heaped the 
 coarse piece of crockery which was placed on the 
 table with luscious hot-house peaches. 
 
 "ISTow let me have your largest jar filled with 
 water," demanded he, in a tone of pleasant excite 
 ment. 
 
 The fractured brown jug was silently placed 
 before him. In that he carefully inserted the 
 stems of a costly bouquet. Next he unfolded a 
 paper parcel, and displayed the last new novel, in 
 three volumes, by Eugene Sue. 
 
 " You see I ve done my part towards taking care 
 of the dear child. Those peaches are just the 
 thing for her to relish; and she delights in flowers; 
 this bouquet will charm her. This novel I mean 
 to read aloud to her myself, to amuse her. It is 
 said to be a thrilling narrative, and we shall enjoy 
 all the marvellous incidents and hair-breadth es 
 capes together. The basket is so pretty, that I 
 thought I would buy that, too. It may be of use 
 
190 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 to hold your work, Marguerite," and tie tossed a 
 flimsy wicker-basket towards his wife. 
 
 Ursule, who had been impatiently watching the 
 self-satisfied prodigal, now said, in a tone full of 
 quiet irony : 
 
 "I really congratulate you upon the felicitous 
 choice of your purchases; the peaches will pro 
 bably spoil before Sylvie is able to taste one ! 
 The doctor happened to notice the bouquets with 
 which she was so liberally supplied last night, and 
 ordered all flowers to be removed from the room, 
 as hurtful to his patient; so these must go any 
 where you please out of the window if you like, 
 unless, indeed, you think it was worth spending 
 the sum they cost to bestow them upon me. As 
 for the novel, she could neither listen to nor com 
 prehend a single page at present ; and, when she is 
 convalescent, I promise you Dr. Souvestre will not 
 allow any work as exciting as the tales of Eugene 
 Sue to be perused in her hearing. Of the basket, I 
 wish you joy, Madame de la Roche ; though you 
 have a rather more substantial one by your side." 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche looked blank for an in 
 stant, but quickly recovered. 
 
 Ursule went on mercilessly : 
 
 " Now will you have the goodness to give me 
 
LOST GIFTS. 191 
 
 five francs to pay for the medicine that Dr. Sou- 
 vestre charged me to procure ?" 
 
 u Five francs for medicines what a sum I " ex 
 claimed Everard, drawing out his purse, which 
 was evidently in a state of collapse. " Eeally, I 
 I believe I am not quite certain yes, it is so, 
 indeed ; I have but two francs left ! " 
 
 " Is Sylvie to go without her medicine, then ?" 
 asked Ursule, with tantalizing coolness." 
 
 11 Of course not certainly not that is out of 
 the question," replied De la Eoche, wincing. 
 
 " It is equally out of the question to procure it 
 without money," she returned, sharply. 
 
 " Then we must borrow that is our only re 
 source," he answered, with returning hopefulness. 
 " Let me see ; Maitre Beaujeu cannot be afraid to 
 trust us, for there will be a hundred francs passing 
 through his hands for Sylvie, and he can reim 
 burse himself. Bv-the-by, I wonder why Monsieur 
 Le Grand has not paid up yet. I have a great 
 mind to call on him ; but it does not do to let 
 such people know that one is out of funds. It is 
 better to apply to Beaujeu. I would rather not 
 ask him myself, but you will do it for me, my 
 good, kind Ursule ? You are always so ready, so 
 obliging, so friendly " 
 
192 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Ursule interrupted his flattery with 
 " For her sake, I undertake to arrange that mat 
 ter." 
 
 And she did. She arranged with Beaujeu to 
 retain Sylvie s money, yet to allow as much 
 as was needed, from time to time, seemingly in the 
 shape of a loan. Quite a masterly stroke, by 
 which Monsieur de la Eoche was outwitted with 
 out suspecting her generalship. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE OLD MUSICIAN. 
 
 DAY followed day, week fled after week, but Syl- 
 vie still lay withering under the torrid heat of 
 fever, hourly becoming weaker, and giving no 
 sign of consciousness, though her burning lips 
 ceaselessly moved in soundless mutterings. 
 
 One might almost have imagined that it was a 
 gratification to Madame de la Roche to be visited 
 by a positive affliction. The certainty of an actual 
 evil seemed more endurable than the vague dread 
 of some menacing calamity. Then her sad augu 
 ries had proved prophetic ; that was a cause for 
 self-complacency ; and no one could contradict her 
 when she maintained that adversity dogged their 
 steps ; that was a decided satisfaction. She was 
 comparatively cheerful under the real, tangible 
 trial, though in the midst of flattering prospects 
 she had been causelessly depressed, and ever 
 watching for possible misfortunes, which loomed 
 up darkly in the distant horizon. 
 
194 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Her husband had refused, as long as he could, 
 to believe that Sylvie s illness was serious ; but, as 
 week after week slowly wore away, and even his 
 hopeful vision failed to trace the slightest improve 
 ment in her condition, he became silent and 
 gloomy, and almost forsook his home, as though 
 he could fly from its troubles by not witnessing 
 them. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu s character, in which growing 
 tenderness for Sylvie had long since commenced a 
 gradual, harmonizing change, was now completely 
 softened by sorrow. Her confiding affection, her 
 appreciating devotion, had penetrated through the 
 hardness, roughness, bitterness of his external 
 husk, into the inner, better nature that lay buried 
 like a sweet kernel within a tough and prickly 
 rind. Her soft hand had struck chords deep in 
 his soul which never before gave forth a sound 
 and, but for her wakening touch, might have re 
 mained mute as death, even until death. He had 
 never loved any human being as he loved this 
 patient, clinging, steady-hearted girl. He looked 
 down upon her with paternal protection, and look 
 ed up to her with reverence that recognised her 
 higher, purer mould. His attachment for her 
 touched the secret spring of his long-closed heart, 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 195 
 
 and opened its doors to the rest of mankind ; he 
 hated others less because he loved her better every 
 day; he was more kindly disposed towards all 
 the world, because the holy mantle of her broad 
 charity swept about his feet. Grief, now mingling 
 with love, melted him to such wondrous gentleness 
 that even Mathieu dared to approach him with 
 anxious inquiries concerning the now silent song 
 stress, who had made all the music of the poor 
 cripple s untuned existence. 
 
 Beaujeu was moved by his desolate look and de 
 spairing tone, and compelled himself to answer so 
 cheerfully, that the heavy shadows upon the boy s 
 countenance grew lighter as he listened, and the 
 old man learned, for the first time, that there was 
 comfort in comforting. 
 
 Sylvie s sudden disappearance from the scene 
 of her triumphs had not proved as detrimental to 
 her tutor s prosperity as might reasonably have 
 been expected. He was now a regular member 
 of Monsieur Le Grand s corps, frequently appear 
 ing before critical audiences, and, as his musical 
 talent, cultivation, and skill grew more and more 
 apparent, steadily winning laurels. All that he 
 had heretofore lacked had been a fair field upon 
 which he could prove his claims to public favor, 
 
196 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 and he had struggled through half a century with 
 out ever planting his foot on that desired ground 
 the Canaan of the musician ! Alas ! how 
 many of the noteless gifted toil through long lives, 
 uncrowned and unknown, simply because the 
 opportunity to test their powers is never accorded ! 
 
 Perhaps, after all, it was as needful that the 
 musician s hairs should whiten before his fingers 
 caught the wizard touch that played at once 
 upon heart-strings and upon those of his instru 
 ment, as that his violin should require years to 
 gain that exquisite mellowness of tone which it 
 now possessed ; for the old violin is endowed 
 with a potent sweetness which age only can 
 confer, and which therefore never belongs to 
 the new. 
 
 The "Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table" tells 
 us that there are fifty-eight different pieces in a 
 violin, and that "those pieces are strangers to 
 each other ; and it takes a century, more or less, 
 to make them thoroughly acquainted. At last 
 they learn to vibrate in harmony, and the instru 
 ment becomes an organic whole, as it were, a 
 great capsule which had grown from a garden- 
 bed in Cremona or elsewhere. Besides, the wood 
 is juicy and full of sap for fifty years or so, but 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 197 
 
 at the end of fifty or a hundred more gets tole 
 rably dry and comparatively resonant." Let us 
 not, then, quarrel with time, which gives melody, 
 not to the violin only, but to every human instru 
 ment, when its construction is fine and suscepti 
 ble of that gradual progress towards perfection 
 which God orders, and only jarring natures rebel 
 against. 
 
 Sylvie had been ill for a month, when one 
 morning Ursule, who was sitting beside her, 
 chanced to look up from her work, and found 
 the invalid gazing at her with a totally changed 
 expression. Her eyes, though strangely sunken 
 and far too large for her face, were clear, and 
 calm, and sane ; the wild lights had faded out 
 of them ; the fiery spot that had glowed upon 
 her cheeks until it seemed to have burnt the 
 hollows now visible, was quenched in ashy 
 whiteness ; her lips were lightly closed, no long 
 er compressed, as they had been of late, when not 
 moving speechlessly. The small, transparent 
 hands were lying placidly on the coverlet. 
 
 Her eyes wandered from Ursule s face over 
 the bed-covering, and then around the room, as 
 though they were searching for something just 
 laid down. With returning consciousness, her 
 
198 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 mind had gone back to the last thought by 
 which it was occupied when reason forsook her, 
 and her gaze rested finally on the little Bible. 
 Ursule, without permitting herself to betray the 
 least surprise, handed the volume, opening it at 
 the place where the pressed flower lay between 
 the leaves. She was rewarded by a smile the 
 first she had beheld for many weeks. 
 
 The next moment Sylvie, laying her hand upon 
 the open page, moved her lips ; then an expres 
 sion of sudden anguish passed over her face. 
 
 With a violent effort she whispered, " My 
 voice ! my voice ! Have I lost my voice ?" 
 
 Ursule could not command her own to reply. 
 
 A shuddering spasm convulsed the young girl s 
 frame, as she wildly tried to force the sounds, 
 which died un uttered in her throat. 
 
 Ursule quickly regained her self-possession, and 
 said, " I am so thankful to see you better, dear ! 
 You have been very ill." 
 
 " How long?" murmured Sylvie, indistinctly, 
 
 " More than a month." 
 
 After a moment of amazement, Sylvie appeared 
 to be trying to collect her thoughts. She asked, 
 speaking very slowly, but in the same choked 
 tone, " Have I lost my voice -for ever f 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 199 
 
 " Heaven forbid !" replied Ursule, cheeringly. 
 " Now that you have passed the crisis, we may 
 dare to believe that it will be restored." 
 
 Blessed are the words of hope, even when hope 
 is faint groundless unreal ; still words that 
 can inspire hope, however fallacious, are full of 
 consolation full of vitality. Ursule s words not 
 only soothed Sylvie, but imparted new strength to 
 her feeble frame, new courage to her sinking 
 spirit. 
 
 Madame de la Eoche, who was in her own 
 apartment, having caught the sound of Ursule s 
 voice, now entered. When she saw Sylvie look 
 ing perfectly rational, with a passionate burst she 
 threw herself on her knees beside the bed, exclaim 
 ing, " My child I my own ! my only one ! Are 
 you indeed spared ? Are you better ? Do you 
 know your poor, broken-hearted mother ?" 
 
 Sylvie s answering caresses replied for her. 
 
 " Speak to me ! Speak to me !" cried Madame 
 de la Eoche, embracing her fondly. 
 
 Sylvie only sighed. 
 
 "You cannot? Your voice your beautiful 
 voice is gone, then ? Ah ! will it ever return ?" 
 
 " If it be God s will !" whispered Sylvie, and 
 her white face grew angelic with the look which 
 
200 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 said that she could wait for that will to be made 
 apparent wait and hope wait, if needs be, with 
 out hope. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre and Maitre Beaujeu now entered. 
 
 The instant Sylvie caught sight of the latter, 
 she feebly stretched her arms towards him, but 
 they dropped powerless upon the bed ; Ursule 
 divined her intention, and, as the musician bent 
 over her joyfully, lifted up the weak, nerveless 
 arms, and they clasped themselves about his 
 neck. 
 
 His face was buried in the bed-covering, and his 
 frame shook as though he were weeping. If tears 
 of joy could not find their way to eyes, the chan 
 nels of which half a century had dried, the fresh 
 ening drops fell inwardly, and revived his parched 
 spirit. 
 
 The hand of Dr. Souvestre upon his shoulder 
 roused him, and he rose, exclaiming, " I m an old 
 fool ! I know it ! But it is this little witch who 
 has worried me into my dotage. But now we will 
 have no more nonsense ; she will get well, will 
 she not, doctor ?" 
 
 The young physician, who, as usual, endeavored 
 to make up for his lack of years by a great assump 
 tion of dignity, did not think fit too hastily to en- 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 201 
 
 dorse this unprofessional opinion. With a solemn 
 and stately air, he merely desired Maitre Beaujeu, 
 who was nearest to the patient, to have the good 
 ness to stand aside. 
 
 Seating himself by Sylvie s bed, the youthful 
 Esculapius placed his fingers deliberately on her 
 pulse, and asked, " Do you know me, Mademoi 
 selle Sylvie ?" 
 
 She shook her head in the negative. 
 
 " Do you remember seeing me when you were 
 taken ill ?" 
 
 Still a negative motion of the head. 
 
 " Do you find yourself unable to speak ?" 
 
 She answered by a slight involuntary compres 
 sion of her quivering lips, and a gentle bow. 
 
 The doctor, after extending his examination to 
 a period which Maitre Beaujeu thought needlessly 
 protracted, turned to the trio, who were impatiently 
 waiting for his decision, and, with a self-satisfied 
 and somewhat pompous intonation, said, " I am 
 happy to pronounce my patient out of danger, and 
 to give you hope of her steady convalescence." 
 
 " But her voice ! What is her health without 
 her voice ?" ejaculated the mother, who, as soon as 
 the sun began to shine, hunted after the clouds 
 
 with which she had such a natural affinity. 
 9* 
 
202 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 What a wicked look Beaujeu gave her ! 
 
 " She must not attempt to force her voice in any 
 way," replied the doctor. "Let her write what 
 ever she wishes to communicate." 
 
 " But what is to become of her unless you can 
 restore her voice, and she can sing again ?" 
 
 " Sufficient for the day is the evil thereof, 
 madame. It will be time enough by-and-by to 
 test what medical science can effect towards the 
 restoration of her vocal chords, which are now 
 partially paralysed. I congratulate myself that 
 she is progressing very favorably at present. My 
 orders are that she is to be kept very quiet, and 
 not allowed to make the least attempt to speak." 
 
 He turned towards Ursule as he uttered these 
 last words, intimating that he regarded her as the 
 responsible person ; and, gravely bowing, withdrew. 
 
 Beaujeu again seated himself by Sylvie s side. 
 She placed her hand in his and whispered : 
 
 " What a disappointment for you !" 
 
 " Little rebel ! are you not forbidden to speak ? 
 Do not let me see you open your lips again. If 
 you will be very quiet, I will tell you all that has 
 happened since you were taken ill." 
 
 Sylvie looked as though she would have said : 
 " That is just what I most desire." 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 203 
 
 Her master went on : 
 
 " My disappointment has, indeed, been great ; 
 but not so great as my sorrow at beholding 
 you suffer. And, though I am a thankless old 
 brute by nature, I have had much to make me 
 grateful. In spite of your illness, Monsieur Lc 
 Grand continues my engagement." 
 
 Sylvie s eyes sparkled. 
 
 " Ah ! I knew you would rejoice, therefore I 
 told you that first. I am prospering gaining 
 ground with the public making friends, and ob 
 taining scholars. And do I not owe all this to the 
 magical voice that melodiously spoke the open 
 sesame, and thrust the old man into the arena to 
 battle for its prizes ? Do I not owe it to that stu 
 dious little pupil who first drew attention to her 
 obscure master? And though she only flashed 
 like a meteor across the musical firmament and 
 disappeared, did she not leave a trail of light that 
 ever points to him ?" 
 
 Sylvie clasped her hands, and no voice was 
 needed to speak her joy. 
 
 " But do not suppose the lost Pleiad is forgotten. 
 There are numberless eyes always looking to see it 
 again, and numberless voices constantly accosting 
 mo to know if there are signs of its reappearance." 
 
204 . THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 Sylvie s eyes plainly inquired : 
 
 " Who asks for me ? 
 
 "You would like to know who ? Why, every 
 one ! Monsieur Le Grand asks after you every 
 time he sees me; and the vocalists who envied 
 you, and are glad you are out of their way, make 
 most tender inquiries after your health, always 
 hoping to receive the satisfactory answer that you 
 are no better. You look incredulous, neverthless 
 it is the truth. Then Mademoiselle Belle-Chasse, 
 who is filling your place as you once filled hers, 
 and who is terribly afraid you will not die, makes 
 more particular and affectionate inquiries than any 
 one else ; and I always take care to tell her that 
 you will startle the world again before long. Be 
 sides these, you have many genuine admirers who 
 ask after you." 
 
 Sylvie could not help whispering : 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 " Will you be silent, and obey orders ? Ima 
 gine yourself dumb ; or can t you do anything so 
 unnatural to womankind?" Maitre Beaujeu tried 
 to laugh at his own joke, but signally failed. 
 " You want to know who inquires ? There s 
 the Count Castellane for one ; and the Duke de 
 for another ; and Mademoiselle de St. Amar 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 205 
 
 never tires of asking after you, and talking about 
 you." 
 
 A faint rose-hue suffused Sylvie s face, and she 
 sighed softly. 
 
 " And her brother, Monsieur le Marquis, has 
 several times sought me to know if you are im 
 proving. I hear he is a passionate lover of music, 
 and I made up my mind long since that he is a fine 
 critic. Now I must leave you for awhile, as I 
 have several lessons to give. But did I tell you 
 who had become one of my pupils ? I am solely 
 indebted to the sensation you created for that one, 
 and probably she expects me to make her as great 
 a singer as you are, though her voice com 
 pares with yours precisely as a very tiny, sweet- 
 toned pipe compares with a superb church 
 organ." 
 
 " Who is it ?" whispered Sylvie. 
 
 "Disobeying again? Then I really think it is 
 time to leave you ; besides, it is past the hour for 
 Mademoiselle Honorine s lesson." 
 
 Sylvie s eyes opened wide with astonishment, 
 and she drew a long breath. 
 
 "I have just commenced teaching the little elf; 
 she has a capital ear and fine taste, but her voice 
 is as small as her fairy -like self; a good-sized 
 
206 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 cricket would drown it by chirping. Shall I give 
 her a message from you ?" 
 
 Sylvie made an effort to speak. 
 
 "Don t! don t! What an old idiot I was to 
 tempt you ! I will invent something that will 
 do quite as well ; now, adieu. I shall see you 
 again before night." 
 
 Sylvie would have lifted his hand to her lips, 
 but she had not strength. Without noticing the 
 action, he departed. 
 
 After her master left, she made no further at 
 tempt to speak. Ursule brought her some light 
 nourishment; she reluctantly swallowed a few 
 mouthfuls, and then lay back with closed eyes. 
 Her mother thought she was slumbering, but she 
 was only musing over the past, and counting the 
 blessings granted her in spite of this crushing 
 blow. When she thought of her master, and the 
 bright future opened to him through her humble 
 instrumentality, the sense of gratitude overpow 
 ered all other emotions ; and she thanked God 
 that she had been able to sing even those three 
 nights, and felt that the loss of her voice was 
 not too great a price to pay for her beloved 
 teacher s prosperity. 
 
 Twilight was casting long shadows when Beau- 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 207 
 
 jeu returned. The curtain, that divided off Syl- 
 vie s room from the general chamber, was thrown 
 back, that she might have free air. She knew his 
 step, and opened her eyes when he entered, and 
 watched him without venturing to utter a word. 
 He laid his violin on the bed, then unfolded a 
 small parcel, and took out a porcelain slate, with 
 a tiny silver pencil attached to it by a silken cord. 
 
 "There! This pencil," said he, "is to be the 
 jailor of your tongue. You are to write what 
 ever you wish to communicate ; but recollect that 
 you are to keep the unruly member in prison 
 until the doctor sets it at liberty. Now, let us 
 see what comes next." 
 
 He took her wasted hand in his, and gently 
 slid upon her ringer the ruby ring. 
 
 An irrepressible exclamation of surprise and 
 joy broke from her lips. 
 
 " Take care not a word ! We are to have no 
 talking and no writing either, just now," he 
 added, as Sylvie grasped the pencil which her 
 trembling fingers could not have guided. " You 
 can have nothing to say there is your ring and 
 there is my violin the two truants both returned ; 
 we are quits ; comment is superfluous. You shall 
 only listen while the old violin and its master tell 
 
208 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 you of their joy in the language which you com 
 prehend best." 
 
 Beaujeu opened the case and took out the vene 
 rable instrument, and, as with masterly hand he 
 woke its witching voice, now to strains of exul 
 tation now of tenderest pathos now of holy 
 thanksgiving, Sylvie listened as one enchanted ; 
 but, though her eyes seemed fastened on the mu 
 sician s time-scarred visage, it was not that face she 
 saw another countenance, conjured up by pene 
 trating sounds which drew forth the image deep 
 est in her soul, rose up between arid shut out the 
 less captivating reality. 
 
 How long he would have played, and how long 
 she would have listened, it is not easy to divine. 
 The candle had been lighted for some time, the 
 night was advancing, but neither Sylvie nor her 
 master had commenced to grow weary, when their 
 enjoyment met with the jarring interruption of 
 Monsieur de la Eoche s entrance. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu rose and, hastily closing Syl- 
 vie s curtain, passed out to meet her father, and 
 after telling him of the cheering change in her 
 state, -earnestly charged him not to excite his 
 daughter, and to beware how he induced her 
 to speak. Beaujeu was strongly inclined to re- 
 
THE OLD MUSICIAN. 209 
 
 mam during the interview between parent and 
 child ; but doubtful of his own ability to control 
 his temper, he contented himself with giving a 
 significant glance at Ursule, and left the room. 
 
 His admonitions were wasted on Monsieur de 
 la Roche ; the quicksilver of his mental thermo 
 meter suddenly mounted to fever heat; and, at 
 his daughter s side, his ecstasy found vent in all 
 manner of fantastic extravagances, until Ursule, 
 with the authority of an established nurse, inter 
 fered, and finally expelled him from the apart 
 ment, threatening not to open the door to him 
 again that night if he did not moderate his joy 
 ful demonstrations. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 WHEN the Sabbath ushered in another week, 
 Sylvie was able to rise from her couch. Propped 
 by pillows in an antiquated arm-chair belonging 
 to Ursule, she sat by the window, listening to the 
 music of church bells, and gazing upon the little 
 pot of mignonette that still stood upon the win 
 dow-sill, though Dr. Souvestre had sternly issued 
 a decree for the banishment of all flowers from 
 the sick chamber. There was nothing else visible 
 upon which her beauty-loving eyes could rest with 
 passing pleasure. Dingy house-tops and congre 
 gations of chimneys hemmed in the prospect. 
 The faintly-colored, straggling mignonette looked 
 feeble and drooping, for it had often lacked care, 
 or been thrust aside, or forgotten, during her ill 
 ness. Sylvie involuntarily compared the sickly 
 plant, which now sent forth no perceptible odor, 
 to herself. 
 
 " A little sunshine and water," she mused, 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 211 
 
 " will revive this poor flower, and call forth its 
 lost perfume ; are there no strengthening and 
 freshening influences to restore my voice ? Ah ! 
 I remember well, it was this humble little flower, 
 that, blooming in secret, charmed me by its gift 
 of fragrance, and inspired the hope that, despite 
 my own obscurity and lowliness, my gift would 
 not be wasted." 
 
 Sylvie s health now slowly but steadily im 
 proved. Each day she grew stronger, but no 
 sign gave the faintest promise of restoration to 
 her vocal powers. She seldom essayed to speak ; 
 the effort had so often proved futile that, little by 
 little, a disinclination to make the attempt grew 
 upon her. She communicated her wishes, or 
 made replies, by the most eloquent pantomime; 
 and, when that wordless medium proved insuffi 
 cient, the porcelain slate and little silver pencil of 
 Maitre Beaujeu were in requisition. 
 
 Dame Manot, Mathieu, and a few other unpre 
 tending but devoted friends, were permitted to 
 visit her ; yet all their tender inquiries, and touch 
 ing words of sympathy, conjured no chance sound 
 from her lips. That she was mute, appeared to 
 her a matter of course ; not that she did not che 
 rish the deep, underlying hope that this spell of 
 
212 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 silence would one day be broken ; but a heavenly 
 voice within whispered, that by unmurmuringly 
 accepting the present, and trusting in the future, 
 she could alone receive the good made possible to 
 unrebellious spirits. God s patience, which light 
 ens sorrow through endurance, not combat, sank 
 softly into her meek and chastened soul. A holy 
 trust preserved her from ever doubting the wis 
 dom which permitted her affliction a trust which 
 does not only deem that blest which we receive, 
 but believes greater blessings are oftentimes sent 
 through that which we lose. 
 
 " God bless all our gains} say we; 
 But Grod bless all our losses, 
 Better suits with our degree." 
 
 Sylvie soon began to experience that delightful 
 sense of convalescence which makes an invalid 
 feel as if the whole system were freshened and 
 renewed. It seemed to her as though her soul 
 grew stronger, and more largely fitted for life s 
 manifold purposes, as its delicate receptacle gained 
 new vigor. 
 
 This pleasant state was often broken in upon 
 by her mother s contrarious moods, which tested 
 all the patience, trust, and spiritual strength that 
 Sylvie had acquired. 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 213 
 
 On one occasion, when Maitre Beaujeu s magi 
 cal violin had aroused her to a pitch of musical 
 ecstasy, Madame de la Eoche took advantage of 
 a momentary pause to say, " I have been waiting- 
 some time, Maitre Beaujeu, to make a suggestion 
 of importance; you must excuse my taking this 
 opportunity. I want to speak to you about that 
 piano ! Here the cumbersome old thing has been 
 occupying space, and eating up. gold, unopened, 
 for nearly two months. It always was hard work 
 to pay for its hire, and noiv what it costs is money 
 quite thrown into the gutter. Sylvie will never 
 need it more, for she only played accompaniments 
 to her songs, and there s no chance of her singing 
 again in a hurry. I think the piano ought to be 
 sent home ! Won t you oblige me by attending 
 to this matter ?" 
 
 The rude shock of these words sent a convul 
 sive shudder through Sylvie s frame, and her 
 quivering lips moved without sound, as her nerve 
 less fingers grasped her pencil. 
 
 Beaujeu dived into his snuffbox, and a liberal 
 and vehement snuffing of its contents partially 
 smothered a sound very much like the gnash of 
 teeth blended with a muttered oath. 
 
 But tenderness towards Sylvie had taught him 
 
214 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 self-control when he was irritated by her mother, 
 and he answered, in a calmly caustic tone, " Your 
 prudence is highly commendable, madame ; I will 
 attend to the piano. Until I send for it, you will 
 be good enough to leave the instrument where it 
 now stands ; but it is understood that you give it 
 up from to-day, and it will henceforth cost you 
 nothing." 
 
 " I shall feel more satisfied when it is gone, for 
 there is no use of nourishing false hopes," resumed 
 Madame de la Roche, pertinaciously. " It s a deal 
 better to make up one s mind at once that there is 
 no hope, and I am sure there never was any for us. 
 Yet there s Sylvie, who, in spite of all we have 
 undergone, and notwithstanding her own misfor 
 tune, persists in saying that she don t believe in 
 
 Sylvie wrote upon her slate, in reply, " I do not 
 believe in luck, simply because I do not believe in 
 chance, and I do believe in God. The ways of 
 God are mysterious inscrutable but God cannot 
 be wrong. 1 
 
 " Oh ! that s a very proper theory," replied her 
 mother, glancing over the words Sylvie had traced ; 
 "but I don t see that it proves itself when all 
 one s best intentions are frustrated, and all one s 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 215 
 
 most prudent and promising plans are brought to 
 nought." 
 
 Sylvie wrote, " We have hoped great things ; 
 we have sown, as we thought, the seed for a great 
 harvest ; if God choose that our large hopes should 
 wear the shape of small realities if it be His will 
 that the harvest should wither before it ripen 
 He who is never motiveless has an end in view 
 which our clay-clouded vision cannot yet behold. 
 We have only to be willing to receive the small 
 gifts He sends, instead of the great ones we covet 
 ed, and be patient until our eyes are opened to see 
 God s reason for allowing us this much and no 
 
 more." 
 
 . 
 
 " That is easy preaching, hard practising," re 
 sumed the mother, shaking her head mistrustfully. 
 " There is no getting over the fact that all the 
 good gifts of this life are very unequally distri 
 buted." 
 
 Sylvie paused awhile, as though musing upon 
 this seeming truth, then took up her pencil, softly 
 smiling as she wrote, " Not unequally in reality, 
 however unequal the distribution may appear. If 
 every one is allowed just the amount of success 
 and prosperity is subjected to just the degree of 
 trial or temptation is placed in precisely the 
 
216 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 situation which will develop his true character, 
 bring out his evil inclinations through exciting 
 causes, that he may become aware of and conquer 
 them, and call forth his noble attributes, that they 
 may be perfected by use, can we call men s allot 
 ted portions unequal ? If to fit man for the high 
 est possible felicity which he is capable of experi 
 encing, here and hereafter, be the great end of 
 existence, can we talk of inequality when that end 
 is obtained ?" 
 
 Madame de la Roche read aloud what Sylvie 
 had written, and ejaculated: "I cannot imagine 
 where the child gets her singular ideas. She 
 grows a deal too wise for her mother s simple com 
 prehension. But, with all her superior under 
 standing, I don t think her logic will ever convince 
 me that there was any necessity for our misfortunes. 
 I ll never believe that it was for ike lest that she 
 should suddenly be struck dumb, just as all Paris 
 had gone crazy about her voice ! And I cannot 
 see what good is to come of our being lifted to the 
 topmost pinnacle of hope, to be cast down to the 
 lowest depths of despair. No, I maintain I shall 
 never see any good in that" 
 
 Sylvie not only believed in, but she had begun 
 to see that hidden good which her mother reso- 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 217 
 
 lately doubted. An involuntary self-examination 
 had been the result of the many long reveries into 
 which she had fallen during her convalescence, and 
 had revealed how injurious to her own character 
 might have proved the " tinsel clink of compli 
 ments" that had sounded in her ears, the homage 
 that had lifted her to startling heights in her own 
 estimation, the perils by which she had been sur 
 rounded in an atmosphere of adulation perils 
 which she might not have been strong enough to 
 encounter. 
 
 Then her father she vainly tried to close her 
 eyes upon the conviction that his reckless prodi 
 gality could only be stemmed by the check of 
 poverty. She did not want to admit to herself 
 that this first harsh lesson was sent to him, also, 
 because through privation and adversity he could 
 alone be made aware of his inconsequent extra 
 vagance, or be taught the most common prudence, 
 or be inspired with a sense of the honesty of 
 economy. 
 
 Sylvie was now able to walk about the cham 
 ber ; and, if her mother had permitted, she would 
 have resumed some of her former duties. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre, who had attended her daily, and 
 
 made numerous experiments upon her throat, ex- 
 10 
 
218 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 hausting the virtues of caustic and iodine and 
 other potent agents, finally pronounced that she 
 was well enough to receive benefit from fresh air, 
 and ordered her to drive out several times every 
 week. 
 
 This opinion had been given the day before the 
 first of November, which is set apart for the great 
 fite of All Saints Day. 
 
 That general holiday was most welcome to 
 Maitre Beaujeu, for it afforded hirn a period of 
 rare freedom. The number of his pupils had so 
 rapidly increased that he had little leisure, and the 
 moments devoted to Sylvie were snatched at in 
 tervals between his lessons. As soon as he heard 
 the doctor s order, Maitre Beaujeu determined to 
 see it obeyed. Pere la Chaise is the usual resort 
 of the Parisian populace upon this particular fete 
 day, but Maitre Beaujeu decided to carry Sylvie to 
 the Jardin des Plantes, as a locality where the 
 crowd would be avoided, and she could enjoy air 
 and exercise with more freedom. 
 
 In so gentle a tone that no one who had only 
 heard him address others could have recognised 
 his voice, he said to her : " Would not you and 
 Ma m selle Ursule like to pass a day beneath the 
 trees, and listen to the birds instead of to a worse 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 219 
 
 musician ? If you would, we will go to the Jar- 
 din des Plantes to morrow. There there no need 
 of writing your answer" as she took up her 
 pencil; " your face has replied, and I will come 
 for you to-morrow at ten." 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu had now obtained such decided 
 influence over the parents of Sylvie, who felt how 
 much depended upon his good-will, that neither 
 of them threw any obstacle in the way of his 
 project. 
 
 Sylvie had given no thought to her toilette, or 
 rather she had not remembered that her scanty 
 wardrobe would not allow her to make a present 
 able appearance. But as her health was gradually 
 restored, Ursule had ventured to suggest to Beau 
 jeu that his protegee would need additions to her 
 wardrobe. The hundred francs to the young 
 singer had been exhausted during her illness, but 
 the trustworthy dress-maker was ordered to look 
 upon the musician as Sylvie s banker, and received 
 a carte blanche to purchase whatever was necessary 
 for her health, her comfort, or her toilette. 
 
 On the morning of the fete, Ursule entered the 
 young girl s room before she had risen, and placed 
 beside her a neatly folded bundle and a bandbox. 
 While Sylvie watched her visitor with wondering 
 
220 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 eyes, the latter complacently, and with tantalizing 
 deliberation, extracted pin after pin from the 
 cover of the package, and then drew forth a black 
 silk dress, a paletot to match, a neat linen chemi 
 sette with sleeves, a pair of dainty gaiters, and 
 gloves. Then she opened the bandbox and ex 
 hibited a black velvet bonnet ornamented only 
 with a bunch of pansies in the white cap within. 
 Ursule had consulted economy as well as elegance 
 in the choice of attire, and had duly reflected that 
 black silk would be unexceptionable on many 
 occasions that would necessarily present them 
 selves if Sylvie returned to her artist-life, and 
 would outwear many other materials. 
 
 " Now get up, and let us see how the dress fits. 
 I made it by your old measure," said Ursule, 
 gaily. " As for the bonnet, I am sure that will 
 become you. Do you not approve of my choice ?" 
 
 Sylvie nodded in the affirmative, but extended 
 her hand for her slate, an action that seemed to 
 indicate that her surprise and pleasure were 
 mingled with some uneasiness. Ursule stopped 
 her, after the style of Maitre Beaujeu ; it was odd 
 to see how often she copied his manners. 
 
 "I know what you want to ask. You are such 
 a mercenary little individual, you are troubled 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 221 
 
 about my extravagance. Set jour heart at rest. 
 Ever since you have been ill, Maitre Beaujeu has 
 furnished me at intervals with portions of the 
 hundred francs that Monsieur Le Grand paid to 
 him for you, and I flatter myself that I have ex 
 pended what was entrusted to me with praise 
 worthy economy. As for the grand toilette you 
 are to make to-day, that is a matter arranged 
 between Maitre Beaujeu and myself." 
 
 That Ursule s taste was irreproachable, and Syl- 
 vie s attire became her, the compliment which her 
 sesthetic teacher looked, but did not utter, bore 
 ample testimony. 
 
 In her new attire her figure seemed taller, more 
 womanly, and the gracefully-cut paletot concealed 
 its exceeding slenderness. The sweet, pure face 
 that looked out from its surrounding of black vel 
 vet, like the picture of some virgin saint from a 
 sombre frame, was spiritualized by the very pallor 
 of the countenance and the absence of rounded 
 outlines. The great blue eyes shone with the 
 celestial softness of a sorrow accepted and meekly 
 borne. Upon the lips was the seal of peace, 
 breaking their characteristic firmness into a half 
 smile. 
 
 It was a glorious autumn day ; the air was 
 
222 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 slightly bracing but not cold ; the golden sun 
 light tinged all creation with a Midas touch, yet 
 did not oppress with its fervor, or dazzle with its 
 brilliancy. 
 
 The last time Maitre Beaujeu had officiated as 
 his gifted pupil s escort, his narrow means had per 
 mitted him to provide only a common fiacre, but 
 now a voiture de remise, the nearest approach to a 
 private carriage that could be obtained, stood at 
 the humble entrance. Not that elegance had any 
 weight with the old musician ; it was the comfort 
 of his dear invalid, and the fitness of the convey 
 ance as regarded her, that he alone consulted. 
 
 As he carefully conducted her down the steep 
 stairs, with what a rush of emotion she recalled 
 that night when she had darted lightly up those 
 steps, her elastic feet winged by excitement, her 
 heart wildly throbbing with undefined hopes, her 
 whole frame vibrating with the "echo of prophe 
 cies of future greatness which had electrified her 
 ears I That night, when her soul had sprung up, 
 full statured of a sudden, and pierced through its 
 chrysalis clay, and floated in an atmosphere of 
 sunshine and flowers, freighted with sweet scents 
 and delicious sounds ! That night, when her spirit 
 first recognised its fellowship with beings of a 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 223 
 
 loftier sphere through the might of music, and the 
 freemasonry of genius ! 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu knocked at Ursule s door in 
 passing, and she came forth at the summons, 
 ready for the drive. 
 
 Beside the carriage steps, holding open the 
 door, stood Mathieu, in his best threadbare suit. 
 Sylvie smilingly saluted him, as she took her seat; 
 Ursule sat down beside her ; but before Beaujeu 
 ascended to his place, he said to the boy : 
 
 " Now up with you by the driver !" 
 
 The late cynic, having once tasted the sweet 
 ness of imparting happiness, was often moved by 
 an impulse to drink -deeper of the sacred chalice. 
 And yet he was half-ashamed of his kind prompt 
 ings. , He would never have thought of excusing 
 his own rudeness or hardness ; but now he said, 
 apologetically : 
 
 "I thought the little hunchback might be of 
 service if we wanted any one to wait upon us, 
 or go upon an errand. He has evinced such ab 
 solute devotion to you during your illness, and the 
 little monkey is such a devotee to our art, that, as 
 it costs nothing, I thought it would do no harm to 
 let him have a drive ; though, of course, I take 
 him chiefly for the sake of his services" 
 
124 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Sylvie comprehended her master too well to 
 answer, save by a look of thanks. 
 
 Encircled by Ursule s supporting arm, she lean 
 ed back in the carriage, striving to calm the agita 
 tion produced by the vivid recollections that 
 crowded into her brain. 
 
 The fresh, invigorating air caressed her flushing 
 cheeks, and cooled her brow ; the easy motion of 
 the carriage soothed her, and lulled the pain of 
 too busy thoughts, until her wonted tranquillity 
 gradually returned. 
 
 Beaujeu, as he silently contemplated his opposite 
 companions, wondered how he could ever have 
 fancied Sylvie s countenance positively ugly, and 
 the face of her warm-hearted friend too plain for 
 his fastidious eyes to dwell upon. 
 
 Ursule s physiognomy was so sympathetic, so 
 trust-inspiring, that it seemed impossible for one 
 to whom it was familiar to deem it homely. Yet 
 not a single lineament was susceptible of descrip 
 tion. Her eyes were neither large nor small, 
 neither light nor dark, but of a nameless, nonde 
 script color. Her forehead was neither high nor 
 low, nor broad, nor narrow. Her nose was neither 
 of the classic aquiline nor intellectual Roman, nor 
 the vulgar snub, nor the piquante turn-up order. 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 225 
 
 It was simply an ordinary nose. Her mouth had 
 no more marked peculiarity of shape ; it was just 
 a commonplace mouth. Yet something subtly 
 shining out from within, gave light and life to all 
 her features, blended them into harmony, and en 
 dowed them with the capacity of multiform ex 
 pression. In her person, too, there was the same 
 absence of emphasis. She was neither tall nor 
 short, nor plump, nor thin all, her proportions 
 were mediocre. But neutral tints were merely 
 her outward coloring, and not the painting of her 
 mental mould. A tender heart, united to a strong 
 common sense (better defined as the most uncom 
 mon kind of sense), gave force to her whole cha 
 racter, and combined a quick perception of what 
 was just and right with a merciful leaning to 
 wards the side of gentleness, and an unselfish con 
 sideration for the well-being of others. 
 
 The drive seemed only too short for the silent 
 party, who appeared to need no words to commu 
 nicate to each other their quiet but deep enjoy 
 ment. When they reached the Jardin des Plo.ntes, 
 Beaujeu entrusted to Mathieu a covered basket 
 and a blanket-shawl, and the boy s mouth-stretch 
 ing, eye-kindling delight was greatly increased by 
 
 the discovery that he could actually be of service. 
 10* 
 
226 THE lUTE SINGER. 
 
 Carriages are not permitted to enter the gates ; 
 and Sylvie, to her regret, found herself too 
 feeble to visit the noteworthy objects which at 
 tract curious crowds to this celebrated garden. 
 She had hardly traversed one of those beautiful 
 alleys where interlacing branches of tall trees 
 shut out the mid-day sun, when her feet faltered 
 and her head drooped, like a flower too heavy for 
 its stem; her scanty stock of strength was ex 
 hausted. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu spread the blanket-shawl on the 
 soft green grass, beneath a magnificent clump of 
 sugar maples, and made her and Ursule sit down. 
 He reclined at a little distance, and Mathieu stood 
 leaning against a tree, keeping watch over the 
 unopened basket, and finding abundant happiness 
 in gazing at Sylvie, unrebuked and unnoticed. 
 
 Some remark of Ursule s struck the rock of 
 Beaujeu s pent-up conversational powers, and the 
 stream gushed forth with a sparkling freedom that 
 amazed the admiring spinster. Her former awe 
 had somewhat melted away, and it was now 
 wholly dissolved by this genial flow, which 
 seemed the involuntary out pouring of feelings 
 and reflections soul-prisoned for years. 
 
 Ursule s ingenuous tongue was the ke}^ to her 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 227 
 
 heart, and the former was soon set in motion and 
 the latter unlocked. 
 
 The reminiscences of the autumnal couple na 
 turally travelled "Back to that sweet spring-time 
 over which memory casts her mellowing and 
 felicitous light. Many were the anecdotes they 
 related of their by-gone days, until each felt as 
 though youth had, for the moment, returned, and 
 brought back some of its quick throbbings, and 
 joyful exhilaration, and bright glancings at life, 
 and careless disdain of tyrannous form. 
 
 Sylvie did not regret that she had forgotten her 
 porcelain slate, for it allowed her to commune 
 with her own thoughts. She sat reclining against 
 a reddening maple- tree, gazing up at the blue sky, 
 through the golden and crimson canopy of quiver 
 ing autumn leaves, and looking as though her 
 soul were pouring forth anthems of thanksgiving. 
 
 She had not the remotest conception of the 
 length of time she had been sitting thus, when 
 Beaujeu signed to Mathieu to bring him the 
 basket, and, with Ursule s assistance, a delicate 
 collation was spread upon the smooth turf. 
 Dainty bits of cold fowl, thin slices of . tongue, 
 snowy rolls and biscuits, light cake, a few bon 
 bons, and a small bottle of vin ordinaire. 
 
228 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Mathieu played the Gran y mode ; and as Sylvie s 
 position required him to kneel down to help her, 
 the reverential action appeared to be the sponta 
 neous manifestation of his own emotion. 
 
 Her reverie was broken by his comical appear 
 ance while offering her a plate in this lowly attitude. 
 Her sense of the ludicrous provoked, but kind 
 ness repressed, her mirth, and Mathieu did not 
 suspect the merriment he excited. The air and the 
 drive had sharpened her usually dull appetite, and 
 the repast was partaken of with a novel relish. 
 
 Lengthening shadows warned Beaujeu to look 
 at his watch (of which he was not a little proud, 
 for it had been presented by a class of pupils, and 
 was the first he had ever possessed) ; it was three 
 o clock ; and he dreaded the least approach of 
 dampness for Sylvie. But when he told her that 
 the hour for their return had arrived, she grew 
 quite rebellious in her reluctance to depart; and 
 Beaujeu was obliged to assume his old tone of 
 authority, though his attempt at sternness was a 
 most transparent counterfeit. 
 
 That happy day closed without alloy, and was 
 written in shining characters in the chronicles 
 of four lives. 
 
 The next afternoon, when Beaujeu came, as 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 229 
 
 usual, to charm away an hour by his music, he 
 said to Sylvie : 
 
 " I gave Mademoiselle de St. Amar a lesson to 
 day. She was enchanted to hear that you had 
 actually driven out. She insists upon sending 
 her carriage to-morrow, that you may enjoy an 
 other drive. Do you intend to refuse her polite 
 offer, or will you go ?" 
 
 " May I ?" wrote Sylvie. 
 
 " I see no impropriety in your accepting ; and I 
 will invite that good Ursule to accompany you. 
 What is the matter now? Why is that great sha 
 dow darkening over your face ? About what are 
 you thinking?" 
 
 " I was thinking how far beneath Mademoiselle 
 de St. Amar I am !" wrote Sylvie. 
 
 " Nonsense ! God s gift of genius places you 
 upon an equality with any of God s creatures !" 
 
 " But if he revoke that gift, by taking from me 
 the power to prove my claims to what you call 
 genius, what then ?" 
 
 Beaujeu was more embarrassed by that straight 
 forward question than he cared to betray. As 
 sisted by a few pinches of snuff, he answered, 
 evasively : " I don t like ifs they always herald 
 some disagreeable, but often unlikely, possibility. 
 
230 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 But we have no time for idle speculations if you 
 want to hear The Carnival of Venice to-day, 
 for I have another lesson to give shortly." 
 
 When aid not Sylvie want to hear the old 
 violin ? 
 
 Beaujeu was in unusually high spirits when he 
 came the next day to accompany Sylvie and 
 Ursule on their drive. 
 
 The carriage of the Marquis de St. Amar ar 
 rived at the appointed hour, and gladdened the 
 eyes of Dame Manot. 
 
 Beaujeu behaved in a most inexplicably hilari 
 ous manner. He rubbed his hands, chuckled and 
 laughed to himself, tossed up his hat, then check 
 ed his mirthful demonstrations with comical self- 
 rebuke, and, plunging into his snuffbox, extrava 
 gantly powdered his new suit with its dingy con 
 tents. 
 
 When Ursule suggested that they should drive 
 to the Bois de Boulogne, he replied : " We shall 
 see! we shall see!" and hummed a gay tune, 
 alternately looking out of the window and into 
 the carriage to watch Sylvie s face. 
 
 "Why, we are- in the Faubourg St. Germain" 
 exclaimed Ursule; "and here we are stopping! " 
 
 " Are we, indeed !" responded Beaujen, jocoselj 7 . 
 
 * 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 231 
 
 j^t 
 
 "How stupid of that pompous, thick-skulled 
 coachman, is it not? I suppose he does not 
 know what he is about !" 
 
 A massive gate was thrown open, and they 
 drove into a spacious court, and stopped before 
 the entrance of a superb mansion. 
 
 " What does it mean ?" asked Ursule, in great 
 trepidation. 
 
 Sylvie s face echoed the question. 
 
 "We shall see ! we shall see !" replied Beaujeu, 
 still vehemently rubbing his hands. 
 
 "But where are we? Whom are we going to 
 see ?" inquired Ursule, now wrought up to a high 
 pitch of nervous agitation. 
 
 " One of my pupils," answered the musician, 
 proudly. " Come, let me hand you out. Give me 
 your hand first, Ma m selle Ursule." 
 
 Yery unwillingly, and with a frightened air, the 
 spinster obeyed. As the door of the magnificent 
 residence was thrown open by a liveried servant, 
 she drew back, and almost clung to Sylvie, who 
 was mounting the steps. 
 
 They had hardly crossed the threshold when 
 light feet were heard in the distance, and a fairy- 
 like form glided rapidly towards them, and Sylvie 
 was clasped in the arnfc of Honorine ! 
 
232 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 While she embraced her humble friend, Ma 
 demoiselle de St. Amar turned her head towards 
 Beaujeu, exclaiming : " You would not promise 
 to come, and yet I looked for you. I was watch 
 ing at the window. Ah ! Mademoiselle Sylvie, 
 how we have missed your beautiful voice ! How 
 we have mourned over your illness !" 
 
 Sylvie, for the first time for a long period, made 
 an effort to speak one moment she had forgotten 
 her lost faculty. The gasping, guttural sound died 
 away in a faint groan. She was more keenly 
 conscious than ever before of her privation ; and 
 intense pain mingled with the joy of again behold 
 ing Mademoiselle de St. Amar. That mute, 
 woful gaze turned on Honorine was more pathetic 
 than words or tears. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu, unnoticed by Sylvie, had pos 
 sessed himself of the little porcelain slate, which 
 he now placed in her hands. 
 
 The shrinking Ursule was then presented to 
 their youthful hostess, whose courteous greeting 
 partially restored the equanimity of her confused 
 visitor. The latter was ejaculating to herself, 
 
 How fortunate that I chose Syl vie that black 
 silk dress and velvet bonnet, and that I put on 
 my best of everything !" 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 233 
 
 Honorine, without loosening her clasp of Syl- 
 vie s hand, led the way to her own boudoir. 
 
 Ursule paused in wonder as her feet sank into 
 the depths of the soft carpet, among mimic flow 
 ers as vivid and life-like as though they had been 
 freshly strewn to cover the floor. Then her eyes 
 wandered, in amazed admiration, over the mas 
 terly pictures, chaste statues, costly mirrors, rich 
 draperies, and other exquisitely tasteful adorn 
 ments of the apartment. 
 
 But Sylvie, seated beside Honorine, her small 
 hand prisoned in one as tiny, looked only into the 
 bright face before her, unconsciously tracing in 
 the clear, amber eyes and ample brow a resem 
 blance that quickened her pulses and sent the 
 ruby current in a pleasant glow through her vio 
 let veins. 
 
 Three years before the date of our narrative, 
 the parents of the Marquis de St. Amar and of his 
 only sister were numbered among the victims of 
 the cholera, then raging in Paris. Mademoiselle 
 de St. Amar was eighteen at that period, though 
 her infantile form and child-like manners caused 
 her to appear much younger. Her brother was 
 ten years her senior. A widowed and childless 
 aunt, whose fortune had been dissipated by a pro- 
 
234: THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 fligate husband, was invited by the Marquis to 
 preside over his household, and become the chape- 
 rone or social guardian of his sister. 
 
 Madame de la Tour accepted this pleasant post 
 with gratification, though hardly with gratitude, 
 for her narrow nature had scant room for the play 
 of that noble emotion. Conventionality was her 
 creed the laws of good society her decalogue 
 indolence her heaven. Unruffled quietude, free 
 from responsibility, and an existence smoothly 
 gliding through the worn channels approved by 
 the world, were to her the acme of felicity. This 
 repugnance to exertion enabled her spirited young 
 niece, the spoiled darling of the household 
 
 " A rosebud set with little wilful thorns/ 
 
 to gain an ascendency over her, and enjoy larger 
 liberty than is accorded to young French maidens 
 of her rank. 
 
 Madame de la Tour was subject to migraine, 
 and various imaginary ailments, the mantle of an 
 invalid being a graceful cloak for her constitu 
 tional inertness. Honorine was consequently left 
 to follow the bent of her own girlish impulses. 
 She had no idea of imprisoning herself whenever 
 her legitimate chaperone kept within doors, and 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 235 
 
 tormented her brother into becoming her escort, 
 though among the Parisian elite a brother is not 
 exactly regarded as a fitting protector for a high 
 born maiden. 
 
 It was on one of these occasions that she first 
 beheld, heard, rapturously admired, and formed 
 the acquaintance of the successful debutante. 
 
 In vain Madame de la Tour chided her niece tor 
 an unaristocratic amount of enthusiasm ; the peace- 
 loving elder lady had not strength of character to 
 contend against the good-humored wilful ness and 
 pretty petulancies of the younger ; and, little 
 by little, Honorine gained complete mastery, 
 and established a right to the choice of her 
 friends. 
 
 But this apathetic guardian, whose thoughts and 
 time were somewhat unequally divided between 
 her supposed ailments, her toilette, her lapdogs, 
 and her niece (the last receiving the smallest 
 share), when a favorite end was to be obtained, 
 roused herself sufficiently to exhibit a decided 
 talent for plotting. By the aid of this feminine 
 accomplishment, she did not scruple to work out 
 any desirable consummation. Manmuvring was 
 her sole weapon of power, her sceptre over her 
 rebellious subject and relative. She never tried 
 
236 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 to compel the wayward girl to any course, but she 
 often laid snares to entrap her into paths she had 
 no inclination to tread. 
 
 We return to the occupants of the boudoir. 
 
 Honorine was telling Sjlvie how often and Ifinv 
 anxiously she had inquired after her, and how 
 kindly Monsieur Beaujeu had supplied her with 
 bulletins. 
 
 "How I longed to see you while you were 
 ill !" cried Honorine ; " but there was no managing 
 it, or you would certainly have found me at your 
 side. That tiresome aunt of mine, Madame de la 
 Tour, refused to accompany me on what she called 
 one of my romantic expeditions, though I tried to 
 startle her into acquiescence by threatening to go 
 alone, as I could not introduce my brother into 
 your sick-room. It was so vexatious !" 
 
 Sylvie wrote her answers on the little slate. 
 They were somewhat brief and constrained, until 
 her master was mentioned, and Honorine described 
 his triumphs in public, his rapidly growing fame, 
 and his popularity among his pupils ; then Sylvie s 
 face grew radiant, and no pencil was needed to 
 express her thankfulness and delight. 
 
 At that moment a firm and manly tread was 
 heard traversing the corridor. The sound went 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 237 
 
 throbbing through Sylvie, as though all her facul 
 ties were merged into the one sense of hearing. 
 
 Ilonorine, bending her slender throat to glance 
 over her shoulder at the door, exclaimed, " Stan 
 islaus, are you there?" 
 
 The Marquis de St. Amar advanced towards 
 Sylvie and his sister, and, after greeting the former 
 cordially (though not with sufficient warmth to 
 embarrass her), saluted Ursule and Maitre Beau- 
 jeu, and entered into conversation with the latter. 
 
 Ursule was absorbed in contemplation of the 
 full-length picture of a lovely lady in court attire. 
 She had not ventured to address Mademoiselle de 
 St. Amar, but now inquired timidly: "Is it a 
 portrait ?" 
 
 "The portrait of my mother," replied Hono- 
 rine, rising and joining her. 
 
 She suddenly remembered that she had wholly 
 neglected Sylvie s humble chaperone, and endea 
 vored to atone for her forgetfulness by pointing 
 out and explaining the various subjects that 
 adorned the walls. 
 
 Beaujeu also became a listener, and the Marquis 
 approached Sylvie, who remained seated. 
 
 After one or two observations, to which she 
 replied upon her slate, he unreflectingly, or, per- 
 
238 THE MUTE SINGEE. 
 
 haps, because it did not seem polite to use an ad 
 vantage which she did riot possess, continued the 
 interchange of remarks by writing. 
 
 The silence attracted his sister s attention, and, 
 looking around, she saw her brothers pencil rapid 
 ly moving over the slate. 
 
 " Why, Stanislaus, have you, too, lost your 
 voice ?" she saucily asked. 
 
 He answered laughingly, " Keally, I almost 
 fancied that I had, just as a deaf man shouts to 
 his neighbor, thinking thai he also cannot hear." 
 
 " Come and listen to the voices of my birds, 
 and make Mademoiselle Sylvie acknowledge how 
 many of her notes were stolen from them," said 
 Honorine, throwing open the glass doors of a spa 
 cious conservatory, which more nearly resembled 
 a garden. 
 
 The rarest floral products of all seasons had 
 united in simultaneous bloom, and were planted in 
 beds, intersected by winding walks. In the cen 
 tre a fountain sent up, out of the mouths of 
 glittering dolphins, jets of water that fell in a dia 
 mond shower over the figure of a shell-crowned 
 Undine. Birds, whose green cages were concealed 
 in the branches of oriental trees, warbled among 
 the boughs, ignoring their captivity. At the fur- 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 239 
 
 ther end, vines of the passion-flower, jasmine, and 
 clambering roses mingling together, formed an 
 arbor, the framework of which was invisible 
 through its drapery of foliage and flowers. Several 
 rustic chairs stood within the bower. 
 
 " This is mj study," said Honorine ; " and here 
 is my stool of instruction and repentance," she 
 added, singling out a Lilliputian chair formed of 
 twisted grape-vines. 
 
 She motioned to Sylvie to be seated, but the 
 enraptured girl shook her head, and stretched forth 
 her hands towards the brilliant parterre, charmed 
 onward by an irresistible impulse. 
 
 Honorine permitted her guest to wander about 
 at will, while she herself flitted, with humming 
 bird motion, from plant to plant, rifling the choic 
 est of their blossoms to make a bouquet. 
 
 Before it was presented to her young friend, the 
 Marquis had gathered one sprig of heliotrope, and 
 offered it to Sylvie, bending upon her an earnest 
 gaze that seemed to penetrate into her very heart. 
 
 Did he mean to discover by her manner whether 
 she remembered that he had once before placed a 
 
 branch of these sweet-scented flowers in her hand ? 
 
 
 
 If he did, the down-dropping of her eyelids, and 
 the sudden crimson that flushed into her cheeks, 
 
240 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 and covered her very brow with its virginal veil, 
 must have eloquently answered his inquiry. 
 
 Honorine held out the magnificent bouquet she 
 had culled. Without lifting her eyes, Sylvie 
 placed the heliotrope in her bosom, and took the 
 flowers of her hostess. 
 
 Noon sounded, and Maitre Beaujeu, whose time 
 had now become very valuable, declared that he 
 had not another moment at his command, and they 
 must take their leave. 
 
 " You will surely come again ? Come soon, and 
 come often," said Mademoiselle de St. Amar to 
 Sylvie. " It will do you so much good to be im 
 prisoned here among my birds, who will lend you 
 the music of their voices until you regain the sur 
 passing melody of your own. Will you not in 
 sist upon her coming frequently ? and will you 
 not accompany her, Mademoiselle Yalette ?" she 
 added, addressing Ursule. 
 
 Ursule expressed her thanks for the courteous 
 invitation by a low reverence, without trusting her 
 tongue. 
 
 " It would make me glad to come," wrote Sylvie. 
 
 " And I have a passion for making people glad ; 
 that is an additional reason why you should return 
 soon," replied Honorine. 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 
 
 The Marquis handed the ladies into the car 
 riage, but Sylvie s averted eyes were not once 
 again raised to his. The tell-tale blush which had 
 treacherously revealed her inmost thoughts, deep 
 ened on her cheek beneath the gaze which she 
 felt but could not see ; an indefinable sense of 
 shame weighed down her lids. 
 
 Once more in her secluded little chamber, she 
 sat down and pored over the porcelain slate, read 
 ing and re-reading characters in her own and 
 another handwriting. 
 
 " I fear it may never be restored," she had writ 
 ten in answer to the very natural hope expressed 
 by the Marquis that she would shortly regain her 
 voice. 
 
 Then followed these words in his hand : " If it 
 should not be if it were gone for ever, it would 
 still exist for me. I have never ceased to hear 
 those marvellous tones. Has not your privation 
 been very difficult to endure ?" 
 
 The reply " very difficult," was written beneath. 
 
 Then followed, in his characters : "To those 
 who truly value you, you must only be endeared 
 by such a trial." 
 
 At that moment Honorine had interrupted the 
 
 correspondence. 
 
 11 
 
242 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Could Sjlvie efface those precious lines ? No 
 oh, no ! They were too full of consolation 
 they inspired her with too much hope they filled 
 her soul with suggestions too delightfully soothing. 
 
 "Ah surely," she said, internally, "the sorest 
 sorrow must be endurable in an atmosphere of 
 love. I can bear mine if it endears me to others." 
 
 So argues every deeply affectionate nature 
 until the sorrow is sent. 
 
 The fresh spray of heliotrope, before its ame 
 thyst hue had begun to pale, was placed beside the 
 withered sprig. In the narrow compass between 
 the two, what happy memories were bounded. 
 
 Did Sylvie, then, presume to love the Marquis 
 de St. Amar? She would have been startled, 
 almost shocked, if any human being if even that 
 inward monitor who abruptly propounds the most 
 searching questions -had made that inquiry. 
 
 We must plead guilty to the weakness of be 
 lieving that love often leaps into existence un 
 awares, and with a first impression at first sight 
 darting across the awakening soul as the first 
 streak of light flashes over the grey sky of morn 
 ing, and gives assurance of a sun behind, which, 
 by and by, will flood the heavens with its meridian 
 splendor. Often that first sun-ray of love illu- 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 243 
 
 mines the horizon of maidenhood when as little is 
 known (save by intuition) of the character, mind, 
 and person of him whose hand kindled the pro 
 phetic flash, as Sylvie knew of the Marquis de St. 
 Amar. The one face haunts the voice echoes in 
 the ears, palpitating through the spirit an electric 
 thrill shoots athwart the frame at the lightest touch 
 of that chosen one s hand his presence brightens 
 all creation, and wings the heaviest hours ; the 
 pulses are attuned in harmony to the beating of 
 his ; an internal recognition makes the briefest ac 
 quaintance seem of long existence, and the most 
 incomprehensible and contradictory traits reason 
 able and natural. All this is very unphilosophical 
 very absurd very ! except to those who have 
 themselves experienced the sensation. 
 
 During the next six weeks Honorine constantly 
 sent her carriage for Sylvie and Ursule, and many 
 were the pleasant mornings they passed together. 
 
 Madame de la Tour could not be said to smile 
 upon this singular intimacy, but she found Sylvie 
 so gentle, ladylike, and unobtrusive, and Hono 
 rine so determined in her infatuation; that she did 
 not yet see sufficient cause to take the trouble of 
 laying any of her pleasant little plots to break up 
 their intercourse. 
 
244 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 The Marquis was usually present, though now 
 and then Sjlvie came without his being apprised. 
 He had introduced her to his library, and often 
 selected choice volumes for her perusal. He was 
 in the habit of reading aloud to his sister, and her 
 two lowly visitors also became his auditors. 
 Sylvie s mind was thus becoming cultivated, and 
 her developing taste for literature strengthened 
 every day ! What a new world of thought and 
 information was opened to her ! How she longed 
 to enjoy the full advantages of regular stud} 7 ! 
 Her aptness and quickness were amazing; and 
 Honorine, in spite of her superior acquirements, 
 often felt that Sylvie was better able than herself 
 to comprehend the authors with whom they were 
 brought into communion by their self-constituted 
 teacher of belles-lettres. 
 
 Sylvie s health was not merely restored, but it 
 was more firmly established than it had ever been 
 before. Her fragile form was gradually rounding, 
 and the pallor and sallowness of her complexion 
 had given place to a clear, creamy hue, tinged 
 with the faintest rose ; her bearing and manners 
 became more and more polished by contact with 
 the refined beings among whom she moved. To 
 what good could all these captivating changes tend? 
 
CONVALESCENCE. 245 
 
 She no longer carried the little porcelain slate, 
 from which certain characters had never been 
 effaced. Honorine had presented her with ivory 
 tablets, held in a cover of blue enamel, upon 
 which the one word, " Sylvie" was traced in 
 pearls ; a slender gold pencil was suspended from 
 the finely-wrought Venetian chain to which the 
 tablets were attached. Sylvie- now always wore 
 the chain about her neck, and the tablets in her 
 girdle. Pencil and tablets were in frequent re 
 quisition, for her voice alas ! that remained 
 silent ! 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 RENUNCIATION. 
 
 THE slumbrous eyes of Madame de la Tour did not 
 long remain closed to what was passing around 
 her. 
 
 One of her beloved lapdogs chanced to be ail 
 ing. Her niece casually mentioned that Ursule 
 professed to be acquainted with a mode of treat 
 ment which would be very beneficial to the suffer 
 ing favorite. The next time Madame de la Tour 
 heard that Honorine was receiving her humble 
 guests, anxiety for the health of the over-fed pet 
 caused her to seek Ursule in Honorine s boudoir. 
 
 The apartment was empty ; but through the 
 open doors of the conservatory she beheld Sylvie 
 walking with the Marquis de St. Amar. Hono 
 rine, at some distance, assisted by Ursule, appeared 
 to be securing the cage of a mocking-bird to the 
 bough from which it had accidentally been loos 
 ened. 
 
 Madame de la Tour became a looker-on unno- 
 
RENUNCIATION. 247 
 
 ticed. She was struck with the deportment of her 
 nephew towards Sylvie. She marked with what 
 lover-like emphasis he seemed to be talking to her ; 
 how tenderly he bent over, until his breath must 
 have fanned her cheek ; with what an impassioned 
 gaze his eyes were riveted upon her animated 
 countenance ; and with what responsive earnestness 
 Sylvie replied to him ; sometimes by rapid and 
 significant gestures, sometimes by tracing a few 
 lines upon her ivory tablets. Could it be possible 
 that the nobleman had so far forgotten himself as 
 to be captivated by this plebeian maiden? To 
 what disgraceful consequences might not such an 
 attachment lead? This i]l weed must be nipped 
 in the bud before it could expand into baleful 
 blossoms. A mode of effecting this blighting pro 
 cess, which was only too simple, suggested itself 
 to the wily schemer. She would have preferred 
 some more difficult and tortuous path, by which 
 her talents for manoeuvring might have been 
 called into pleasant play. 
 
 Without having been seen, she noiselessly re 
 tired ; and, on reaching her own apartment, rang 
 for a servant, and ordered him to seek Ma m selle 
 Yalette in the conservatory, and say that his mis 
 tress desired a few moments conversation with her. 
 
248 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Ursule, though not a little taken aback by this 
 unprecedented summons, had no alternative but 
 to obey. When she was ushered into the presence 
 of Madame de la Tour, the latter received her with 
 languid hauteur. In her composition there was a 
 large dash of pride and pomposity, which was 
 glossed over by her habitual apathy, until she was 
 roused to action. 
 
 Motioning Ursule to be seated, she addressed 
 her curtly. 
 
 " Ma m selle Yalette, I expect the object of this 
 interview to be kept secret especially from my 
 niece. Have I your word that it shall be ?" 
 
 Ursule timidly replied in the affirmative. 
 
 Madame de la Tour went on as abruptly as 
 before : 
 
 " It has always been a difficult task to guide 
 and control Mademoiselle de St. Amar. Inappro 
 priate as was her association with a young person 
 of Ma m selle Sylvie s condition in. life, I allowed 
 my niece to receive her without anticipating any 
 unpleasant results. I have reason to believe that 
 this unfortunate girl has been so much flattered 
 and elated by a few unmeaning attentions bestowed 
 upon her, chiefly through pity, by the Marquis de 
 St. Amar, that it is necessary, for her own good, 
 
KENUNCIATION. 249 
 
 to withdraw her from further exposure to the 
 danger of misinterpreting my nephew s courtesy." 
 
 Little cared Madame de la Tour for Sylvie s 
 well-being, but she took her stand upon this 
 amiable ground, because it was beneath her dig 
 nity even to hint that her nephew could have been 
 inspired with an undue interest in the lowly 
 maiden. 
 
 Ursule was struck dumb; It had never occur 
 red to her that Sylvie could regard one so much 
 above her in any light that was incompatible with 
 his rank and Tier humility. Now a thousand 
 trivial incidents, which had made but little impres 
 sion at the moment, rushed back into her mind, 
 and forced the instantaneous conviction that 
 Madame de la Tour had not arrived at an erro 
 neous conclusion. 
 
 That lady proceeded a little more graciously, 
 for she was flattered by the evident effect produced 
 by her harangue. 
 
 " To a person of your apparent good sense, it is 
 hardly needful for me to suggest the course which 
 propriety demands. Your mode of action I do 
 not dictate ; I shall only look to the result, which 
 must be a cessation of this too familiar and unmeet 
 
 intercourse. Am I perfectly comprehended ?" 
 11* 
 
250 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 " Perfectly, Madame ;" Ursule forced herself to 
 reply. 
 
 " Should Mademoiselle de St. Amar inquire 
 why I sent for you, you are to understand that 
 the object of this interview is solely to consult 
 you about my poor little dog, who is suffering 
 terribly. I am distressed to death about him ! 
 My niece informed me that you expressed an 
 opinion the other day concerning the proper 
 treatment of the dear little martyr; oblige me 
 with your advice on the subject." 
 
 Madame de la Tour took her asthmatic favorite 
 in her arms with as tender a touch as though it 
 were a sick infant. Ursule endeavored to collect 
 her thoughts, and communicated a prescription 
 which had proved very salutary to canine health. 
 Madame de la Tour was quite melted by the anti 
 cipated restoration of her curly darling. The less 
 important subject, previously disposed of, appear 
 ed to have faded from her thoughts. Ursule, 
 after giving all the medical information in her 
 power, gladly withdrew. 
 
 "With slow steps she returned to Honorine s 
 boudoir. The most sorrowful episode of her 
 own life was rising up before her and sadden 
 ing her anew. In her youth she had given her 
 
KENUNCIATION. 251 
 
 affections to one who had been forced by family 
 considerations to offer his hand elsewhere. The 
 very remembrance of that cruel wrenching away 
 of the heart which she had endured was filled 
 with intense anguish, and she shrank from be 
 holding Sylvie undergoing a similar soul-con 
 vulsion. 
 
 "What did my aunt want?" inquired Hono- 
 rine, the instant Ursule re-entered. 
 
 Sylvie and the Marquis were still wandering 
 among the flowers ; they had not noticed Ursule s 
 brief absence. 
 
 " She desired to learn what opinion I had ex 
 pressed to you concerning the treatment of her 
 lapdog," was the evasive answer. 
 
 " Oh, those blessed lapdogs !" replied the 
 unsuspecting Honorine. " If you preserve the 
 life of one of them, Madame de la Tour will 
 think that you deserve a pension as a public 
 benefactor." 
 
 When Ursule and Sylvie returned home that 
 day, the former said, with unusual gravity, as 
 they reached her door : " Come in, Sylvie ; I 
 want to talk to you about about about some 
 thing of importance." 
 
 Sylvie complied with a face so bright, so full 
 
252 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 of hope, so free from care, that Ursule felt like a 
 pitying executioner who does not dare to with 
 hold the blow ordered by a superior power. 
 
 She laid aside her out-of-door wrappings and 
 sat down. Sylvie threw off her black velvet 
 bonnet, brought a little bench to Ursule s feet, 
 and seated herself, leaning with both arms upon 
 her friend s lap. 
 
 Ursule found it very difficult to commence a 
 task from which there was no escape. Sylvie 
 was too much engrossed by her own sweet 
 thoughts to notice her troubled look. 
 
 At last Ursule said : " Sylvie, you are quite well 
 now, are you not ?" 
 
 Sylvie nodded a glad assent. 
 
 " We must wait patiently for the restoration of 
 your voice." 
 
 Sylvie assented again. She was waiting pa 
 tiently hopefully happily. 
 
 " You enjoy your visits to Mademoiselle Hono- 
 rine very much, do you not?" 
 
 Sylvie s expressive look replied that no words 
 could depict how much. 
 
 " The Marquis talks to you reads to you 
 walks with you in that lovely conservatory 
 and all that is very delightful," resumed Ursule. 
 

 RENUNCIATION. 253 
 
 Sylvie drew a long breath, and her face was 
 suffused with a blush of unmistakable affirmation. 
 
 " Sylvie my darling forgive me ! It grieves 
 me to the heart to pain you to force you to 
 reflect but to what good can this lead ? What 
 result can you expect ?" 
 
 At those soul-searching questions the hot blood 
 fled from Sylvie s - cheeks and lips, as though it 
 rushed in a lava-torrent to protect her heart from 
 some freezing clutch. With the bound of a fawn 
 suddenly roused from serene slumbers by a death- 
 arrow, she sprang to her feet. 
 
 The all- en grossing present had been so enchant 
 ing, that she had never once fixed her eyes upon 
 the future. 
 
 Trembling from head to foot, she stood one 
 moment wildly gazing at Ursule, whose hand had 
 unerringly loosened the shaft by which she was 
 transfixed, then dropped down again into her 
 place, and buried her white visage in her compas 
 sionate torturer s lap. 
 
 How much more rapid than light, even, is 
 thought, which it resembles! Pages would be 
 needed to chronicle the lightning-like reflections 
 which, during the brief silence that ensued, flashed 
 through Sylvie s mind, and illumined recesses of 
 

 
 254 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 her own heart into which she had never before 
 gazed. 
 
 Finding that she did not look up, Ursule pro 
 ceeded : " Btave spirits such as yours should 
 have courage to examine the consequences of their 
 own actions. Do not think that I judge you 
 harshly because I have blown away, with rude 
 breath, the illusive mists floating before your 
 eyes. The Marquis de St. Amar is the first gentle 
 man with whom you have ever been acquainted. 
 Independent of the superiority of his intellect and 
 person over those of most men, it is but natural 
 that you should feel attracted towards him that 
 you should be grateful for his attention that you 
 should enjoy his society that that alas ! Yes, 
 it is but too natural that you should give him 
 your heart I" 
 
 Sylvie s head sank deeper in the folds of 
 Ursule s dress. There was another, longer pause. 
 
 " That you c?o, or will love him if you continue 
 to be subjected to the spell of his presence, there is 
 little room to doubt," added Ursule, unshrinkingly. 
 She had applied the knife to the disease, and must 
 cut deep to reach its core. " Perhaps he does, or 
 may love you, though that is far less certain ; but 
 what good could spring from his love or yours ?" 
 
RENUNCIATION. 255 
 
 Sylvie s head swayed from side to side with 
 a despairing motion, which answered, " None ! 
 none! none!" 
 
 "Your stations in life are widely removed 
 there is such an almost impassable gulf between 
 you, that he can never contemplate making you 
 his wife." 
 
 At these words Sylvie grew as still as though 
 pulse and breath had ceased. 
 
 " Then, to entertain a passion for you would 
 simply be an insult, would it not?" 
 
 Still no movement. 
 
 " Sylvie, all I have to add is concentrated in 
 one question. Before that parting which must 
 come, grows harder for you, perhaps for him for 
 he is a man of genuine and honorable feeling, should 
 you not save yourself, and him, future misery by 
 putting an end to this ill-assorted intercourse?" 
 
 Sylvie no longer trembled; her frame was 
 almost rigid in its calmness. Slowly she raised 
 her ashy face, and looking with steady, unmoist- 
 ,.ened eyes into Ursule s, bowed assent. Her coun 
 tenance appeared to have grown suddenly older ; 
 lines of sorrow and self-renunciation had been 
 ploughed into the young brow in a few brief 
 minutes. 
 
256 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 She took the tablets from her girdle and wrote : 
 
 "Best of friends, you are right! You have 
 made me reflect. You have opened my eyes. I 
 will go there no more I" 
 
 "I know what you suffer," returned Ursule, 
 soothingly. " I have lived through anguish as 
 poignant in years long past." 
 
 Sylvie rose with a composure which was full of 
 the true dignity of self-respect, embraced Ursule * 
 gratefully, lifted the velvet bonnet from the bed, 
 and passed with firm steps from the room. 
 
 When she opened the door of her mother s 
 apartment, she saw Madame de la Koche bending 
 over her work, and heard her moaning to herself 
 as she plied her needle. 
 
 " So you have come at last 1" she murmured, 
 fretfully. " I have been expecting you for an hour. 
 You stay later and later every time you go. But 
 nobody seems to care how lonely /am!" 
 
 " I will keep you company after to-day. I will 
 help you work to-morrow," wrote Sylvie, and 
 handed the tablets to her mother. 
 
 "What is the matter, then? What has hap 
 pened? How oddly you look! There is not a 
 drop of blood in your face ! Have your grand 
 friends become tired of you? Ah, I thought they 
 
RENUNCIATION. 257 
 
 would ! That s the way with them all ; and it s 
 only what I foresaw." 
 
 Sylvie wrote in answer : 
 
 " They are as kind as ever ; but my holi 
 day as an invalid has been long enough. I am 
 quite well now, and to-morrow I will go back to 
 my sewing until my voice comes back to me." 
 
 "And that will never be! Never! never! 
 never I" was the consolatory response. 
 
 " Then I must sew on to the end," Sylvie 
 quietly wrote in, reply. 
 
 She left the ta,blets in her mother s hand, and 
 went into her own little chamber. 
 
 The strong-hearted maiden did not waver in 
 her resolution. The next day she sewed diligently 
 by her mother s side, in spite of the constant com 
 plaining of the latter, who was no better satisfied 
 than before. 
 
 When Maitre Beaujeu found his pupil thus em 
 ployed, he accosted her with : 
 
 " What are you doing there, doubling up your 
 chest in that fashion ? What have you to do with 
 needle and thread ?" 
 
 She was prepared for this ebullition, and, with 
 an air of assumed cheerfulness, wrote, " I have 
 to earn my livelihood if I can do so, my master. 
 
258 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 I have been idle too long. Now it is time for my 
 holiday to end." 
 
 "It is time for your folly to end," replied the 
 irritated musician. " Who put this nonsense into 
 your head ?" 
 
 "Do not be angry with me," wrote Sylvie; 
 " but until my voice returns, I must use my 
 needle; if it should never return, I shall have 
 nothing but my needle to depend upon." 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu was ready to burst out in to such 
 a rage as Sylvie had not beheld since her mis 
 fortune, but her distressed and pleading look 
 checked him, and he only answered, "We will 
 talk to Mademoiselle Honorine about this to 
 morrow." 
 
 "I have written to tell Mademoiselle de St. 
 Amar my determination," wrote Sylvie. " I 
 thanked her for all her kindness, and bade her 
 adieu ; our paths, henceforth, lie apart." 
 
 " Where is the note?" inquired Beaujeu, author 
 itatively. 
 
 " It has gone I sent it by post," wrote Sylvie. 
 
 " Miserable girl !" groaned her master ; " you 
 want to ruin yourself! You will make Mademoi 
 selle Honorine think of you merely as a poor 
 sewing girl, instead of the brilliant woman of 
 
KENUNCIATION. 259 
 
 genius whom she might be proud to take by the 
 hand, and her brother too : 
 
 Sylvie quailed at these last words. Beaujeu 
 saw how she shrank, and paused^ a new light 
 dawned upon him. 
 
 " What has occurred between you and the Mar 
 quis ?" he asked, abruptly. 
 
 " Nothing," wrote Sylvie. 
 
 u You have had no misunderstanding ? He has 
 not offended you ? He has not said or done any 
 thing to grieve you ?" 
 
 She pointed to the "Nothing" before traced on 
 her tablets as still her answer. 
 
 " When did you come to your present novel 
 resolution ?" 
 
 " Yesterday," she wrote. 
 
 " And } 7 ou mean to keep it ?" 
 
 " My dear master, I do." 
 
 After Beaujeu had read these words, she closed 
 the tablets and replaced them in her girdle with 
 an air which announced there was nothing more 
 to be said. 
 
 Sylvie s inflexibility of purpose and determined 
 composure baffled Beaujeu. He could not discover 
 any solution of her enigmatical conduct. 
 
 While he was pondering, she went to the table, 
 
260 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 took up his violin, and placed it upon his knees. 
 The action was a petition. 
 
 Beaujeu, somewhat softened, said, as he tuned 
 his instrumen^ u When I have reflected, we will 
 talk further about the unreasonable course you 
 have chosen to pursue." 
 
 Reflection, however, supplied him with no 
 argument that shook Sylvie s constancy. She 
 steadfastly pursued the path she had marked out 
 for herself without one sign of faltering. At times 
 her countenance betrayed that she was passing 
 through a great struggle, and gaining a great 
 victory, but the combat that tested, increased 
 rather than exhausted her mental strength. 
 
 Honorine wrote, entreating that she would give 
 some fuller and more comprehensible explanation 
 of her conduct, and begging that she would con 
 tinue her visits. Sylvie replied that it was best 
 their intercourse should end better, at least, for 
 herseff, she added. 
 
 In vain Beaujeu fumed, and scolded, and 
 argued ; Sylvie was immovable. 
 
 Strange to say, her melancholy mother gradu 
 ally grew less despondent. She had said Sylvie s 
 intimacy with those so far above her would come 
 to a sudden termination and it had done so ; her 
 
RENUNCIATION. 261 
 
 spirits wenralways brightened by the verification 
 of her evil predictions. 
 
 Sylvie s father had not recovered from the 
 depression incident upon his last disappointment, 
 and was seldom at home. He had returned to the 
 notary, once more solicited employment, and gone 
 to work with unwonted industry. 
 
 Sylvie s days now appeared to move in a fixed 
 and monotonous circle, but their dull round was less 
 oppressive than might have been imagined. In 
 renouncing self, she had gained a serenity which 
 is allied to cheerfulness. Consoling thoughts were 
 infused into her mind through many a heavenly 
 influx, and spoke from lips that even casually 
 addressed her, and found a voice in the very pages 
 of the books she opened. 
 
 A few lines from one volume in particular, 
 haunted yet helped her. They were those words 
 of Thomas a Kempis : " If thou seekest this or that, 
 and would be here or there to enjoy thine own will 
 and pleasure, thou shalt never be quiet or free from 
 care, and in everything somewhat will be wanting, 
 and in every place there will be some that will 
 cross thee." Every day she became more and 
 more convinced of the truth of those words of 
 wisdom. She must set aside self must renounce 
 
262 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " her own will and pleasure" to fincrpeace. She 
 must wake from rosy dreams to soften stony 
 realities with the mossy covering of patience. She 
 must leave the flowery paths of self-gratification, 
 and tread with bleeding feet the flinty ways of 
 duty, confident that by that road alone she could 
 reach the goal of happiness. 
 
CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 THE dead calms of life are seldom of long 
 duration, and the winds and waves of circum 
 stance soon ruffled the smooth, blank sea of 
 Sylvie s existence. 
 
 One morning, about a week after the events 
 related in the foregoing chapter, she was sitting 
 alone at her work. Her mother had gone out to 
 breathe the fresh air and make a few needful 
 purchases. All at once the tramping of heavy 
 feet upon the stair, and the confused murmur of 
 excited voices, caused Sylvie to pause and listen. 
 A hurried tapping sounded on the door. Sylvie 
 opened it, and found good Dame Manot standing 
 without. 
 
 " Oh, my poor child ! my poor child !" she 
 sobbed forth, in violent agitation. 
 
 The young girl, alarmed at this tearful greeting, 
 tremblingly turned her eyes in the direction of the 
 heavy tread, which now came nearer. She saw 
 
264 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 two men carrying a litter, followed by a miscel 
 laneous crowd. A male form was partially 
 visible upon the rude couch. She sprang towards 
 it, and beheld her father! lying senseless it 
 might be dead ! The blood poured from a deep 
 gash in his forehead, and stained with crimson his 
 ghastly face, his fair hair, and disordered gar 
 ments. , 
 
 The daughter s rapid glance of horror was 
 followed by a shriek that rang through the long 
 corridor rang? yes, rang in one loud, clear note of 
 music ! 
 
 * My father! oh, my father! bring him in!" 
 uttered in the same key, burst upon the startled 
 ears of all present. She had spoken spoken in 
 song! She had involuntarily, unconsciously, 
 sung the words that rushed to her lips.* 
 
 Every one stood petrified. 
 
 " Oh, bring him in!" she sang again. 
 
 The bearers had set down their piteous load. 
 
 Wonder-struck, they lifted it and obeyed. 
 
 When Monsieur de la Koche was laid upon his 
 
 * This singular incident, which taxes the credulity of the 
 reader, is not an imaginary occurrence. A similar circumstance 
 was related to the writer by one whose veracity could not be 
 doubted, and who was narrating her own experience. 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 265 
 
 own bed, his daughter dropped upon her knees at 
 his side, and with steady hand pressing together 
 the gaping, gushing wound, turned to Dame Manot, 
 singing : " Dr. Souvestre go ! bring him quickly !" 
 
 The concierge was stunned, confounded. 
 
 u It is wonderful ! wonderful !" she ejaculated, 
 without attempting to stir. 
 
 The strangers, who had poured into the room, 
 thought this young girl, who sang while a parent 
 lay dying or dead before her, must surely be de 
 prived of reason. 
 
 Sylvie was too deeply absorbed in the contem 
 plation of her father to comprehend the cause of 
 their stupefying amazement. Finding that the 
 concierge did not move, she turned to her again, 
 and sang imploringly : " Go ! go ! go !" 
 
 That instant Mathieu, who chanced to be pass 
 ing the door, made his way through the crowd. 
 
 Sylvie caught sight of him, and sang in a voice 
 of thrilling pathos : " Good Mathieu, go for Dr. 
 Souvestre! Oh, bring him quickly!" 
 
 " She has regained her voice ! Thank God ! 
 thank God !" cried the boy. 
 
 Without heeding his words, she motioned to 
 him impatiently, still singing, "Go! go! do you 
 
 not see he bleeds to death ?" 
 12 
 
266 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Mathieu darted away, shouting, as lie flew down 
 the stairs, "She has regained her voice ! Made 
 moiselle Sylvie has regained her voice!" 
 
 He ran against, and nearly overturned, some 
 one who was ascending. It was Maitre Beaujeu, 
 who seized him savagely by the shoulders. 
 
 " Do you want to knock me down, you crazy 
 cripple? Why are you yelling in that frantic 
 fashion ?" 
 
 " She has regained her voice ! regained her 
 voice!" shrieked Mathieu, breaking away from 
 him, and hurrying on. 
 
 The boy gave a sharp rap on Ursule s door, and 
 without waiting for her to appear, flung it open 
 and screamed out, " She has regained her voice ! 
 her voice !" then rushed down the next flight. 
 
 At the entrance of the house he encountered 
 Madame de la Eoche creeping dolefully along 
 with a basket upon her arm. 
 
 " She has regained her voice ! regained her 
 voice !" bellowed Mathieu, joyfully, in her ears ; 
 and then, with a leap that almost ended in a 
 somerset, he bounded into the street, and fled. 
 
 Madame de la Roche could hardly credit her ears. 
 
 " Regained her voice ! That was surely what 
 he said. Whose voice could it be but Sylvie s ?" 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 267 
 
 Excitement imparted strength to limbs that had 
 failed her a moment before, and she rapidly 
 mounted the stairs and entered her own room only 
 a few moments after Beaujeu and Ursule. 
 
 What a sight met her eyes ! Her husband 
 stretched upon the bed, white as a corpse, and 
 covered with blood ; Sylvie, her hands and arms 
 all crimsoned, kneeling beside him, trying to stem 
 that red current, by holding together the deeply- 
 parted flesh from which it spouted, if her fingers, 
 for an instant, relaxed their pressure. 
 
 Madame de la Koche staggered towards the 
 couch. 
 
 The moment Sylvie beheld her she sang : 
 
 " Mother ! he lives ! he has but fainted ! If we 
 can only staunch this blood, all will be well I" 
 
 " Sylvie ! Sylvie !" was all her mother could 
 gasp forth. 
 
 " Are you his wife ?" asked one of the men who 
 had carried the litter. 
 
 " Yes, yes ; how did this happen ?" 
 
 " He was thrown from a horse. I was passing 
 when the spirited creature flung him over her 
 head. I recognised the animal a splendid grey 
 mare which a friend of mine has for sale. It was 
 through my friend, the owner, that we discovered 
 
268 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 who th s gentleman was, and were enabled to carry 
 him home. It s a sad accident, for that s an ugly 
 cut ; and I fear your troubles don t end here ; I am 
 afraid the shock of seeing her father in this terri 
 ble condition has unsettled your daughter s mind," 
 added the man, looking pityingly at S} r lvie. 
 
 Before Madame de la Koche could reply, 
 Mathieu re-entered with Dr. Souvestre, whom he 
 had fortunately encountered a few paces from the 
 door. 
 
 When Sylvie saw the physician, she sang : 
 
 " Can you not staunch this blood? Oh, lose no 
 time, or he will die !" 
 
 " It is true, then ! She has regained her voice ! 
 most marvellous!" ejaculated the doctor, gazing 
 at her in astonishment, without regarding her 
 father. 
 
 " For Heaven s sake, lose no time or he will 
 die !" sang Sylvie. 
 
 Her beseeching intonation recalled the doctor to 
 himself, and he proceeded to examine, cleanse, and 
 sew up the wound. 
 
 During the process, he asked Sylvie several 
 necessary questions, to which she replied as before 
 in song. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu had sunk into a chair, com- 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 269 
 
 pletely overpowered by rapturous emotion. His 
 hands were tightly clasped, his eyes upraised with 
 an expression of beatitude, and tears ran in rapid 
 showers down his withered cheeks. 
 
 Ursule laughed and cried by turns, yet had 
 sufficient presence of mind to assist Sylvie, who 
 was diligently aiding the doctor, now lifting up 
 the matted locks which he unsparingly severed 
 from her father s temples, now holding the water 
 and sponge, now sewing bandages and handing 
 pins. 
 
 Mathieu capered about the room, crying in the 
 ears of every one who came in his way : 
 
 " She has regained her voice ! she has regained 
 her voice! Do you not hear? Do you not 
 hear?" 
 
 The blood was staunched the wound sewed 
 the head bound up. Monsieur de la Koche opened 
 his eyes, but seeing his daughter bending over 
 him, feebly murmured : 
 
 " Sylvie I" 
 
 "My father I" she sang in reply. 
 
 " Good Heavens ! Is that you, Sylvie ? Or am 
 I dreaming? What is this? Who are these 
 people ?" he asked, with a confused look. " My 
 daughter, is it really you?" 
 
270 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " Yes, father, it is I !" again she answered, 
 singing. 
 
 " And your voice is restored ? Gracious Hea 
 ven ! Is it possible ? J 
 
 Sylvie, with a convulsive start which told that 
 she had not until that moment been aware of the 
 joyful fact, replied with a trill of such power, 
 sweetness, and flexibility, that Beaujeu leaped from 
 his seat, vehemently clapping his hands, and 
 shouting, " Bravo I bravo ! bravo !" in uncontrol 
 lable ecstasy. 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche had lifted himself upon 
 his elbow, and cried out with his old enthusiasm, 
 u Why, what a set of miserable croakers you have 
 all been ! Even you, doctor ! You see she can 
 speak ! she can sing ! she has regained that glo 
 rious voice which you all told me was gone for 
 ever ! Now all will be right again ! What a 
 pity that grey mare was too spirited for my pur 
 pose ! There was no managing the mettlesome 
 creature. She was a beauty and a bargain ! 
 Thinking I might by and by contrive to pur 
 chase her, I gave her a trial, and she threw me. 
 But it won t matter; I m not much worse for the 
 trouble, and she has her equals in the market." 
 As he was running on thus hopefulty, his eyes 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 271 
 
 rested upon the musician. " Ah, Beaujeu, my 
 dear fellow, are you there? Let Monsieur Le 
 Grand know at once that Sylvie will sing for him 
 to-morrow to-night when he wishes ! "Will you 
 not, child ?" 
 
 Sylvie, now quite composed, tried to syllable 
 " Yes," but alas ! the sound died away in a hoarse 
 whisper ! 
 
 With a look of blank consternation, she added, 
 almost inaudibly, u My voice ! my voice has gone 
 again !" 
 
 Then, how they all gathered around her, with 
 the sudden, sickening revulsion of feeling that 
 folloXvs hope changed to despair ! 
 
 "Can you not speak? Try try again 1" said 
 Beaujeu, tenderly taking the hand, still red with 
 the gory stain. 
 
 She shook her head mournfully. 
 
 Grief and disappointment sealed every lip. 
 
 At last the silence was broken by Dr. Sou- 
 vestre, who exclaimed, as though a thought had 
 just struck him: u You did not speak before you 
 were singing, not speaking, when I entered. Try 
 to sing again !" 
 
 Sylvie broke forth with that beautiful anthem 
 from Handel s " Messiah " " But thou didst not 
 
272 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 leave his soul ;" and while her entranced auditors 
 listened in dumb wonder, she sang the whole air 
 with the most faultless vocalization. 
 
 " This is very extraordinary ! The first case of 
 the kind that ever came under my notice !" said 
 the young practitioner, who always talked as if he 
 had the experience of half a century or more. 
 " It is obvious that only the vocal chords used in 
 speaking are injured ; those called into action when 
 she sings are unimpaired." 
 
 " Her great gift remains ! She will be able to 
 resume her profession !" exclaimed Beaujeu, in a 
 tone of mingled affirmation and interrogation. 
 
 " Yes, assuredly," replied the physician. 
 
 Who could attempt to describe the holy rapture 
 that rendered Sylvie s face luminous ? 
 
 The burst of joy that greeted the doctor s words 
 was suddenly checked. Monsieur de la Roche, 
 exhausted by emotion and loss of blood, sank 
 back insensible. 
 
 The doctor peremptorily ordered the apartment 
 to be cleared of all but Sylvie, her mother, and 
 Ursule. 
 
 Beaujeu and Mathieu seemed inclined to linger, 
 not from any deep interest in the patient, but be 
 cause they could not forego the delight of again 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 273 
 
 hearing Sjlvie s long-silent voice. An impatient 
 gesture from Dr. Souvestre caused the musician to 
 seize hold of the hunchback, with a rough friend 
 liness which showed their bond of union was 
 drawn closer by this mutual joy, and hurry with 
 him out of the apartment. 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche was restored to conscious 
 ness with difficulty, and when his heavy eyes 
 once more unclosed, and the breath came slowly 
 through his white and parted lips, it was appa 
 rent that his mind wandered, and his pulse gave 
 indication of fever. 
 
 Madame de la Roche was almost excusable for 
 her piteous lamentation. 
 
 " Alas ! alas ! the shadow of joy never comes to 
 us except hand-in-hand with a tangible sorrow 1" 
 
 Dr. Souvestre administered an opiate, and gave 
 strict orders that the patient should remain undis 
 turbed. He soon sank into a heavy slumber. 
 
 Sylvie, in passing the old piano so long closed, 
 threw it open by an irresistible impulse ; but without 
 allowing her fingers to wander over the yellow 
 keys, she softty closed the lid again, and stole to 
 her own chamber to give her full heart vent in 
 that holy communing that heightened her every 
 
 joy, and lessened her every sorrow. 
 12* 
 
CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 
 
 MAITRE BEAUJEU lost no time in communicating 
 the glad tidings to Mademoiselle de St. Amar. 
 An enthusiastic letter of congratulation from 
 Honorine greeted Sylvie a few hours later ; a let 
 ter filled with expressions of wonder and delight 
 at the sudden restoration of the young singer s 
 voice, replete with pathetic lamentation over the 
 late interruption of intercourse, and closing with 
 fond anticipations that the link so mysteriously 
 broken would now happily be cemented. 
 
 Sylvie read the balm-dropping lines with a pal 
 pitating heart. If she resumed her position before 
 the public, would she not naturally be brought 
 in contact with Mademoiselle de St. Amar and 
 her brother ? Would she not again see him whom 
 wisdom bade her banish from her sight ? Would 
 she not again hear that soul-stirring voice which 
 set all the finest cords within her vibrating ? And 
 yet would not the icy barrier of circumstance 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 275 
 
 loom up between them as high, and as wide, and 
 as freezing as ever ? Would she not need greater 
 strength than heretofore in resisting temptation, 
 which she could no longer fly ? Would she have 
 courage to stand in its very midst and combat its 
 assaults ? 
 
 These reflections were interrupted by the inco 
 herent ravings of her father. The day after his 
 accident, Monsieur de la Roche became danger 
 ously ill. Violent mental excitement, and the 
 injury his head had sustained, produced a fever 
 strongly resembling that by which his daughter 
 had been attacked. 
 
 We have already said that Dr. Souvestre was 
 the youthful partner of a distinguished physician, 
 who allowed his juvenile assistants to study their 
 profession by practising among the poor. Dr. 
 Jauin, however, accompanied Dr. Souvestre when 
 he next visited Monsieur de la Eoche. But the 
 hasty manner in which the elder physician exa 
 mined the patient, and the eagerness with which he 
 turned to Sylvie, betrayed that she was the mag 
 net which had drawn him thither. The extraordi 
 nary recovery of her vocal powers in singing, 
 while she remained unable to use her voice in 
 speaking, had doubtless awakened his medical 
 
276 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 interest and curiosity. It became worth his while 
 to investigate a case so remarkable. He pro 
 nounced it very rare, but not uithout parallel. 
 Several instances of the kind were on record, but 
 this was the first which had occurred within his 
 own cognizance. 
 
 Sylvie responded upon her tablets to his nume 
 rous inquiries. After a while, he requested her to 
 endeavor to speak. The attempt proved her total 
 inability. Then he unceremoniously desired her 
 to sing. Immediately her rich, rolling voice filled 
 the chamber with the solemn grandeur of the 
 Stabat Mater. At the first note, her father, who 
 for some time had been tossing about, talking 
 wildly, and making vehement efforts to rise, sank 
 gently back ; a soft smile played over his hand 
 some features, and he lay serenely still and 
 silent. 
 
 Sylvie noted the change, and as she ceased sing 
 ing, wrote upon her tablets : 
 
 " Is singing likely to disturb my father ?" 
 
 " No," replied Dr. Janin ; " if we may judge from 
 its present calming effect, it will benefit him. You 
 have a wonderful, organ, Mademoiselle the most 
 remarkable I ever heard, It is fortunate for your 
 self and the public that the injury to your vocal 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 277 
 
 chords does not extend to that portion used in sing- 
 ing." 
 
 These words were accompanied by a low bow, for 
 Sjlvie s superlative talent, and the dignified simplici 
 ty of her manner, awakened an instinctive reverence. 
 
 Doctor Souvestre, who had long experienced, 
 and struggled to conceal, a warm admiration for 
 his quondam patient, became highly elated by 
 his superior s complimentary recognition of her 
 genius and attraction. It removed the dread of 
 being charged with a youthful folly unworthy of 
 a grave disciple of Esculapius, if the young doctor 
 revealed his true sentiments. His usually pom 
 pous and consequential demeanor melted away; and 
 had Sylvie been less engrossed by her father s 
 condition, she could not have failed to remark the 
 devourment of his manner, the unusual animation 
 with which he conversed, and the flattering 
 deference of his tone. He completely laid aside 
 the solemn air assumed in his capacity of medical 
 adviser, and became the agreeable guest the 
 genial friend the incipient lover. He lingered 
 for some time after Doctor Janin took his leave, 
 and would not then have torn himself away had 
 not Sylvie s abstracted look and absent responses 
 betrayed her wandering thoughts. 
 
278 THE MUTE SINGER, 
 
 The door had hardly closed upon him when 
 Sylvie opened the piano, and, with her head 
 turned towards her father, that she might watch his 
 countenance, her fingers once more magnetized the 
 old keys, and her sympathetic voice gushed forth in 
 thrilling sweetness. 
 
 The same look of placid happiness that had 
 stolen over her father s lineaments before, now 
 came to them again. His restless movements 
 ceased, his moans were hushed, the widely-opened 
 lids fell softly over his too brilliant eyes. That 
 he recognised the well-known but long-silent 
 tones, was doubtful ; that he listened with intense 
 pleasure was certain. 
 
 She was still singing when Maitre Beaujeu 
 entered. 
 
 He noiselessly approached, and, almost hold 
 ing his breath, took his seat beside her. She 
 greeted him with a bow of welcome, and sang 
 on. 
 
 At the conclusion of the strain, he said, in a 
 voice hoarse with emotion : 
 
 " It was no dream, then ?" 
 
 " No dream ?" replied Sylvie s speaking eyes. 
 
 " And you will be able to sing on Saturday ?" 
 he asked. 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 279 
 
 Sj^lvie bowed her head, and took his shri 
 velled hand in hers, and lifted it to her 
 lips. 
 
 " I saw Monsieur Le Grand last evening," said 
 Beaujeu. " He was overjoyed at the intelligence 
 I brought. His next concert will take place at 
 the close of the week. Your re-appearance before 
 the public will be made the principal feature. 
 But we have decided that you shall be tested in 
 only one piece ; and I have selected that inspired 
 strain by which you electrified us all yesterday. 
 Do you like my choice?" 
 
 Sylvie s smile of assent signified that she could 
 not have made a better. 
 
 An exclamation from her mother now called 
 the young girl to her side. The sick man made a 
 violent effort to leap out of bed, and the feeble 
 arms of his wife and daughter could but ill restrain 
 him. Beaujeu came to their aid, and, with some 
 difficulty, succeeded in forcing the struggling 
 sufferer back upon his pillow. 
 
 " This will not do," remarked the musician, 
 panting from his exertions. " You need mascu 
 line help. Mathieu has strong arms, in spite of 
 his deformity, and he is faithfulness personified ; 
 we must secure his assistance." 
 
280 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Neither Sylvie nor her mother objected, and 
 Beaujeu went in search of the cripple. 
 
 Soon after, Mathieu made his appearance by the 
 sick-bed with a visage only too beaming to be in 
 keeping with the office he was commissioned to 
 fill. Yet how could he look grave when a felicity 
 he had never dared to picture in his wildest 
 dreams had been granted him ? He would hourly 
 see the object of his adoration he would hear, 
 unchided, that delicious voice to which he had so 
 often tremblingly listened by stealth, better 
 still, he would be allowed to serve Sylvie ; and in 
 assisting to watch over her father, he would spare 
 her pain and fatigue. Could his happiness reach 
 a higher climax ? 
 
 Doctor Souvestre came daily, and his visits 
 were of much longer duration than hereto 
 fore. After a few moments devoted to his patient, 
 he invariably took his seat beside the young 
 maiden, and playfully pointing to her tablets, 
 started some topic of general interest which drew 
 forth a reply. He had quickly discovered her 
 tastes, and her keen enjoyment of literature and 
 art always afforded agreeable subjects of conver 
 sation. Sylvie had perhaps noticed, but she had 
 not attached any importance to, or sought to in- 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 281 
 
 terpret the change in his deportment towards her. 
 She treated him with careless frankness and smil 
 ing courtesy ; but, far from suspecting that she was 
 encouraging his passion, she was unconscious of 
 its existence. 
 
 He often solicited her to sing, under the pre 
 tence of watching the effect produced by her voice 
 upon his patient. 
 
 Formerly, when she sang, she had felt inspired 
 by the music alone, seeing and hearing nothing 
 that passed around her, raised above all sublunary 
 recognition, falling into a heavenly trance through 
 her delight " in concord of sweet sounds." Now 
 her abstraction was even deeper, but different. She 
 no longer appeared to herself to have no auditor. 
 True, she lost sight of the elegant and refined 
 young man, sitting in silent admiration by her 
 side ; of the pallid invalid upon the bed yonder, 
 whose face wore an expression of such hearken 
 ing gladness; of the attenuated shape hovering 
 near, whose wan visage caught some faint reflec 
 tion from the sick man s joy-illumined counte 
 nance ; of the mis-shapen form that stood at the 
 foot of the couch, leaning eagerly forwards, with 
 parted lips and dilated eyes ; yet she imaged to 
 herself one listener ever absent, yet ever present 
 
282 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 she sang as though he always heard, and the 
 fervor that gave such thrilling emphasis to her 
 voice, grew wholly out of the vivid reality of that 
 ideal presence. 
 
 Ursule, whose qualifications as a nurse were of 
 an indisputably high order, was less frequently in 
 the room than might have been expected. The 
 cause of her absence became apparent before the 
 evening set apart for the concert arrived. 
 
 That morning Sylvie had taken out the muslin 
 dress which she had thrice worn in public, and 
 was dismayed to find it covered with mud, and 
 stained with the dye of the old black mantle 
 which had been saturated in her walk through 
 the rain. In sore distress, she had laid the dress 
 upon the bed, and stood pondering upon the pos 
 sibility of getting it washed and ironed before 
 evening, when Ursule entered. Assuming a mat 
 ter-of-course air, the latter deliberately removed 
 the discolored muslin, and substituted a dress of 
 rich white silk, adorned with three over-skirts of 
 white " illusion," and placed beside the dress a 
 scarf-like white sash, a pair of satin slippers, and 
 kid gloves. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu had charged her to spare no 
 expense in selecting an appropriate attire for 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 283 
 
 Sylvie, and the last few days had been occupied 
 by Ursule in its preparation. 
 
 Sylvie was expressing, by lively pantomimic 
 gestures, her gratitude for the thoughtful kind 
 ness of her master, and her approval of Ursule s 
 choice, when Dame Manot bustled into the apart 
 ment, carrying a box addressed to " Mademoiselle 
 de la Roche." 
 
 " It was left for you by a servant of the Mar 
 quis de St. Amar," said the concierge, her eyes 
 sparkling with kindly curiosity. 
 
 Sylvie s hands trembled as she received the 
 package, and she placed it on the table unopened. 
 Ursule, with ready tact, diverted the attention of 
 the dame by severing the ribbon which secured 
 the cover, and raising the lid. 
 
 First she took out a note in Honorine s hand 
 writing. Sylvie opened it with ill-disguised agi 
 tation. 
 
 A layer of fresh moss was next removed ; be 
 neath lay a coronal of white camellias, and a 
 cluster of the same pure flowers formed into a 
 breast-knot. 
 
 Honorine s note said that she was counting the 
 hours which must elapse before night arrived, and 
 she could hear and see her beloved Sylvie, and 
 
284 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 bade her wear these floral tokens upon her brow 
 and on her bosom in remembrance of the un 
 changing friendship of Honorine de St. Amar. 
 
 Sylvie hardly glanced at the snowy wreath and 
 bouquet, but while Ursule and Dame Manot 
 rapturously expatiated upon their beauty, turned 
 away to prepare a cooling draught for her father. 
 
 By and by Ursule closed the box, and set it 
 aside, and Sylvie never once lifted the lid until it 
 was time to commence her toilette for the concert. 
 
 To refuse the request of Mademoiselle de St. 
 Amar would be to lack courtesy. When Sylvie 
 was robed in the chaste white silk, with its trans 
 parent tulle drapery floating, like woven mist 
 around her, Ursule silently placed the camellia 
 crown upon the singer s shining black hair, and 
 fastened the spotless bouquet on her bosom. 
 
 Her fragile form had somewhat rounded and 
 expanded since her illness. She looked less 
 girlish than when she had last appeared before an 
 audience. She seemed to have lived years in a 
 few months. The repose of her manner had once 
 emanated from unconsciousness of self; now it 
 sprang from self-reliance. The shadow that 
 lingered in her eyes, once so cloudless, told that 
 some grief lay hidden beneath the calm surface, 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN". 285 
 
 and sent up its reflection out of the mysterious 
 depths into that cerulean haven. Yet she was so 
 completely " queen over herself," that there was 
 something in her presence which impressed others 
 as regal. 
 
 When her toilette was complete, she bent over 
 her father, clinging to the hope that he would 
 recognise her ; but he gazed into her face with a 
 vacant stare, and talked on in an unconnected and 
 scarcely comprehensible strain. In vain she cov 
 ered his hands with kisses, and passed her fingers 
 softly through his hair, and laid her flower- 
 crowned head upon his bosom her caresses were 
 unnoticed. 
 
 A few months ago she would have wept ; but 
 since she had struggled in fierce combat with 
 herself since she had known a sorrow which she 
 was forced to bury in the deep recesses of her 
 spirit, tears sprang less readily. Their sweet relief 
 was checked by a self-control that bade her suffer 
 without sign. 
 
 Her mother was sitting at the head of the bed, 
 looking less listless than was her wont. The 
 actual danger of the husband, whom she truly 
 loved, had forced her to shake off her constitu 
 tional apathy had made her forget to complain 
 
286 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 of imaginary or anticipated afflictions and had 
 caused her inwardly to vow that she would 
 encounter poverty, privation, all manner of cala 
 mities without a murmur, if her husband s life were 
 only spared. 
 
 She regarded Sylvie s evening toilette with a 
 half-smile, and said, " And so you are wearing at 
 last the white silk . dress of which your poor 
 father s extravagance once deprived you ? It 
 becomes you amazingly, and that tulle over-dress 
 has a charming effect. I hardly know you, 
 Sylvie ; I had no idea you had altered so much in 
 a few months." 
 
 Sylvie embraced her, but quickly turned again 
 to her father. She could not bear to leave him 
 thus. Maitre Beaujeu found her bending over the 
 sick man, pertinaciously essaying to attract his 
 attention. 
 
 Her master addressed her somewhat more 
 brusquely than had been his custom of late, but 
 his rough manner was only a mask to conceal his 
 agitation. Without one syllable of laudatory com 
 ment upon her striking appearance, he remarked 
 that her tablets were not in her girdle, and rated 
 Ursule for forgetfulness, as though all responsibil 
 ity devolved upon her. The omission was quickly 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 287 
 
 supplied, and the exquisitely wrought chain of 
 gold to which the tablets were attached, lying 
 upon the hueless raiment, and the blue enamel 
 cover, with one word traced in pearls just visible 
 above the belt, gave so much character and signifi 
 cance to the speechless maiden s attire, that Maitre 
 Beaujeu deserved credit for taste as well as fore 
 thought. 
 
 When Sylvie and her master entered the little 
 retiring-room of the Salk St. Cetile, the youthful 
 vocalist was warmly welcomed by Monsieur Le 
 Grand, but coldly greeted by those of his corps, 
 who dreaded that their own lesser lights might 
 suffer eclipse through this transcendent luminary. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand had taken care that the 
 rumor of her re-appearance should be widely 
 spread, together with the history of her loss of 
 voice the sudden and wonderful manner in which 
 her power of song was regained, while she conti 
 nued mute as regarded speech. The public had 
 marvelled sympathized rushed to the SaUe St. 
 Cecile crowded it to suffocation, and, being stimu 
 lated into high excitement by the novelty of the 
 occasion, were now ready to be astonished and 
 enraptured by talents far inferior to those with 
 which Sylvie had been endowed. 
 
2-88 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand, who thoroughly understood 
 how to create the greatest impression upon the 
 sensibilities of the mass, instead of letting Sylvie 
 sing a number of airs, had announced her only for 
 Handel s celebrated anthem, "But thou didst not 
 leave his soul," to be given towards the close of 
 the performance. The audience inferred that he 
 feared she might be suddenly stricken dumb in 
 singing, as in speaking, and were on the qui vive 
 to witness the possible calamity. 
 
 On the same principle, a crowd will throng a 
 theatre to see some desperate mortal earn his hard 
 bread by making a perilous leap, which, some 
 night, will probably cost him his life ; or to be 
 hold a man s head in a lion s mouth, the frightful 
 fascination arising from the chances that it will 
 eventually be snapped off. 
 
 Sylvie s tumultuous greeting from the expec 
 tant crowd, when she was led forth by Maitre 
 Beaujeu (who claimed that privilege), may readily 
 be imagined. Those human waves rose and sank, 
 and rose again, and roared, and grew still, and 
 roared again, until the hall seemed filled with a 
 living sea of humanity, stirred by simultaneous 
 motion, and endowed with one voice that motion 
 an earthquake that voice a thunder-peal ( 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 289 
 
 Several minutes elapsed before silence was re 
 stored, and Maitre Beaujeu commenced the pre 
 lude. With the first notes that broke in ringing 
 richness from Sylvie s lips, the clamor burst forth 
 anew with redoubled furor, and so completely 
 drowned her voice that she was obliged to cease 
 singing. Maitre Beaujeu also stopped playing. 
 
 Yet not by this vociferous welcome was Sylvie 
 moved, though she trembled until her cloud-like 
 drapery resembled a soft white mist, stirred by 
 light zephyrs. Honorine and her brother occu 
 pied seats directly in front of her ! One flashing 
 look, and her eyes did not turn in that direction 
 again. They were lifted up above that ocean of 
 human heads, and whatever they beheld was but 
 an air-painted image. 
 
 Once more the loud cries of welcome and con 
 gratulation died away, and once more Sylvie s 
 voice 
 
 "Like a trumpet that takes 
 
 The low note of a viol, that trembles and triumphing breaks 
 On the air with it solemn and clear," 
 
 rang out as full as a trumpet, as low and sweet as 
 a viol, trembling and triumphing, solemn and 
 
 clear ! 
 
 13 
 
290 TH MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Almost before the breathless stillness at the 
 conclusion of the anthem was broken by new 
 rapture, Sjlvie bent, and passed from the sight of 
 the spectators. 
 
 Then ensued vehement efforts to recall her, but 
 they were futile. Monsieur Le Grand knew that 
 the desire to hear her hereafter would be height 
 ened by the refusal of an encore. 
 
 His congratulations to Sylvie were accompanied 
 by a petition that she would engage to join his 
 corps for one year, to sing wherever, on the conti 
 nent or in Great Britain, he might require, re 
 ceiving five hundred francs per week and her 
 travelling expenses. 
 
 Sylvie had no hesitation in accepting this appa 
 rently munificent offer, but referred Monsieur Le 
 Grand to her tutor, and Maitre Beaujeu expressed 
 himself contented with the proposition. 
 
 " I will call upon Mademoiselle de la Roche to 
 morrow morning," said Monsieur Le Grand. 
 " She can then sign the contract, and the affair 
 will be closed." 
 
 Beaujeu knew that it would not be politic to 
 allow a person in Le Grand s position to witness 
 Sylvie s poverty and the humble manner in which 
 her family lived. He therefore objected to the pro- 
 
THE GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 291 
 
 posed visit, urging as a reason that Monsieur de 
 la Roche was dangerously ill. 
 
 Le Grand regarded him suspiciously, as though 
 he inferred that the musician meant by this demur 
 to make difficulties and finally demand higher 
 terms; Beaujeu, comprehending his look, replied 
 with some asperity and no little dignity : 
 
 " In objecting to your calling upon my pupil, 
 to-morrow, at the risk of disturbing her father and 
 thus distressing her, I found no fault with your 
 proposition. I should have told you frankly if I 
 had done so. If pen and paper are at hand, the 
 contract can as well be drawn up and signed to 
 night before we leave the hall." 
 
 The necessary writing materials were speedily 
 procured, the contract was duly prepared, signed, 
 and witnessed. A copy was then made, to which, 
 also, the signatures were attached. One paper 
 was delivered to Sylvie, the other kept by Mon 
 sieur Le Grand. The young singer was formally 
 bound to follow her profession, in whatever local 
 ity he directed, for the next year. 
 
 The time occupied by this business transaction 
 allowed the crowd to disperse. Doctor Souvestre, 
 as Mademoiselle de la Roche s physician, had 
 gained admission to the retiring-room ; and, while 
 
292 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand was arranging some minor 
 matters with Beaujeu, entertained Sylvie by 
 repeating the encomiums he had overheard. 
 
 Sylvie had cherished a hope that, as she passed 
 into the street, she would meet Honorine ; 
 " Honorine " was all she said to herself. It was 
 near the entrance of the Salk St. Cecile that she 
 had encountered her once before. As the youth 
 ful vocalist came forth, leaning upon Beaujeu s 
 arm, and with Doctor Souvestre on the other side 
 earnestly talking to her, she scarcely dared to lift 
 her eyes. From beneath her long lashes, how 
 ever, she soon saw that there was but one carriage 
 waiting. It was that which Beaujeu had engaged. 
 The equipage of the Marquis was not visible. 
 
 Honorine had been carried off by Madame de la 
 Tour, who probably had. accompanied her to the 
 concert for this very purpose. 
 
 Sylvie looked up with a disappointed expres 
 sion. A tall and stately form emerged from the 
 shadow thrown by the building, and appeared to 
 be approaching her. But the figure did not pause, 
 as seemed its first intention. The hat, lifted in 
 passing, showed the intellectual countenance of 
 the Marquis de St. Amar. He did not speak a 
 single word ; and Sylvie felt as every true artist, 
 
THPJ GREAT WORLD AGAIN. 293 
 
 who is also a true woman, must have felt, that, 
 unpraised by the man she loved, all praise was 
 breath only, and the triumph so glorious in the 
 eyes of the great world was unsatisfactory, incom 
 plete in her own eyes. 
 
CHAPTER XY. 
 
 A NEW HOME. 
 
 was excited and annoyed to the verge 
 of positive anger when she found herself irresis 
 tibly hurried into the carriage by Madame de la 
 Tour as soon as the concert was over. To wait 
 until Sylvie came forth to join her and implore 
 an explanation of her late singular conduct, had 
 been Mademoiselle de St. Amar s earnest desire. 
 When her aunt so warmly opposed her wishes 
 and insisted on her returning home immediately, 
 the possibility that she had something to do with 
 the cessation of Sylvie s visits, for the first time 
 flashed through Honorine s mind. This suspicion 
 rendered her only more determined that the inter 
 rupted intercourse should be renewed; though, 
 indeed, she had long since resolved upon that, and 
 had only waited for some favorable opportunity to 
 carry out her intention. She turned to appeal 
 from her aunt to her brother, and to ask the latter 
 to deliver a message to Sylvie, but he had disap 
 peared. 
 
A NEW HOME. 295 
 
 Honorine did not retire that night until she 
 heard his footstep in the corridor, and rushing out 
 to meet him, eagerly inquired : 
 
 "Did you see her after I left ?" 
 
 "See whom?" 
 
 " Why, Mademoiselle Sylvie, of course." 
 
 " Yes, I saw her leaving the concert-hall." 
 
 " And you spoke to her, of course ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 " How singular ! But perhaps she was sur 
 rounded by people. Whom was she with ?" 
 
 " Monsieur Beaujeu and a gentleman." 
 
 " I thought she knew no gentleman. Was he 
 young and handsome ?" 
 
 " Yes, if I am a judge of good looks." 
 
 " But why did you not join her and find out 
 who he was? I should be vexed if she formed 
 other agreeable acquaintances, and ceased to miss 
 ours. I have made up my mind to see her my 
 self, and nothing can prevent me." 
 
 The next day when Maitre Beaujeu came to give 
 his lesson, Honorine greeted him by emphatically 
 closing the piano, and leaning upon it with an air 
 which might be interpreted into a declaration of 
 rebellion and independence. 
 
 "I want no music to-day I am not in the 
 
296 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 vein," she began. " I do not mean to take a les 
 son. I want to see Mademoiselle Sylvie, and 
 nothing else can content me. My aunt would not 
 allow me to linger until she came out last night. 
 But I tell you I must and will see her ! I cannot 
 call at her present lodgings, for you say that there 
 is but one room, and her father is dangerously ill ; 
 besides, I suppose it would not be proper for my 
 brother to accompany me there; and Madame 
 de la Tour would not allow me to go with a 
 domestic. Now that Mademoiselle Sylvie s suc 
 cess is assured, why does she not occupy apart 
 ments where I could visit her ? You must make 
 her do so. Positively, you must." 
 
 " To hear is to obey !" replied Beaujeu, good- 
 humoredly. " As your suggestion is unquestion 
 ably wise, I will promise to act upon it." 
 
 "Will you, dear, good -Monsieur Beaujeu? and 
 will you do it at once ? Yes, you must act at once I 
 I am impatient to see Sylvie, and I hate delays. 
 Do go in search of apartments instantly. I can 
 not take a lesson to-day j therefore you have an 
 hour at your disposal." 
 
 Beaujeu not only found it impossible to refuse, 
 but he saw the propriety of the request, and took 
 his leave, promising to apprise his refractory pupil 
 
A NEW HOME. 297 
 
 as soon as he had found a fitting abode for the 
 young singer. 
 
 There was little difficulty in finding handsome 
 or humble furnished apartments in Paris. An 
 entresol in the Rue d j Angouleme, close to the Champs 
 Elysees, struck Maitre Beaujeu so favorably that 
 he secured it within an hour after he commenced 
 his search. An entresol, as our readers are pro 
 bably aware, is the story between the ground floor 
 (rez de chaussee) and the first story. The ceilings 
 are low. and it is generally a more economical 
 residence than any other desirable portion of the 
 house. The suite of rooms which pleased the 
 musician combined elegance and economy, the 
 locality was charming, the rent four hundred 
 francs per month. The apartments consisted of a 
 parlor, dining-room, three bed-rooms, kitchen, and 
 servants apartments. The furniture, without 
 being showy, was convenient and abundant, and 
 chosen in unexceptionable taste. 
 
 The concierge recommended two excellent female 
 domestics, who would divide the work between 
 them. After making an appointment to see these 
 necessary additions to the household on the mor 
 row, Beaujeu returned to the Faubourg St. Germain. 
 
 " Ask Mademoiselle de St. Amar," he said to a 
 13* 
 
298 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 servant, " if she will allow me to give her a les 
 son now, and say that I have complied with her 
 request." 
 
 Honorine came dancing into the room, accom 
 panied by her brother. 
 
 Beaujeu s prompt execution of her orders 
 caused her spirits to mount too high for a lesson 
 to be thought of on that day. Her master must 
 go at once, she said, to Sylyie, and prepare her for 
 a speedy removal. 
 
 This command of the self-constituted little 
 sovereign was given with such graceful imperious- 
 ness that the musician had no alternative but 
 to comply. 
 
 The Marquis had been unusually taciturn during 
 Beaujeu s brief visit. 
 
 " Are you not glad, brother ? Are you not 
 rejoiced that we shall be able to see Mademoiselle 
 Sylvie once more ? Now there can surely be no 
 impropriety in my visiting her, and in your accom 
 panying me. Say, are you not glad ?" 
 
 " I am always glad when you are glad, little 
 sister," replied the Marquis, with inexplicable 
 gravity. 
 
 A few moments after he ordered his phaeton, 
 and drove awav. 
 
A NEW HOME. 299 
 
 Shall we follow him on his mission through the 
 streets of Paris? 
 
 If we may judge from the thoughtful yet 
 pleased expression of his countenance, he has 
 some agreeable object in view. He first stops at 
 Pleyel s depot of pianos, and after carefully trying 
 a number of instruments, selects the finest, and 
 orders it to be sent to the apartments hired for 
 Monsieur de la Eoche in the Rue d Angouleme, 
 numero 
 
 The phaeton next draws up before a magasin de 
 meubles ; here he chooses a richly-carved rosewood 
 library, rather diminutive in size, suitable to a 
 small apartment, and desires it to be sent to the 
 same locality as the piano. After this he visits a 
 magasin, celebrated for its collection of choice 
 books ; here he passes an hour, gathering together 
 a sufficient number of standard works to fill the 
 shelves of the little library, and himself writing a 
 line in each volume. The next place that the 
 Marquis enters is zfabrique des jardinieres hydrau- 
 liques. After inspecting all the beautiful inven 
 tions for holding plants that may bloom in the 
 drawing-room, he orders the most tasteful to be 
 sent immediately to a certain florist. These jardi 
 nieres are constructed with a fountain in the cen- 
 
300 THE MUTE SINGER, 
 
 tre, which sends up a tiny jet of water amidst a 
 parterre of bright blossoms. The Marquis reaches 
 the florist s soon after the jardiniere is received, 
 and gives the most minute directions concerning 
 the plants which it must contain when it is sent, 
 on the morrow, to its final destination. A marble 
 bust, by a distinguished sculptor, completes the 
 purchases of the nobleman. It is a Saint Cecilia, 
 with upraised eyes and parted lips, whose seraphic 
 look conveys the impression that her song is not 
 for the ears of mortals. 
 
 After leaving Mademoiselle de St. Amar, Beau- 
 jeu made his way to the Rue St. Denis, and, with 
 out preface, informed Sylvie that suitable apart 
 ments were engaged for her, and that she must 
 prepare to enter them in a couple of days. When 
 Jher characteristic prudence caused her to object to 
 this step, arid pronounce it premature, he informed 
 her that he was the best judge of the fitness of the 
 proceeding ; it was absolutely necessary, he 
 asserted, that she should occupy rooms where 
 Monsieur Le Grand might call upon her to trans 
 act any necessary business (he took care not to 
 allude to any other possible visitors), and con 
 cluded by saying that her father would be bene 
 fited by change of air and additional comfort. 
 
A NEW HOME. 301 
 
 This last suggestion overcame Sylvie s scruples. 
 
 The possessions of the De la Roches were too 
 few to consume much time in packing. Every 
 thing was ready at the hour Beaujeu had ap 
 pointed for the removal. Monsieur de la Eoche 
 was to be transported to his new home upon a lit 
 ter, with Beaujeu and Mathieu walking by his 
 side. Ursulc, Sylvie, and her mother went in 
 advance to prepare for and receive the invalid. 
 
 We will not attempt to paint the surprise and 
 pleasure of the feminine trio who first reached the 
 delightful abode selected by the musician. Before 
 they had leisure fully to examine the apartments, 
 the sick man was brought in and laid upon his 
 comfortable bed. The fresh air and the gentle 
 motion produced a soporific effect, for he had 
 fallen into a quiet slumber. 
 
 Sylvie watched him awhile, as he slept, but 
 finding that he did not stir, left her mother and 
 Mathieu beside him, and joined her master in the 
 parlor. 
 
 He was seated at the piano playing, and did 
 not notice her entrance until she traced upon her 
 tablets the words, " How kind of you to have 
 thought of this !" and held them before his eyes. 
 
 " Truly, I deserve no credit," answered Beaujeu, 
 
302 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 rising. " I do not remember to have seen this 
 instrument when I engaged the rooms, and yet it 
 is one of Pleyel s best." 
 
 Sylvie pointed to the little library, and wrote : 
 
 " What rare enjoyment I shall derive from those 
 books !" 
 
 "Books? Ah yes that library is really an 
 exquisite piece of furniture ; but Fm an old dolt, 
 for I did not notice that either; and I do not 
 remember seeing those flowers growing so beauti 
 fully, with the fountain playing in their centre, 
 though one might suppose that jardiniere, which 
 fills the whole window, and is really a miniature 
 garden, was too striking to escape the notice and 
 admiration of anybody with a pair of eyes ; and I 
 did not remark that St. Cecilia, which has a face 
 so like yours yours when you are singing, I 
 mean. Truly, I shall begin to fancy that age is 
 telling upon me! At all events, I am glad you 
 are satisfied. Now I must leave you, for I have 
 lessons due all day. I will give your address to 
 Monsieur Le Grand in case he desires to wait upon 
 you." 
 
 Flowers had always a strong attraction for 
 Sylvie, and when she found herself alone, she 
 examined the floral treasures of the jardiniere 
 
A NEW HOME. 303 
 
 more minutely. A circle of heliotrope girdled the 
 little fountain and filled the air with penetrating 
 perfume. Heliotrope! That flower had associa 
 tions sweet as its own breath for Sjlvie she did 
 not dare to dwell upon them but turned away 
 with a smothered sigh, stifling those dangerous 
 rising memories. But wherever she went, the 
 haunting fragrance of the heliotrope pursued her, 
 and conjured visions of the past before her eyes, 
 and called back words to ring in her ears that 
 stirred her strangely, sweetly, and yet most pain 
 fully. 
 
 To divert her mind from these perilous thoughts, 
 she unclosed the glass doors of the bookcase, 
 and glancing over the titles, took down a volume 
 of Racine. As she opened the book her eyes 
 fell upon the words, " Mademoiselle Sylvie de la 
 Roche" Her name written on the otherwise blank 
 page! Could it be possible? Maitre Beaujeu 
 had distinctly declared that he had not noticed 
 the library it could not have been supplied by 
 him ! She opened another volume, and another, 
 and another, still the same name appeared within. 
 The books were Sylvie s selected for her and 
 
 by whom? She thought of ; she would 
 
 have answered, " ITonorine," if she had been 
 
304 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 asked of whom she thought. But the handwrit 
 ing was not hers. Were those characters wholly 
 unfamiliar ? Upon the little porcelain slate, now 
 lying in her trunk, were there not a few lines still 
 unefFaced ? and in that very hand ? 
 
 "When Ursule entered she found Sylvie standing 
 by the library lost in thought, her eyes fixed upon 
 the writing. 
 
 "I have come to bid adieu," said the spinster 
 with assumed calmness. " I find your little esta 
 blishment in perfect order. Maitre Beaujeu is a 
 wonderful manager. He has engaged two excel 
 lent servants. Janette is a middle-aged woman 
 and will cook for you. Eosine is a strong, able- 
 handed girl, and will keep the rooms in order, 
 attend to the table, etc., etc. As neither of them 
 can read, you will have some difficulty in 
 communicating with them yourself, but I 
 have spared you all the trouble I can by giving 
 directions." 
 
 Sylvie s caress said, "You always spare one 
 trouble." 
 
 "I must go now," resumed Ursule. "I will 
 come to see you often, and you must let me assist 
 in taking care of your father. I shall miss seeing 
 you every day, Sylvie I hardly know " Her 
 
A NEW HOME. 305 
 
 lips trembled, and she could not finish her sen 
 tence. 
 
 Sylvie s tablets were in her hand, but before 
 she could write a line Ursule had hurried out of 
 the room. 
 
 The warm-hearted dress-maker had not before 
 uttered a word which betrayed how severely she 
 suffered from this separation. Her intercourse 
 with Sylvie had awakened a thousand pleasant 
 emotions that brightened her desolate life. She 
 often thought that she knew what a mother s 
 happy sensations must be through the affection 
 she experienced for this young girl. Strange to 
 say, Beaujeu had been conscious of a similar feel 
 ing. Sylvie was to him as an own and only child, 
 and the sole happiness, sole prosperity of his 
 existence had emanated from her. If Sylvie s 
 parents were unfitted for their holy office, two 
 beings had been sent to occupy their places who 
 loved her with the tender devotion, the thought 
 ful solicitude, the earnest seeking after her good, 
 which characterize parental affection in its strength 
 and purity. 
 
CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 LUMINOUS CLOUD. 
 
 HONORINE S impetuous spirit could not brook 
 delay where her affections were concerned. She 
 admitted that it would be more proper to allow 
 a few days to elapse, that her friend might become 
 familiar with her new residence, before she sought 
 her there ; but, at the same time, declared her in 
 tention of visiting Sylvie the very next morning 
 after she took possession of her apartments in the 
 Rue d Angoul^me. 
 
 The objections and representations of Madame 
 de la Tour were unceremoniously set aside by this 
 child of impulse. She listened to her aunt with 
 the patience that good-breeding demanded, but 
 when she concluded, abruptly turned to her bro 
 ther and said : 
 
 " I will be ready at two o clock. "Will you not 
 accompany me, Stanislaus ? If not, I will take 
 Claudine." 
 
 Claudine was a trustworthy femme de chambre, 
 who had been Honorine s nurse during her child- 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 307 
 
 hood, and was now promoted to the higher office 
 of lady s maid. 
 
 The Marquis hesitated, reluctant to refuse, 
 though unwilling to consent ; but finally yielded 
 under protest to the tiny tyrant s despotic will. 
 
 Sylvie was at her father s bedside when the 
 cards of her visitors were received. This was for 
 tunate, for it gave her ample time to compose her 
 self before entering the drawing-room. Indeed, 
 her mien was so tranquil and self-possessed, that 
 Honorine, as she embraced her again and again 
 with hearty warmth, chided her for coldness. 
 Yet Sylvie returned the greeting of Mademoiselle 
 de St. Amar as though unaware of any other 
 presence. When, at last, she saluted the Marquis, 
 who stood silently by, it was without extending 
 her hand or lifting her eyes. 
 
 " This apartment is charming," said Honorine, 
 glancing approvingly round the room. " Now I 
 may come and see you often, may I not ? How 
 cruel you have been to forsake me for so long ! 
 You owe me an explanation before you have the 
 right to forgiveness. Come, confess ! Tell me 
 what prompted you to behave so strangely ?" 
 
 Sylvie raised her downcast eyes beseechingly, 
 and Honorine could not resist their mute pleading. 
 
308 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 "I will not ask you, then," she responded, 
 generously. u I cannot abide mysteries, but I will 
 tolerate this if you will promise that our friendship 
 shall not again suffer interruption. Come, pro 
 mise !" 
 
 Sylvie hesitated, evidently troubled and uncer 
 tain ; then she wrote upon her tablets, " Who can 
 answer for the future ?" 
 
 "Will you not promise to receive my visits?" 
 asked Honorine, in wounded accents. 
 
 What could Sylvie answer? Could she cast 
 aside friendship so warmly tendered ? Could she 
 trample under foot affection so pure and disinter 
 ested ? 
 
 She wrote : " I must ever be grateful for your 
 visits, and receive them thankfully." 
 
 " Receive me, that is all I ask," replied Honorine, 
 with returning vivacity. " Remember our com 
 pact, and I will trouble you with no more ques 
 tions." 
 
 The young girls seated themselves upon a 
 causeuse drawn close to the fire, for it was a bright, 
 cold day in February. 
 
 The Marquis, who with painful anxiety had 
 awaited Sylvie s reply to his sister s inquiry, now 
 wandered restlessly about the room. After awhile 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 309 
 
 he paused before the jardiniere and examined its 
 luxuriant bloom, to see if his orders were faith 
 fully executed, and symmetry of outline and 
 blending harmony of coloring had been preserved 
 in the disposition of the plants. 
 
 Wben Sylvie s delighted eyes first rested upon 
 that bed of odorous blossoms, the miniature foun 
 tain in the centre was sending up sparkling jets, 
 that scattered a dewy spray upon the surrounding 
 leaves ; but in something less than an hour it had 
 ceased playing, to her great regret. 
 
 The Marquis had learned at what time she was 
 expected, and had taken care to have the fountain 
 set in motion before she entered her new home. 
 He now, unreflectingly, touched a spring that 
 acted upon the hydraulic machinery; then, sud 
 denly fearing that he had betrayed his secret, 
 walked away with ill-assumed nonchalance. 
 
 The silvery sound of the falling drops struck 
 on Sylvie s quick ears ; she turned suddenly for 
 the first time that day her eyes met those of the 
 Marquis. One conscious, transient look told all 
 that she had divined, yet scarcely dared to believe. 
 The finely-toned piano the richly-stored book 
 case the marble St. Cecilia the rare plants all 
 that ministered to her tastes all that Maitre 
 
310 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Beaujeu had declared he had not seen when he 
 had engaged the apartments, had been supplied by 
 a guardian hand, the invisible influence of which 
 she had felt, even when she denied to herself its 
 agency. Yet why should that hand plant flowers 
 in her path open volumes for the cultivation of 
 her mind place statues to charm her eyes or 
 send music to aid her voice and gladden her 
 home ? Ah ! why indeed ? 
 
 Honorine was puzzled by the paling of Sylvie s 
 cheek, the increased rapidity of her breathing, and 
 the tightening pressure of the hand that she [Hono 
 rine] chanced to hold. The Marquis had not 
 uttered a single word, and so pointedly kept aloof 
 that his sister, when she saw the direction of 
 Sylvie s glance, fancied that their young host 
 ess might be hurt by his singular and inexpli 
 cable conduct. 
 
 " Brother, why do you not come and talk to 
 us? How dull and tiresome you are this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 "That implies that I am sometimes otherwise : 
 thanks for the admission !" replied the Marquis, 
 with a faint attempt at gaiety. 
 
 " You are not half so agreeable of late as you 
 used to be !" answered Honorine, pettishly. " You 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 311 
 
 have not seemed like yourself for some weeks, 
 and you don t appear to take interest in anything 
 that interests me." 
 
 " Perhaps, then, you can dispense with the wet- 
 blanket of my society for a little while ? I have 
 an engagement, and if you purpose to prolong 
 your visit to Mademoiselle de la Koche, I will 
 leave you and call in half an hour. May I ?" 
 
 " Of course you may. You are so stupid and 
 fidgety that we certainly do not want you. Do 
 we, Mademoiselle Sylvie ? Has he not your leave 
 to depart ?" 
 
 Sylvie bowed. 
 
 Too promptly to be suspected of the "compli 
 ment of a passing regret at least so the Marquis 
 thought, as he left the room. 
 
 The half hour doubled itself before he returned. 
 He found an addition to the party, which the 
 young ladies would probably have pronounced an 
 agreeable one. A gentleman was talking to them 
 in an animated strain ; they were laughing mer 
 rily at some anecdote which he was recounting 
 with captivating fluency and spirit. 
 
 The nobleman at once recognised the young 
 gentleman whom he had seen with Sylvie when she 
 left the Salle St. Cecile a few evenings pievious. 
 
312 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 " Come, Honorine," said the Marquis to his 
 sister, without taking a seat, " I have only time to 
 escort you home." 
 
 " How soon you have returned !" replied Hono 
 rine, poutingly, but rising as she spoke. "Adieu, 
 Mademoiselle Sylvie ; I am coming to see you 
 again very soon ; to-morrow, if you will let me." 
 
 Sylvie needed no language to express her glad 
 consent. 
 
 To the Marquis she merely courtesied with the 
 same graceful coldness as before. 
 
 As he was quitting the apartment, he turned 
 almost without being aware of what he was 
 doing, and rapidly scrutinized the gentleman with 
 whom he left her alone. 
 
 " You seem to have been very much enter 
 tained by Mademoiselle Sylvie s visitor," he re 
 marked to his sister, on their way home. 
 
 " Yes he is a most delightful person ; he 
 relates charming anecdotes, and in quite a drama 
 tic style," she replied. "Dr. Souvestre is his 
 name. Mademoiselle Sylvie tells me that he 
 attended her during her long illness, and is now 
 the physician of her father." 
 
 " Eather a juvenile doctor," replied her brother, 
 drily, " and not greatly occupied with his patients, 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 313 
 
 since he has leisure for the amusement of two 
 young ladies at this hour of the day." 
 
 " Oh, Mademoiselle Sylvie says that he always 
 remains and talks to her after visiting her father, 
 and I am sure she must be glad to listen to such 
 an agreeable person, and one who was so kind and 
 attentive when she was ill. She must lead such a 
 solitary life !" 
 
 The Marquis bit his lips and looked thoughtful 
 and troubled. His sister prattled on without wait 
 ing for replies or heeding his taciturnity. 
 
 The next morning he left the house before she 
 appeared at the breakfast table. Honorine ex 
 pressed a hope that he would return soon after 
 noon. 
 
 " Where do you wish him to take you ? asked 
 Madame de la Tour, graciously. 
 
 " To see Mademoiselle Sylvie, of course," 
 answered Honorine, with a rebellious air. " We 
 have not met for so long, that I intend to bore 
 her with visits as a punishment for her staying 
 away from me. If my brother does not return in 
 time, I mean to take Claudine with me." 
 
 "That will not be necessary," replied the diplo 
 matic aunt. k{ I will accompany you myself." 
 
 "You?" exclaimed Honorine, in astonishment. 
 14 
 
314 THE MUTE SINGER, 
 
 " Yes, // Is it very wonderful that I should 
 think it proper to go where my niece chooses to 
 go ? The sanction of my presence is needed for 
 her to escape remark, perhaps censure." 
 
 Madame de la Tour had a double object in 
 view. In the first place, if she accompanied 
 Honorine, there was no need of her brother s pre 
 sence ; in the second, she trusted that during this 
 visit her quick perception might enable her to 
 gather material for a fresh plot, through which she 
 might possibly work out a new and more lasting 
 breach. 
 
 She was not disappointed in her calculations. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre had just visited his patient, and 
 was sitting in the drawing-room with Sylvie, when 
 Madame de la Tour and Mademoiselle de St. 
 Amar were announced. 
 
 Sylvie was not in the least aware of Madame 
 de la Tour s sentiments of animosity, and did not 
 disguise that she was complimented by her visit. 
 
 The lively sallies of Souvestre broke pleasantly 
 through the formality which the presence of Hono- 
 rine s aunt gave to the conversation, and Sylvie 
 smiled gratefully upon him, never dreaming that 
 her look of approval might be misconstrued by 
 him or any one present. 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 315 
 
 Madame de la Tour did not need to suspect that 
 this handsome and polished young man was 
 Sylvie s admirer ; it was enough for that ready- 
 witted lady that she had seen him, and could report 
 that he was a lover, it mattered not with how little 
 foundation. She had stored the desired materiel 
 for her finesse to work upon, and her internal satis 
 faction made her particularly condescending to 
 Sylvie. 
 
 Mademoiselle de St. Amar was at once de 
 lighted and deceived; and when, as they were 
 returning home, her aunt not only listened to, but 
 echoed, the praises bestowed upon the young 
 singer, Honorine reproached herself for ever 
 having imagined it possible that Madame de la 
 Tour could have taken any part in producing the 
 late estrangement. 
 
 "When Honorine met her brother at dinner, and 
 very naturally commenced talking to him of 
 Sylvie, she was surprised to find that he was 
 already aware of the recently paid visit. He had 
 received " a full and graphic account" he answered, 
 somewhat sarcastically, from their aunt. He did 
 not add that she had confidently described Dr. 
 Souvestre as Sylvie s favored lover, and had thus 
 confirmed his own suspicions or rather his jea- 
 
316 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 lous fears, for lie had scarcely ground to build 
 actual suspicions upon. 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche had visibly improved since 
 lie had exchanged the close atmosphere of the Rue 
 St. Denis for the purer air of the Rue d Angouleme. 
 On the fourth morning after his removal he opened 
 his eyes, and gazing around the elegant apartment 
 in which he lay, thought himself in a delicious 
 dream. 
 
 He beheld his wife at the foot of the bed, and at 
 once noted the change in her whole appearance. 
 She wore a neat black silk dress, and a most 
 becoming cap. She was no longer bending double 
 to ply her needle, but held in her hand an open 
 book which she appeared to be perusing with 
 interest. He had not seen her look so young and 
 comely for many years. 
 
 While he was gazing in dreamy wonder, the 
 sound of a piano fell upon his ears, accompanied 
 by a melodious voice. Surely that deep, resound 
 ing contralto was Sylvie s voice ! That voice 
 which he had believed hushed in silence for ever ! 
 It touched a cord that started a train of memory. 
 He recalled the hour when he last heard those 
 mellifluous tones remembered his accident, and 
 the sudden and marvellous restoration of his 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 317 
 
 daughter s vocal powers which ensued but what 
 had followed ? Where was he ? 
 
 "Marguerite," he said, feebly. 
 
 His wife dropped her book, and started to her 
 feet. 
 
 "Marguerite!" he repeated with more energy, 
 "is that really you? and is that our Sylvie s 
 voice ? Have the dark clouds which shadowed 
 our lives turned out their silver lining at last ?" 
 
 " The clouds have gone !" returned Madame de 
 la Roche, with a burst of grateful emotion. 
 " You know me you are yourself again you 
 will recover there is no cloud now ! (rod be 
 thanked!" 
 
 " Have I been ill, then ? and for a long time ?" 
 
 His wife, as soon as she could sufficiently com 
 mand herself, related all the events that had oc 
 curred since his accident and during his period 
 of unconsciousness. 
 
 He was so much overcome by the narrative, 
 that he could only gasp out 
 
 " It is real, then ? No card-house building, as 
 Maitre Beaujeu called it ; the walls will not crum 
 ble around me? And that patient, toiling, hea 
 ven-blest child is the sun that gave their luminous 
 lining to our clouds !" 
 
318 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Mathieu, who was always in attendance, had 
 been a silent witness of this scene. Unprompted, 
 he hastened to summon Sylvie. 
 
 Who could attempt to describe the depth and 
 intensity of her joy when her father s arms were 
 once more about her neck, and, coupling her 
 name with tenderest epithets, he poured forth his 
 thankfulness and love ? 
 
 She could not be induced to leave his side that 
 day, not even to receive the visit of Honorine, 
 who came accompanied only by her femme de 
 chambre. Madame de la Eoche usually shrank 
 from strangers; but, in this instance, she readily 
 complied with her daughter s request, and pre 
 sented herself to Mademoiselle de St. Amar, to 
 apologize for Sylvie s absence, and communicate 
 its happy cause. If Madame de la Eoche had 
 experienced any timidity, it would have been 
 rapidly dispelled by the ready sympathy with her 
 joy which Honorine evinced, by her ingenuous 
 praises of S} 7 lvie, and by the affectionate manner 
 in which she dwelt upon the brilliant career that 
 apparently awaited the songstress. When the 
 gratified mother returned to her husband s apart 
 ment, her face was almost as radiant as that of her 
 daughter. 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 319 
 
 The invalid, as he looked upon his wife s beam 
 ing countenance, could not help saying, " You 
 believe in good luck at last, eh, Marguerite ?" 
 
 " Do not remind me how ungrateful and unde 
 serving I have been !" she answered in accents of 
 self-reproach. " Sylvie has taught me to trust, 
 and the lesson will never be unlearned, come what 
 may I" 
 
 When Honorine, the ever-devoted, paid her 
 daily visit on the morrow, she was accompanied 
 by her brother. Though Sylvie s greeting of the 
 former was unusually animated, her deportment 
 towards the latter was as reserved and constrained 
 as ever. 
 
 The Marquis congratulated her upon her father s 
 convalescence, and asked if he might be permitted 
 to see him. These were the first words he had 
 addressed to her since the* happy day when they 
 last walked in Honorine s conservatory together 
 the day that preceded so many weeks of sad 
 separation. 
 
 Sylvie looked surprised, but pleased, at the 
 request, and retired to apprise her father. In a 
 few moments she re-appeared with her mother, 
 who begged the Marquis to have the goodness to 
 accompany her to the chamber of her husband. 
 
320 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Monsieur de la Eoche was so completely bewil 
 dered by this unexpected visit that he could not 
 recover himself sufficiently to be led into any 
 extravagance by his elation. The Marquis took a 
 seat beside him, and, after a few courteous inqui 
 ries, hoped that he would shortly be restored to 
 complete health, adding that a friend of his wanted 
 a secretary, and he had taken the liberty of recom 
 mending Monsieur de la Roche. The position, he 
 went on to say, was a confidential one ; and, inde 
 pendent of a liberal salary, his associations would 
 be of a kind that a man of education and refine 
 ment must find agreeable. 
 
 It was well that Monsieur de la Roche had 
 been so completely subdued by illness well 
 that he was almost speechless from surprise ; for 
 the few words of thanks and acceptance he was 
 alone able to utter made a highly favorable im 
 pression on the Marquis. None of the enthusi 
 ast s olden bombast, none of his florid exaggera 
 tion of sentiment found vent, and his rampant 
 egotism was completely laid at rest. 
 
 The Marquis arrived at the conclusion that 
 Maitre Beaujeu, from whom he had learned many 
 particulars concerning Sylvie s father, had done 
 that individual singular injustice. 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 321 
 
 The nobleman, when he returned to the draw 
 ing-room, where his sister and Sylvie were sitting 
 in loving proximity, did not make known the 
 object of his visit to the invalid. Thanks would 
 have been painful to him, and he considered that 
 none were due. 
 
 In serving Sylvie, though he believed her heart 
 bestowed upon another, he took as much delight 
 as though that precious gift were his own. Love, 
 that deserves the name, is ever purely disinter 
 ested ; it seeks the well-being of the object be 
 loved, without craving after gratitude, without 
 asking the compensation of returned affection, 
 without the remotest reference to self! It would 
 have given infinite joy to a nature as large and 
 liberal as the Marquis possessed to watch over 
 Sylvie from the distance, to shower good gifts 
 upon her with an invisible hand, to smoothe her 
 path of life, and guide her steps unseen to 
 secure her happiness at any sacrifice, even that of 
 yielding her to one whom she loved better. 
 
 The health of Monsieur de la Roche now 
 rapidly improved. A revolution had taken place 
 in his character as remarkable as the change in 
 the mental organization of his wife. His ten 
 dency to indulge in visionary projects remained, 
 14* 
 
322 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 but it was kept in check by a promised reality 
 which would require prudence and energy. 
 Through the force of habit, Madame de la Roche s 
 anxious fears and gloomy anticipations were now 
 and then re-wakened, but they were quickly 
 banished by the remembrance of the joyful cer 
 tainty with which she had been blessed. 
 
 Let it not be supposed that Sylvie, because she 
 appeared to be free from the striking faults of her 
 parents, was absolved from the sequences of the 
 great law of inheritance. That these failings must 
 be hereditarily transmitted to her was inevitable ; 
 but, as we have said before, the tendencies derived 
 from her sanguine father were counterbalanced by 
 the precisely opposite qualities inherited from her 
 melancholy mother. Then, again, the unhappy 
 results of the too palpable shortcomings of both 
 acted as a warning. Besides this, Sylvie possessed 
 remarkable strength and individuality of charac 
 ter. She could not copy any one, even a parent. 
 Her actions were never the mere reflex of the 
 actions of others. She could not forego the right 
 of election, and complacently walk in the path 
 others had trodden, and take it for granted that it 
 must be the best, because it was beaten by their 
 familiar feet. She must examine, judge, -deter- 
 
LUMINOUS CLOUD. 323 
 
 mine avoid or accept for herself. A sense of 
 responsibility, early implanted by what we vaguely 
 call " circumstance," imparted this self-reliance, 
 and gave to her character its almost severe up 
 rightness, its striking force and dignity. 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 
 
 THE plans of the enterprising Monsieur Le 
 Grand, who built high hopes upon the powerful 
 attraction of the new vocalist, and looked forward 
 to a brilliant musical season, were unexpectedly 
 frustrated. 
 
 The revolutionary spirit, which for a long 
 period had agitated the murmuring masses in 
 Paris, and given forth, at intervals, a sound like 
 low mutterings of distant thunder before the 
 storm breaks forth in fury, now began to assume 
 a distinct voice and take a definite and menacing 
 shape. The month of February, 1848, was ad 
 vancing and rapidly ripening those portentous 
 events which, culminating, burst into action on 
 the 24th, and led to that fierce struggle when 
 France went mad with the fantasy that she could 
 become a permanent republic without possessing 
 the first fundamental elements of republicanism. 
 
 Monsieur Le Grand, though not wanting in 
 patriotic feeling, loved his art, and the accumula- 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 325 
 
 tion of gain by. its successful administration, far 
 better than politics. Whether France remained a 
 monarchy or proved herself capable of becoming 
 a republic, was a matter of secondary importance 
 to him, so long as music stirred the hearts of the 
 million, and concert-rooms were crowded. But 
 after the inauspicious twenty-fourth of February, 
 when Louis Philippe trembled upon the throne 
 from which he was shortly after ignominiously 
 driven, never to reascencl, trade was at a stand 
 still, shops were closed, places of public amuse 
 ment almost deserted. 
 
 Occasional brief lulls of the popular excitement 
 did not deceive Monsieur Le Grand ; his prophetic 
 spirit warned him that the struggle would be of 
 protracted duration, and keep the public mind 
 unattuned to harmony for months to come. The 
 judicious leader wisely turned his face towards 
 other less distracted lands, and resolved upon an 
 immediate tour through Great Britain. His 
 musical corps was ordered to hasten all necessary 
 preparations, and apprised that he expected to 
 depart in a few days. 
 
 As we have already stated, Maitre Beaujeu was 
 a regular member of Monsieur Le Grand s com 
 pany; he would not, therefore, be separated from 
 
326 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 his beloved pupil. Although he was nominally 
 and actually her guardian, it was indispensable to 
 her comfort and respectability that she should 
 have a protector, companion, or attendant of 
 her sex. When this necessity suggested itself to 
 Beaujeu (whose watchfulness never slumbered), he 
 he at once sought Ursule, and with little difficulty 
 persuaded her to accompany them. He also in 
 duced Monsieur Le Grand to include her travelling 
 expenses in those of Sylvie, and to make a small 
 addition to the weekly salary of the latter, that she 
 might be able to remunerate Ursule for her time 
 and services. 
 
 Monsieur and Madame de la Koche contem 
 plated yielding up their daughter without more 
 sorrow than was natural ; they had become won 
 derfully forbearing and reasonable. Sylvie s own 
 emotions were of a conflicting character. The 
 pain of parting from her father, before he was fully 
 restored to health, counterbalanced the pleasure 
 she experienced at the prospect of seeing foreign 
 countries, gaining information, and entering fully 
 upon the labors and glories of her profession. 
 
 The duties of Mathieu had been lightened by 
 the convalescence of Monsieur de la Koche, and 
 the poor cripple could not help feeling that the 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 827 
 
 sole bright epoch of his shadowed existence was 
 drawing to a close, and that his occupation would 
 shortly be gone. From the moment that he heard 
 of the proposed journey, his homely countenance 
 betokened the most poignant grief; and though he 
 said nothing, heavy sighs would burst from his 
 laboring breast, as he crept about the room, and he 
 became so absent that the invalid for the first time 
 was forced to rebuke him for inattention. 
 
 This change in the deportment of the unfor 
 tunate boy did not escape Beaujeu ; he compre 
 hended its cause, and was readily moved to pity. 
 
 One morning as he was conversing with De la 
 Koche, and noticing the languid motions and 
 drooping mien of the ungainly attendant who was 
 brushing his master s clothes, the musician came to 
 a sudden resolution. Kindly impulses appeared 
 of late to be ever uppermost in his nature. 
 
 "Le Grand cannot stir without his valet!" he 
 said, addressing the invalid. " My toilette does 
 not compare badly with his, nowadays, but I 
 have never indulged myself with the luxury of a 
 valet. As I shall have a young lady under my 
 charge to whom a servant might be useful, I have 
 a great mind to engage one. What do you think ? 
 Mathieu appears to be tolerably handy and tole- 
 
328 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 rably faithful you are almost well enough to 
 spare him would you object to my taking him 
 with us ?" 
 
 With what a gasp and bound the deformed boy 
 leaped from his corner, dropping coat and brush 
 at the words! His hands clasped, his uncouth 
 features distorted by the sudden transition from 
 despair to hope, he ejaculated : 
 
 " Take me ! Take me with you ! I will be 
 the most faithful of servants ! Say you will take 
 me, or I shall die!" 
 
 "Young man, you are oppressively tragic!" re 
 plied Beaujeu, with mock gravity. " If a breath 
 can save your life, we will not permit your im 
 mediate dissolution ; you shall go with us ! There 
 that will do. Now, don t interrupt us with any 
 grimaces or gymnastic exhibitions. If you want 
 to dance upon your head, go to the kitchen, and 
 give Janette the benefit of the feat. Go ! go !" 
 
 If Mathieu, when he rushed from his new mas 
 ter s sight, did not literally obey this bidding, he 
 probably vented his ecstasy in a manner not less 
 fantastical and comical. 
 
 Great and ill-concealed was the satisfaction of 
 Madame de la Tour when she learned that Sylvie 
 was so shortly to leave Paris. Honorine, on the 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 329 
 
 other hand, was inconsolable, and she made this 
 approaching parting her excuse for spending every 
 moment that she could absent herself from home 
 with her friend. Claudine always accompanied 
 her upon these visits. The Marquis had not made 
 his appearance in the Rue d Angouleme since his 
 interview with Monsieur de la Eoche. 
 
 The revolution had burst forth by fits and starts, 
 led by an invisible and nameless leader ; and, as 
 the excitement died awa^ after each brief crisis, 
 the higher classes entertained a hope that the pro 
 posed abdication of Louis Philippe would restore 
 peace and order. It was during one of these ap 
 parently calm intervals that Honorine entreated 
 Sylvie to accompany her to the Boulevards to a 
 certain jeweller s (one of the few who kept his shop 
 open), and assist in selecting a handsome snuffbox 
 for a parting token for Maitre Beaujeu. 
 
 The young girls were only accompanied in their 
 expedition by the femme de chambre of Made 
 moiselle de St. Amar. 
 
 The equipage of the Marquis had reached the 
 Boulevards, and was approaching its destination, 
 when the alarmed occupants of the carriage sud 
 denly became aware that the city was again in 
 commotion, and on the eve of some fresh emeute. 
 
330 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 Groups of savage-looking men were gathered here 
 and there, talking loudly and gesticulating fiercely 
 others were occupied in tearing up the pave 
 ment and completing barricades commenced some 
 days previous. 
 
 Honorine, at the entreaty of her more prudent 
 attendant, had given the order to hasten home as 
 rapidly as possible, when the sound of martial 
 music, half drowned by the frantic shouts of the 
 populace, broke on their startled ears. The car 
 riage was suddenly turned, the horses dashed off 
 into a gallop. Unfortunately the tumult came 
 from the direction in which they were going. 
 Down an adjacent street rushed a band of turbu 
 lent workmen, their blue blouses torn and flying in 
 the wind their grim faces rendered hideous with 
 passion their bare and brawny arms encumbered 
 with clubs and other instruments of attack. 
 
 Claudine leant out of the carriage to reconnoitre ; 
 but in an instant drew back terror-stricken, and 
 crying as she hastily closed the window, " Le 
 drapeau rouge! The red flag! The red flag! 
 They are carrying the red flag, and they are close 
 upon us !" 
 
 The insurgents had substituted this ominous red 
 banner for the tri-colored flag of France. 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 331 
 
 The coachman lashed his horses; but the high- 
 spirited animals, unused to the whip, reared and 
 plunged without making progress. The arms 
 upon the panels of the carriage caught the atten 
 tion of the mob, and in a moment the coach was 
 surrounded. 
 
 Shouts of " A las les aristocrats I Down with 
 the aristocrats ! Down with the aristocrats 1" rose 
 on every side. 
 
 In another instant the coachman was torn from 
 his box, and buffeted about among the crowd. 
 The gaily dressed chasseur was- pulled down, and 
 his rich livery stripped off and rent to tatters. 
 Both domestics were soon lost to the sight of the 
 three terrified and unprotected women who help 
 lessly "witnessed the outrage. 
 
 The violent blow of a rude fist shattered the 
 window-pane ; another blow on the opposite side 
 sent a shower of broken glass into the carriage. 
 One sharp piece struck the white forehead of 
 Honorine, and a bright red current trickled down 
 her face. 
 
 At this sight Claudine lost all self-command, 
 and her piercing shrieks mingled with the roars of 
 the brutal men who now thrust their ferocious 
 faces into the carriage, charging those within to 
 
332 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 shout, " Vive la Republique ! Long live the Kepub- 
 lic!" 
 
 Claudine, not comprehending the order, wrung 
 her hands, and sobbed and screamed hysterically, 
 begging for mercy. 
 
 Honorine was struck as speechless as Sylvie 
 through extreme terror. Pale and voiceless, the 
 trembling maidens shrank into a corner, clinging 
 to each other, and too much appalled for thought 
 or action. 
 
 The doors of the carriage were plucked from 
 their hinges the steps let down infuriated men 
 mounted on either side, and thrust themselves half 
 into the coach ! 
 
 The shrieks of Claudine were redoubled, but 
 still she took no heed of the command to join in 
 the cry of " Vive la Republique /" One of the men 
 seized her in his strong arms, and in spite of her 
 wild struggles, dragged her into the street. 
 
 Honorine sprang up aghast, clasped her hands 
 imploringly tried to speak, but fell back into a 
 deep swoon ! 
 
 With a jeering laugh another man stretched his 
 arms towards her, but before she was in his grasp, 
 Sylvie had lifted her insensible form and clasped 
 it tightly to her bosom. 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 333 
 
 The next instant she, too, was forcibly drawn 
 from the carriage, and stood in the midst of the 
 enraged crowd ; but she had not relinquished her 
 hold, and Honorine lay close to her wildly throb 
 bing heart. 
 
 She knew that there was no mercy to be 
 expected, even for women, and that the lives of 
 two young girls, whom the maddened mob looked 
 upon as obstinate aristocrats, would be meet food 
 to satisfy or feed their fury. With the imminent 
 peril, her paralysing fears vanished her presence 
 of mind her self-possession returned. She 
 thought not of her own danger (there was none 
 for her, if the insurgents were only made aware 
 that she herself was no aristocrat, but a child of 
 the people), it was the peril of the beloved friend 
 lying senseless in her arms that quickened her 
 wits. Truly it is 
 
 " Very good for strength 
 
 To know that some one needs us to be strong ! " 
 
 With that need for another, a strange, unnatural 
 calmness, a marvellous power, was infused into the 
 strong soul of the feeble girl. 
 
 As the command to cry " Vive la Republique /" 
 was echoed around her, coupled with savage 
 
334 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 threats, she lifted one arm with a gesture of com 
 mand, then her glorious voice pealed forth in 
 trumpet tones 
 
 " Aliens, enfans de la Patrie, 
 Le jour de gloire est arrive !" 
 
 and the stirring words of the Marseilles hymn 
 boomed over the heads of the multitude. 
 
 Her hat had fallen off; her dark, luxuriant hair 
 streamed in wild confusion to her knees ; her 
 large, blue eyes were dilated to a fiery blackness. 
 The look of horror upon her blanched counte 
 nance melted into one of heroic resolve. One arm 
 was still upraised; the other supported the light 
 form of her unconscious companion, without seem 
 ing to tax her strength. 
 
 Over Sylvie s arm, as she sang, drooped Hono- 
 rine s head; her hat, also, was gone her chestnut 
 hair unbound ; the bright blood still oozed slowly 
 from her temples, and splashed, drop by drop, 
 upon the disordered dress of the dauntless song 
 stress. 
 
 With the first out-ringing of that patriotic adju 
 ration, a death-like stillness fell upon the angry 
 waves that so lately surged up and roared around, 
 threatening to swallow those two tender and 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 335 
 
 defenceless beings. Men held their breath in sud 
 den awe, and with eyes fastened upon the heroic 
 maiden who stood so fearlessly before them, 
 seemed ready to prostrate themselves at her feet 
 in dumb veneration. But when she reached the 
 last verse, and with a fervor that electrified every 
 heart, the words 
 
 " Amour sacre de la Patrie 
 Conduis, soutiens nos braves vengeurs !" 
 
 gushed forth, a perfect tempest of shouts rent the 
 air ; and the singer, borne onward as lightly as 
 though she had floated upon that rapturous 
 breath, was gently replaced in the carriage, with 
 Honorine lying in her arms. The eyes of the 
 unconscious girl were still closed, and her sweet, 
 upturned face gave no signs of life, save the slow 
 trickling of the red drops. 
 
 Amid deafening hurrahs, the horses of the Mar 
 quis de St. Amar were released from their harness, 
 and Sylvie saw them dash past the window. 
 
 " They will find their way back, and their pre 
 sence will give the alarm," was her rapid thought 
 as she turned her eyes anxiously upon Honorine. 
 
 A dozen men had taken the places of the noble 
 
336 THE MUTE SINGEK. 
 
 steeds, and were preparing to bear the young singer 
 in triumph and in safety homeward. 
 
 " Have the goodness to tell us where you live, 
 Mademoiselle," said one of the artisans, addressing 
 her in such a subdued and respectful tone that she 
 could hardly recognise him as the individual who 
 had seized the unlucky Claudine. 
 
 Sylvie essayed to speak, forgetting her inability 
 in the agitation of the moment, but no sound is 
 sued from her colorless lips. Happily her tablets 
 were in her girdle. She opened them and wrote, 
 " Rue d Angouleme, numero ." 
 
 The man repeated the street and number to his 
 comrades, and it was echoed from mouth to mouth. 
 Then the carriage dashed through the parted crowd 
 amid prolonged huzzas that followed it on its way, 
 for a rapidly moving throng kept dangerously close 
 to the wheels. 
 
 They reached the Rue d Angouleme. The song 
 stress descended from the carriage, still holding 
 Honorine in her arms ; but, light as was her weight, 
 now that the strength imparted by excitement sub 
 sided with the peril by which it had been pro 
 duced, the exhausted .maiden tottered upon the 
 threshold. One of the men pressed forward to re 
 lieve her of her burden, but she shook her head 
 
THE MOB AND THE SINGER. 837 
 
 and loosened not her grasp. The cheers of the 
 crowd had brought the inhabitants of the whole 
 neighborhood to their doors and windows. Syl- 
 vie looked up, saw Matbieu for one moment, the 
 next he was at her side. She placed Honorine in 
 his arms, and, still clasping her motionless hand, 
 mounted with difficulty to her own apartment. 
 
 Mademoiselle de St. Amar was laid upon the 
 sofa, and Sylvie was kneeling beside her, aiding 
 Madame de la Eoche in her efforts to restore con 
 sciousness, when the rescued maiden slowly opened 
 her eyes. Mathieu had disappeared. The room 
 was filled with strangers, 
 
 Honorine gazed about her in alarm, and mur 
 mured in a terrified tone, "Sylvie! Sylvie! are we 
 safe?" 
 
 Sylvie replied by a reassuring embrace. Just 
 then she caught the sound of a well known voice, 
 and rose suddenly. The Marquis de St. Amar was 
 trying to force his way through the crowd. 
 
 "Brother! Brother!" said Honorine, extending 
 her arms towards him. 
 
 The people would gladly have kept the " aris 
 tocrat " back, but Sylvie waved her hand. The 
 imperative gesture was instantly obeyed, and room 
 
 was made for the Marquis to pass. His sister, fee- 
 15 
 
THE MCTE 
 
 >. .-. : . r-.^-.-. :o .-yy\\iv::i hi in, and row 
 
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 He .;poa the sotk and turning 
 
 ;h her bands and said, in a 
 
 : w;is hardly audible, " I 
 
 ! How gladly I would 
 
 dev; vs>a wvxild accept so 
 
 ie withdrew the haiivis which grew cold as 
 
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 SIT .__ ^ - - . .>:.?. ss : : : 
 
 - : . "_ .; :-. . : _ . v . . 
 
 ^ ~ : " r heard Dr. 
 peniLg ia her ears : ~ Too. are 
 
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 Lin; Jti ^iu Ilililti Jia F i T 11 "."^ Ititl "H*i 
 
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 sail 
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CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 PARTING. 
 
 SEVERAL days elapsed before Paris sank again 
 into a state of deceptive, transitory quietude, 
 and the blood of her children was washed from 
 her flagstones, ere long to be crimsoned anew with 
 homicidal stain. 
 
 The delicately reared Honorine was completely 
 prostrated by the shock her nervous system had 
 sustained, and the long swoon which ensued. 
 
 The effects of exhaustion and excitement on 
 Sylvie were merely temporary, but her parents 
 were unwilling to allow her to venture forth. 
 Her last brave act of devotion had doubly en 
 deared her to Mademoiselle de St. Amar, who 
 pined for her society, and fretted herself into a 
 fever, because she was separated from her. 
 
 These two young maidens were bound to each 
 other by ties as strong as though kindred blood 
 sent its glowing current through their veins, and 
 brought their hearts into responsive pulsation. 
 An internal recognition of kinship revealed each 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 341 
 
 to the other as a sister in spirit. Let men jeer at 
 the friendships of women as they will, there are 
 rich feminine natures whose tender attachment to 
 one of their own sex is as potent, as enduring, as 
 indispensable to happiness as the love that binds 
 them in holy bondage to man. Honorine and 
 Sj 7 lvie belonged to this class of beings. 
 
 The attentions of Dr. Souvestre had become so 
 marked that Sylvie, without distinctly regarding 
 him as a lover, began to experience an unwonted 
 embarrassment in his presence. He had never 
 framed his passion into definite language he had 
 only told Sylvie how tenderly she would be re 
 membered by him during her absence how 
 earnestly he hoped not to be forgotten by her. 
 What right had she to take it for granted that he 
 meant to pay her the highest compliment a man 
 can offer, and to crush his hopes by the intima 
 tion that it would not be acceptable ? 
 
 The increasing awkwardness of her position to 
 wards him caused her to rejoice, when, one even 
 ing, Maitre Beaujeu unexpectedly brought the 
 intelligence that the plans of Monsieur Le Grand 
 were completed, and he and his company would 
 leave for England in a couple of days. 
 
 Sylvie could not depart without bidding adieu 
 
342 PARTING. 
 
 to Honorine, who was still confined to the house 
 by indisposition. It walTwith no little difficulty 
 that Monsieur and Madame de la Roche were per 
 suaded to allow their daughter to traverse the 
 streets, even in a close carriage, and under the 
 protection of Maitre Beaujeu ; and when they final 
 ly consented, it was with the stipulation that she 
 would not be absent more than a couple of hours. 
 Sylvie regarded punctuality as one of the highest 
 virtues, and after her promise was given, her 
 mother knew that she would return upon the very 
 stroke of the appointed hour. 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu and his pupil found Honorine 
 lying upon a couch in her boudoir, looking very 
 pale and feeble. Her brother sat beside her, read 
 ing aloud, in the hope of wiling away hours ren 
 dered tedious by her nervousness and impatience 
 of restraint. 
 
 As he rose to greet the welcome visitors, the 
 last words he had uttered to Sylvie, "I owe you 
 ray sister s life how gladly I would devote to you 
 my own, if you would accept so poor a gift," rang 
 in her ears. She tried to persuade herself that 
 they were spoken in the excitement of the moment 
 that they conveyed no meaning beyond an ex 
 pression of deep gratitude that they had been 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 343 
 
 forgotten as soon as they fell from "his lips ; still 
 they sounded like a haunting melody, and she 
 could not shut them out. The coldness and re 
 serve she had of late so successfully assumed, 
 gave way to uncontrollable agitation, and it was 
 well that, in bending over Honorine, her conscious 
 face was hidden, and her emotion concealed, or 
 attributable to anxiety for her friend. 
 
 Unable to regain her self-possession, Sylvie 
 could not summon courage to apprise Honorine 
 that she had come to bid her adieu, until, 
 glancing at the clock, she found it was nearly 
 time to return home. She rose hurriedly, 
 wrote upon her tablets, u Tell her I cannot," 
 and handed them to Beaujeu, who was talking 
 with the Marquis. 
 
 Beaujeu, completely taken aback, blurted out 
 the important information by asking, " Have you 
 not told Mademoiselle de St. Amar, then, that we 
 are to leave for England to-morrow ?" 
 
 " To-morrow !" exclaimed the Marquis and his 
 sister, in the same breath. 
 
 Honorine burst into a violent fit of weeping. 
 A very unusual demonstration on her part for 
 she had shed few tears in her short and happy 
 life. Sylvie, distressed beyond measure, glanced 
 
344 PARTING. 
 
 up imploringly at Beaujeu, as though to petition 
 him to try to pacify her. 
 
 The Marquis comprehended the look, and, pro 
 bably deeming the musician incompetent to such 
 a task, seated himself beside his sister, and said : 
 
 "Why, Honorine, you have not remembered 
 the new pleasure in store for you. Think how 
 much you will enjoy corresponding with Made 
 moiselle Sylvie. I expect to find you marring 
 paper in the most indefatigable manner." 
 
 Honorine smiled through her tears, and sobbed 
 out, "You will write to me, Sylvie, will you 
 not?" 
 
 Sylvie traced the word " Often " upon her 
 tablets. 
 
 " And you will bring her back very soon, Mon 
 sieur Beaujeu, will you not?" asked the weeping 
 girl. 
 
 " As soon as you can send us word that France 
 is sufficiently peaceful and prosperous to welcome 
 her singing birds back," replied Beanjeu. 
 
 Sylvie pointed to the clock, and wiping away 
 the tears that still sparkled upon Honorine s lash 
 es, embraced her . fervently, gently unclasped the 
 hands that clung about her own neck, bowed to 
 the Marquis, and was out of the room before 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 345 
 
 Maitre Beaujeu could make his adieux. The host 
 followed and handed her into the carriage, but his 
 lips were mute as hers. 
 
 The next morning Ursule and Sylvie, Maitre 
 Beaujeu and his new valet, Mathieu, were on their 
 way to London. 
 
 A few days more and Sylvie s parents, and her 
 devoted friend, were gladdened by letters. The 
 travellers had arrived in safety. The company of 
 Monsieur Le Grand was on the eve of its first 
 dreaded appearance before a coldly critical English 
 audience. 
 
 The next letter was from Ursule, and gave an 
 account of Sylvie s brilliant debut, and of the im 
 pression made by Maitre Beaujeu s performance of 
 Paganini s wonderful " Witch Dance." 
 
 This epistle was rapidly succeeded by others of 
 the same character. The youthful songstress 
 soared at once to a high pinnacle. The very 
 singularity of her affliction enlisted unwonted 
 interest doubled her attraction and gave trans 
 cendent value to her gift. She was styled " The 
 Mute Singer" and the title itself piqued curiosity 
 and encompassed her with a mystery-loving crowd 
 of worshippers. 
 
 With mingled humility and gratitude, she wrote 
 15* 
 
346 PARTING. 
 
 to her mother that, not out of her talents but her 
 trial, had sprung her sudden prosperity ; and that 
 she was daily more and more convinced that she 
 owed the favor of the public, in a large degree, to 
 the peculiarity of her privation ; as much to the 
 power lost as to the power preserved. 
 
 Ursule s letters were of a more gossipping cha 
 racter than those of Sylvie ; they were fuller of 
 pleasant details and minute descriptions of 
 passing events. But for them Sylvie s parents 
 might not have known the industry with which 
 their daughter was prosecuting studies unallied 
 with those of her profession ; nor of the attentions 
 she received from distinguished sources; nor of 
 the admirers who murmured at her unresponsive 
 insensibility ; nor of Maitre Beaujeu s vexation at 
 the persecution of some determined suitors ; nor of 
 the summary manner in which he extinguished 
 their aspirations. 
 
 Sylvie in her letters never touched upon these 
 subjects, and wrote little of herself. She described 
 the places they visited, and often dwelt upon the 
 books she read ; but always spoke briefly of her 
 public appearances, and the tokens of approbation 
 lavished upon her. 
 
 Honorine often visited Madame de la Roche, 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 347 
 
 accompanied by her brother ; and it soon became 
 a matter of course for them to peruse Ursule s 
 letters as well as those of Sylvie to her parents. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre was also a frequent guest in the 
 Kue d Angouleme, and the privilege of reading 
 the letters of the travellers was accorded to 
 him also. 
 
 The Marquis not only made the acquaintance 
 of the young physician, whom he regarded as 
 Sylvie s future husband, but by his patronage and 
 friendship was instrumental in greatly extending 
 his practice, and placing him in an enviable social 
 position one which the nobleman believed Sylvie 
 would hereafter share and sharing, would assur 
 edly grace. 
 
 Before long the health of Monsieur de la Roche 
 was sufficiently restored for him to enter upon his 
 duties as secretary to Count Damoreau. The Count 
 was the possessor of large estates in different parts 
 of France, and his secretary had the charge of all 
 his correspondence in regard to this property. 
 E verard de la Roche, although he fully appreciated, 
 we may say gloried in the importance of his new 
 office, discharged his duties with a punctuality and 
 prudence which could hardly have been expected 
 from one who had passed his life in pursuing phan- 
 
84S PARTING. 
 
 toms. But the severe lessons taught him through 
 the misfortunes he had brought upon himself by 
 his sanguine recklessness, had disciplined his mind 
 to distinguish and resist tempting shadows, and 
 cling to sober substance. The tree, all blossoms 
 and leaves, was bearing wholesome fruit at last. 
 
 Month followed month, and Paris, in spite of its 
 provisional government, and its incipient republi 
 canism, was not in a sufficiently settled state for 
 Monsieur Le Grand to deem return desirable. Be 
 sides this, the success of his company in Great 
 Britain was unabated. It was now November, and 
 the corps of Monsieur Le Grand, after making the 
 tour of England, Scotland, and Ireland, came back 
 to London to embark for Hamburg, with the in 
 tention of visiting Germany. 
 
 The year for which the young vocalist was en 
 gaged had nearly expired before the leader an 
 nounced that he proposed to return to Paris. 
 
 The affection Beaujeu and Ursule experienced 
 for Sylvie had not only steadily increased, but 
 their mutual attraction to that magnetic centre 
 had drawn them towards each other. When they 
 were forced to contemplate resuming the olden 
 routine of their existence in Paris, Beaujeu thought 
 with a sigh of his lonely bachelor life (his mother 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. o49 
 
 bad died during his absence), and began to reflect 
 that, painful as a separation from Sjlvie would be, 
 he would miss even more his daily intercourse with 
 Ursule his pleasant chats with her, and the little 
 attentions which it seemed so natural for each to 
 pay to, or receive from, the other. Then he gravely 
 asked himself whether it was absolutely needful that 
 this separation should take place. lie had no 
 sooner propounded that important question to 
 himself than, without preface, premeditation, or 
 ceremony, he asked it of her : 
 
 "Why should we two separate? /see no rea 
 son that renders it imperative. Do you see any ?" 
 he asked, abruptly. 
 
 Ursule was too much amazed to reply. 
 
 Beaujeu repeated the question in an authorita 
 tive voice, as though commanding an answer. 
 
 His tone startled Ursule into a laconic " No." 
 
 " That s right ; I like a direct answer, and like 
 it all the better for being short," continued Beau 
 jeu. 
 
 " We two have had many happy hours together 
 during the last year. / enjoy your society ; you 
 do not seem to dislike mine. Do you think you 
 would necessarily tire of me, if you had more of 
 my company?" 
 
350 PARTING. 
 
 The " no " this time was given more promptly, 
 as if there would be lack of courtesy in hesita 
 tion. 
 
 " Soon after we reach Paris, then, I will look 
 out for lodgings that will suit both. I never pur 
 chased a piece of jewelry in my life, but I mean 
 to buy a wedding-ring, if you will promise to let 
 me put it upon your finger. Will you ?" 
 
 This time Ursule varied her negatives by 
 an affirmative, but she did not add another 
 word. 
 
 " I thought you would say yes, or I would not 
 have asked you," replied Beaujeu, diving his 
 fingers into his snuffbox as eagerly as though he 
 expected to find the proposed wedding-ring at its 
 bottom. Then he added, without any attempt at 
 playing the lover, " I confess I am glad not to be 
 mistaken in supposing that you did not dislike me, 
 rough and crabbed as I am ; I hope you are glad 
 that I broached the subject of our remaining to 
 gether. Now, as we have neither father nor mo 
 ther, nor relatives, nor any one to care for us but 
 Sylvie, let us dutifully ask her consent." 
 
 Sylvie very merrily expressed her approval of 
 the anticipated union, and delighted Ursule by 
 begging to be allowed to officiate as bridesmaid. 
 
THE MUTE SINGER. 351 
 
 For Ursule, at her time of life, to trust her hap 
 piness in the hands of one so constitutionally iras 
 cible and domineering as Beaujeu, may seem a 
 venturesome step. But there is a class of women 
 who positively enjoy being ruled of course, they 
 deny it to themselves and to others, but a loving 
 tyrant is always their hero. Then, Maitre Beau- 
 jeu s temper was by no means as violent as when 
 we first made his acquaintance. It had been calm 
 ed down by the tenderness developed in his inter 
 course with Sylvie, by the compassionate gentle 
 ness which her patient sufferings and humble 
 endurance of bitter disappointments inspired by 
 the softening influence of her example upon his 
 character. 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 pass over the joy of Monsieur and Madame 
 de la Roche when their gentle and gifted daughter 
 was restored to them. 
 
 Before her arrival, Dr. Souvestre had made 
 known his hopes to her parents, and obtained per 
 mission to address Sylvie. 
 
 The young and agreeable physician was high 
 in favor with her father, who was too much elated 
 with the prospect of securing such a son-in-law 
 for reticence or delay to be possible to his com 
 municative and impulsive nature. Only a few 
 hours after his daughters return, he delightedly 
 informed her of Dr. Souvestre s suit and his own 
 approval. 
 
 His surprise was only surpassed by his disap 
 pointment, when she earnestly entreated that her 
 suitor might be prevented from touching upon a 
 subject which must give her excessive pain, as she 
 would be forced to meet his proposals with an 
 unqualified refusal. 
 
CONCLUSION. 353 
 
 Monsieur de la Roche squandered a large 
 amount of eloquence m representing the folly of 
 her determination ; but Sylvie was firm in her 
 resolution ; so firm that her father was impressed 
 with the possibility of her having formed some 
 other attachment. Her confusion, when he sud 
 denly asked that searching question, confirmed his 
 suspicions. He insisted upon an ingenuous reply. 
 Sylvie s upright nature could not bend to false 
 hood, even upon a subject which has custom s 
 sanction for untruth ; she, accordingly, gave no 
 answer. 
 
 While Monsieur de la Koche was strongly urg 
 ing her to confide in him, Dr. Souvestre was 
 announced ; but, before he could enter, Sylvie 
 escaped from the apartment, making a gesture as 
 she fled that supplicated her father not to sum 
 mon her back. 
 
 Monsieur de la Eoche, with much hesitation, 
 executed the difficult task of communicating Syl 
 vie s rejection to her lover ; trying to soften the 
 unflattering truth by the no less palatable infor 
 mation that her parents had reason to believe their 
 daughter s affections were already engaged. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre was at first confounded then 
 wounded then inclined to be angry, not exactly 
 
354: THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 with Sylvie or her father, but with all the world, 
 including himself. Eegret and dejection succeeded 
 to passion, and in this mood he took his leave. 
 
 As he was descending the stairs, he encountered 
 the Marquis de St. Araar and his sister. Hono- 
 rine was too impatient to behold her friend to 
 bestow upon him more than a passing salutation 
 as she hurried on. Her brother stopped and 
 shook hands. It was impossible not to -perceive 
 the physician s disordered appearance. 
 
 " You look disturbed ; has anything happened 
 to distress you ?" asked the nobleman, kindly. 
 
 Dr. Souvestre was one of those beings to whom 
 sympathy, under disappointment, was indispensa 
 ble to conceal a pang was to double its poign 
 ancy. 
 
 " Nothing more than happens to deluded men 
 every day," he replied, with a stoical air, which 
 the prospective relief of confiding in another ren 
 dered it more easy to assume. u I have submitted 
 myself to mortification made a fool of myself, 
 and gained my deserts ; that ends the matter." 
 
 " You do not mean began the Marquis, 
 
 and hesitated. 
 
 " I mean that I have been distinctly rejected 
 by the father of Mademoiselle de la Eoche, and 
 
CONCLUSION. 355 
 
 in her name ! Be informed me that her heart 
 was no longer at her disposal. It is very strange ! 
 To whom can she be attached ? The letters of 
 Mademoiselle Yalette clearly and frequently stated 
 that she had proved insensible to all the advances 
 made during her travels; and before she left 
 Paris she was not acquainted with any gentlemen 
 but the Marquis de St. Amar and her physician." 
 
 What a delicious suggestion was unintentionally 
 infused into these words! At their breath a long 
 buried hope burst its cerements and sprang back 
 to life a hope that must at once receive Sylvie s 
 sanction for its existence, or be entombed anew. 
 
 The Marquis could not frame any direct reply ; 
 but, muttering something about joining his sister, 
 passed on and entered the drawing-room. 
 
 As Sylvie rose to welcome him, he noted her 
 changing color, the almost imperceptible quiver 
 ing of her lip, and the slight tremulousness of the 
 hand she permitted hirn to clasp for an instant ; 
 his interpretations of these auguries arched over 
 the head of that resuscitated hope its most glo 
 rious rainbow. 
 
 He seated himself beside her and talked with 
 the same genial ease and gaiety which had cha 
 racterized his conversation before those sad days 
 
35 C THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 of sudden estrangement. Sylvie s slender fingers 
 glanced rapidly over the leaves of her tablets in 
 reply. 
 
 Honorine, either because she was charmed to 
 see her brother resume his olden deportment to 
 wards her friend, or because she had a sort of 
 instinct against being de trop, prattled away to 
 Monsieur and Madame de la Roche. They 
 chanced to be seated at some distance from their 
 daughter and the Marquis. 
 
 The table near Sylvie was heaped with books 
 which had been taken from her trunks, and were 
 not yet arranged in order. Several volumes had 
 been selected before she left from the little book 
 case, and had accompanied her upon her journey- 
 ings. In turning over the handsomely bound 
 volumes, the eyes of the Marquis rested upon one 
 which he could not have placed in that elegant 
 library, for the cover was dingy and worn. He 
 took it up to read the title it was Sylvie s Bible 
 for she was a Protestant, and the " good book" 
 was in daily use. As he held it lightly in his 
 hands, two sprigs of pressed and withered helio 
 trope fell from between the leaves. He lifted 
 them up recognised them replaced them and, 
 turning to Sylvie a face in which a whole history 
 
CONCLUSION. 357 
 
 was written in luminous characters of the soul, 
 said in a low, thrilling tone: 
 
 " You have kept them ! May I dare to believe 
 that you have cherished the memory of him who 
 gave them ?" 
 
 Sylvie s fingers did not grasp her pencil or open 
 her tablets ; she had seized the little volume and 
 closed it upon the tell-tale heliotropes her head 
 was bowed over it so closely that her countenance 
 wa,s no longer visible. 
 
 " The time has come," continued the Marquis, 
 " when I feel that I may venture to plead for an 
 explanation of the past. Need I tell you that 
 almost from the first moment we met, you in 
 spired me with a feeling which has only strength 
 ened with every hour? You were very young 
 very immature it behooved me to wait, in si 
 lence and with patience, until your character was 
 formed, and you were aware of your own capacity 
 to respond to my emotions. But while I waited, ah 
 icy shape, to which I could give no name, rose up 
 between us, and with outstretched arms tore us 
 asunder. You withdrew yourself from my sister s 
 society and my own you refused her entreaties 
 to grant her any explanation of the mysterious 
 change. I will not tell you what anguish I en- 
 
358 THE MUTE SINGER. 
 
 dured, and how zealously I sought for the cause 
 of your inexplicable demeanor. I thought I had 
 found it ; I thought you suspected my passion 
 and were too generous to encourage it, after be 
 stowing your heart upon a younger, and, doubt 
 less, more captivating man." 
 
 Sylvia s eyes, lifted for a brief instant in genu 
 ine amazement, would have convinced the Mar 
 quis of his error, had not the delusion been 
 already dispelled. 
 
 " That look tells me I was wrong I know it 
 already. Dr. Souvestre ingenuously told me so 
 himself. Then I dared to entertain the hope that 
 you did not shun me from indifference. These 
 flowers have confirmed that precious belief." 
 
 Sylvie s head drooped lower and lower, as 
 though she could not lift it from her breast. 
 
 " I fear I have been very abrupt," he resumed, 
 a but I have suffered so long that I could not 
 tolerate another moment s doubt. Will you trust 
 your happiness in my keeping ? I implore you 
 to reply. Your father s eyes are turned upon us 
 inquiringly tell me that I may ask him if he is 
 willing to confide, his child to my tender care." 
 
 Sylvie s great heart heaved as though it would 
 burst from her breast ; she took up her pencil and 
 
CONCLUSION. S59 
 
 tablets they dropped unused, but in the hand, 
 which the Marquis extended to receive what she 
 wrote, she timidly placed her own. 
 
 Clasping it fervently, he rose and led her 
 towards her parents. The action had a most 
 eloquent language of its own, but the entrance of 
 Maitre Beaujeu and Monsieur Le Grand prevented 
 him from interpreting it into speech. 
 
 Le Grand held a business-like paper in his 
 hand. 
 
 After the customary salutations, Maitre Beaujeu 
 said to Sylvie, " To-day your contract with Mon 
 sieur Le Grand expires. He has come to ask if 
 you will renew it for another year, and you will 
 find how liberally he has dealt when you peruse 
 that paper." 
 
 Sylvie mechanically took the offered document. 
 The Marquis gently put it aside. 
 
 "My dear Monsieur Beaujeu," he remarked, 
 " it is a very valueless instrument. Mademoiselle 
 Sylvie only waits the consent of her parents to 
 enter into another engagement which will pre 
 clude the possibility of her fulfilling this an 
 engagement of somewhat longer duration an 
 engagement for life, which I trust will secure her 
 happiness in exchange for laurels home joys 
 
360 * THE MUTE SING Ell. 
 
 instead of public adulation the voice of love to 
 replace the clamorous voices of the multitude." 
 
 Honorine sprang up and threw her arms about 
 Sylvie. 
 
 " My sister ! My sister ! Now you are indeed 
 a sister ! Did I not always say and feel that you 
 were my sister, though I had not the wit to 
 remember that there was a way by which you 
 could legally become one? Oh, I am so rejoiced ! 
 I never dreamed there was such happiness in. 
 store, Sylvie ; did you ?" 
 
 If Sylvie s answering look could have found 
 voice upon her lips, her reply might have been 
 concentrated in that outburst of a grateful heart 
 wondering at its own joy, which was made 
 musical by the breath of Aurora Leigh when she 
 exclaimed : 
 
 " God s gifts put man s best dreams to shame I" 
 
 THE END. 
 
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